by Derek Jeter
“Ciara, tell my daddy what we both did today!”
Sharlee sat at the Jeters’ dinner table, practically bouncing up and down in her chair. Her new best friend and current T-ball teammate, Ciara, a cute red-haired girl who was always giggling, sat next to her.
“We both hit home runs!” Ciara chirped, and the two girls high-fived.
“Yessss!” Sharlee cried. “We already won our first two games, and we’re never gonna lose, ever!”
Derek sat across from them, trying to eat his spaghetti despite his sudden loss of appetite. He was happy for Sharlee—really, he was—but he would have been a lot happier if things had been going better in his own baseball life.
“Mommy saw the whole game!” Sharlee went on. “Right, Mom?”
“Uh-huh, yes I did,” said Mrs. Jeter. “It was super. You guys both rocked. But if you don’t eat your supper, you won’t be strong enough to hit any more homers. Right, old man?” She turned and gave Derek a wink.
He smiled as best he could and said, “That’s right, Sharlee.” Normally his words would have had a lot more enthusiasm behind them, but Derek just couldn’t work it up. Not tonight.
Inside he was churning with anxiety about the team’s first game tomorrow.
“Are you okay, old man?” his mom asked.
Derek looked down at his plate. Nothing ever got by her. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Fine.”
“Hmmm,” Mrs. Jeter replied. Derek looked up in time to see her exchange a meaningful glance with his dad. “Not hungry tonight, slugger?” she asked.
“I guess not,” he said. “I’m kind of tired. Big day tomorrow. . . . I think I’ll go up to my room.”
Mrs. Jeter glanced at the two little girls, who were having a grand old time making each other giggle. “Derek, if you’re done eating, why don’t you come help me do the dishes?”
He knew what that meant. She wanted to talk to him. Alone.
He followed her into the kitchen and got a towel so he could start drying the dishes as she finished washing them. “So,” she began almost right away, “you want to tell me what’s on your mind? Or are you going to make me guess?”
Derek sighed. It was like both his parents had eyes in the backs of their heads. They knew everything that was going on with him, almost as soon as he did.
“It’s Dad,” he said. “I thought he was going to be the coach I always dreamed of. But so far it’s not turning out that way.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “Like, for instance?”
“For instance, he thought I was clowning around—and it wasn’t even me; it was Gary—so he made me play the outfield the whole rest of practice! I hardly got one ball hit to me the whole time, and Dad knows I’m a shortstop! How does he expect me to get better at it if I’m stuck in the outfield, not getting any action at all?”
“Hey, was Willie Mays ‘stuck’ out there? Or Mickey Mantle? Or Babe Ruth?”
“That’s not the point, Mom! Dad knows I want to play short! He’s just trying to punish me.”
Mrs. Jeter handed him another dish to dry. “Maybe he’s thinking it makes you a better player to get experience at every position. Maybe he was trying to remind you what a privilege it is to play shortstop, captain of the whole infield. Captains have to set a good example.”
Funny, Derek thought. His dad had said almost the same thing. “But the whole reason it happened is because of Gary!” Derek said. “And neither Dad nor Chase did anything to him!”
“They didn’t put him in the outfield?”
“He already plays there.”
“Or bench him?”
“That would have just been doing Gary a favor,” Derek said glumly. “He hates sports, remember?”
“Oh, right. You did mention that.”
“He even lied about having asthma, to explain why he couldn’t run drills like the rest of us!”
Mrs. Jeter opened her eyes wide. “Really? Are you sure? Maybe you just didn’t know he had it.”
“I’ve been in class with him three straight years,” Derek said. “He’s never even used an inhaler. And besides, when I called him on it, he pretty much admitted it right to my face!”
“I see. Hmmm. . . .”
“So he sits there on the bench and makes farting noises, and puts bubble gum on my hat and ruins it, and makes jokes about how stupid all the kids look in their uniforms, and stuff like that. And half the kids laugh at him!”
“At him, or with him?” Mrs. Jeter asked.
“Who knows, who cares? They’re not paying attention to baseball! And Dad and Chase don’t even notice! All Dad does is punish me instead!” Derek threw the dish towel onto the floor angrily and folded his arms across his chest.
His mom shut the water off and gave him a stern look.
“Sorry,” he said, and bent down to pick up the towel. He handed it to her so she could dry her hands.
“You know, Derek, your dad’s a pretty wise person. Maybe he trusts you boys to figure out a solution for yourselves.”
“Huh? How can we do that?”
“Well, old man, let’s see. . . . How can you yourself make sure your team plays up to its potential?” Patting his shoulder, she said, “I’ve got to go make sure those girls don’t laugh themselves silly.”
Smiling, she left him there to think about what she’d said.
It was a lot to digest. And right now, with their big first game looming, Derek felt overwhelmed with it all. After all, he was only eleven—well, in a month and a half, anyway. How was he supposed to be able to come up with all the answers for himself?
• • •
Derek’s dad had called for the team to arrive at the field an hour early so that he and Chase could give them some extra attention. Chase was doing fielding drills with most of the kids, while Mr. Jeter helped Gary, Eddie, Jonah, and a couple of others with their swings.
From the start of the first practice, the two coaches had approached their team as teachers. There had been no talk of winning games or getting pumped up for the competition the season would soon bring.
But to Derek, baseball skills were only one part of a winning team. Another part, and just as important, was team spirit. And so far the Indians’ spirit was all messed up. Half the kids were sore at Gary and his high jinks, while the other half enjoyed them. It might not have mattered in practice, but what about in games?
“Okay, Indians. Gather round,” said Mr. Jeter, calling everybody over to the bench. The Cubs had arrived, and it was their turn to warm up on the field.
“Coach Bradway is going to read off the starting lineup for today,” Mr. Jeter continued when everyone was paying attention. Even Gary seemed interested at the moment—probably to make sure he didn’t have to play right away, thought Derek.
“Just because you aren’t starting doesn’t mean you won’t get in the game,” Mr. Jeter went on. “And it doesn’t mean you won’t start next time. If you’re at a different position than you expect, it doesn’t mean that won’t change next game, or the game after.”
He didn’t look at Derek as he said it, but Derek was afraid those words applied to him. Was his dad really going to stick him in the outfield? For real?
“Coach Bradway and I want you boys to experience as many aspects of the game as possible. That’ll make you better ballplayers down the road. So no matter where you are in the batting order, or in the field, or on the bench, remember, you’re there for a reason, and you’re there to give it your best. All right. That’s my two cents. Coach Bradway?”
Chase stepped up and began. “Batting first, and playing second base, Mason. Batting second, playing center field, Dean. Batting third, and catching, Derek.”
“What?” Derek was so shocked that he shouted it out loud. Immediately he wished he hadn’t. He could feel his dad’s stern look, even though he didn’t return it.
Catcher? Catcher, of all positions?
It immediately occurred to Derek that his mom must have mentioned to his dad what h
e’d said about the outfield not getting enough action. His dad had obviously responded by putting him at a position where you were in the middle of things on every single pitch!
It wasn’t shortstop, but it was better, at least, than being stuck in the outfield and waiting pitch after pitch for a ball to be hit your way.
On the other hand he’d never caught a game before. That made him think of what his mom had said last night, and what his dad had just repeated, about learning all aspects of the game. It made sense to Derek—sort of—but it didn’t make him happy, that was for sure. He wanted to be a shortstop, and nothing but a shortstop!
Chapter Five
PLAY BALL!
So his dad had put him behind the plate. Well, Derek would show him that he could play catcher, and play it well. He’d done it before in practice and on Jeter’s Hill, in pickup games with his buddies. And his dad had shown him a few basics, but Derek never thought he was going to have to apply them to a real game setting.
As he squatted down and started warming up Dave, who was today’s starting pitcher, Derek realized that his dad had switched around a lot of kids, not just him.
Derek knew his dad was serious about the team members learning all the various aspects of the game. But Derek also guessed that his dad hadn’t really decided who on the team belonged where. Some coaches would have just put their kids at certain positions and left them there for the whole season. Not Charles Jeter.
Dave really had some zip on his pitches today, Derek noted. As padded as the catcher’s mitt was, it still hurt his palm every time a fastball whacked in there. Got to learn to catch it in the webbing, Derek told himself, adjusting the unfamiliar glove.
Things started off well, as Dave made the first Cubs batter strike out swinging. In the process, though, the hitter fouled two pitches off Derek—one off his mask and one off his chest pad.
Ouch! Derek hadn’t realized that the padding and a mask didn’t make him bulletproof. It’s tough being a catcher, he said to himself. On the one hand you were in on every pitch. On the other hand you were going to get more than your share of bumps and bruises—and squatting down was already starting to feel uncomfortable.
Then, for some reason, Dave seemed to lose sight of the strike zone. He walked the next two Cubs hitters, on four pitches each. Derek kept trying to show him the open catcher’s mitt as a target, but it didn’t seem to matter.
Now the cleanup man came up. Dave, trying at all costs to get it over the plate, threw a fat pitch, not too fast and right down the middle—and the kid creamed it, way over Gary’s head! Gary jogged after it, in no particular hurry, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.
Derek stood, removed his mask, and watched three runners score on the easy home run. The game was still in the top of the first, and the Indians were already down 3–0!
Derek walked slowly out to the mound, and saw that his dad was on his way there too. Meanwhile, Chase clapped and shouted encouragement to the rest of the team, who looked as if they needed it badly.
“Okay, let’s not get all bent out of shape here,” Mr. Jeter told Dave. “He just got lucky there. You’ve got good zip on your fastball. Just keep throwing it, and get it over. Don’t worry if they make contact. You’ve got some fielders out there.”
Except I’m not out there! Derek thought. Jonathan was at short, and Derek only hoped he would catch any hard shot that came to him.
Dave did what Mr. Jeter had told him to. He got a quick out on a line drive to center, where Dean hauled it in. Then Dave struck out the next batter for the final out of the inning.
“Yesss!” Derek cried as he got to his feet. “That-a-way!” he told his friend, slapping him on the back with his catcher’s mitt.
“I stink,” Dave said dejectedly as he took a seat on the bench.
“You do not!” Derek said. “Like my dad said, that guy got lucky.”
“And I walked the two guys ahead of him.”
“Never mind. We’re going to get those runs back for you, starting right now,” Derek promised.
The Indians came to bat ready to swing. Mason lined out, but Dean doubled down the third-base line. That brought Derek to the plate. He’d been watching the Cubs’ pitcher, noticing that he threw really hard but that every pitch was in the same place—high and over the plate.
Derek decided that if the first pitch was there, he would put his best swing on it. And he did. The ball sailed over the center fielder’s head and kept on going! Derek sped around the bases, and didn’t stop until he slid into home, one step ahead of the relay throw!
That made it 3–2, Cubs, and the Indians whooped it up as Derek returned to the bench. Glancing over at his dad, he saw that Mr. Jeter, too, was jumping up and down, as excited as any of the kids.
Derek grinned. It was hard to remember sometimes, when his dad was being tough on him, that deep down Mr. Jeter cared about Derek as a dad does, not just as a coach.
Dave stepped up to the plate, ready to swing for the fences. He nearly came out of his shoes swinging at the first pitch—with his eyes closed, no less. And to Derek’s shock, he actually hit it right on the nose. Dave scooted all the way around the bases with a long homer to tie the game!
“Woo-hoo!” Everyone joined in the shouting—except Gary, who was too busy yawning.
Derek clapped Dave on the shoulder and said, “Way to get those runs back!”
The Cubs’ pitcher was rattled now, and he walked the next two Indians before Jonathan grounded out. Vijay then walked to load the bases with two down. And up to the plate, in a huge situation, came Gary.
“Strike one!” yelled the umpire as Gary let a fat pitch go right by him.
“Swing at it!” called a few of the Indians.
“Boys . . . ,” Chase said sternly, and they sat back down.
Gary swung at the next pitch, which was way over his head. Of course he missed, and some of the team members groaned. “You said to swing,” Gary said with a shrug.
He looked at the next pitch for strike three, and the Indians had to settle for tying the score. “He stinks,” Paul muttered, and a couple of others agreed. But they said it softly so neither of their coaches would hear.
“Come on, guys. We’ll get ’em next inning!” Derek said, pounding his catcher’s mitt and leading the team back out onto the field.
Dave didn’t walk anyone this time around, but he gave up a single—and then a double that went right over Gary’s head when he didn’t jump and try to get it. Several Indians groaned when that happened, but Mr. Jeter called out to them, clapping, “Come on, you guys! Hang together! Be a team!”
The first half of the second inning ended with the Indians down 5–3 and a lot of unhappy players on the Indians’ bench. Derek heard the whispers and muttering. He agreed with most of it. Okay, so Gary wasn’t very good at baseball. There were plenty of kids who weren’t, including a few on their own team. And even some kids with talent, like Dave, hadn’t exactly played great so far.
But that wasn’t the main problem. It was that Gary didn’t even seem to be trying!
“Who cares?” Gary said, shrugging and smirking as he sat down to rest. “Win, lose, it’s still the stupidest game on earth.”
Derek knew it was really bad for a team to be divided against itself. So he went over to sit next to Gary. “Hey,” he said, “can you just keep your feelings to yourself, Gary? At least until the game is over? The rest of us are trying to concentrate here.”
Gary gave him a phony smile. “Sure, Derek. Hip, hip, hooray for us!” He clapped lazily, to show he was being sarcastic.
Derek turned away. Then he felt Gary pat him on the back. “Don’t worry, Derek. I’ll cool it. But only because you asked me so nicely.”
Huh? “Th-thanks,” Derek said uncertainly. Mason had struck out, and Dean was up. Derek went to grab his bat and get into the on-deck circle.
Suddenly laughter erupted on the bench. Looking at his teammates, Derek saw that they were laughing at him!
“What?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
Jonathan pointed to Derek and said, “Dude, your back.”
Derek frowned and reached behind him. There was a piece of paper stuck to his back! He ripped it off and read it out loud. “I JUST FARTED,” it said. Glaring at Gary, Derek crumpled the paper up and threw it against the fence.
Gary just laughed. “Eeeuw!” he said, holding his nose like there was a bad smell. Eddie and Jonah laughed, as they always did at Gary’s stupid jokes.
Derek had had enough. Dropping the bat, he walked back behind the fence and over to Gary, ready to make him apologize.
“Hey! Hey! Cut it out! NOW!” Mr. Jeter commanded. “Derek, I’m surprised at you.”
“But, Dad—”
“You can call me ‘Coach,’ ” said Mr. Jeter, “and you can take a seat as well. You too, Gary.”
“Awww,” said Gary, pretending to be unhappy. He sat down, and as soon as the coaches weren’t looking, he raised his eyes skyward and mouthed the words “Thank you,” smiling like a cat who had just eaten a tasty mouse.
“Dave!” Mr. Jeter barked, still looking sternly at Derek, who had plunked himself down on the bench in frustration and fury.
“Yessir?” Dave said, jumping up from the bench.
“You’re catching next inning. Vijay!”
“Yes, Coach?”
“You’re pitching.”
“WHAT!” Derek blurted out.
“Dave, start warming him up, over there,” said Mr. Jeter, pointing to a spot behind the bench where it was safe from foul balls.
“Me? Pitching?” Vijay said doubtfully.
“Just do the best you can,” said Chase.
“All right, let’s go!” the umpire called impatiently. “Play ball!”
“Eddie—you’re batting for Derek, and playing left field,” Mr. Jeter said, and the game resumed.
The Indians went down meekly in their half of the second, with Eddie pinch-hitting for Derek, who was now forced to watch from the bench as his replacement struck out to end the inning.
The game went south from there. Dave played fine at catcher, but Vijay had no feel for pitching at all. He walked a bunch of Cubs and gave up two home runs.