Kristy at Bat

by Ann M. Martin

  “You bet,” I confessed.

  “Me too. But you know what? I’m also hungry. It’s time for breakfast.”

  I smiled at him. “I can practically smell the pancakes from here,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  He gave me a quick hug. “This is going to be fun.”

  “Definitely,” I said, trying to sound sure of myself.

  We headed down to the big dining room on the first floor of the hotel. We stopped at a long table by the entrance to pick up our name tags and information packets. Then we found seats at one of the round tables. A waiter came by to take our order for coffee, tea, or juice, then told us to help ourselves to the buffet. Watson and I didn’t need any urging. We headed straight to the tables along one side of the room, which were loaded with food. Scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, pancakes and French toast, yogurt in every flavor, plus heaps of fresh fruit, cereal, muffins, bagels, and cinnamon buns. It was hard to resist taking one of everything.

  I filled a plate and brought it back to the table. Two other father-daughter pairs had seated themselves with us by then, and as I buttered my bagel I took a moment to look them over.

  One dad seemed quite a bit younger than Watson. His daughter looked about twelve. The other dad looked older than Watson, and his daughter was probably seventeen.

  We all introduced ourselves, but as nervous as I was, I immediately forgot everyone’s name. Except Vicki’s. Vicki Sahadevan was the twelve-year-old (my guess was right) with the young-looking dad. They were from Connecticut too.

  I hadn’t even considered the possibility that I might make a friend at camp. But Vicki seemed nice, even though she was quiet. And her dad and Watson were like two peas in a pod.

  “Have you seen him yet?” Watson asked. They’d already started talking about Bill Bain.

  Vicki’s dad shook his head. “I’m sure he’ll be here this morning, though. I almost brought a ball for him to autograph, but Vicki convinced me to leave it in the room.”

  Vicki and I exchanged amused glances.

  Just then, a man approached the podium that was set up at one end of the room. He tapped the microphone and began to speak. “Welcome, campers!” he said. “This is the week your dreams will come true.”

  Corny? Definitely. But I joined in with the other campers, clapping and whistling.

  “I’m Matt Adamec,” the man said.

  More applause and whistles. Matt Adamec used to play first base for the Chicago White Sox. I guess he was pretty good.

  “I’ll be your host this morning — and your coach this afternoon,” Matt announced. “First I’ll explain how camp works. Then we’ll head over to the locker rooms to suit up. After that” — he mimicked swinging a bat — “it’s play ball!”

  Applause. Whistles.

  “What about Bill Bain?” I heard Watson whisper to Vicki’s dad. Mr. Sahadevan shrugged.

  Matt Adamec continued to talk in glowing, enthusiastic terms about everything we’d be doing that week. We’d be playing every day, coached by the best. We’d be eating excellent food, three meals a day. We’d have access to the nearby golf course. We’d be given Dream Camp caps and uniforms, which were ours to keep. We’d each receive a baseball autographed by our main instructor, photos taken by the camp photographer, and a videotape of camp highlights, including the big ballgame that would end the week.

  Eek. I was still feeling a little knot in my stomach every time I thought about playing ball. Who was going to want Kristy “Second String” Thomas on their team?

  Vicki didn’t look thrilled about it either. I wondered if she was on her school’s team, and if so, whether she was first or second string. She was probably some kind of state all-star. Maybe Dream Camp was just a bore for her.

  More applause interrupted my silly, negative daydreaming. I learned over to ask Watson what Matt had been saying, and he told me that there was going to be an awards dinner on the last night of camp.

  “Okay,” said Matt. “If everybody’s nearly finished with this fantastic breakfast, we can head to the locker rooms. We’ve divided you campers into two groups. The Red Team — you’re the ones who have a red border on your name tags — will be using the red locker room. You’ll be coached by Tony Washington, Hugo Martinez, and Candy Crosby.”

  Major applause after each of those names. I didn’t know who Candy Crosby was, but the other two were very big names in baseball.

  “The rest of you, on the Blue Team,” Matt went on, “will be coached by myself, Bill Bain, and Gloria Kemp.”

  At that, Watson whistled so loudly that my eardrums nearly burst. I didn’t even have to look down at my name tag to know that he and I were in the blue group. So were Vicki and her dad. (The other father-daughter pair at our table had red-bordered name tags.) I didn’t know anything about Gloria Kemp, but the main thing was that Bill Bain would be working with us. I was glad for Watson.

  Matt introduced some other assistant coaches and camp staffers. Then he clapped his hands. “All right, folks, that’s it for this meeting,” he said. “Let’s go suit up!”

  Do I have to report that there was more applause at this point?

  Our information packets included a map of the Dream Camp grounds, which showed two main ball fields and the locker rooms. It was easy to find our way around. Everything was connected by paved paths: hotel, ball fields, even the golf course. It was like a little world of its own.

  Vicki and I walked together behind our dads. Watson and Mr. Sahadevan were talking excitedly. “They’re really into this,” I said, nodding in their direction.

  “No kidding,” said Vicki.

  “It’ll be fun, don’t you think?” I asked her.

  She shrugged. I couldn’t tell if she was shy — or unhappy. Either way, she didn’t seem to want to talk.

  When we arrived at the locker room, we joined the line for uniforms. The guy handing them out was a riot. He must have been the uniform man for some team back in the 1920s. He looked about a hundred years old, but he was quick with the jokes. He had something to say to everyone. When Vicki and I reached the head of the line, he peered over his glasses at us. “Let’s see, you must be the Doublemint Twins,” he said as he handed over our uniforms. Two each, one for practice and one for the game at the end of the week. Vicki and I took them and walked away, rolling our eyes at each other. We were hardly twins. Vicki had long dark hair in a braid down her back, and a dark complexion (her grandparents are from India). Also, even though she’s a year younger, she’s much taller than me.

  We changed quickly, and I had to admit that the practice uniform was cool. It was gray with a blue pinstripe and a purple camp logo — two B’s entwined — on the chest. The game uniform was similar, but even spiffier since it was white. Both felt like the real thing. They were a major step up from my Krushers T-shirt or the SMS team uniform, which is pretty basic. When I checked myself in the mirror, I felt a little thrill go up my spine. And suddenly I thought of my dad. He would have been thrilled too to see me looking so professional.

  I shook off the thought and headed for the briefing room, where Matt had told us to meet.

  There was Watson, looking good in his uniform. He was practically glowing with excitement, and I knew he was hoping that this was when Bill Bain would finally join us.

  Instead, Matt bounded into the room. “Hey, you all look like a real team now,” he exclaimed. “Don’t they, Gloria?”

  He turned to the woman next to him, who was nodding. She looked pretty old, but very fit. She was tanned and thin, with curly white hair. “This is Gloria Kemp,” Matt said. “She played center field for the Georgia Peaches. If any of you saw the movie A League of Their Own, you’ll recognize the team name.”

  Wow. I’ve seen that movie about six times. It’s one of my favorites. I felt honored to have Gloria Kemp as one of my coaches.

  “I’m so happy to be here,” she said. “It’s an inspiration to see all you young women excited about playing ball.”

  We wer
e an inspiration to her? I was flattered. Then I remembered that I was only a second-string player. I wondered if Gloria would be able to tell as soon as I took the field.

  We didn’t take the field for a while, though. First, we had a team meeting. Matt asked us to go around the room and introduce ourselves, telling our names and where we were from and what we hoped to get out of camp. I didn’t know what to say about that, so I just mumbled something about working on my skills. Other campers said they hoped to hit a homer off a big-league pitcher or learn how to turn a game-winning double play.

  Then it was time to pick a team name. Matt offered three choices: Bain’s Blue Batters, the Bluejays, or the Blue Sox. It seemed like a simple decision, but we ended up having a half-hour discussion about it. Partway into our debate, I began to feel impatient. After all, were we there to talk or to play? Finally, I jumped in and took over. “Look, we need to make a decision here,” I said. “I think it’s time for a vote.” My friends at home would not have been surprised, but a few of the dads were a little taken aback. I led us through a quick voting process, and (surprise!) Bain’s Blue Batters was the name we chose.

  I looked around. Had I been too outspoken? If I had, nobody seemed to mind. In fact, they seemed relieved that someone had taken the reins.

  “Thank you, um, Kristy,” said Matt, after peering at my name tag. “Great job. Now we can move on to the real business at hand — playing ball!”

  Gulp. The moment of truth.

  But then there was a reprieve. “We won’t be playing a real game today,” Gloria said. “We’ll just run through some drills in order to warm ourselves up. We have a big week ahead of us. No need to rush things.”

  Yes. Drills were no problem. In fact, drills were lots of fun. We broke up into even smaller groups, and Watson and I, along with two other father-daughter pairs I hadn’t met yet, were assigned Matt as our instructor. He was an excellent teacher. I learned some terrific new drills that I immediately planned to take home to the Krushers. I knew Coach Wu would want to hear about them too.

  Coach Wu.

  Second string.

  I’d been having so much fun that I’d almost forgotten.

  The next day we’d play our first game. Was Dream Camp about to turn into a nightmare?

  “Okay, campers!” Matt clapped his hands to get our attention. It was Wednesday morning, and we’d already changed into our practice uniforms. Now we were gathered on the ball field for our first full day of practice and play.

  Did I mention how beautiful the ball field was? Maybe you don’t think a ball field can be beautiful, but believe me, it can. In fact, it’s one of the things that real baseball fans love about the game. There’s nothing like a well-kept field. The brilliant green of the outfield, the carefully raked dirt of the base paths, the white bases and foul lines — all of it adds up to a sight that can hit you right in the heart, whether you’re a player or a spectator.

  I’ll never forget the first time I went to Shea Stadium. It was a night game, and my excitement was building as my dad led Sam, Charlie, and me through the corridors that line the outside of the stadium. Then we walked through a short passageway, and suddenly the whole ballpark came into view. The grass looked unbelievably green, and it was almost shimmering under the lights. I felt the way you feel when you see some awesome natural sight, like the Grand Canyon or the ocean.

  Anyway, this ball field wasn’t Shea Stadium, but it wasn’t the SMS diamond either. It was a professional-level field, and I could hardly wait to start playing on it. But first, Matt made an announcement.

  “Let’s divide up into two groups,” he said. “I’ll take one group, and Gloria will take the other. She’ll be here in just a minute. We’ll start with some warm-ups and drills.”

  I waited for him to tell us more about the day’s schedule — for instance, would we actually be playing a game at some point? — and to explain who should be in which group. But he seemed to be waiting for us to divide ourselves up. He had turned to look over the equipment that had been brought out to the field for us to use.

  We campers just stood there. Everybody looked a little confused. Finally, I stepped forward. I’ve had a lot of practice with this sort of thing, so I knew what to do. “Okay, let’s make sure we have some of the stronger players in each group. That way, if we want to have a scrimmage, we’ll have reasonably even teams.” I gazed at the group. I had no idea about anyone else’s skill level. I’d have to trust them to tell me themselves. “If you feel you are an advanced player, stand over there,” I said, gesturing. “Intermediates in the middle here, and beginners over to that side.”

  I saw Vicki start for the beginner area, but her dad pulled her into the intermediate group with him. Watson was there too. Only two people put themselves in the advanced spot.

  “Great,” I said. “Now, everybody stay where you are and count off ‘one, two.’ ”

  They did it without hesitating. It’s funny how people will follow any directions you give them if you sound like you know what you’re doing. I couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if I’d told them to stand on their heads and sing “Happy Birthday” backward.

  “Okay, now let’s have the ones over here, and the twos over there. That’s it! We’re all set.” I checked out the groups with satisfaction. If I’d calculated correctly, they should each have about the same mix of players. I saw that group two was short one player, so I put myself with them.

  I looked at Matt to see what he was doing. Had he noticed — and maybe resented? — the way I’d jumped in and taken over?

  Apparently not. He was still rummaging around in the equipment bag, pulling out bats and bases and throwing them into piles.

  “Um, Matt?” I said. “We’re pretty much ready to start.”

  He looked up, surprised. “Great, great,” he replied. “The only thing is, I can’t seem to find the catchers’ masks or the lighter-weight bats.”

  If I were Matt, I might have checked over the equipment bag before I brought it out to the field. But that’s just me. I like to be organized.

  “They must be back at the hotel,” he said finally.

  “Want me to run back and find them?” I volunteered. Anything to get the day moving along.

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary.” He dug into his jacket pocket. “We’re high-tech here,” he continued with a grin, pulling out a cell phone. He yanked up the antenna, dialed, and spoke into the phone. Then he hung up and put the phone away. “One of the staffers will bring it,” he reported. “And Gloria’s on her way out now.”

  “Great!” I said. “Can I ask you about a couple of other things while we wait?”

  “Shoot. What’s on your mind?”

  I noticed that the other campers were listening, and I figured they were probably wondering about the same things I was. “Well,” I began, “are we going to have a game today? Or will we just be doing drills again?”

  “Oh, we’ll have a game,” said Matt. “How about if we do drills this morning with a lot of coaching, and then play a game after lunch?”

  “Sounds excellent,” I said. It was good to have a schedule set out.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Um, I was wondering if we’d be seeing Bill Bain today,” I said. That was putting it mildly. I was dying to know, and so was everyone else. Watson couldn’t think about anything but that. Before breakfast, he’d been moping around our living room, gazing at his Bill Bain memorabilia. I had a feeling he was beginning to think he’d never meet his hero. I’d practically had to drag him to the dining room.

  Matt was nodding. “Oh, sure,” he said. “He would have been here by now, but something came up for him. He’s a busy man, you know. We retired baseball players aren’t exactly sitting around in rocking chairs.” He chuckled a bit, shaking his head. “Anyway, I know Bill intends to be here today. So be prepared to meet the legend!”

  I sneaked a glance at Watson. He looked happier than he had all morning.r />
  Just then, Gloria showed up. A staffer walked behind her, lugging an equipment bag. “Here we are,” she said. “All ready to start?”

  “You bet,” said Matt. “How about if you take that group,” he pointed at the twos, “and start on the field. I’ll take the others and work out here at the plate.”

  Gloria smiled. “I didn’t expect you to be so organized,” she said teasingly.

  Matt blushed a little. I could tell that this wasn’t the first time Gloria had ribbed him about organization.

  “People can change,” he said, laughing. “Actually, it was this girl here who pulled things together. Kristy, right?” he asked, turning to me. “You helped us out yesterday too.”

  Gloria turned her smile on me. “Thanks, Kristy. We can sometimes be a little organizationally impaired around here. But we have other strengths. Come out on the field, and I’ll show you.”

  She took our group into the outfield and led us through a series of warm-ups and stretches. “A strong, limber body is important for baseball,” she said. “You’ll need to be able to sprint without hurting yourself or reach for that big catch.” I noticed that she was majorly strong and limber herself.

  After that, she taught us an outfielder’s drill that began when she hit high pop-ups to each of us in turn. (We were spread out over the outfield by then.) Her accuracy was amazing. She could put the ball exactly where she wanted it, every time.

  When we caught the balls (if we caught the balls — I dropped the first two that were hit to me), we were supposed to throw them to the person who was farthest from where we were standing. Outfielders need to have good arms. And no, that doesn’t mean their arms look good in tank tops. (Though sometimes that’s true too.) It means they’re strong, and that they can throw hard and aim well.

  I noticed that Vicki, who was in my group, was having a little trouble making the throws. Most of her tosses fell short, and they weren’t aimed all that well either. She wasn’t far from me on the field, so while Gloria was working with people at the other end of the group I jogged over to her and passed along a few tips on throwing I happen to know. There are ways you can use your muscles more efficiently, even if you’re not super-strong.