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The Little League® Pledge
I trust in God
I love my country
And will respect its laws
I will play fair
And strive to win
But win or lose
I will always do my best
CHAPTER
ONE
Liam McGrath, twelve-year-old catcher for the Ravenna All-Stars of Southern California, shifted. His gaze flicked to the scoreboard beyond the left-field fence of Al Houghton Stadium. It was the bottom of the fifth inning of the West Regional Championship. The score was Guests 4, Home 7. Southern California was the visiting team.
His lips tightened. We’ve got to get this guy out, he thought. He returned his attention to the boy on the mound. Time to turn up the heat, Phillip!
Holding the baseball behind his back, pitcher Phillip DiMaggio leaned forward, narrowed his piercing black eyes, and glared at the Northern California batter. Liam wondered how the hitter felt being on the receiving end of that look. A little unnerved, he guessed. That’s how he’d felt, anyway, whenever Phillip had turned that glare on him, back when they played on different teams during the regular Little League season.
If the Northern California player was bothered, though, he didn’t show it. Nor did he seem troubled that there were two outs, that the count was oh-and-two, or that he could strand runners on first and second. Why should he? Earlier in the game, he had clocked a two-run RBI triple under the exact same circumstances. Only a spectacular throw from outfielder Rodney Driscoll to Liam had prevented that triple from turning into a three-run homer.
Ignoring the knot of anxiety in his stomach, Liam flashed the signal for a fastball. Phillip nodded once. Then he reared back, lunged forward, and threw.
Swish! Thud! “Strike three!”
The knot vanished. The batter stood stock-still for a moment and then retreated to the dugout. The scoring threat was over.
The Southern California boys hustled into the third-base dugout. Coach Driscoll rattled off the batting order.
“Phillip is up first. Matt, you’re after Phillip. And then it’s Rodney, Liam, and Mason. Quick bats out there, and even quicker feet when you get a hit.” The coach smiled. “Right?”
“Sure thing, Dad,” Rodney replied enthusiastically. Rodney was Coach Driscoll’s adopted son. He had a brother, Sean, who was also adopted. Sean wasn’t on the All-Star team, but he was in the stands, cheering for his brother and the other players.
Phillip stepped into the batter’s box. He fouled off the first pitch for strike one. He straightened out the next one for a sizzling line drive past the pitcher and landed safely at first.
“Here we go, Matt, here we go!” Coach Driscoll called. The boys added their voices, quieted with the pitch, and then, leaping to their feet, bellowed with joy. Matt Finch slugged the ball far into the outfield for a stand-up double!
Runners on second and third, no outs. Excitement shot up Liam’s spine as Rodney, one of the team’s best hitters, approached the plate.
If Rodney gets a hit, I would be the go-ahead run. If I see a pitch I like…
He shook his head to keep his hopes from running away with him. He glanced at NoCal’s pitcher—and those thoughts came racing back.
The boy on the mound had started the game. He had a good changeup and a great fastball. But neither pitch had stumped Liam. His first at bat, he’d hit a single. He got up again in the fourth and belted a double that earned SoCal its fourth run. Now the same pitcher had given up two straight hits.
When Rodney connected with the first pitch, Liam’s heart started pounding. And when Phillip crossed the plate and Rodney landed safely at first with Matt staying put at second, Liam’s heart threatened to burst right out of his chest.
As he adjusted his batting helmet, a hand dropped lightly onto his shoulder, startling him. “Deep breaths, son,” Coach Driscoll murmured. “Deep, calming breaths.”
Liam closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose. He held the breath for a moment and blew it out slowly through his mouth. The breathing technique was something Coach Driscoll had taught him. A dentist by profession, the coach used it to soothe nervous patients. It worked just as well with nervous players.
Coach Driscoll handed him a bat. “Better?”
Liam grinned. “Much. Thanks, Coach.” Buoyed by a wave of enthusiastic applause from his teammates, he left the dugout.
“Time!”
Liam froze at the umpire’s call. He watched with dismay as NoCal’s manager pulled his pitcher. When he saw who was coming in, his dismay turned to sinking dread.
Liam had faced the new NoCal pitcher once before in the West Regionals. Things had not gone well—not by a long shot.
Like his teammate, the boy had a good changeup and a decent fastball. He had a third pitch, too: a knuckleball that bobbled and danced its way through the air toward home plate. That was the pitch he’d thrown to Liam three times in a row.
And it was the one Liam had missed by a mile three times in a row.
There’s nothing you can do about it, he thought ruefully, so make the best of it.
“Batter up!”
Liam squared his shoulders, strode to the plate, and hefted the bat into position. The pitcher wound up and threw. It was a knuckleball. Even though Liam had been expecting the pitch, he couldn’t follow the ball’s path. He let it go by, hoping it would miss the strike zone.
It didn’t. The umpire made a fist for strike one. One pitch later, he repeated the gesture.
Sweat beaded on Liam’s forehead. He wiped it away quickly and glanced at the mound.
The pitcher’s lips twitched in a smirk.
And just like that, Liam’s anxiety fled. Fierce determination took its place. He moved back into position with one goal in mind: to blast the ball out of the park and wipe that smirk off the pitcher’s face.
The NoCal hurler leaned in, took the signal, reared back, and threw. Liam locked onto the ball the way a missile locks onto its target. He swung with all his might.
Pow!
CHAPTER
TWO
Carter Jones woke with a start. He blinked in the darkness, momentarily disoriented by his shadowy surroundings. Then he remembered where he was: the dormitory of the A. Bartlett Giamatti Little League Leadership Training Center in Bristol, Connecticut. He was in the top bunk of one of the beds. His friend Ash LaBrie slept in the bunk below. Other players from Forest Park, Pennsylvania, were in similar beds throughout the hall.
Carter rolled onto his side, wondering what had woken him. Suddenly, his head vibrated.
Bzzzz, bzzzz. Bzzzz, bzzzz.
He grinned, dug his hand beneath the pillow, and retrieved the personal cell phone he’d stashed there earlier. Only Liam would be calling this late, and for only one reason: to tell him who’d won the West Regional Championship.
As quickly and quietly as he could, he slipped down the bunk bed ladder, speed-walked to the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. Then he answered the call.
“Doofus?” he whispered hopefully.
“Dork.” Liam’s voice was just as quiet.
No, not quiet. Subdued. As in, not the way it would sound if SoCal
was the West Regional champ. Carter’s heart sank.
Before Carter could think of something to say, Liam murmured, “I’m sending you a video clip. Watch it, then call me back.” He hung up.
Carter blinked, not sure what to make of Liam’s abruptness. His phone buzzed again, signaling that the video had been received.
He thumbed his way to the attachment, muted the volume, and hit play.
The video opened with a close-up of the Al Houghton Stadium scoreboard. According to the information there, it was the top of the sixth and final inning. The home team had seven runs while the guests had five. There were no outs, but the batter had a count of oh-and-two.
But which team is “Home”? Carter wondered.
He got his answer a moment later, when the shot pulled back to show the infield. Standing at first and second were runners in Ravenna uniforms, their cobalt-blue-and-white jerseys brilliant beneath the stadium lights. He tried to see whether Liam was one of the runners, but before he could, the image veered to home plate.
His eyes widened. Liam was the batter.
As Carter watched, Liam stepped out of the box and wiped his brow. The video zoomed in on Liam’s face. He looked anxious.
Oh, no, Carter thought, biting his lower lip.
But a split second later, something fascinating happened. Liam’s expression morphed from worry to fierce determination as he lifted the bat over his shoulder.
He’s going to crush this next pitch! As the thought crossed Carter’s mind, the Northern California pitcher hurled the ball toward the plate. Carter tried to see what kind of pitch it was, but the image on the screen was too small. Liam swung.
Pow!
Carter wished the video had followed the ball’s path. But it stayed on Liam, who dropped his bat and sprinted toward first, head down, legs churning, arms pumping.
“Go, Liam, go!” Carter whispered urgently.
Suddenly, Liam’s head snapped up. A huge grin split his face. He leaped and punched the air with his fist. He touched first base and continued to second. But he wasn’t sprinting anymore—he was practically galloping, each step filled with such glee that Carter didn’t need sound to know what had happened.
Home run! SoCal was in the lead, 8–7!
Of course, NoCal had last bats, but the videographer—Carter guessed it was Liam’s older sister, Melanie, who was making a movie about Ravenna’s postseason—added a shot of the scoreboard at the end of the game. Guests 8, Home 7.
Ravenna had won the West Regional Championship! Next stop: the Little League Baseball World Series!
Impatient with excitement, Carter clumsily tapped the screen to back out of the video and contact Liam.
His cousin answered on the first ring.
“You doofus!” Carter hissed. “I thought—well, you know what I thought!”
Liam’s laugh boomed in Carter’s ear. Carter couldn’t stop himself. He laughed out loud, too—and then clapped a hand over his mouth as the sound echoed off the bathroom walls.
“Gotcha good, didn’t I?” Liam chortled.
“You rocketed that ball out of the park! What’d he throw you, anyway? A meatball?”
“Don’t know, and right now, I don’t care!” Liam replied. “What I do know is that I’ll be seeing you in Williamsport!”
That assertion brought Carter up short. He would see Liam in Williamsport, true enough. But the question was, would he be there as a spectator, or would he and the other Forest Park All-Stars be among the sixteen teams in the World Series tournament?
He decided to look on the positive side. “I’ll be there after we beat DC tomorrow—or today, I guess,” he amended, knowing that it was well after midnight.
Liam chuckled. “Good thing your game isn’t until late afternoon. You’ll have plenty of time for a nap!” He gave a loud yawn. “Listen, I gotta get going. We’re getting the bus to the airport really early. One last thing, though, dork”—Carter could hear the smile in his cousin’s voice—“fist-bump, fist-bump, fist-bump.”
Carter laughed again, this time not caring if someone heard him. Bumping fists three times in a row was his and Liam’s way of wishing each other good luck. He raised his left fist even though Liam couldn’t see him. “Right back at you.”
The cousins ended their call. Carter caught sight of himself in the mirror. He stared into his reflection’s green eyes. He made a fist again and tapped it against the mirror.
“Good luck,” he whispered. “And go get ’em.”
CHAPTER
THREE
Psst!”
Liam jumped at the sound. He’d been so engrossed in his book, a sports novel by his favorite author, that he didn’t hear the flight attendant approach.
Kate, according to her name tag, laid a finger on her lips and nodded toward his seatmate. Liam glanced over and suppressed a laugh. Phillip was out like a light, mouth open and head lolling on the pillow he’d propped up against the plane’s small oval window.
“Where are we?” Liam whispered as he put down his book, unfolded his tray table, and accepted the bag of pretzels and soft drink Kate handed him.
“Somewhere over Ohio,” Kate replied.
Liam yawned. He and his teammates had been traveling since early morning. A chartered bus had taken them; the Northwest champions from Obsidian, Wyoming; and the coaches for both teams from San Bernardino to the airport in Ontario, California, where they boarded a flight bound for Philadelphia. Another bus would take them to Williamsport.
Kate held out another bag of pretzels. “Would you like to save these for your teammate?” She grinned. “Or you can eat them if your friend doesn’t wake up soon. I won’t tell.”
Liam took the snack and a second drink, too, and Kate moved to the next seats. As he munched a salty stick, he sneaked another glance at Phillip.
Your teammate, Kate had called him. Your friend. And yet just a few months ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead sitting next to Phillip.
He and Phillip had first met at last year’s Little League Baseball World Series. Liam had been living in Pennsylvania and was a catcher on the Mid-Atlantic Regional championship team then. Phillip pitched for West. Their teams faced each other in the U.S. Championship. In the last inning, Liam came up to bat. Mid-Atlantic was down by a run, had two outs, and a runner on third. Liam wanted to send that runner home something fierce.
Phillip was on the mound. His first pitch was a fastball. Liam thought it would miss the strike zone, but it didn’t. Strike one. Liam nicked the second for a foul and strike two. When Phillip’s next pitch came, Liam swung for the fences—and struck out to end the game, and Mid-Atlantic’s chance to play for the World Series title. To make matters worse, the momentum from his powerful swing corkscrewed him off-balance. He’d landed face-first in the dirt—a humiliating moment caught on camera and later posted online for anyone to see.
In time, the memory of his colossal strikeout might have faded to nothingness. But a freak coincidence brought it back into crystal clear focus.
That winter, Liam’s family moved from Pennsylvania to Southern California. To Phillip’s hometown, to be exact. Liam didn’t know Phillip lived there, though, until after Little League tryouts. To his relief, he and Phillip were assigned to different teams. They would meet on the field, but only a few times, not every practice and every game.
Knowing he’d face Phillip, Liam threw himself into the sport as never before. Phillip seemed to do the same.
Our unspoken rivalry made us both work harder, Liam thought as he finished his pretzels.
When they both made the All-Star team, Liam decided to clear the air. At the first practice, he marched up to Phillip and congratulated him on last year’s World Series win. The bold move worked. Now here they were, winging their way across the country to play in that most celebrated youth sports event, the Little League Baseball World Series, not just as teammates, but as friends.
“Unbelievable,” Liam murmured, “and awesome.”
&
nbsp; Phillip woke up with a snort. He stretched and pointed at the snacks. “Hey, are those for me?”
Soon afterward, a crowd of Northwest players gathered near their seats. The boys knew that Phillip and Liam had been to the World Series before. They peppered them with questions about their experiences.
“What’s it like, playing in front of those huge crowds?” a sandy-haired boy wanted to know.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” Liam answered. “When I ran into Lamade Stadium for my first game, I was a little intimidated. But then the game started, and everything else just kind of faded into the background, you know?”
The boy nodded. “Yeah, that happened to me this last tournament.”
The conversation turned to the Dr. Creighton Hale International Grove. The Grove, as it was known, was where the players from all sixteen teams—eight from the United States, eight from regions around the world—lived during the World Series tournament.
“Here’s how it works,” Liam said. “You get a card that you keep with you at all times. That gets you into The Grove, so don’t lose it or forget it!
“There are four dorms,” he continued. “Each building is two stories tall. Four teams, two U.S. and two International, stay in each building—one U.S. and one International per floor.”
“The recreation area is awesome,” Phillip added. “Tons of stuff to do, like Ping-Pong, video games, television—”
“And a pool!” Liam cut in enthusiastically.
“What about the food?” someone called out.
“It’s so good!” Phillip and Liam said in unison, drawing laughter.
One of the players wanted to know if he’d see his family at all.
“Definitely,” Liam replied. “You can arrange to go out to dinner or to the mall or the movies with them, meet up with them on days you don’t have games, see them under this big tent—”
“And be sure to look for them at the Grand Slam Parade.”
The Grand Slam Parade was a huge welcome celebration honoring all the Little League teams. Held in downtown Williamsport the night before the tournament began, it attracted thousands of fans. Liam remembered seeing his and Carter’s families cheering and waving at them from the sidewalk.
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