So Carter gave it a try. After a few misfires, the coach corrected his mechanics. To Carter’s astonishment, his next pitch socked into the catcher’s glove with a satisfying pop.
The coach nodded knowingly. “You definitely have potential.”
Liam cut in again. “So after that practice, you got all fired up to be the best hurler in the Little League, which of course was a brilliant idea since I’d been working on becoming the best catcher. Now you and I together are like peanut butter and jelly.” He kissed his fingertips. “Perfection!”
“Yeah,” Carter said slowly. “Except it wasn’t that practice that made me want to pitch. It was something that happened after that.”
Liam gave him a long look. “That something has to do with your missing jersey and that kid from West, doesn’t it?”
Carter nodded. “He’s a pitcher, the best pitcher at camp, actually. We played his team that same afternoon. He pitched a great game. He hit well, too. His team probably would have won if I hadn’t tagged him out at third in the last inning.
“Anyway, after the match, I told him my coach thought I had potential to be a pitcher and asked him what it was like to pitch.”
The boy hadn’t replied at first. He just looked Carter up and down. Finally, he shrugged and said, “There’s a lot of pressure on the mound. You know, coaches, teammates, and fans all staring at you, expecting you to throw a perfect pitch every time, disappointed when you don’t. Every batter looking to light you up like a Christmas tree, maybe even drill you with a line drive.” He gave Carter a penetrating look. “Think you could handle that kind of stress?”
Carter shifted his gear bag to his other hand. “I—I don’t know. Maybe.”
The boy turned away as if he found the answer disappointing. “Well, when you’re sure, come talk to me again. I’m Phillip, Phillip DiMaggio.”
Carter stopped short when he heard that name. “DiMaggio?”
“Yeah.”
“As in… Joe DiMaggio?”
Phillip turned back slowly. His mouth twitched. “That’s right.” He leaned in close and whispered, “Not everyone knows this, but my great-grandfather’s name was Joe.”
“Wow!” Carter breathed. He stared at the boy, taking in his wide-set dark eyes, long nose, and lanky frame. He hadn’t seen it before—but now that he knew he was talking to the great-grandson of Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio, the late great Yankee center fielder, he saw the family resemblance plainly!
Fingers shaking with excitement, he dug a permanent marker out of his bag. “Would you… do you think you could sign my jersey?”
“Oh, sure.” Phillip thought for a moment and then with thick, bold strokes, wrote To Carter Jones, DiMaggio’s Number One Fan! on the jersey’s shoulder.
Liam broke into the story again. “Hold on,” he said, frowning. “Joe DiMaggio only had one son. That son didn’t have any kids of his own. So Phillip DiMaggio can’t be the Yankee Clipper’s great-grandson.”
“No kidding,” Carter said shortly. “Too bad I figured that out after he’d signed my shirt.”
He didn’t know why Phillip had tricked him into believing he was descended from Joe DiMaggio. But Phillip clearly enjoyed the prank. Now, every time he saw Carter, he shouted, “Hey, look, everyone! It’s my Number One Fan! Don’t believe me? Just check out his jersey!”
Carter tried his best to ignore him, but when other campers started calling him Number One Fan as well, he knew he had to do something. So he redoubled his efforts on the field, pouring every bit of energy he had into practices and soaking up everything he could learn about pitching.
His hard work paid off. His coach started him at pitcher in the final game of the session. Campers were heading home right afterward, so the stands were filled with parents. Carter had swallowed his nervousness and struck out three batters in the four innings he pitched. The icing on the cake had come after the game, when one of his teammates said, “We’re going to drop the Fan and just call you Number One!” It felt good to hear that, and Carter realized he loved being a pitcher.
Still, he couldn’t erase the embarrassment of DiMaggio’s prank. So the first thing he did when he got home that afternoon was bury the jersey deep in the trash can. I hope I never hear the name DiMaggio again! he thought as he slammed down the lid.
“I thought that was the end of it,” Carter told Liam. “But now I have to face that jerk the day after tomorrow!”
He expected his cousin to sympathize with him. But to his surprise, Liam burst out laughing.
CHAPTER
FOUR
What’s so funny?”
The irritation in Carter’s voice helped Liam get himself under control. “Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“DiMaggio did you a huge favor!”
Carter looked at him like he was crazy.
“You’re not looking at the big picture,” Liam explained. “Your coach tells you you’ve got great potential, right? DiMaggio feels threatened by you, so he points out all the bad stuff about pitching. Then he goes one step further and tries to humiliate you in front of the rest of the camp. But that plan blows up in his face. Sure, you looked like an idiot—”
“Oh, thanks!”
“—but somewhere in that pea brain of yours—”
“Thanks again!”
“—you decided that the best way to get back at DiMaggio was to become the best pitcher you could be.” Liam gestured to the field in front of them. “And now look! We’re playing at the Lamade Stadium in the Little League Baseball World Series, man! And you know what else?” he added with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“What?”
“We’re going to go all the way! Now, come on. The press conference starts any minute.”
With that, they raced up the stairs to the interview room.
“Liam, Carter, excellent!” Coach Harrison boomed when he spotted them. “I thought you were going to miss tonight’s press conference.” He ushered them to a table in front of the wall covered with Little League emblems.
Media coverage of the Little League Baseball World Series was intense, with games covered on television, radio, and in newspapers around the country. To Liam’s eye, not all coaches seemed comfortable in front of the microphone. But Coach Harrison handled the conference like a pro.
A wiry man with thick black hair, beefy arms, and a snub nose, he kept his answers to questions short and sweet, conveying his delight in his players’ victory and praising their ability to play together like a well-oiled machine.
“I know that image is overused in sports,” he added, “but with these guys, it’s accurate. They meshed the moment they stepped onto the field together. I couldn’t ask for a better bunch of kids.” Then he grinned. “Fortunately, I might not have to. Most of these guys are eleven years old. They’ve got another whole year in the Majors and so could all be here again next year. And if they’re lucky, I’ll be their coach next year, too!”
Applause and laughter followed that statement and then the conference was over.
Later that evening, Liam and Carter headed to the recreation center of the Dr. Creighton Hale International Grove. The Grove was the players’ home throughout their stay in Williamsport. Four brick buildings housed four teams each, two from the United States and two from other countries. Players from the world over mingled during meals in the dining hall, but the rec center was where they really got to know one another. There, they played Ping-Pong, air hockey, and video games, swam in a huge inground pool, and watched television. They also traded collectible pins in a special area set aside for that activity.
Liam and Carter had been trading pins for a few years. Each had a decent collection; Liam kept his in a black, zippered canvas bag. Carter had a similar bag, but his was brick red. Now they carried those bags to the center, hoping to add a few unusual pins through swaps with international players. They’d only just entered the second-floor room when suddenly—
“Number One Fan!�
��
A figure pushed off from a wall near the door, almost as if he’d been waiting for them. Liam had seen Phillip DiMaggio only from a distance. But there was no mistaking who he was. The taunt and Carter’s expression told him loud and clear.
Two other boys—teammates, Liam guessed—sidled up beside Phillip. Phillip planted his hands on his hips and repeated, “Number One Fan! I wondered when I’d run into you!”
Liam sized up the situation in a split second. DiMaggio had known Carter was playing in the Series. Somehow, he’d kept his own presence there a secret. But now, when Carter most needed to keep his focus, Phillip was doing his best to jar him. And from what Liam could see, it was working.
Well, two can play at that game, Liam thought. You try to throw him off guard? I’ll do the same to you!
Figuring the West boys were anticipating a confrontation, he gave them the exact opposite. He stepped forward and held out his hand.
“Hi, I’m Liam McGrath!” he said cheerily. “Looks like we’re playing you in the U.S. Championship.”
Phillip was clearly nonplussed. He glanced at Liam’s hand but didn’t shake it.
After a moment, Liam pulled it back and ran his fingers through his hair, pretending he’d meant to do that all along. “So, where in California are you from? I visited relatives outside San Fernando last summer while Carter was at Baseball Cam—anyway,” he interrupted himself hastily. “Yeah, San Fernando. Pretty cool area. Ever hear of it?”
One of Phillip’s teammates rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? We’re from the San Fernando area. It’s only mentioned in every game write-up.”
“Oh,” Liam said. “So I guess you have heard of it.”
Dead silence met this obvious statement.
“Right. Well, Carter and I have to get going. See you guys on the field.” Liam started to move around the boys, but then stopped short. “Oh, gee, Phil, you’ve got something on your shirt”—he touched a spot a few inches beneath DiMaggio’s chin—“right here.”
As Liam had hoped, DiMaggio glanced down. Quick as a flash, Liam jerked his finger up and pegged him in the nose. He didn’t know who looked more surprised: DiMaggio, his sidekicks, or Carter.
“Ha! Made you look!” Liam burst out laughing. “I can’t believe you fell for that! It’s, like, the oldest trick in the book. Somehow, I expected more from you.”
Before Phillip could react, Liam grabbed Carter’s arm and pulled him toward the pin-trading area.
“What did you do that for?” Carter sputtered when they were out of earshot.
Liam held up his hands in mock-surrender. “Hey, I tried being friendly. All he had to do was shake my hand. He didn’t, so instead he got the classic made-you-look nose bop.”
Carter shook his head. “I don’t know. It might not have been such a good idea to make DiMaggio mad.”
“Oh, please,” Liam said. “We’ll play him in one game. We’ll win, and then we’ll never have to see him again. And in the meantime, do me a favor. If he calls you Number One Fan before the game, channel your anger into your pitching!”
Carter rolled his eyes, but Liam could see a smile starting at the edge of his lips. He pushed on.
“Listen, you and me and all the other guys on Mid-Atlantic have worked too hard to let him stop us from going all the way. Am I right? Huh? Huh?” He jabbed him a few times to emphasize his point.
Carter batted Liam’s elbow away and drove into him with a shoulder, shoving him away. “You’re a doofus, but you’re right,” he said. “So, okay, if DiMaggio tries to get in my head before the championship, I’ll just block him out. You know, like I block you out when you try to be funny.”
Carter spoke with confidence. Liam hoped he felt confident, too. Because if he didn’t, Liam knew it would show the minute he stepped onto the mound. He knew something else, too: if his cousin buckled against West, their team could kiss the U.S. Championship and the chance to play in the World Series title game good-bye.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Two nights later, the bleachers and hillside of Lamade Stadium were once again packed to capacity. Floodlights illuminated the immaculately groomed field, music blared from the loudspeakers, and the Little League mascot, Dugout, led the crowds in enthusiastic cheers.
Those cheers grew even wilder when the two teams raced onto the diamond to warm up.
Because he lived so close to Williamsport, Carter had been to the Little League Baseball World Series a few times in the past, but always as a spectator, never a player. He tried not to think about all those people as he jogged around the outfield with his teammates.
As he drew near the West’s dugout, Carter picked up his pace. Two words ran through his head, matching his left-right footfalls.
Don’t-look, don’t-look, don’t-look.
He looked. And immediately wished he hadn’t, for staring back at him, a smile slowly widening across his face, was Phillip DiMaggio.
“Number One Fan! Find me after we win and I’ll sign your jersey again!” DiMaggio called.
Laughter from the dugout chased Carter all the way to the first-base line.
So did Liam. “Remember: Channel your anger into your pitching,” he murmured when he caught up.
Carter slowed to a walk, bent forward, and took a few slow breaths. “I’ll try,” he promised through gritted teeth.
Liam lifted a finger. “As the great Jedi Master Yoda said, ‘Do, or do not. There is no try.’ ”
Carter was saved from responding when Coach Harrison called the team together for a pregame pep talk. “This is it, boys!” he said, bouncing on his toes. “Win today and you’ll be in the World Series Championship. That’s something no team from the Mid-Atlantic region has accomplished in years.”
He pointed at them. “Can you do it? Yeah, you can, because you’ve got the talent, the drive, and something else besides!” He waited a beat and then slapped his chest and grinned broadly. “You’ve got me!”
As Carter joined in the laughter, he felt his tension ease a little.
The coach offered a few more words of encouragement. Then the loudspeakers whined, and the voice of the game announcer boomed forth.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the United States Championship Game of the Little League Baseball World Series between Mid-Atlantic and West!”
He paused while the spectators applauded. “There’s a lot on the line today, folks, for the winner of the game goes on to face the International Champion for the World Series title! Here’s today’s lineup for the team from Southern California.” He rattled off the roster and, again, waited for the applause to die down before introducing Carter’s team.
“Mid-Atlantic won the coin toss and so plays as the home team today. That’s pretty appropriate, for the squad itself is from this fine state, Pennsylvania!”
This time the applause was even louder and longer—not surprising, since the bulk of the audience came from Pennsylvania.
As his name was called, each member of Mid-Atlantic jogged onto the field until the team stood shoulder to shoulder, hands behind their backs. When the last one, right fielder Craig Ruckel, had joined the line, the announcer invited everyone to stand for the National Anthem.
Cap over his thumping heart, Carter sang along, tuning out Liam’s off-key warble as best as he could. When the anthem ended, the cousins bumped fists three times for good luck.
As the home team, Mid-Atlantic was in the field first. Gloves in hand, they spread out on the diamond. Then the umpire bellowed the two words baseball fans love best:
“Play ball!”
Carter received the game ball. The gleaming white sphere fit into his left hand so perfectly, it was as though he’d been born with it there. He rotated it until he felt the seams beneath his fingers. Then he looked at Liam behind home plate. Even though he couldn’t see his cousin’s eyes clearly through his catcher’s mask, Carter knew they were delivering him a silent message.
You can do this.
&n
bsp; And in that moment, Carter believed he could.
The first batter stepped into the box. Carter squared his shoulders, placed his left foot on the rubber, and leaned in for the sign.
Fastball, high and inside.
He nodded.
Even from forty-six feet away, Liam’s mitt looked as big as a barn to Carter. With his glove shielding his grip on the ball—no point in advertising that he was throwing a two-seam fastball—he went through his windup, then took a powerful lunging step forward, and whipped the ball up and over his shoulder. A sharp snap of his wrist sent the ball whizzing toward Liam’s glove.
Zip! Swish! Thud!
“Strike one!”
Liam had barely moved to catch the pitch. But he didn’t smile when he stood up to throw the ball back to Carter. Carter didn’t smile, either. It was a good, clean strike, but it was only one. If Mid-Atlantic was going to win, he had to deliver more—a lot more.
He did just that, at least in the first two innings. Of the six batters he faced, three were sent packing on three pitches each, all strikeouts. The other three connected, but only one West player made it to first base. He never reached second, though, because the next batter popped out into a double play. The top of the second inning ended with the West still scoreless.
As Carter trotted off the mound to the dugout, the coach called his name. “You’re up to nineteen pitches,” Coach Harrison informed him. “You know what that means.”
Carter sucked in his breath and nodded.
Unlike other youth baseball organizations, Little League had strict rules about the number of times a pitcher could throw in a game. The rules were designed to prevent arm injuries.
The pitch count worked on a sliding scale and depended on the player’s age. As an eleven-year-old, Carter was allowed to throw no more than eighty-five in a single game. Anywhere between sixty-six and eighty-five pitches, and he had to rest four days before he could take the mound again. If he threw between fifty-one and sixty-five, he could pitch after three days’ rest. He could pitch again after two days if his count was between thirty-six and fifty, and after one day if he threw between twenty-one and thirty-five. Twenty or fewer, and the pitcher was allowed to take the mound again the next day.
Play Ball! Page 2