Baseball World Series

by Matt Christopher

  A three-run homer! West 6, Mid-Atlantic 2!

  He rounded second and headed to third.

  Carter was standing by the bag, hands on hips and head lowered. Liam’s heart sank a little when he saw his cousin’s posture. As he neared, Carter turned away as if to ignore him. But at the same time, he shifted his hand so the palm was facing his best friend. It was such a slight movement that Liam was sure no one else saw it. He was sure no one saw him brush his fingertips against Carter’s, either. He charged to home plate and jogged to the dugout, where his teammates mobbed him.

  West didn’t add any more runs that inning, and Mid-Atlantic closed the four-run gap in the bottom of the third.

  Keith reached first on a fielder’s error. He advanced to second when Craig walked. Ash strode to the plate wearing a look of fierce determination. He let the first pitch go by. He must have liked the next one because he took a big cut at it—and clobbered it into center field!

  The ball hit the grass and rolled. Christopher darted in to scoop it up. Liam leaped to his feet. “Here! Here!” he cried, positioning himself to catch the relay from the cutoff man. But the ball didn’t get to him in time and first Keith and then Craig scored. Ash reached second and looked eager to go to third but wisely stayed put instead.

  Coach Driscoll pulled Elton from the mound and put Carmen in in his place. Carmen took his warm-up pitches, and the home-plate umpire called, “Batter up!”

  Carmen pitched carefully to Charlie M., who popped out. Liam watched out of the corner of his eye as Carter approached the plate. The last time the two teams met, Carter had pulled the ball to the right.

  Coach Driscoll must have remembered Carter’s hit, too; he waved his outfielders a few steps to the right. Liam shifted in his crouch, relieved—until he saw Carter smile. For one panicked moment, he thought the coach had made a big mistake in repositioning the outfield. He shook his head.

  No. Better safe than sorry. Besides, if anyone can catch up to an out-of-reach ball, it’s Rodney!

  As it turned out, the outfielders’ position didn’t matter because Carmen hit Carter on the arm with his first pitch.

  “Arrrhhh!” Face contorted in pain, Carter dropped the bat and hunched over, grabbing his arm.

  “Carter!”

  Liam jumped up. The blood drained from his face. Carmen’s fastballs were incredibly powerful, but occasionally wild. Hearing his cousin moan, Liam feared that the arm was broken. He stood by helplessly while the umpire and a medical trainer took Carter to the side. Coach Harrison raced out of the dugout, and they huddled together.

  Finally, Carter straightened up and nodded.

  “I’m okay, really, I’m fine,” he said repeatedly. He looked straight at Liam and said once more, “I’m fine. It’s just bruised.”

  Only then did Liam’s heart start beating regularly again.

  Carter shot Liam a smile and trotted off to first base to thunderous applause.

  Carmen appeared shaken by the incident. Instead of throwing his usual heat, his next pitch was a meatball. Raj responded with a blast to left field. Luckily for West, it was an easy catch for Nate. When Peter grounded out to first, the chance for Mid-Atlantic to add to its score was eliminated.

  “After three, the score stands West, six, Mid-Atlantic, four,” the announcer proclaimed. “These changes for Mid-Atlantic: Now at first base is Stephen Kline. At third is Allen Avery. Ron Davis is in center. Charlie Santiago is in right,” the announcer said.

  Liam expected to hear that Carter was going in for Luke. When the substitution wasn’t made, he wondered why.

  Would Coach Harrison not have him pitch at all this game? With so much on the line, that seemed crazy.

  Maybe he’s saving him until the last inning so he can pitch tomorrow—which he’ll only do if Mid-Atlantic wins, which they’re not going to. The idea that the coach was keeping Carter in reserve seemed more likely.

  Another thought pushed into his head then. If Coach Harrison doesn’t play him in the fifth or sixth, I won’t have to face him—or his knuckleball.

  He shoved the thought away, angry with himself for worrying about the pitch. If he’s on the mound, I’ll just try my best. Then he grinned, suddenly remembering a movie quote from Star Wars he and Carter used often: “Do, or do not. There is no try.”

  Luke struck out two of the four West batters in the top of the fourth to keep the score at West 6, Mid-Atlantic 4. That’s where it was when the inning ended, too, since the West players retired the side one-two-three.

  Back in the dugout, Liam hurried out of his catcher’s gear. He was up second, after Rodney. With a home run under his belt, he had a good feeling about his chances at the plate this time, too. He had just put on a batting helmet when the announcer reported another change to Mid-Atlantic’s lineup.

  “Now on the mound,” the voice boomed, “Carter Jones.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  Carter’s heart had given a leap when Coach Harrison told him he was replacing Luke. Then the coach had laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “You’re about to face friends out there,” he’d said. “But while you’re on the mound, think of them as batters. Or whatever you need to imagine them to be to pitch your best.”

  “I will,” Carter promised.

  Adrenaline surged through his system as he ran onto the field and took his warm-up pitches. Now he prepared to channel it into his real pitches. He twirled the baseball in his hand, feeling the familiar rough stitching and smooth leather on his fingers.

  Rodney came up to bat. They had shared some good times off the field in the past couple of days. But neither one was laughing now.

  Ash flashed the signal for a fastball. Carter wound up and delivered. Rodney swung and missed.

  “Strike one!” the umpire shouted.

  Ash signaled for a changeup. Carter adjusted his grip, reared back, lunged forward, and threw. Rodney made contact this time, but the ball flew foul past the third-base line.

  “Strike two!”

  Allen retrieved the ball and returned it to Carter. Carter leaned forward, eyes on Ash’s fingers. When Ash motioned for another fastball, he gave a curt nod—and then hurled one of the fastest pitches he’d ever thrown.

  Rodney’s swing was a fraction of a second too late.

  “Strike three!”

  Carter blew out a deep breath. Rodney was always a danger at the plate. Retiring him in three pitches felt good.

  Liam stepped into the box. Carter’s grip on the ball tightened. Then the coach’s words came back to him. He relaxed.

  I’m a pitcher. He’s a batter. It’s as simple as that.

  He stared down at Ash, waiting for the signal. Ash flicked his fingers. Knuckleball. Carter bit his lip. No doubt Liam would be expecting that pitch.

  But even if he is, he thought, he might not be able to hit it.

  He changed his grip so the tips of his fingers and thumb were digging into the ball’s surface, wound up, and threw. It was a perfect delivery. He could barely follow the ball as it fluttered toward Ash’s glove. Then—

  Pow!

  Liam creamed it! Carter whipped around as the small white sphere soared high over the infielders’ heads toward left field. Charlie M. raced back until he couldn’t go any farther. Liam touched first and dashed to second. Charlie M. raised his glove. Liam hit second and kept going. Charlie M. gave a mighty leap—and plucked the ball out of the air!

  As the fans applauded the amazing catch, Liam slowed to a trot. Carter couldn’t see his face beneath the cap, but he suspected his cousin’s expression was grim. There was nothing he could do about that, though. Liam knew as well as he did that one of two things happened when a batter came to the plate: He got on base or made an out. There were countless factors that determined the outcome. This time, Charlie M.’s speed and agility had made the difference.

  Carter struck out the next batter, Mason, in five pitches to end West’s turn at bat.

  “All ri
ght, boys, let’s make the fifth inning the big one,” Coach Harrison said when the players returned to the dugout. He bounced on his toes, his eyes snapping with excitement and energy. “Let’s take the lead—and keep it! What do you say?”

  “Yes!” the players shouted as one.

  “Here’s the order: Charlie S., Ash, Charlie M. Ready? Hands in the middle.”

  The boys circled up.

  “Mid-Atlantic, one-two-three! Mid-Atlantic, one-two-three!”

  Charlie S. grabbed a bat, stuck a helmet on his head, and hustled to the plate. He took a swing at the first pitch and smoked a grounder toward first. Mason got his glove on it and beat Charlie S. to the bag for out number one.

  “You got this, Ash, you got this!” Carter cried.

  Ash swung twice and missed twice. He fouled the third pitch directly at the first-base dugout. The boys inside instinctively ducked, even though they knew the fence would protect them. On the fourth pitch—

  Ping!

  “It’s gone! It’s gone! It’s gone!” Carter screamed.

  It wasn’t a homer, though; the ball landed just out of the center fielder’s reach but was inside the fence. Ash ran from first to second and then second to third. He slid across the base just ahead of the cutoff man’s throw.

  “Hit ’em home, Charlie M.!” the Mid-Atlantic players shouted.

  When Charlie M. fouled the ball three times, the shouts grew a little louder. The encouragement must have helped, though, because he lined the fourth pitch past the shortstop. He reached first—and Ash made it home!

  West 6, Mid-Atlantic 5.

  Allen hit into a double play, so that’s where the score stayed. The board didn’t change at the top of the sixth, either. Three West batters came up and faced Carter. All three returned to their dugout having failed to get on base.

  “Bring it in, boys,” Coach Harrison called. He gave them the shortest pep talk ever. “One run to tie. Two to win.” He looked Carter in the eye and glanced at Charlie M. and Craig. “Some of us have been in this same position before. This time, I know we can leave the field with a different result. We can do this.”

  The players murmured their agreement. Then they said it louder. And finally, they shouted it at the top of their lungs. “We can do this!”

  “Raj, you’re up first. Then Ron and Carter.”

  Carter started. He’d forgotten that he’d taken Luke’s place in the lineup and now followed Ron instead of Charlie M.

  “Now pitching for West, Phillip DiMaggio.”

  And instead of facing Elton or Carmen, I’ll be facing Phillip!

  Ping!

  The sound of bat meeting ball brought him back to the moment. Raj had singled. Ron took some big cuts but failed to connect.

  I can do this, Carter thought as he walked to the batter’s box. Suddenly, something Coach Harrison once said came back to him.

  Just keep doing what you’ve been doing, and you’ll walk off that field as winners—whether you win the game or not.

  Carter nodded to himself and got into position. His green eyes met Phillip’s piercing black ones. A frisson of electricity seemed to connect them.

  “Go, Carter! Go, Carter! Go, Carter!” the Mid-Atlantic boys chanted. Carter blocked them out. Phillip wound up and threw. The pitch zipped through the air. Carter swung—and hit the ball. It wasn’t a rocket like Liam’s—Carter wasn’t that kind of hitter, not yet, anyway—but it was good enough for a single and well-placed, too, bouncing into shallow right field. Raj put on a burst of speed and reached third.

  Freddie was up next. Like Ron, he swung hard but missed three pitches to make out number two.

  Now Stephen took his turn at bat. Carter’s heart hammered in his chest. His legs tensed, ready to run if—

  Ping!

  Stephen got a hit! Carter raced to second. Raj motored home and scored!

  Tie ball game! Carter wanted to dance a jig. But, of course, he didn’t. He hid his excitement when, unbelievably, Phillip walked Charlie S. to load the bases. When Ash moved to the plate, though, he balled his hands into fists and lightly pounded them against his thighs.

  Ash! Ash! Ash! his mind yelled.

  Phillip wound up and threw. Ash uncoiled.

  Pow!

  Carter didn’t wait to see where the ball went. Head down, he took off for home at a dead sprint.

  “Gogogogogogogo!” the third-base coach yelled. Then, “Hit the dirt, Carter!”

  He obeyed. The loose soil rolled beneath his buttocks as he slid feetfirst toward home.

  Toward Liam, poised to make the catch and tag him out. Toward victory, if he slid beneath the tag—or defeat, if he was a second too late.

  Whap! The ball was in Liam’s glove. His foot was inches from the plate. The glove swept down. His leg rode over the dish. There was an instant of complete silence, broken when the umpire made the call.

  “Safe!”

  Carter scored on the single! Mid-Atlantic won, 7 to 6!

  If anyone had asked Carter the next day for a play-by-play of what had happened on the field next, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them much. He’d been too caught up in the emotion of the moment to focus on the details.

  What he did remember, very clearly, was seeing Liam as the players shook hands after the game. He broke away from the line and charged at his cousin. He grabbed him in a bear hug and held on tight. Liam returned the hug with equal ferocity. Someone took a video of that hug and posted it online. Within hours, it went viral.

  What the video failed to record was their conversation:

  “You better win tomorrow, dork,” Liam said.

  “I’ll try, doofus,” Carter replied.

  Liam solemnly held up a finger. “As the great Jedi Master Yoda once said—”

  “Do, or do not,” Carter finished for him. “There is no try!”

  “Yeah.” Liam curled his finger so that he formed a fist. Carter lifted his fist, too. They brought them together, tapping once, twice, three times.

  That’s what Carter was thinking about the next afternoon as he stood on the mound of Howard J. Lamade Stadium for the final game of the Little League Baseball World Series. Although Carter didn’t know exactly where Liam was in the stadium, he knew he was watching. So before he threw the first pitch, he raised his hand above his head and punched the air three times.

  This one’s for you, Liam!

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Late Sunday morning, Liam helped West win third place in the Little League Baseball World Series, defeating Japan 4–2. That afternoon, he sat on the Hill, surrounded by his teammates and their families to watch the tournament’s title game between Mid-Atlantic and Australia. He added his voice to the cheers as the players were introduced. He quieted as the player pledge was recited, but in his head, he recited the familiar words, too.

  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.

  After the Parent and Volunteer pledge and pregame warm-ups, Mid-Atlantic took the field while Australia prepared to bat. Carter, having thrown less than twenty pitches in the U.S. Championship the day before, was on the mound. Moments before the first pitch, Liam saw his cousin raise his fist and jab the air three times. He grinned.

  “Right back at you, dork.”

  Up to that point in the tournament, Carter’s pitching had been strong. In this game, it was downright amazing. He set down the first nine Australian batters in order, striking out seven with a combination of fluttering knuckleballs, blistering fastballs, and slow-moving changeups.

  Mid-Atlantic, meanwhile, got a run on the board in the first when Ash knocked Craig home with an RBI double. They added another in the second inning when Charlie M. raced across the plate on Raj’s single. The third inning saw Keith get his first hit, a single that advanced Ron to third. Ron and Keith reached home when Ash belted a double.

  After three innings, the score read Australia 0, M
id-Atlantic 4.

  Applause echoed through the stadium as Mid-Atlantic hustled onto the field for the top of the fourth.

  “Hold ’em, Mid-Atlantic, you got this!” one loud fan cried out.

  “Time to get on that board, mates!” a voice from a different section bellowed. If his cry wasn’t enough of a clue, his accent left no doubt that he was rooting for Australia.

  As if in response, Jon Burns blasted a fly ball that dropped out of Charlie S.’s reach in right field. As Charlie S. scrambled to pick it up, Jon dashed from first to second. Liam held his breath as Charlie S. whirled and threw to the cutoff man—then he groaned with disappointment when the throw was off target. By the time Mid-Atlantic recovered, Jon was safe at third.

  Next up was Nigel, one of the other boys Carter and Liam had met in the pool. Nigel had just subbed into the game at first base, so Carter hadn’t faced him before. On the Hill, Liam leaned forward, hands clenched.

  “You got this, dork,” he murmured.

  Carter wound up and threw.

  Ping!

  Nigel’s hit wasn’t colossal, but it was well-placed, dropping into a hole behind Raj and in front of Charlie S. Jon sped home and Nigel reached first. The next batter popped out. The one after that struck out. When the inning’s fifth hitter looked two pitches into Ash’s glove for called strikes, Liam allowed himself to relax. It looked like Nigel wouldn’t advance any farther than first after all. Then—

  Pow! The batter got all of Carter’s third pitch! The ball rocketed far into the outfield and fell behind the fence for a two-run homer!

  “Uh, oh. Liam, look at Carter.”

  Phillip’s voice cut through the thunderous applause the home run had earned. Liam looked—and bit his lip. Carter was pounding the ball into his glove over and over. In the past, that gesture signaled anxiety.

  “Think he’s starting to freak out just a little?” Phillip asked.

  Liam didn’t answer. Instead, he watched his cousin intently. He was too far away to see Carter’s face, but his posture spoke volumes. Liam smiled.