Centerfield Ballhawk

by Matt Christopher

  Copyright

  Text copyright © 1992 by Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

  Illustrations copyright © 1992 by Ellen Beier

  All rights reserved.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/littlebrown

  First eBook Edition: December 2009

  Matt Christopher® is a registered trademark of Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN: 978-0-316-09496-2

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  For Matthew Alexander Lurie

  1

  CRACK!

  Crash.

  The first sound came when José Mendez’s bat hit the ball. The second came when the ball smashed through a car’s window.

  José froze.

  “Oh, no!” Sparrow Fisher moaned.

  “Oh, yes,” José murmured, sick to the bone. The hole was baseball size, surrounded by thin zigzag cracks. It was in the left front window of Mrs. Dooley’s new car. Mrs. Dooley was José’s neighbor, and she hated baseball more than crabgrass.

  “Go after it, Sparrow!” José cried. “Maybe the door’s unlocked!”

  “Oh, yeah? You go after it,” Sparrow said. He was ten, a year older than José, with hair the color of ripened wheat.

  José clamped his jaws tight, then dropped his bat and ran across the yard to Mrs. Dooley’s car. He had to jump over the hedge to get to it, but that was no problem.

  The problem was the car door. It was locked. So was the rear door.

  “José Mendez! Just what do you think you’re doing?” a shrill voice cried out.

  For the second time in twenty seconds, José froze. Mrs. Dooley, a small, skinny woman, was standing in her doorway, staring at him through her narrow glasses.

  “I — I was trying to get our ball, Mrs. Dooley,” José answered nervously.

  She came trotting down the steps, her slippers slapping against her feet. “What happened here? Oh, no!” she cried. “You broke a window in my car, didn’t you? You’ll pay for this, young man! You hear me? You’ll pay for this!”

  She gave José a glare that would have curled a flower, then turned back to the hole in the car window. “I knew something like this would happen,” she said angrily. “You should know better than to play baseball in your front yard. Hasn’t your father —”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dooley,” José interrupted. “My father has warned me not to. I’m sorry.”

  He heard footsteps behind him, and turned. His father had come out onto the porch.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Dooley,” he said, his voice calm. “José will pay for it. You can bet on that.”

  Then his eyes bored into José’s, and for the first time in his life José wished he could make himself disappear.

  * * *

  “You are grounded from playing baseball for two weeks,” José’s father said to him in the house. “If the Peach Street Mudders can’t get along without you for that long, too bad. I’ve warned you about playing pepper out there. All it takes is one hard swing and — pow! — the ball is in Mrs. Dooley’s yard. This time it was worse — it hit her new car.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” José said, lowering his head. “I — I didn’t mean . . .” He couldn’t say any more. He had no excuse. He should have known better.

  José loved playing baseball so much that he tended to forget about other things. Like his father’s warning.

  Don’t you remember what it was like, Dad? José wanted to say to him. Mr. Mendez had played in the minor league, and he had taught José everything he knew about the sport. Baseball had always been their common bond. Lately, though, things had changed. Most of the time, it seemed to José, his father was angry with him. Today he had good reason to be. As for the other times, José could only conclude that he was a disappointment to his father.

  Sorry, Dad, he thought. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.

  2

  SMACK!

  José’s bat met the ball squarely in its center and drove it hard against the net. He popped the next two pitches and missed the next. He let the fourth pitch go by.

  “What’re you doing, old buddy?” a familiar voice piped up behind him. “Practicing to be a better hitter than your friend Barry ‘Hit-Away Kid’ McGee?”

  José turned and saw Barry standing behind the batting cage screen. Barry was the Peach Street Mudders’ left fielder.

  “I’ll never be as good as you,” José said. “You’re the best, Barry.”

  The red-headed kid with Barry grinned. Bus Mercer was the Peach Street Mudders’ shortstop. “Want me to pinch-hit for you, José?” he said, kidding.

  “Somebody might have to,” José said.

  He swung at the remaining pitches that shot out of the ball gun — hitting some, missing some — then stepped out of the batting cage. He wiped his sweating forehead with his shirtsleeve.

  “You guys want to see a real hitter?” Bus said. “Stick around.”

  He paid for a round and hit every pitch but two.

  Then Barry took his turn. POW! POW! POW!

  He hit every pitch solidly. José watched him with envy. If I could hit like that, I wouldn’t have to come to this batting cage, he thought. I wouldn’t have to worry about being a disappointment to my father.

  When the pitches stopped coming, Barry stepped out of the cage. He hadn’t even worked up a sweat, José noticed.

  “What are you doing here?” Barry asked him. “Weren’t you grounded?”

  “Yeah,” Bus joined in. “Sparrow told us how you creamed that old lady’s car.”

  José’s face turned red with embarrassment. “I was grounded from playing on the team. My dad didn’t say anything about practicing. And I figured I should stay in shape.” He didn’t want to tell them the real reason he was practicing. He didn’t think they’d understand.

  “Good idea,” said Barry. “I sure hope your dad changes his mind. We really need you.”

  José blushed again, this time with pleasure. “Aw, I bet you won’t even notice I’m not there,” he said modestly.

  “Sure we will,” said Bus. “You’re the best fielder we have.”

  José enjoyed the compliment, but he wished he was valued for being a good hitter. A good hitter like his father was — he’d batted .375 when he’d played in the minors. If he could match his father’s average, José figured, he might get back into his father’s good graces.

  With new determination, José bought another round. It was only a dollar for fourteen pitches. He stepped in the box, held his bat ready, and triggered the gun. A ball shot out of the mouth of the pitching machine like a white meteor.

  José swung. Crack! The ball bounced off the top of his bat and hit his cheek.

  Oh, no! his mind screamed as he stepped out of the batter’s box and rubbed his fingers lightly over the bruise. He could feel it beginning to swell.

  Yikes! How was he going to explain this to his father? He had told him that he was going over to Barry’s house. A lot of good this practice session had done him!

  3

  The three boys quit playing and headed for home. Barry and Bus talked about
the Bay Street Stingers, the team they were playing against tomorrow. José worried about the red spot on his cheek and what he’d say to his father.

  When he reached his house, José saw that the garage door was open. His father was working on the car.

  José walked on the grass on his way to the front porch, hoping it would muffle his footsteps.

  “José?”

  José stopped dead. His father had heard him.

  Nervous, José turned and entered the garage. He covered the bruise with his hand, moving his fingers a little as if he were scratching an itch.

  Mr. Mendez was pouring oil into the engine’s crankcase. He looked at José. “You look sweaty,” he observed. “You and Barry been playing ball?”

  José shrugged. “Well, yeah. In a way.”

  Mr. Mendez’s eyes narrowed. “In a way? What do you mean?”

  “We were having batting practice.”

  His father frowned. “Batting practice? Even though I told you you were grounded?”

  “From everything? I wasn’t playing with the team . . .”

  Mr. Mendez straightened up. He was staring at José’s cheek. Suddenly José realized that he had forgotten about the bruise and had taken his hand off it.

  “What happened to your cheek?” Mr. Mendez asked.

  Jose’s throat ached. He had to tell his father the whole truth now. “I bruised it,” he said.

  “How?”

  “I was at the batting cage, and I fouled off a pitch.”

  “I see,” said his father. “So you didn’t go to Barry’s house. You went to the batting cage instead.”

  José clamped his mouth shut and nodded. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, he thought.

  “Why did you go to the batting cage? You’ve never gone there before, have you? Isn’t it expensive?”

  “No. It’s only a buck for fourteen pitches. I’ve saved a few dollars from raking leaves,” José explained. “And I — I wanted to work on my batting.”

  “I don’t see why,” said Mr. Mendez. “You’re not going to be playing ball for a while. Remember? Now, go inside. When I’m done out here, we’re going to have a little talk.”

  José knew what that meant. His father would do all of the talking. Loud, angry talking. The ache in his throat got worse. “Yes, sir.”

  He started out of the garage.

  “I’m disappointed, José,” his father said sternly. “You tell me one thing and do something else. What’s with you? Can’t I trust you anymore?”

  Sure, you can, Dad, José wanted to say. You just have to give me a chance.

  José took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said softly.

  “That’s all I’ve been hearing from you lately: ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s time that you took responsibility for your actions,” said Mr. Mendez. “Did you call your coach yet? Tell him you won’t be playing for the next two weeks?”

  “No,” said José. He’d been hoping, like Barry, that his father would change his mind.

  “You’d better,” said Mr. Mendez. “Then go to your room until I call you.” He turned and went back to pouring oil into his crankcase, and José went into the house to wait for another lecture.

  4

  Fighting back tears, José put an ice cube on his bruised cheek, then went to his room. He lay on his bed, wondering why things had gone sour with his father. Two weeks without baseball! He might as well have said two months.

  If only I could make him proud of me again, José thought. Hitting .375 would do it. But how could he become a good hitter when he was one hundred percent grounded?

  José groaned and punched his pillow. Then he had an idea. He could still read about baseball, couldn’t he? Maybe he’d pick up a few pointers. José got up and looked for his book on Little League baseball.

  But it wasn’t on the shelf. It was missing.

  He looked up, down, and sideways for the book but couldn’t find it.

  Somebody stole it, he thought. But who’d do that?

  It had to have been Carmen. He knocked on her door and asked her about it.

  “Yeah, I borrowed it,” his sister replied. She was eleven, a spitting image of their mother, who had died two years earlier.

  José stared at her. “What do you want it for?”

  “I wanted to bone up on the rules for softball. Linda Baker is putting a team together in the girls’ softball league, and she asked me to play first base!”

  “That’s great,” José said without much enthusiasm. Maybe you’ll wind up a better ballplayer than me, he wanted to add.

  “What’s with you?” Carmen asked, noting his glum expression. “Did you break another window?”

  José scowled at her. “No, one was enough. Dad grounded me from baseball.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Carmen shook her head in sympathy. “Maybe he’ll forget about it.”

  “Not this time,” said José. “I’m in deep.”

  Carmen didn’t say anything for a moment. What could she say? José thought. She never had any problems with Dad.

  Then she went over to her desk and pulled his book out from under a pile of homework. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “If you can’t play baseball, you might as well read about it.”

  José smiled weakly. “Just what I was thinking,” he said. “Thanks.”

  He left her room and picked up the phone in the hallway. He called Coach Russ Parker and told him that he couldn’t play for the next two weeks.

  “Why not?” Coach Parker wanted to know.

  José explained, then hung up. I just hope I still remember how to play when the two weeks are up, he thought.

  The team welcomed him back like an old friend two weeks later when the Peach Street Mudders played the Bay Street Stingers. During the time he’d been grounded, they had lost two games and won two. And the Stingers were living up to their name. They were like angry hornets.

  But despite the Stingers’ reputation, Mudders pitcher Sparrow Fisher mowed down their lead-off batter, Nick Long, with a strikeout.

  Then Henry Shaw came up and blasted the first pitch to deep center field.

  José turned and bolted back toward the fence. The ball was arcing down over his head. He reached out . . . far out . . .

  5

  The ball hit the webbing of José’s glove and stuck there! It looked like a scoop of vanilla ice cream perched on a cone as José stared at it in disbelief.

  He turned and whipped the ball in, his ears ringing with the joyous yell of the fans.

  “Good catch, man!” Barry cried. “I didn’t think you’d make it!”

  “Just lucky,” José said.

  Ted Shoemaker grounded out to third, and the top of the first half was over.

  Coach Parker and the rest of the guys greeted him warmly as he ran in to the dugout. But he thought: I hope I do as well at the plate. That was where his playing counted the most.

  Barry led off with a walk, Turtleneck Jones struck out, and José stepped into the batting box. He took two balls and a strike, then leaned into one that sailed out to deep left. It was too high. He knew before he’d taken a half a dozen steps that it would be caught.

  It was. Two out.

  “That’s okay, old buddy!” Barry said as José trotted across the infield toward the dugout. “That was close to being a round-tripper!”

  But it wasn’t, José wanted to say. Well, he still had two or three more bats to go.

  T.V. Adams, the next batter, tripled to deep right, bringing Barry home and putting them on the scoreboard. Then Lefty Burk, the Stingers’ skinny hurler, threw a wild pitch over Bus Mercer’s head, and T.V. trotted in for the Mudders’ second run. Bus flied out, leaving the score Bay Street Stingers 0, Peach Street Mudders 2.

  Russ Coon, the Stingers’ fourth and best hitter, led off with a clothesline drive over second base that brought the Stingers’ fans to their feet. The second José saw it coming, he sprang forward. He ran hard, dove on his stomach, and cau
ght the ball just before it hit the ground.

  Once again the fans cheered him.

  “Terrific catch, old buddy!” Barry yelled.

  Grinning, José got up, tossed the ball to him, and brushed off his uniform.

  Jack Taylor singled, but first base was as far as he got. The Mudders’ defense closed the top half of the inning with no runs.

  Catcher Rudy Calhoun tapped the plate with his bat a few times, then singled on the first pitch for the Mudders. Nicky Chong hit into a double play.

  The Mudders got another chance to score when Alfie Maples walked. But Sparrow struck out to end the bottom of the second inning.

  Jay Mancuso started off the top of the third with a single. Lefty Burk surprised the crowd by knocking a triple against the right field fence, scoring Jay, and that was the beginning of a hitting spree that ended with Russ Coon’s home run over the left field fence. The half-inning ended with the Stingers on top, 4 to 2.

  Holy moly! José thought dismally as he came running in from the outfield. If there was ever a time for me to get a solid hit, this is it!

  Barry and Turtleneck both got on with singles. Maybe we’ll start rolling now, José thought as he stepped to the plate.

  “Keep it going, José!” Barry shouted.

  José swung at two pitches, missed them both, and stepped out of the box. He was sweating, and his heart was beating like a drum.

  6

  “Ball!” boomed the ump.

  “Ball two!”

  Then “Ball three!” and once again, José stepped out of the batting box. He could hear Barry shouting to him from first base. “Over the fence, José!”

  José took a deep breath, let it out, and stepped back in the box.

  The pitch came in. He swung. Whiff! He’d struck out!

  Sick and embarrassed, he went back to the bench. How am I ever going to hit .375 by striking out? he thought. If I do that again, Coach Parker might bench me. How can I improve by sitting on the bench? Good thing Dad isn’t here to see this.