by Derek Jeter
“Attaboy, Derek!” Coach Kaufman yelled, high-fiving Derek as he returned to the bench. “Way to snag it!”
“Thanks,” Derek said, giving his coach a quick thumbs-up before grabbing a bat and getting ready for his first turn at the plate.
Cubby started the Sox off with a dribbler that turned into a single. Then he stole second. With one out Derek came to the plate, ready to put his newfound hitting confidence to the test.
His father had reminded him to “swing at strikes.” It sounded obvious, but when you were at the plate, anxious to drive that run in from second, it was hard to hold back. You might think you were going to hit it a mile, but if it wasn’t in the right hitting zone, you would succeed only in getting yourself out.
Derek waited, letting the count go to 2–1. Then, seeing the next pitch, a fastball, come right down the middle, he let it rip.
Crack! The ball screamed right back at the pitcher, who ducked to save his life—or at least his face.
But because Cubby was at second, the second baseman was playing close to the bag, and Derek’s hot shot came right to him. The second baseman snagged it and stepped on the bag before Cubby could get back there.
Double play!
Derek looked up at the sky and groaned. He’d hit the stuffing out of that one! Yet all he’d gotten for his success were two outs for his team, and a snuffed-out rally.
Jeff had started the game as pitcher, but he was on a short pitch limit because the league rules said you couldn’t overuse one pitcher, for fear of hurting their arm.
Derek wondered if Coach would make Derek pitch again, like he had in the first game. Derek had done okay that time, but he didn’t want to pitch. He wanted to be here, at shortstop!
The Red Sox scored twice in the second inning, with Vijay knocking in both runs with a scorching double down the first-base line!
“Yeaaah!” Derek screamed, applauding his friend.
For his part, Vijay was so excited that he kept jumping up and down, his hands skyward, until Coach Kaufman reminded him to keep his head in the game.
Then Dave came up to the plate, hitting eighth because he’d done so poorly up till now in the sixth spot. Derek had been afraid Coach would demote him in the batting order too, but it hadn’t happened, at least not today.
Dave let two high strikes go by. Then the pitcher tried throwing one in the dirt.
Big mistake. Dave’s beautiful golf swing met the ball an inch above the ground and sent it soaring to left field, where it landed ten yards behind the outfielder. By the time he’d caught up to it and thrown it back in, Dave was stomping on home plate with his first home run—and RBIs—of the season!
“Your dad is the man!” Dave told Derek. “Did you see that?”
“Yeah, man. And so did he!” Derek answered, pointing to his dad in the stands. Dave raised a triumphant clenched fist in Mr. Jeter’s direction, and Derek saw that his dad was beaming with pride, applauding.
In the third inning, with the score still 4–0, Derek got his second turn at bat. This time there was one man on and nobody out. All he needed to do was advance the runner, but Derek wanted badly to do more—much more!
In spite of all the good advice his dad had given him, he swung too hard and popped up to short for the first out.
Derek wanted to slam his bat onto home plate, but he knew that would be bad sportsmanship. It would also show disrespect for the game, and disrespect definitely was banned by his contract.
So he kept his temper and walked slowly, silently back to the bench.
“You’ll get ’em next time, kiddo,” said Coach Kaufman, clapping him encouragingly on the back.
But Derek wasn’t so sure. His dad’s coaching had helped his friends a lot, but he couldn’t see that it had done anything for him at all.
Luckily, the Sox continued to score runs without his help. Before the inning was over, it was 6–0, thanks to another extra-base hit by none other than Vijay. “Oh yes!” he cried from third base, doing a little happy dance on the bag. “Ooooh yes, oh yes, oh yes, yes, yes!”
Derek laughed. Good old Vijay. No matter how down Derek felt, Vijay could always snap him out of it by being his silly, free-spirited self.
Dave proceeded to single Vijay in for the team’s seventh run. When the inning finally ended, Dave was surrounded and congratulated by everyone on the team.
Derek shook his head, smiling. Suddenly everyone was Dave’s good buddy. There was nothing like winning to make friends out of strangers, he thought. Just like his mom had said.
In the fourth inning Coach Kaufman moved Jeff to first and put Buster in as pitcher. The Mets, who hadn’t even made good contact against Jeff all game, must have been glad to see him leave the mound. They started hitting Murph right away. Before the Red Sox knew it, they saw their big lead cut to 7–4.
With the bases loaded and only one man out, Coach Kaufman came out and made another switch, this time handing the ball to Derek.
It was exactly what he’d been afraid of, but Derek knew he had to stay positive and just be the best pitcher he could be.
He threw the first pitch as hard as he could, right over the heart of the plate. The hitter was ready for it, though, and smashed it right back at him.
Somehow—whether it was instinct, athletic ability, or just plain luck—Derek stuck his glove out to protect his head, and the ball smacked right into the pocket!
Realizing he had the runner stranded off first base, Derek threw there to complete the double play and end the inning. Amazingly, it was exactly the same kind of double play he’d hit into himself, back in the first inning.
Everyone on the Sox roared with triumph. “What a catch!” Coach Kaufman yelled. “Did you see that?” he asked no one in particular.
Derek breathed a sigh of relief. He knew he’d been lucky. That ball could just as easily have knocked his head off. Still, he felt better having done something to contribute to the team’s effort.
That good feeling didn’t last long, though. Derek struck out in the fourth and felt like he was going to explode in frustration. It took a supreme effort to keep his cool and not melt down in front of everybody.
The game continued, with the Red Sox scoring three more runs in the fifth. Derek could have been a big part of it—he came to bat with two more men on base—but in spite of the fact that he stayed calm, swung at strikes, and kept his swing level, he wound up hitting only a long fly ball that was run down by the center fielder for an out.
The runner at third did come home, for Derek’s first RBI of the season, but that didn’t make him feel much better. Three games, and he still didn’t have a single hit! His batting average was still a big fat .000.
Still, the Sox had a 10–4 lead with just half an inning to go. Derek’s arm was sore and tired, and he allowed two runs to score in the top of the sixth, but in the end he managed to seal the Red Sox’s first victory of the season with a pair of strikeouts.
Derek joined in the team’s raucous celebration at the mound. He was happy his team had won, happy for Vijay and Dave—but as for his own performance, he couldn’t help feeling terribly disappointed.
“Hey, come on now,” his dad said when Derek came over to greet his family. “Why the long face?”
“What do you mean?” Derek said. “I stunk. Again.”
“Don’t say that!” his mom jumped in. “How are you going to get out of your slump if you keep thinking negative thoughts?”
“Exactly,” said his dad. “Instead of thinking how badly you did, look at the bright side.”
“What bright side?” Derek asked. “That we won? Okay, I’m glad about that. But I still stunk.”
“Nonsense!” said his mom. “You played great in the field, and you hit the ball hard almost every time. You just got unlucky a couple times. But you got an RBI.”
“You didn’t pitch too badly either,” his dad added.
“I gave up two runs.”
“You struck out five guys,” his da
d said. “And both those two runs came on that one home run.”
“Hey, old man, keep your chin up,” said his mom. “Take this win and build on it.”
“That’s right,” said his dad. “You keep swinging like that, and just be patient. Bad luck tends to even out over time. Next time you might be as lucky as you were unlucky today. The main thing is to be consistent with your approach. Don’t get too high or too low.”
“All right, Jeter,” his mom told his dad. “Derek’s had enough coaching for one day. He’s got a lot to digest. Speaking of which—it’s time to go home and have dinner.”
Derek knew they were right, but he still didn’t feel very good about his performance. He was quiet on the way home in the car—and so was Sharlee. In fact, she had hardly said a word the whole time.
He thought back to the other night, when she’d seemed so down and he’d promised his parents he’d talk to her.
Well, he hadn’t—not yet. Derek promised himself to look for the right moment to approach her about it.
Sharlee didn’t like talking about her problems any more than he did, so he had to pick his moment carefully. But he was determined to get to the bottom of what was bothering her. Stewing about things was no good, he knew that from his own experience. Only talking things out made it any better.
Chapter Eleven
PATIENCE PAYS OFF
Derek spent the next Monday in school trying not to think about all the important things on his mind. It was important to pay attention, he knew. All this stuff they were studying now would be on their finals in June.
Gary didn’t make it any easier with his constant whispered taunts. “Nice doodles,” he commented now, as Derek tried to cover up the drawings he’d been idly making while only half-listening to the math review.
Derek had been thinking of all kinds of things—his hitting slump, for one. But most of all, his mind had been on Sharlee, whom he still had not asked about what was bothering her.
He could have asked her the night before, he knew, but she hadn’t seemed too bummed out at that moment.
Still, she hadn’t been her old bubbly self for at least two weeks, and he knew he would have to make her tell him what was on her mind the very next time he saw her.
But none of these thoughts were supposed to be on his mind in class.
“Maybe you should take up art instead of sports,” Gary suggested with a snigger.
Derek gritted his teeth but didn’t answer back. He knew it would only get him in trouble with Mr. Beckham, and more trouble was the last thing he needed—especially considering the warning his parents had given him about violating his contract again.
He was glad he had that contract, come to think of it, or he might have gotten himself into trouble with a rash reaction just now. Still, he was glad—and relieved—when the bell rang. Grabbing his book bag, he rushed out of there, determined to get home and over to Westwood Fields as soon as possible.
• • •
As usual, Derek got to the field before any of his teammates. Westwood Fields weren’t that far away from Mount Royal Townhouses—just a five-minute drive—and one or both of his parents always made themselves available to drive him to practices and games, and to stay to cheer him on.
Today it was his dad. Sharlee had a kickball tournament at her kindergarten, and their mom had gone with her.
Derek knew Sharlee would be disappointed that he and his dad weren’t there to see her play in her first sports tournament. But in the Jeter family everyone’s events were equally important. Even Sharlee would understand that Derek’s game meant as much to him as her kickball match did to her.
“Now remember,” his dad counseled as Derek got out of the car, “just try to make solid contact; stay level and in control. Positive thoughts only, right?”
“Right!” Derek chirped, and headed toward the diamond where his game would soon begin.
As his teammates arrived, Derek noticed that they were in a more hopeful mood than usual. Clearly the Red Sox’s recent victory, their first, had changed the atmosphere. Today’s opponent, the Angels, were 3–0, though. It would not be easy to beat them and keep the victory train rolling.
Derek’s mind was especially focused on his own hitting slump. Would today be the day he broke out of it? On the way to the game, his dad had reminded him about how hard he’d hit the ball in the last game, even though Derek was still without a hit for the season.
Still, as he came to the plate in the first with two men on, his heart was racing and pounding hard inside his chest. “Steady . . . ,” he muttered to himself. “Stea . . . dy . . . .”
WHACK!
The ball rose over the second baseman’s head and was still rising, a long line drive, as it went over the right fielder’s head. Derek’s heart leapt with excitement, and he took off as fast as he could run. He was already around second base by the time the throw came back in, and he slid into third with a ringing triple—and two runs batted in!
“Yesss! Finally!” he shouted, thrusting both fists into the air.
“Yeah, Derek!” He heard his father shouting himself hoarse to be heard above everyone else’s cheers. “That’s the stuff!”
Clapping his hands together, Derek got his head right back into the game. Jeff, batting behind him, hit a ground ball to short, and Derek was off to the races. He slid into home plate a second ahead of the tag. “Safe!” yelled the umpire, and the Sox led 3–0.
Before the first inning was over, they scored five runs, thanks to a two-run homer by Dave, who was back in the number six spot in the order. This time, Dave clobbered a pitch that was only at his knees, not in the dirt.
Jeff came around to score ahead of him, and as Dave rounded third, he pointed at Mr. Jeter and tipped his cap, thanking him for the coaching he’d given him at the batting cages.
“Hey, Jack Nicklaus strikes!” Jeff yelled as he high-fived Dave, along with all the others. “Yeah, Jack! Way to go!”
Derek grinned and shook his head. It seemed Dave had a bunch of new friends, and even a new nickname. Derek hoped it would stay like that the next time Dave struck out or made an error in the field.
But it was hard to feel too bad about anything at the moment. With his team up 5–0, and his epic slump at an end, Derek now focused on making up for lost time at the plate.
All game long he feasted on the Angels’ pitching, going 5 for 5 with four RBIs. Vijay had a single and a double, Dave didn’t strike out even once, and the team wound up winning their second straight game—by a score of 12–3—against the previously undefeated Angels!
• • •
Derek and his dad chatted all the way home about the game, hitting, slumps, staying consistent, and not getting down on yourself.
By the time they got home, Derek was feeling really good. He was in the best mood he’d been in since the season had started.
But when they went inside, his mom wasn’t smiling. “Something’s definitely up with Sharlee,” she told them.
“Kickball game go okay?” asked Mr. Jeter.
“It went totally fine,” said Mrs. Jeter. “And she was great too. She kicked in the winning run, and her team won. But after . . .”
“What?” Derek asked.
“I don’t know,” his mom said. “She was jumping up and down with the other kids, and I turned away for a minute to talk to some of the parents, and when she came over to me, she was practically crying.”
“She wouldn’t say why?” Mr. Jeter asked, frowning.
“No. Not to me, anyway. I couldn’t get it out of her. You know how stubborn she can be when she sets her mind to something.”
“Is she in her room?” Derek’s dad asked. “I’ll go talk to her.”
“No, let me,” Derek said. “I’ll get it out of her, I promise.”
His parents looked at each other, then nodded to him. Derek went up the stairs and into Sharlee’s room. His sister was lying facedown on her bed, and Derek thought she might even be crying. “H
ey,” he said. “What’s up?”
She flailed one arm his way, indicating that he should leave the room. He didn’t. “What, you don’t want to talk about it?”
She made a sound that was muffled by the sheets but that clearly meant “no.”
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’m just going to sit here on your bed right next to you until you feel like talking about it.”
“I’m never going to talk about it!” she said, suddenly rolling over and sitting up. Her face was tear-stained, and Derek wanted to hug her, but he could see she wouldn’t take it well at the moment.
“I heard you had a great kickball game,” he said. “Sorry I missed it.”
“I’m never playing kickball again!” she said, and threw herself back down onto the bed, facedown.
“Come on, Sharlee,” Derek pleaded. Then a thought crossed his mind—a memory, really. “Hey,” he said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that kid, does it?”
She sat up again. “What kid?”
“The big kid who was at the basketball court the other week, around when I had my first baseball practice. I remember you were close to crying then, too.”
“I’m not crying!” she said, tears welling in her eyes.
“Hey,” Derek said. “It is about him, isn’t it?”
She was silent, looking down at her lap.
“You see? I guessed. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
She sniffed. “You can’t tell Mom and Dad—ever!”
“Okay,” he said. “Why not?”
“Because! Just promise you won’t!”
“Why, because you’re embarrassed?”
“Yessssss!”
“Okay, okay,” Derek said. “I promise. Now tell me.”
“It’s Jimmy Vickers. He’s so mean to me! When I scored the winning run today, he called me bad names and said the other kids were letting me score because I’m a girl!”
“Sharlee, what do you care?” Derek said. “He’s just jealous. You scored the winning run, right?”