Plunked (17 page)

I'm at practice on Thursday. A few weeks ago, that would have been like saying, “The sun came up this morning,” but now it really means something. I feel like I'm sort of back in that rhythm, at least a little bit. One other thing: It's my last chance to get my starting spot back before this week's game.

We start out in the field, throwing baseballs into the big garbage can. It's a little awkward because there are too many of us in the field, and so, of course, Geoff and I both run straight out to left. There's a younger kid out there between us, but we tell him to get lost, and he gets lost all the way to right.

Then it's just the two of us. Geoff is shaded toward center, and I'm over toward the line. We're splitting the difference, ten feet apart. Neither of us says anything, but we know the deal. Anything hit to my right is mine, and
anything hit to his left is his. Anything in between will be like three question marks in a row.

Coach Liu starts hitting fungoes. First he hits some choppers to the infield. I just watch. You can really see the difference between our best players and the rest of the kids crowding the infield.

Coach Liu hits one toward short, and two kids hesitate for a second and then charge toward it. They practically collide when they get there, but one of them manages to knock it down with his thigh. He picks it up and chucks it in the general direction of home plate. Coach Liu is standing off to the side of the barrel, but he still has to skip out of the way to avoid being hit in the shins.

He hits the next one to the same place. Maybe he's giving those two another chance to get it right. More likely, he wants them to see how it's done. Katie does her part. The other two hesitate again, leaning back and trying to figure out where and how the ball will bounce. But Katie charges forward as soon as it's hit. She cuts right between them, scoops it up on the short hop, and fires a one-hopper into the square plastic mouth of the can.

She turns around and jogs back, her hat down low and her mouth working some gum. She doesn't say anything to the other two, but her glove just said: What are you doing in my spot? One shades over toward second, the other takes a few steps closer to third.

Then Coach Liu starts lifting fly balls to the outfield.
The first few go to center. I reach up to adjust my cap and reach down to smack my glove once.

The first shot to left isn't to me. Almost as soon as it's hit, I can tell it's heading toward Geoff's side of the field. The extra kid in center starts running for it, too.

“I got it,” shouts Geoff. “Mine.”

The other kid backs off, and Geoff makes a clean catch. It's a little unusual, because normally the center fielder makes the call, but that kid isn't really the center fielder. He's just the other guy standing there. Manny doesn't mind the company. His spot is secure, and he gets to do plenty of running out there in games. Geoff's throw to the cutoff man is right on target.

A little while later, one comes to my side. It's high and short, an easy play all around. I glove it and then have a short throw to Andy, who has his arms up as the cutoff man. It's almost short enough to try to make the throw home myself. But Andy is in a perfect position and has that accurate infielder's arm.

I make a quick short throw to him as Coach Liu is turning the mouth of the barrel down the third-base line. Andy spins and buries the ball in there on the fly.

It was the right decision, but I jog back to my spot second-guessing myself anyway. It would've been more impressive if I'd delivered a long throw myself. I'm not the starter. I need to win the position. Then again, I don't want another one of those dive-for-it moments.

After that, and I swear Liu does this on purpose: He hits one right in between Geoff and me. And so of course we both end up calling each other off.

“I got it.”

“I got it!”

“Got it.”

“Got it!”

“Mine.”

“Mine!”

But it's a little closer to Geoff, and I let him have it. Again: right decision. Again: I second-guess it.

We do some more drills, and I do OK. What can I do? They're just drills. The best you can do is do them right. I do, and so does Geoff. So, basically, he wins.

Malfoy is slinking around practice all day, but he doesn't say anything to me, and I definitely don't say anything to him.

And then it's time for live pitching. J.P. will probably face half a dozen of us, and there's no guarantee that I'll be one of them. I got a hit off of him last time, though. I'm hoping that will be reason enough to give me another shot. Man, I think back to that day. Everything was just good then. I had no idea I'd be standing out here now, desperately needing to cash in that single for one more shot.

Instead, Coach calls Geoff in. I run out to take his spot in left before anyone else does. Then I stand there not really knowing what to think. I don't want to root against
him. He's my teammate and a good guy. None of this is his fault.

I root against him anyway. What? J.P. is my teammate, too.

At least I have enough class not to react when he strikes out. Coach gives him another shot, and he grounds out. He hits it sharply but right to Jackson. J.P. busts it off the mound to cover first, but Jackson takes it himself. He jogs over and easily beats Geoff to the bag.

I'm still concentrating on not smiling when Coach shouts, “Mogens, get in here!”

Yes! He remembered.

It's not till I'm in the on-deck circle timing J.P. that the flip side of that occurs to me. If Coach remembers my hit last time, you can bet J.P. does, too. The next fastball comes in crazy fast, and my pulse revs up another gear.

Dustin is down to the last strike of his second at-bat. I take my right hand off the bat and shake it out to stay loose. I hold it flat and see what I already knew: It's shaking. I put it back on the bat before anyone else can see.

Then Dustin strikes out swinging, and I'm up. My hand is shaking and my pulse is racing. So, of course, J.P. buries the first pitch way inside. The ball doesn't hit me, but an explosion goes off inside me anyway. All I can do is try to concentrate. The next one is inside, too. It's borderline, but Coach gives it to him.

I knew this would happen. Everyone will pitch me this way until I prove I can hit it. And one thing's for sure: I won't get a hit if I don't swing. I make up my mind to swing at the next pitch, no matter what.

I swing over a pitch in the dirt. J.P. is thinking right along with me. Just like that, I'm behind in the count, 1–2. Now I know how the guy in my back pocket must've felt, right before they rolled Chuck's Wagon out of the big leagues.

The next pitch is inside again. I don't swing, and Coach gives me the call this time: 2–2.

“Knock off the junk!” Andy shouts from third.

J.P. looks over at him for a long second. Andy just pounds his glove and looks back at him.

It's so unusual to have the third baseman yell at his own pitcher that Coach makes a noise behind the plate. It's the kind of noise Nax makes in his sleep. I take the opportunity to go through my routine, nice and slow, but I still have some time. J.P. shakes his head, looks in, and goes into his windup.

What the heck, I think, everyone else is talking around here. “Sometimes you squash the bug,” I say under my breath.

The pitch comes in, inside but definitely a strike. I put a swing on it and hit a sharp grounder to first. Jackson takes it himself.

Coach doesn't give me another at-bat. I'm glad I put a decent swing on the ball, and maybe he is, too, but we both know I'll be starting Saturday on the bench. I just have to be ready, I tell myself as I put the bat back in the rack. I just have to be ready.

I think a lot of kids like Saturday because they can sleep in. Me, I'm up earlier than I have been all week. I'm padding around my room in socks because Mom and Dad like to sleep in on the weekends. And since their idea of “sleeping in” means maybe eight thirty, it doesn't seem like so much to ask.

Still, it sort of limits my options. I look over at my computer. I haven't killed a soldier in days. (But I like to think that they're still talking about the bloody rampage I went on last week!) I guess I could play it with the sound off. I'm not really in the mood, but I turn the computer on anyway.

There's a big whopping zippo in my e-mail in-box. Of course, Mom and Dad have so many filters on this thing, it's a wonder anything gets through. Like, St. Paul the
Apostle could send me a personal e-mail telling me to study hard, and it would end up in the spam folder.

I check the spam folder. Nothing from any saints, angels, or celestial beings, but I find some funny stuff that Mom and Dad would probably not be too happy about.

After that, I click on my games. I stay off the battlefield and play a puzzle game instead. At eight fifteen, I get a text from Andy. As I'm answering that, I get another one from Tim. At least I'm not the only one up early. Tim has news, too: “CampL team at batting cages last nt. THREE big guys now!!!!”

“Any1 pitching?” I type.

“Not @ batting cage! LOL!” says Tim.

I get another text from Andy: “Did U hear?”

“Yep. 3! What R they feedin em?”

“Campbells Soup!!!!!!!”

Then one from Tim: “Andy sez they R feeding em Campbells Soup!!!”

And then I hear movement downstairs.

I punch in “CU there!!!!” because the game is on the lumpy little field in Campbeltown. I wish I really felt four exclamation points' worth of excitement. I send it to both of them.

Andy: “CU”

Tim: “L8R”

Then I head downstairs. No surprise, they're in the kitchen. I grab for some Pop-Tarts, but Mom is too quick.

“No way, honey bunchkins,” she says, pretending to slap my hand away from the cupboard.

“You're gonna need the good stuff today,” says Dad. “I'm thinkin' bacon and eggs.”

“The ‘good stuff' really isn't all that good for you, you know?” I say. “We learned in science that —”

Dad cuts me off by making that motorboat sound with his lips. “Gives you energy. Campbeltown has three big kids and a bunch of good hitters.”

“How do you know that?” I say, though I sort of know.

“The Lu-Lus were over at Hungry Hut last night. Said it was quite a scene at the cages.”

“You really shouldn't call them that because —”

But Dad cuts me off with more motorboating. Mom is just smiling and pouring orange juice.

It's funny, they love game day as much as I do. Right now, they probably love it more, but I'm glad. I remember how tense it was on the couch the other night. It's all gone now, washed away by orange juice and motorboats. And all I have to do is step to the plate a few times today and get hit in whatever body part the pitcher feels is appropriate.

Three big kids, I think: the two from last year and a new one? Or, who knows, one from last year and the Monster Beefoid Twins? Whatever the case, there's a pretty good chance one of them will be pitching. I'm not a fan of big pitchers. The name floats through my head: Tebow.

“Hey,” says Dad. “Hey!”

It occurs to me, sort of vaguely, that he's been asking me something.

“Earth to honey bunchkins!” Mom says.

That snaps me out of it. “DO NOT call me that at the game!” I say.

“Call you what?” she says. She's always trying to trick me into saying it.

“You know what,” I say. “HB.”

I'm completely serious, but Mom thinks it's the funniest thing she's heard all morning.

“Sausage or bacon?” Dad says. I guess that's what he was asking.

I give him a look to let him know what a dumb question that is.

“Bacon it is,” he says.

As I turn to leave, I hear him say something else, quieter.

“Good to have you back.”

When we get to the field in Campbeltown, Mom and Dad head for the bleachers, and I head for the far side of the field.

“Bet you'll be chomping at the bit,” Dad says, right before we split up. He knows I'll be coming off the bench. I never mentioned it, but I guess it's pretty obvious. I don't even really know what that expression means, but it sounds about right. And then he says, “If anyone asks —”

“Family emergency,” I say, looking down and watching my feet walk themselves.

“Got it,” he says.

I look up in time to see him add in a little wink.

“Go get 'em,” Mom begins. I'm afraid she's going to call me HB again. We're close to the bleachers now, and there are parents and kids all around us. “Tiger,” she says.

And then I'm free and walking across the grass. Mom and Dad have been cool today, but it's players and coaches only out here, and I like that. I walk in a wide semicircle around the area where the Campbeltown players are warming up. They're the Pirates, by the way. I'm not sure why we don't call them that more. Pirates vs. Braves … it's a classic National League matchup.

I look over, trying not to be too obvious. They've definitely got some big kids. And there are a few kids I recognize from years ago. A few of them were teammates of mine as far back as T-ball. I'll probably always recognize them. Isn't that weird?

“Heads up, dingus!” I hear.

I scramble to put my glove on as I look up. I catch sight of the ball a split second before it gets to me and make the catch stepping back.

“What,” I say to Andy, “no hello?”

Andy just smirks and points straight up in the air.

I throw it underhand, as high as I can. He camps under it, shuffling his feet, gauging the sun, and making the catch.

As soon as he looks over, I point straight up. It's a sunny day. That's more of a problem for me than for him. Once I get in the game, anyway.

“Nice of you to toss it around with a bench-warmer,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “I'm a real saint.”

“Bring it in here!” Coach bellows, and we do.

And then, there's no good way to put this, I find a spot on the bench. Everyone jockeys for the spot at the end, closest to Coach. (Of course, being on the bench mostly means hanging off the fence, but location still matters.) You want him to see you all the time and maybe put you in early.

But Malfoy gets to the best spot first, and I don't want to sit (or hang) next to him. I end up halfway down the bench, looking out at the field through the wire. I just have to trust that Coach won't forget about me. That, and try to make eye contact whenever possible.

We're the away team, obviously, so we start at the plate. We're all waiting for their pitcher to take the mound, and we're glad when he does. He's not that big, maybe just a little above average. But once he starts to throw, I can see he has decent stuff. I hear the first few pitches slap into the catcher's glove, and my pulse starts to race.

Come on, Jack, I tell myself. How much would it even hurt to get hit by this kid?

Then from somewhere deep inside, from some part of myself that I hate, I hear the answer. Plenty, it says, if he hits you in the head.

But I'm watching him warm up, and it looks like he's got good control. I can see him moving the ball around. It should be calming me down, but every time he throws one inside it's like a poke in the gut.

Morgan is a few spots down the bench. I see the kid next to him lean over and say something to him, but I can't quite hear it. Morgan leans forward and catches my eye. “This guy's their ace,” he says. “Really good.”

I nod and then pass the information down.

The next pitch slaps into the catcher's mitt, louder this time. A little fear is good, I tell myself. Just let me get up there and get it over with. But I've got a long wait, and who knows what a little fear in the first inning will be by the third or fourth? Could even be a big, beefy reliever with a rocket arm and no control by then.

Finally, the game starts and I have something to watch. Three quick outs: not a great start.

“You're chasing!” Coach yells as the starters get their gloves and take the field. “You gotta lay off that junk!”

Coach is subbing in right field from the get-go. As soon as he sends Chester out there to start the game, you know it's probably going to be two innings a pop from then on out. I mean, Chester's not even really an outfielder. I start to think maybe he'll put me in right to start the third.

I'm half right, because it's a short day for Chester. The Pirates' starter is really locating his pitches today, and that little strike zone doesn't help Chester at all. But it's Malfoy who takes his place: back to his usual spot. That's not cool. Didn't he hit all those kids last game? Shouldn't he be punished more for that?

I give Coach a look, trying to fit all the injustice and wrong in the world into my eyes. He ignores me.

Pitchers' duels go fast. And they go faster when you're on the bench, counting the outs. It's still scoreless in the middle of the third. Coach makes some more substitutions, but I'm not one of them.

When I see Morgan go in, I stick my head in my glove and swear into the leather. No offense, but I mean, seriously. It feels like I'm being punished. It feels like Coach doesn't trust me at all, and I stop trying to make eye contact with him. He'll have to put me in soon anyway, just to get me the required number of outs in the field.

The Pirates get a run in the bottom of the inning. It's not really J.P.'s fault. It starts off with a walk, and OK, technically that is his fault, but it's just a walk. Then the guy advances on two straight groundouts and scores on a bloop hit to shallow right.

We're down 1–0, and I'm still not in the game. I'm feeling pretty useless, and my head is down the next time Coach walks by me.

“Get ready,” he says.

“Whuzzat, Coach?” I say.

“Putting you in for the rest of the game,” he says. “Was holding you out for a reason.”

And I guess I'm still not making the connection, so he makes it for me.

“Tight game, and you can hit this guy.”

All of a sudden, I understand. Subbing is an art in Little League. I mean, ideally, you build up a big lead and then get everyone in during garbage time. But how often does that really happen? In these close games, you can't just run all your worst players out for the last two innings, not if you want to win. Sometimes you might want to save a surprise for the other team. Like, say, a kid who was a starter two weeks ago.

“OK,” I say as I get to my feet.

I look out at the field, and it's like I'm seeing it clearly for the first time all day. It's a close ball game, a sunny day, and my coach doesn't think I'm useless after all.

I'm in the field for the bottom of the fourth. Nothing comes my way, but I keep my head in the game. I wait until Manny hauls in the third out before I start really concentrating on my at-bat. I'm leading off the top of the fifth, and their starter is still going strong. When I said before that he wasn't that big, I was missing one obvious thing: He's about the same size as J.P.

The inning starts and I step to the plate.

“What's his name?” I ask their catcher as I step in. They've been calling it all game long, but all I could make out was a lot of vowels.

“Wooster,” the catcher says. “Jamie Wooster. We call him Woosh.”

I go through my full routine. It's the start of the inning, so there's time. I'm doing anything I can to avoid thinking
about the baseball, about Woosh coming inside, and about how pitchers can lose control when they get tired. But it's hard to fool yourself with your own tricks.

So, yeah, I'm freaking out a little. You know the symptoms; I won't repeat 'em. What's happening on the field is a lot more important than what's happening in my head. We're down by one run to the Campbeltown Pirates, we've got six outs to get it done, and I've waited all game for this shot.

The windup … and the pitch.

I can see right away that it's outside. I think about swinging at it anyway, just because it's outside and I can. But that's dumb. You don't swing at a pitch out of relief. I let it go, and the ump does the right thing.

I'm a new batter, and Woosh was just sizing me up. Now he's behind, and I figure he'll come right at me. I take my mini swings, and he goes into his windup.

I can feel the sweat under my batting glove, and I can hear my pulse. And he hasn't even come inside yet. The longer this goes on, the worse I'll get. And there's no way a control pitcher is going to want to fall behind 2–0. It all adds up to one thing.

The ball is cutting in toward me, but my bat is already moving. There's nowhere for me to go and nothing for me to do except hit the thing. The contact feels good. It's in toward my hands but solid. Before I even look up, I know I've hit this one on a rope…

…right to the third baseman. He makes a good play and catches it on the fly. One out.

Ugh. An at-'em ball. If I hadn't started so early, maybe I could've squeezed it in between third and short. I head back to the bench. Nothing I can do about it now. I get my glove and stand by the fence.

“Good swing, man,” says Andy.

“Tough break,” says Tim.

“Bad luck,” says Dustin.

Five outs left, still down by one. All I can do is hope I get another shot.