by Jeff Rud
Matt groaned inside. Charlie was doing his best Coach Stephens impersonation. It made him feel a little funny taking orders from a manager. But at the same time, Matt had to admit that Charlie seemed to know a thing or two about batting. A couple of tips he had given Matt about his swing had been bang-on. And it was nice of the manager to give up his Saturday morning to help him out. After all, it wasn’t Charlie who was afraid of the ball.
“Thanks, Chucky,” Matt said, using the nickname many of the players substituted for the manager’s real name.
“Can you just call me Charlie, or even Charles?” he replied. “I hate Chucky. It makes me think of that puppet from those horror flicks.”
Matt and Charlie shared a laugh. Then they wheeled the pitching machine back into the locker room and stored the practice balls away.
“Thanks, man,” Matt said, giving Charlie a high five.
Matt noticed a satisfied look in the manager’s eyes.
“No problem,” Charlie said. “It’s all about helping the team, right?”
chapter seven
Matt and his mom were just sitting down to Sunday dinner of baked ham, roast potatoes and corn on the cob when the phone rang. “Let the machine get it,” Mom said. Too late, Matt had already picked up.
“Mattster.” The bubbly voice was unmistakably Jake. “What’s up?”
Matt explained that he was just about to eat dinner. “I’ll call you back, okay?” he said. He returned to the table a little happier than when he had picked up the phone. Since that weird night at Long Lake, he hadn’t felt quite as close to Jake. It was good to hear from him, whatever he wanted to talk about.
“It was just Jake,” Matt said. “I’ll call him back.”
It was just the two of them for dinner tonight. Mark had visited the previous weekend and he was coming home only once a month or so now. But that was all right with Matt. He enjoyed the occasional quiet dinner with his mom. The weeks were so hectic with school, sports and Mom’s job as a real estate agent that it was nice to be able to catch up.
Unlike some kids, Matt kind of enjoyed spending time with his mother. Sure, she could be pretty hokey at times, but they had plenty of laughs together and he always knew she wanted what was best for him. That never failed to come across, no matter how mad she got at him for not cleaning up his room, doing the dishes or for stalling on his homework.
“I see from your school newsletter that you have a dance coming up,” she said. “Are you planning to go?”
“I don’t know. I guess. But I can’t figure out if we’re supposed to take someone. You know, like a date?” Just the word “date” seemed forced and a bit silly to Matt.
“I don’t think you have to, Matt,” Mom said, her lips slipping into a half grin. “Is there somebody you were thinking of taking?”
“Naw, not really,” Matt said before quickly changing the subject. “We’ve got a game tomorrow. Are you coming?”
“I’ll try to make it but I’ve got a house to show in the afternoon. What time does it start?”
“Right at 4:30,” he said. “We’re playing Manning. I don’t think they’re very good.”
Matt went on to offer his analysis of the entire South Side baseball team to his mother, player by player. She listened intently. Matt knew it wasn’t because she was a huge baseball fan—in fact, she barely knew the rules— but she was interested in whatever he was doing.
They were just finishing dessert, an apple pie that Mom had baked the previous fall and frozen, when the phone rang again. Matt jumped up to grab it. It was practically a reflex action.
“Sorry, man.” It was Jake again. “Can you talk?”
Matt took the portable phone upstairs to his room. He closed his door, stretched out on his bed and looked out the window as dusk was settling in on Anderson Crescent. “What’s up, Jake?”
“I’ve got an idea,” Jake said hesitantly. “It’s about the dance.”
Matt waited for Jake to continue.
“I kind of want to ask Marcia,” he said.
“You mean Marcia Evans? You want to take her to the dance?”
“I don’t know about taking her,” Jake said. “Maybe just meeting her there and hanging out. You know, more casual. Not like it’s an official date or anything.”
Matt chuckled to himself. Not like a date? This was exactly like a date. Jake just didn’t want to use the word. But Matt couldn’t really blame him. This was brand-new territory for both of them.
“So, I was wondering,” Jake continued. “Marcia is like best friends with Andrea, you know. And you and Andrea get along pretty good…”
Matt could tell where Jake was going with this one. “Why do you say that?” he asked defensively.
“It’s pretty obvious, dude. I mean, I heard she asked you to watch the softball game the other day.”
Matt blushed. He was glad nobody could see him.
“She’s all right,” Matt said. “I mean, she’s pretty cool. We could hang out. If she wants to, that is.”
“Awesome,” Jake said. “Let me talk to Marcia and I’ll set it up. Okay?”
“All right,” Matt replied. “Later.”
As Matt hung up, he felt a strange mix of nerves and excitement.
The next morning, only Phil was waiting under the oak tree on Anderson Crescent. He and Matt hung around for a couple of minutes to see if Jake would show up. He didn’t. “We’d better go or we’ll be late,” Phil said, eyeing his watch.
They walked the rest of the way to school together. By the time they arrived at South Side, the bell was about to ring. Matt strolled down the hallway to his locker, which was just outside Room 107, where they took morning advisory.
He was pulling out his books for the first few classes of the day when he heard a voice behind him. “Hi, Matt.” He turned around to see Andrea standing there. She smiled.
“Jake said you guys are going to the dance on Friday,” Andrea said matter-of-factly. “So, are we all going to hang out there?”
“I guess so,” Matt stammered, feeling his throat tighten and his voice rise slightly. “I mean, yeah, if that’s good with you.”
“Okay,” Andrea replied. She turned around and headed into class without another word. That was weird, Matt thought.
As he entered class, he noticed Andrea talking to two or three other girls, including Marcia Evans. They were smiling and whispering. They all looked at him while he hurriedly found his desk.
The second bell rang and Miss Dawson began her advisory session. Every morning she would use the twenty-minute period to answer questions students had about middle school. But she always began the session with a two- or three-minute talk that carried a theme. Today’s theme was “Making Responsible Choices.” Matt barely heard a word she said. All he kept thinking was that he had just agreed to a date. He was going to his first school dance and he was taking a girl. Well, maybe not taking her, but meeting her there and hanging out together. What would Phil and Amar say? What about the guys on the team? What would he wear? It might have been the first time in his life that he had thought much at all about what he was going to wear.
chapter eight
As Matt headed into the dugout, he looked up into the stands behind the third-base line. There was his mom, sitting beside Mrs. Piancato and Phil’s grandmother. She had made it to the game after all.
Once on the bench, he waited for Coach Stephens to put the lineup card on the fence. Coach never told anybody except the pitcher and catcher who was playing where until the lineup card went up. That way, everybody warmed up as if he was starting. With his mom in the stands, Matt said a silent prayer, wishing his name would be on that list. But when Coach Stephens hung the lineup card, Kevin Archibald’s name was written in at second base. Matt would be starting the game on the bench.
“Here you go.” Charlie handed Matt the clipboard with the game sheet. He was going to be keeping stats again. Once again, Matt bristled. He wasn’t in a South Side uniform just so he c
ould be a manager.
The Manning Minutemen did not have a good team this year and were no match for the Stingers. That much was obvious from the first at-bat, when South Side third baseman Howard Berger ripped a pitch into right field and it rolled all the way to the fence. By the time the Manning fielder had reached the ball, Berger was already on third.
Next up was Phil, who walked on just four pitches. That brought Jake to the plate. With two balls and no strikes, Jake hammered the next pitch to deep center field. Howard and Phil scored easily, and Jake was standing up at second with a huge grin on his face. The rout was on.
By the time the top of the fifth came, the Stingers had a 10-0 lead and it was no longer a competitive game. Matt had immersed himself in the detailed process of keeping stats. “Hill, you’re going in at second for Archibald,” Coach said. Matt handed the clipboard to Kevin, grabbed his glove and ran out to second.
Although he tried to be casual about it, Matt stole a glance into the stands and waited for his mom to realize that he was finally in the game. A smile broke out over her face and she waved at him. “Let’s go, Mats!” she yelled.
Matt lowered his head. It was the nickname his mom liked to use whenever she was excited but it was kind of embarrassing. He had become “Mats” while he was in kindergarten. He had begun signing his name that way because he was a huge fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs’ captain Mats Sundin. The name had stuck.
Manning was such a weak team that Matt didn’t get a single ball hit to him at second base. In fact, nobody was touching anything being thrown by Andrew McTavish, who was likely the second best pitcher on the South Side team behind Steve White.
Meanwhile, the Stingers continued to roll on the offensive side of the game. Matt got his first at-bat in the bottom of the fifth, taking four straight balls as Manning’s starting pitcher faded fast. He managed to score too, when McTavish drove him home with a sharp single to right.
In the bottom of the sixth, Manning’s coach called a time-out. He walked to the mound to talk to his pitcher. The two spoke briefly before the lanky pitcher lowered his head, put the ball in the coach’s hand and walked slowly into the dugout.
Seconds later, a towering replacement trotted out toward the mound. Matt recognized this kid. It was Kenny Forshaw. Forshaw stood at least six-foot-five and had been a terrific post player for Manning’s basketball team. But he had never seen Forshaw play baseball, let alone pitch.
The plate umpire gave Forshaw his warm-up pitches and Matt couldn’t help but think the kid needed them. The Manning reliever resembled a gigantic, gangly spider as he uncoiled from his windup. He was throwing smoke, but he was all over the place. High one pitch, low the next, inside, outside. Everywhere but over the plate.
Matt watched as Jake battled Forshaw at the plate. The Manning pitcher was giving his buddy nothing decent to hit but Jake was showing a good, patient eye. The count was three and one as Forshaw wound up and delivered a fastball, this time down the middle. Jake swung, but he was a fraction late getting around on the blur of a pitch, lifting a high foul down the right field line. The Minuteman fielder chased it down, putting Jake out for the first time that day. Manning’s dugout, silent until now, exploded in cheers.
Dave Tanner was next up, but he didn’t fare any better. It seemed to Matt that he wasn’t standing in there quite as confidently as usual. Who could blame him? Forshaw was getting faster, and wilder, with every pitch. Tanner went down, swinging weakly at a ball that was well outside and high.
Matt gulped. He was next up. As he walked toward the plate, he thought his knees would give out. This kid was throwing so fast. What if he got hit?
The first pitch whizzed downward from Forshaw’s hand and ended up somewhere around Matt’s ankles. He managed to hold his ground and resisted the urge to swing. It was a ball. He was ahead in the count.
Forshaw wound up again. The ball catapulted toward Matt. All Matt could tell was that it was headed inside. He ducked backward so quickly that he fell to the ground. The kids in the Manning dugout laughed. Matt got up, shaking himself off. Afraid of the ball, he thought to himself. Everybody else must be thinking the same thing.
Matt was determined to stand in there this time. Forshaw delivered another hard pitch inside. Matt swung, as much to protect himself as anything else. He connected weakly, sending the ball foul down the right field line. “Make him pitch to you, Matt,” came Coach’s voice from the dugout.
Forshaw wound up again, this time delivering a perfect strike that split the heart of the plate. Matt swung but missed badly. He knew why too. As the ball had been delivered, he had rocked backward away from the pitch. You can’t hit it if you’re ducking away, he told himself.
The count was 2 and 2. Matt felt the pressure building. Forshaw was winding up again. This time the ball was well outside. Matt left it alone. Full count.
The Manning pitcher stalled for a second on the mound, kicking the dirt by the pitching rubber and staring intently at the plate. Matt gripped his bat tighter, waiting for the deciding pitch. It was coming now, faster than all the others. Matt couldn’t help himself, he ducked back again, though not as far as before. The pitch caught the top corner.
“Strike three!” yelled the umpire. On the mound, Forshaw cocked his arm and pumped his fist. It was as if Manning had won the World Series.
Matt headed back to the dugout. He snuck a peek into the stands at his mom. She was clapping hard, yelling, “It’s okay, Matty.” Matt didn’t feel like it was okay, though. He had struck out ducking again.
Charlie met him at the dugout steps, handing him his glove and hat and taking his batting helmet. “Much better, Matt,” he said. “You stayed in there for most of that at-bat, even got a piece of Forshaw. He’s fast, man.”
The words made Matt feel a little better—even if they were coming from the manager. And none of the players in the South Side dugout seemed to be making fun of him this time. He guessed everybody, even Jake, was a little intimidated by Forshaw.
Manning went one-two-three in its half of the seventh and the game was over. South Side had won 12-0 and was a perfect two wins and no losses on the season.
“Good work out there,” Coach Stephens told his players in the dugout afterward. “I saw some improvement on the field, and Mac threw a good solid seven for us. We’ll see you Wednesday for practice.”
Matt’s mom had a late house showing that night so she suggested they go out for a pizza first. Matt didn’t need his arm twisted on this one. They headed to Classico’s, the neighborhood restaurant that they always ordered from. They grabbed a booth at the back and ordered up a medium double-cheese, double-pepperoni and onions—the family favorite—and two large Cokes.
“You boys had a good game today,” his mom said.
“Yeah, it wasn’t bad,” Matt replied. “I still can’t hit, though.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll come. That kid at the end was throwing pretty fast. I don’t blame you for being a little nervous.”
A little nervous? Oh, man, now even his own mother knew he was afraid of the ball.
“By the way,” she said. “How did your practice on Saturday go? Weren’t you working on hitting with Coach Stephens then?”
“Yeah, I was working on hitting, but not with Coach,” Matt replied. “It was just me and Chuck…I mean, Charlie.”
“Is that your manager? The boy with the big leg brace?”
Matt, who had a too-big bite of pizza in his mouth, nodded.
“Why does he wear that brace, Matt?” his mom asked. “Is it permanent?”
That was a good question. Matt knew Charlie had some sort of early childhood disease that had left him with a leg problem. But he didn’t know what the disease was or whether Charlie would have to wear the brace forever.
“That’s nice of him to come out and help you on a Saturday,” his mom said.
Matt hadn’t thought much about it before. But Charlie had come out on a Saturday morning. And it wasn’t like he was gett
ing anything out of it himself.
“Yeah,” Matt found himself saying. “He’s a good guy.”
chapter nine
Friday came sooner than Matt wanted it to. “Don’t forget the big Spring Fling tonight at 7:00 PM,” Principal Walker reminded students during the afternoon announcements.
The dance had even affected baseball. Because of it, Coach Stephens had cancelled practice this afternoon. Matt had arranged to meet Phil and Jake before the dance, but first he had to head home and get ready.
After taking a shower, he picked out what he thought were his coolest jeans and then tried to decide what shirt to wear. He settled on a loose-fitting khaki button-up with a white T-shirt underneath. Over top, he wore the plain gold chain his mother had given him for his birthday. It was the first time he had ever worn it.
Mom was still out showing houses to clients, but she had left Matt a note on the stove. There’s pasta and salad in the fridge, it read. Have a great time at the dance and call me if you need a ride.
Matt didn’t feel much like eating. The insides of his stomach were flipping about and he felt on edge. He and Jake were meeting Andrea and Marcia at the dance. It was supposed to be pretty casual, and it wasn’t like they had to pick up the girls and meet their parents and all that stuff. But still, it was different. They had actually made plans to all hang out together.
It was 6:30 when Matt slipped out the front door, carrying his jacket. In just a few minutes he was at the oak tree on Anderson, where Phil was waiting.
“No Jake?” Matt asked.
“He called me and said his parents would drop him off here,” Phil said. “They were running late.”
It was just a couple of minutes before the Piancatos’ red station wagon pulled up alongside them. But one look at the car and Matt’s spirits fell. Not only was Jake in the backseat, but so were his cousins, Cody and Vance. What were those guys doing here? Matt thought. They didn’t even go to South Side.