Batting Ninth

by Kris Rutherford

  Obviously, Mark had never stepped to the plate against Zach Neal.

  In just a few minutes, Mark taught me more about hitting than Dad ever had. By the end of practice, I made solid contact with nearly every pitch. But I still didn’t hit one out of the infield.

  “Strength and distance will come,” Mark said. “Don’t try to kill the ball. Work on your form.”

  I shifted my stance and waited for the next pitch. “Ping!” I lined the ball hard to third base, where Danielle was busy chewing bubble gum.

  “Nerdface!” she shouted as the ball bounced off her knee. “Tell me when you’re gonna hit the ball like that!”

  I couldn’t believe I was hitting it at all.

  *****

  I raced home from practice without waiting for Jose. “When’s Dad going to be home?” I shouted before I even shut the door behind me.

  “It’ll be a few days, Sweetie,” Mom yelled from the laundry room. “Remember, he’s out of town.”

  I hated it when Mom called me “Sweetie,” but I tolerated it when none of my friends were around.

  I walked into the laundry room and picked up a towel. “Well, I need to show him what I learned at practice.”

  “You could always show me,” she said.

  “You don’t know anything about baseball.”

  Mom put her hands on her hips.

  “Really? I was a baseball wife for three years,” she quickly retorted.

  “Back then, maybe,” I said. “But baseball has changed.”

  Mom paused. “You bet it has. And not for the better,” she said. “We didn’t worry about things like steroids back then. I’m glad the majors finally banned them.”

  I didn’t need a steroids lecture. We got plenty of those in health class, and I could hardly turn on the Sports Network without seeing a story about some major-leaguer who had juiced up in the past. Everyone knew steroids were bad news.

  “We have a major-league all-star helping us out,” I said. “Mark Wilcox—ever heard of him?”

  Mom dropped her hands from her hips. “Mark Wilcox? From the White Sox?”

  “Yep, that’s him.”

  “What’s he doing in Brightsport?” she asked.

  “Says he’s in the minors rehabbing his knee. He’ll probably be going back to Chicago before the season is over.”

  Mom looked at me like she did the time I had played catch with an autographed baseball from Dad’s trophy case.

  “Your father is not going to be happy,” she said and walked upstairs, leaving a basket of laundry on the floor.

  What did she mean by that? I thought. I had actually learned something about hitting and a major-leaguer was teaching me.

  I grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and walked to the living room to catch the end of the White Sox game on TV. They were playing the Angels. As I watched an Angels batter fly out to left field, baseball suddenly seemed more important—a little more personal. After all, Mark Wilcox was my pal!

  Chapter Three

  Making Contact

  It was raining Wednesday morning, so Mom drove me to school. But by the end of the day, the sun had dried out the schoolyard. Even though it was only a mile or so home, the bus took the long way, so I ran instead. I wanted to get to the field early for our game with the Hornets.

  Mom startled me when I came in the house.

  “I thought you were working,” I said.

  “I decided to take off,” she said, holding up a shirt from her closet that matched my Rangers uniform. “I have to see how all that practice paid off. And Dad will be calling tonight. This time, I can tell him about the game.”

  Mom didn’t usually go to my games, and that was just as well. A kid didn’t want to hear his mother yelling “Sweetie” from the bleachers after he struck out. Mom didn’t realize a ballplayer had a reputation to hold up. This time, though, I was sure I would get a hit, and I wanted Mom to see it. Dad wouldn’t believe me.

  I rushed into my room and grabbed my game jersey. Again, I paused and looked at Dad’s trophy case and the empty green patch in the middle. Maybe one day I will fill that space, I thought.

  The game with the Hornets started slowly, and we both batted three-up and three-down in the first inning.

  Our best pitcher behind Danielle was Ryan Ramsey, the coach’s son. In the top of the second, the tall left-hander walked a batter but kept the Hornets hitless. The score was still 0–0 when we came to bat.

  Even though Coach Ramsey never used the same batting order twice, I always batted ninth. The way this game was going, I thought I might not get to bat until the next inning.

  But the heart of the order came alive, and we quickly scored three runs. I walked to the on-deck circle with no outs. I was going to bat!

  Our left fielder, Lucas Sanders, popped out to the second baseman. I stepped to the plate with one out and a runner on third. I might actually get an RBI, I thought. Concentrate—just make contact.

  I stepped into the batter’s box and glanced at Mark standing next to the bench. He pointed to his eyes just like in practice.

  “Count the stitches,” he mouthed silently.

  “Here we go,” shouted Jimmy Lee from third base. “Drive me in, Chad!”

  The Hornets pitcher stood on the mound, sighed deeply and looked to his teammates for encouragement.

  “No batter!” the shortstop yelled. “Throw it down the middle.”

  Just like the shortstop said, the ball came right over the plate. But I wasn’t about to swing at the first pitch. The umpire called it a strike before it even hit the catcher’s mitt.

  “See, no batter. He’s not gonna swing!” another kid yelled.

  Just watch, I thought. I am a batter, and I am going to swing. I stayed in the box and waited for the next pitch. The pitcher suddenly looked more confident.

  “Same pitch!” the kid yelled from the Hornets bench.

  I fixed my eyes on the ball. The kid was right on the last pitch. I was going to be ready for it again.

  The pitcher grimaced as he let go, and I could tell it wasn’t the pitch he wanted. This one was a lot slower than the last one. In fact, I could almost see a couple of stitches! I readied my bat and chopped at the ball with all my strength.

  “Ping!”

  I dropped my bat and sprinted down the first base line. In the corner of my eye, I saw the shortstop field the ball and make the long throw, beating me by a step. I threw my head back and stopped a few steps short of right field.

  “Way to go, Chad!” Mom yelled.

  At least she didn’t call me Sweetie, I thought. Apparently, she didn’t realize I made an out. But, when I turned around, Jimmy Lee was high-fiving the rest of the team. My first RBI of the season! It wasn’t a base hit. But a sacrifice with an RBI was the next best thing.

  I ran back to the bench, shrugging off my teammates’ congratulations. Mark met me at the end of the bench and patted me on the back.

  “There you go!” he said. “I told you it would come around.”

  It felt good, but I didn’t want to make too much of a groundout RBI.

  “I should have beaten it out,” I said.

  Mark shook his head. “You didn’t beat it out because you hit it so hard. It was a laser to the shortstop. He just made a good play.”

  A laser! If the Hornets shortstop hadn’t made the play, the ball would have been in the outfield. I might have even stretched it into a double.

  We didn’t score any more runs in the inning, and we took a 4–0 lead into the third.

  However, the Hornets scored three unanswered runs. By the time Coach Ramsey brought Danielle in to pitch the sixth inning, the score was 4–3.

  Danielle struck out the side, though, and we won a squeaker. I was 0 for 3, but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t strike out either.

  “Game-winning RBI!” Mom exclaimed, as Jose and I climbed into the minivan.

  From the tone of her voice, I knew that meant one thing: pizza!

  Cha
pter Four

  Foul Territory

  When I got home from school Thursday, I found Dad sitting at the computer in the living room. I interrupted him as I walked in the house.

  “Front door?” he asked. “You never come in that way.”

  “A hitter like me shouldn’t have to sneak in the back way,” I said, sticking my chest out a little.

  Dad leaned back in his chair.

  “Is that right? What has made you into such a fine hitter all of a sudden?”

  “Form,” I said. “Some of us got it. Some of us don’t. I guess you heard my form paid off with a game-winning RBI last night.”

  “Yes, I did,” Dad said, turning back to the computer. “I’m glad to see that the two-hundred dollar bat is paying off.”

  Mom, sitting on the couch with a magazine, loudly cleared her throat.

  Dad relaxed in his chair and swiveled around to face me. “Maybe I need to take a day off and watch a practice. Just where did you pick up this new ‘form’?”

  “Mark,” I said. “He’s helping us out while he’s working his way back to the majors.”

  “Mark?” Dad asked. “Mark who?”

  “Wilcox.”

  Dad stared blankly.

  “White Sox?” I primed him.

  “Yeah, I know who he is. Mark Wilcox is playing in Brightsport?” Dad asked, before sighing and nodding his head.

  Mom put down her magazine.

  “Run upstairs and change out of your school clothes,” she said.

  I held out my shirttail. Unless I had a game, jeans and a polo shirt were the extent of my wardrobe.

  “Mom. I don’t have school clothes. I always wear the same thing,” I said, puzzled.

  “Well, go do something. I need to talk to your father … alone.”

  I climbed the stairway to my room and closed my door loudly enough to make them think I was inside. Then I tiptoed back and sat at the top of the stairs. I’d been doing it since I was four, and I was pretty sure they hadn’t caught on yet.

  Dad started sternly. “Mark Wilcox is not coaching Chad.”

  “Oh, Matt, come—”

  “No. He ruined my career, and I don’t want him to do the same with Chad,” Dad interrupted.

  Mom sighed. “First of all, he isn’t going to ruin Chad’s career! Second, he didn’t ruin your career, either. It was an accident.”

  “Accident? Cutting his cleats into my knee on a slide in a minor-league all-star game. It wasn’t even a real game!” Dad exploded.

  “He apologized to you that day, and he apologized again when you retired. He hardly intended to do it!”

  My mind raced as they talked. Dad played against Mark Wilcox? Funny he’d never mentioned it before. Mark was one of the best players in the majors, and we’d watched him on TV a dozen times. Dad knew guys like Alex Rodriguez, Derek Jeter, and Vladimir Guerrero, but he had never mentioned Mark Wilcox.

  “Well, you can keep believing that,” Dad said. “All I know is that if not for him, we wouldn’t be living in Brightsport, and I wouldn’t be in the insurance business. I don’t want him near Chad. If I have to, I’ll move him to another team.”

  A second later, the front door slammed shut. I walked downstairs and sat by Mom on the couch.

  “I knew that Dad hurt his knee, but I didn’t know how,” I said.

  Mom looked at me sternly for a second then ran her fingers through my hair.

  “It was just an accident. It’s happened to a thousand other players. It’ll happen to a thousand more,” Mom said.

  “Is he really going to take me off the Rangers?” I asked.

  “Well, not if he doesn’t do it tonight. He’s leaving tomorrow, and he will be gone for two weeks,” Mom said, a hint of anger in her voice.

  “But he said he was going to take a day off.”

  “It’s the cost of a new job, Sweetie,” she said. “By the way, next time you shut your bedroom door, you might want to check which side you’re standing on.”

  Jose and I would have ridden our bikes to school the next morning, but Dad said we needed to talk, and he dropped me off on his way to the airport.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea about Mark Wilcox,” Dad said. “I don’t know what kind of Bronco League coach he is, but he’s a dirty player. You don’t need to pick up his habits.”

  “Why do you think he hurt you on purpose?” I asked.

  “Because that’s what he does. He hates losing. It doesn’t matter if it’s a practice or the World Series. Mark Wilcox does whatever it takes to win. It might have worked out for him, but he’s left players like me behind and never looked back,” Dad said.

  “Mom said he apologized,” I said quickly.

  “An apology isn’t enough. He cost me my chance in the majors. I could have had a great career. Plus, if he was really sorry, he would have cleaned up his game.”

  “I think you’re just fine as a sales manager,” I said, grinning.

  Dad finally relaxed a little and ruffled my hair. “Thanks, sport. But you stay away from Mark. I’ll deal with it when I get back. In the meantime, I’ve asked your mom to go to practice and keep an eye on you.”

  I still couldn’t see how a nice guy like Mark could be such a dirty player.

  *****

  The weekend couldn’t come fast enough. We played the Astros on Saturday morning and the Marlins Sunday afternoon. I would get six or seven at bats, and I knew I would manage a couple of hits.

  “Why don’t you spend the night at my house?” I asked Jose between classes Friday morning. “We can rent a bunch of movies and play video games.”

  Before Jose could answer, Zach Neal stepped into the conversation. “Video games? You guys need to be working on baseball, not trying to blast some zombie into the next dimension.”

  “I’ll have you know the Rangers are coming on strong,” Jose said.

  “You’d better be. There’s only two weeks left in the season. You guys can’t afford to lose.”

  Zach gave a thoughtful look.

  “Lose,” he said. “I’m not sure what that means. My team hasn’t lost all season.”

  “Maybe so,” Jose shot back. “But that doesn’t mean you aren’t a loser.”

  Jose paused a second, appreciating his quick comeback. “And, the season ain’t over pal,” he added.

  “That’s right, it’s not. Guess it’s a good thing you don’t have to play us again … yet.”

  Zach turned and disappeared down the hallway.

  “I can’t stand that guy,” Jose said.

  “I know,” I said. “You tell me every time you see him.”

  “Just once, I wish I could wipe that smirk off his face. Better yet, I want to knock it off with a baseball,” Jose said.

  “You’ll get your chance,” I said. “The playoffs are in sight.”

  Chapter Five

  Touching All the Bases

  If the standings meant anything, the Astros weren’t going to be much of a challenge. They were the worst team in the league, with a 2–10 record. Their best pitcher wasn’t even going to play, and a redheaded, skinny fifth grader started in his place.

  From the first pitch, the red-haired pitcher didn’t have much luck. Even though I batted ninth, I still walked to the plate with two outs in the first inning, and we were already ahead, 6–0. Thanks to Jimmy Lee’s home run, though, the bases were empty. Considering the way the inning had gone, I expected the kid to toss the ball right over the plate. I was going to be ready for it.

  As I got set for the pitch, the skinny pitcher fidgeted on the mound, practically begging to be taken out of the game. But the Astros coach never left the bench, and the kid finally stepped on the pitching rubber.

  Sure enough, the first pitch was slow, almost a lob, and it looked like a beach ball coming toward the plate. I watched it all the way to my bat and let loose with the smooth, level swing Mark had taught me.

  “Ping!”

  I darted down the line, and as I crossed first
base I could see the Astros left fielder throwing the ball to the infield.

  “Way to rip it!” Jose shouted from the bench.

  I stood on the base and bent over. My heart was beating so fast, it felt like I had just run a marathon.

  “There you go, Sweetie!” Mom called from the bleachers. I started to look over but caught myself and pretended not to hear her.

  To the pitcher’s relief, the Astros coach had seen enough. The coach called the right fielder in as a reliever and sent the pitcher to the outfield. When the kid trotted by me, I could see his eyes were as red as his hair.

  “Dude, it’s dusty out here,” I said reassuringly. The first baseman squinted and picked up a handful of dirt from the infield, still wet from the morning’s dew.

  The pitching change worked, and Danielle Baker popped to the second baseman to end the top of the first inning. The game then settled down, and we had a 6–2 lead when I led off the fourth. As I walked to the batter’s box, I held my head a little higher than I had all season.

  “Start us off, Chad,” Coach Ramsey called from the third-base coach’s box. He wiped his brow and tugged at his belt, signaling me to take the first pitch. I had finally started hitting the ball, and now he’s telling me not to swing! Still, I was glad to see the Astros infield had backed up on the grass expecting a hard grounder. No team had ever given me that kind of respect.

  The first two pitches were low and outside.

  “Good eye!” Jose shouted.

  “Yeah, not too bad,” Danielle said from the on-deck circle. “For a nerdface, that is.”

  The third pitch was a little high, but I swung away and sent the ball airborne into short center field. The entire Astros outfield gave chase, but when I rounded first base, I saw the ball glance off one of the fielders’ gloves. I charged into second standing up.

  I was a little disappointed to see “error” posted on the scoreboard, taking away what would have been the first double of my Bronco League career. Still, I stood proudly on second base, and there were no outs.