Plunked (9 page)

I wake up nervous on Tuesday morning. It feels like game day, but it also feels different. I try not to think too much about it. Let's be honest: There are plenty of things to be nervous about on a day-to-day basis in sixth grade.

I get dressed and tell my brain to shut up. It gets revenge by dressing me stupidly. Even though it's not that cold, I put on a big blue sweater. I know I'm going to end up sitting next to the windows in math and baking, but I put it on anyway. I just wear a good T-shirt underneath, instead of one of the white ones with holes, so I can ditch the sweater if I need to. By the time I leave the house, I'm like an advertisement for the color blue: blue jeans, blue sweater, and my dark blue Braves cap, which fits again.

Tuesday is back to normal at school, with no one hit in the head or farting in the gym. It goes fast, and pretty
soon I'm sitting next to Andy on the cool grass of Culbreath Field.

After a game, Coach always starts off with a postmortem. That means, like, an autopsy. It's a good name for it, too, because it can be as tough to stomach if we lose. Not that I've cut up a lot of corpses. And we didn't lose, either. But there are always things to go over — win, lose, or lose badly.

All three coaches talk during the postmortem, and pretty much none of the players do. Last year, I was always afraid they were going to single me out for some mistake, but there's not much they can say to me today.

“How's the coconut, Mogens?” Coach says right at the start.

“Fine,” I say, and I knock on it twice with my knuckles.

That's pretty much it for me, but a few other kids take it on the chin. I guess there were some problems with players not backing up the cutoff throws.

“Throws going to third from right,” says Coach. “Who's the cutoff?”

“Me, Coach,” says Tim. “Second baseman.”

And the way he says it, you know he didn't do it right on at least one play on Saturday.

“Could've fooled me,” says Coach, sort of twisting the knife a little. Meanwhile, Tim's dad is looking at his son like he's bailing him out of jail.

“And who's backing up third?” Coach says, like he can't believe he even has to ask.

“Pitcher, Coach,” says J.P.

“What's that, J.P.?” Coach says, even though there's no way he didn't hear.

“PITCHER, Coach,” says J.P.

So J.P. shuts out the other team, and Coach is grilling him about not backing up third on the one time a runner got that far. It seems kind of crazy, right? But Coach has a point, and we all sort of know it. If the ball gets away at third, and there's no one there to back up the throw, the runner probably scores.

And more than that, a few extra bases here and there might not mean that much in a 7–0 game. But that's exactly how you lose a close game. It's how we lost to Haven last year. So everyone, even J.P., just takes their medicine.

And sure enough, we spend almost half of practice working on cutoff throws and backing up bases.

“Grab the tub,” Coach yells at no one in particular. That's what he calls the big plastic trash can we use for throws home, instead of killing our catchers with one-hoppers and high-flyers and everything in between.

Everyone groans, but not me. I want to be in the field. I bust it out to left before Geoff can get there. I'm still the starter, as far as I know. You don't lose your spot due to injury. That's like universal. Otherwise people would play it safe all the time, just trying not to get hurt.

Geoff knows the deal and doesn't make it a foot race. The coaches are going to shift us all over the field anyway, so we'll know what to do wherever we play.

“Don't make me look bad,” Andy says as he breaks off for third base. He's smiling, but he means it. If the ball is hit down the line and the throw is going home, he's my cutoff man.

“Incoming!” I say, because when I miss, I usually overthrow, like artillery. I'm smiling, too, but what I mean is, I'll do my best.

And then we're out there: the starting lineup from Saturday. Some of us are hoping not to repeat our mistakes, and some of us are just glad to be out in the field again. Coach is tossing the balls up and hitting them. J.P. is just out there to field.

The first fly ball goes to Manny in center. The crack of the bat hits me like a punch to the stomach. That's when I realize how much I don't want to bat today.

I watch Manny camp out under the lazy fly ball, squaring himself to throw. It looks so harmless in the air like that, but I don't want to see it at the plate. Manny makes the catch, and Tim pounds his fist into his glove, waiting to get the throw. It's on-line, and he catches it cleanly, spins, and throws a one-hopper over the mound and into the plastic trash can.

“There ya go, Liu!” yells Coach. “That so hard?”

This is a problem: a big, fat problem. But the next ball is hit to me, and I don't think about anything else.

I shade over toward the line. The ball is basically coming right to me, but I take a step back. You want to be behind the ball and coming forward in order to make a strong throw. You definitely don't want to be backpedaling.

I line it up so that I'm stepping forward as I make the catch. I get the ball out of my glove quick and throw it on a line to Andy.

Sure enough, I overthrow him. Ugh. He bails me out by jumping for it and making a snow-cone catch with the very top of his glove. He comes down with it just as Coach finishes turning the can toward third. Andy throws it in there on the fly.

“You benchwarmers watching this?” Coach yells, meaning the starters are doing it right.

Andy turns and points to me, as if my throw had been perfect. I know it wasn't, but I point back, glad my best friend is also our best third baseman.

The next ball goes to right.

“Play is to third!” Coach yells. J.P. is off the mound and backing up the throw in a heartbeat.

I move over to take a turn in center field and then to right and then take a seat on the bench. Geoff is one
behind me the whole time: in left when I'm in center, in center when I'm in right. By the time he makes it to right, the drill is over.

“BP!” yells Coach. “Let's see if you knuckleheads can still hit.”

The nerves come back like a wave breaking over top of me. My heart feels too big for my chest, and my lungs feel too small. It's like there's too much blood getting to my head and not enough oxygen. For the first time in my life, I'm hoping practice ends before I get my turn at bat.

BP starts like it always does: Everyone out in the field. I grab the glove that I just put down a few minutes ago and head out to join the crowd in left. It's the place to be because it's where most of the balls are hit. This I can do.

Coach looks around and calls you in for your turn. No one's ever sure how he comes up with the order. It seems kind of random, and I guess maybe that's the point. If all the best hitters went first, then the last kids to go would know they sucked, instead of just suspecting it.

Anyway, Jackson is first up. He's a right-handed pull hitter, and he usually puts on a show, so I pound my fist into my glove and get ready. Coach Liu is pitching to give Wainwright a break after hitting all those balls.

Coach Liu's pitches are a little flatter and straighter than Coach's lollipops.

Harder, too. It just pops into my brain. I want to make a catch right now, to chase down a fly ball slicing toward the line. I just want to do something to not think so much, but Jackson is waiting on the pitches like he should. He's driving them more toward center. His third shot clears the fence, and everyone hoots and whoops.

I watch Jackson: how relaxed he looks, how easy his swing is. He cranks a few more, and Coach has seen enough. He calls in one of the new kids. Good luck following that. He doesn't come close, but he gives the infield a workout, which is probably what Coach is looking for.

J.P. goes next, and his power seems to be down a little. He's working on making contact. Wayne is up next. He's Malfoy's friend and Andy's competition at third, so: double evil. Then it's Katie: double good. She hits one right to me, and I pretend she meant to. I smile for the first time all day, and then I hear my name.

The smile is gone and the nerves are back. I put my head down and jog in. Mind over matter, that's what Dad would say: I don't mind and you don't matter. My body will do what I tell it to. I hope.

The helmet slips on. It's not the one I usually wear, because that's the one I got hit in. And I guess it did its job, but I don't even want to look at it right now. The new one fits OK, and I barely feel it as it slides over the bruise.

I put on my batting glove and pick up the bat I like. Katie takes her last swing, and I'm up. Everything feels
fast and out of control. It's not until the first pitch is coming in that I realize I didn't go through my routine.

The pitch is outside. Thank God. I reach out and bounce it to one of the extra infielders on the right side. Lame. Then the next pitch comes in on me. It's maybe an inch or two inside, but it's the kind of pitch that would be called a strike nine times out of ten. I just need to keep my arms in, but I don't keep anything in.

The pitch has a little tailing action, and in my head it seems like it's coming straight for me. I jump back out of the way, and the thing misses me by two feet.

“What was that?” Liu shouts from the mound.

“Nothing,” I say. “Got fooled.”

Yeah, fooled by a flat BP fastball. That's believable.

Liu gives me a weird look, winds up, and tosses another.

This one is right down the middle, and I handle it a little better.

The next one is outside, and I hit a solid liner. It gets caught by one of the extra fielders, but it probably would've been a base hit in a normal game. I start to feel a little better. I even take my little mini swings before the next pitch. And then Liu comes inside. Not much, but it's enough.

I bail out completely, sticking my bat out toward the plate as I throw my shoulders back out and away from it. The ball just doinks off the end.

I look up, and I realize something: Coach Liu knows. He saw me jump off the plate on a pitch just inside. Then he went middle, then away, and watched me put two decent swings on the ball. Then he came back in.

Just to make sure, he comes in again. I don't even offer at it. I take a good, hittable pitch in batting practice. Right now, I'd give anything for that weak chopper I hit on the first pitch, the one I thought was so lame. I can't believe this. I'm bailing out on everything inside.

“What is going on, Mogens?” yells Coach Wainwright from the side of the cage.

“Nothing, Coach,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “That pretty well sums it up.”

He calls Manny in to bat next.

I slink back out into the field. If Coach hasn't figured it out already, Liu will let him know what's up afterward.

Manny doesn't make eye contact. He looks down as we pass each other. He's embarrassed for me. I trade my batting glove for my real one. And the worst part: I'm glad it's over. I should be dying for another swing, but I'm not. I head out to left, and no one says anything to me as I go.

I hear someone laughing off in the distance. I don't need to look up to know that it's Malfoy.

I try to settle myself down in the field. A few batters later, Chester hits one in the air. It's practically a home
run for him, but really, it's a blooper to shallow left. It's dropping fast, right in front of me. I should stay back and play this one on the hop. That's the smart thing to do, but I'm still burning with embarrassment. This seems like just what I need.

I break into a flat-out sprint. Maybe I can make this catch. Maybe the coaches can talk about that after practice, about my glove. Maybe I can make Malfoy swallow some of that laughter. There's no way he'd make this catch.

I'm running as fast as I can, starting to lean forward and get low as I go. My hat flies backward off my head. The ball is sinking fast. I'm almost there. Everything is converging: the ball, the grass, my glove….

I dive for it.

I miss.