Play Ball!

by Matt Christopher

  Get ready, Liam, he thought, because these throws are going to sizzle.

  The first batter came to the plate. Carter rocketed in three fastballs, all strikes and all too hot for the batter to handle. The West player left the box with such a dumbfounded look on his face that Carter almost pitied him.

  Almost.

  The fans whooped their appreciation. Carter blocked out the cries and focused on the next batter.

  This time, he followed up a blistering four-seam fastball—another strike—with a slow-moving changeup. The batter fanned at that one as well, and when he failed to connect with the third pitch, Carter had notched the second out for the team.

  “Now batting,” the announcer cried, “Phiiil-lip DiMaggio!”

  All right, DiMaggio, Carter said to himself. You got a homer last time, but this time, I’ll tell you what you’re going to get. A big fat nothing, that’s what!

  He ran over his experience with DiMaggio. His last at-bat, he’d aimed two fastballs to the outside corner. Both had been called balls, but DiMaggio hadn’t even tried for them. Was his eye that good, or was that a pitch he had trouble hitting?

  Carter wanted to find out and was pleased when Liam flashed one finger and tapped the inside of his right thigh. This time, Carter’s aim was true. The ball whizzed in low and caught the corner just inside the strike zone.

  “Steee-rike!” the umpire bellowed, making a hammering motion with his right fist.

  One down, two to go, Carter thought.

  DiMaggio stepped out of the box and fiddled with his batting helmet, then his glove.

  Liam plucked the ball out of his mitt and heaved it back, shooting Carter a wide grin. Carter responded by narrowing his eyes.

  Save it for after we’ve won the game, his intense stare said. Liam’s smile vanished, and Carter knew he’d understood.

  Phillip got back into place and lifted the bat. Liam signaled for the same pitch, fastball low and outside. This time, Carter shook him off.

  He’s smart. He’ll be looking for a repeat of the one that got by.

  Liam flicked out three fingers, their signal for a changeup. Carter nodded. With the ball hidden in his glove, he switched his grip. Now his three middle fingers were draped across the seam on top. His pinky and thumb cradled the ball below, anchoring it firmly against the palm of his hand. Then he went into his windup exactly as if he were about to throw a fastball. But instead of hurtling toward the plate, the changeup floated at a fraction of the speed.

  Whap! DiMaggio got a bite out of it, not a powerful blast, but enough to lift the ball over short. John Harper had replaced Miguel at shortstop. Not as tall as Miguel, John made a desperate leap to try to catch it. He missed, but his glove poked the ball. That poke redirected its path away from Oliver, who had sprinted in from center field to capture it!

  The fielding flub was costly. Now the West had a runner on first, dusting off his pants and smirking like the cat that had swallowed the canary.

  Carter slapped his glove against his thigh. DiMaggio is safe on first, but he sure isn’t going to reach second.

  With two outs, he knew it was possible the West’s coach would signal his runner to steal. That’s where being a left-handed pitcher was an advantage. Unlike a righty, who had to look over his shoulder to check the runner, Carter faced first. He’d be able to keep an eye on DiMaggio.

  Sure enough, as Carter brought the ball up, he saw movement. Quick as a wink, he rifled the ball to Jerry Tuckerman. Not fast enough, though. DiMaggio dove back to the bag, safe.

  Twice more, Carter switched his pitch to a pickoff attempt. Twice more, DiMaggio beat the throw. Carter felt his frustration mount with each failed attempt.

  “Time!”

  Liam trundled up to the mound, a puzzled look on his face. “What gives, man?”

  “What do you mean? I’m keeping DiMaggio honest!”

  Liam’s forehead creased into a deep frown. “I don’t think he’s really planning to steal, though.”

  Carter blinked rapidly. “Then what—” He paused as a thought shot through his brain. “You think he’s trying to wear out my arm?”

  “Either that or he’s hoping to break your focus and knock you out of the zone,” Liam suggested. “So how about you just pitch, and if he goes, I’ll make the throw to second. Deal?”

  Carter glanced over at DiMaggio, considering. “Okay,” he said finally.

  Liam nodded, pulled his mask over his face, and returned to the plate. Once he was in his crouch, he flashed the signal for a fastball right down the middle.

  Carter glanced toward first once more and then went into his windup. He’d just snapped his wrist on the follow-through when he heard the crowd roar. He whirled around. DiMaggio was sprinting toward second.

  “He’s going, Liam! Get him!”

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Liam sprang to his feet and heaved the ball toward Ted Sandler at second.

  Oh, no!

  The throw sailed too far toward short. Ted lunged to try to make the catch, but missed. Luckily, Oliver was in the perfect backup position. He nabbed the ball and relayed it to Ted.

  But Ted, forced to come off the base by Liam’s bad throw, couldn’t reach DiMaggio for the tag.

  “Safe!” the umpire cried, fanning his arms out to either side.

  Liam sank slowly back into his crouch. I’ve made that throw hundreds of times, he thought. How could I have botched it?

  “Shake it off, Liam, shake it off!” he heard Coach Harrison yell. “One more out is all we need this inning!”

  Liam gritted his teeth and nodded.

  The batter had swung at Carter’s first pitch. Now, with one strike on him, he swung at the second, another fastball down the middle. He missed that one as well. They needed just one more to disarm the scoring threat on second.

  Carter looked in, wound up, and threw.

  Pow! The batter creamed the ball, sending it flying high to right field! Craig Ruckel raced back, but to Liam’s eye, it didn’t look like he would get to it in time.

  Craig wasn’t the only Mid-Atlantic player on the move. Jerry ran to the cutoff position. Ted sprinted to cover first base. John darted over to second. And as the ball bounced onto the grass, Carter dashed past home, ready to back up Liam when the throw came.

  Liam prayed that the throw would be on time and on target, for DiMaggio was churning up the base paths like a runaway locomotive.

  In the outfield, Craig pounced on the ball.

  DiMaggio rounded third.

  Craig plucked the ball from his glove and threw to Jerry.

  DiMaggio kept coming, his legs seeming to move even faster. Now he was halfway to home.

  Liam stood in front of the plate, glove raised. Jerry caught the ball, spun, and threw.

  Thud! The ball socked into Liam’s mitt. He slapped his right hand over it, dropped to his knee, and swung around for the tag just as DiMaggio hit his slide. A cloud of dust plumed in front of Liam’s face, but he didn’t need to see to know where to aim his mitt.

  But DiMaggio tricked him. Instead of a straight feet-first slide across the plate, he executed a perfect slide-past-and-reach-back maneuver. Liam’s glove fanned the air as DiMaggio’s hand dragged across the plate.

  “Safe!” the umpire bellowed.

  Liam wanted to die inside, but he knew his job wasn’t over yet. He leaped to his feet and spotted the runner moving toward third. He hurled the ball to Leo Frick. Leo caught it. His glove flashed down and across.

  Liam held his breath, waiting for the umpire’s call. Was Leo’s tag good?

  “Out!”

  The crowd roared, stomping and cheering madly. The inning was over, but it had been costly. Mid-Atlantic was now down by a run—and Liam knew he was to blame. He hoped to help his team pull away from the West in the bottom of the fifth, but DiMaggio retired the side in order, so he didn’t get a chance at bat.

  The West’s leadoff batter in the sixth got on base with a clean sing
le. But any idea the West players had of widening the gap in the score died when their next three hitters made outs.

  Liam breathed a quick sigh of relief as he hurried to the dugout. Many of his teammates were already there, chattering in excitement.

  “We need two to win,” Coach Harrison reminded them needlessly. “One to go into extra innings. So take smart cuts, find the holes, and then run like the devil was at your heels when you connect!”

  Mid-Atlantic was at the top of their order. John crammed on a batting helmet, chose his favorite bat, and strode to the plate. It was his first time up this game and he looked ready to make his mark. So when the pitch came in—Whack! He belted a low-flying grounder that skimmed the grass before taking a weird hop right in front of the shortstop’s glove. Thanks to that hop, John reached first before the throw.

  Now Jerry Tuckerman stepped into the batter’s box. Up twice in the game, he hadn’t reached base yet, and Liam knew he wasn’t likely to this time, either. Sure enough, the coach gave the signal for Jerry to bunt.

  If Jerry was disappointed at not being allowed to swing away, he didn’t show it. When the pitch came, he pivoted and knocked the ball straight down so it dribbled slowly toward the third-base line.

  The West was expecting the play. The third baseman had already cheated onto the grass. Now he charged forward, scooped up the ball, and hurled it to first. Jerry was out, but John was safe at second.

  The dugout erupted in cheers. “Way to be the sacrifice, Jerry!” Daniel Cho cried as Jerry returned to the bench.

  Craig was Mid-Atlantic’s next batter. Then it would be Liam’s turn. He bumped fists with Carter three times and then grabbed a bat.

  As Craig took his turn at bat, Liam watched DiMaggio pitch. Unless Craig hit into a double play, Liam was going to get a final chance against Phillip. He planned to make the most of it.

  For the team, he thought, and for me.

  Craig, an inconsistent hitter, surprised everyone by lofting the ball high and long. Not long enough, though. The center fielder backpedaled, raised his glove, and made the catch.

  But while it hadn’t been long enough to land beyond the outfielder’s glove, it was far enough back to buy John running time. While the outfielder threw hard, John beat the ball to the bag, sliding safely into third.

  Two outs. Tying run on third.

  “Okay, Liam, you’re up,” Coach Harrison said, flashing him an encouraging smile. Liam smiled back and pushed a batting helmet onto his head. The roars of the spectators filled his ears as he approached the plate. He ignored them, stepped into the box, and lifted the bat over his shoulder.

  Bring it, he challenged DiMaggio silently.

  The first pitch was a fastball high and inside. Liam let it go by, certain it was a ball.

  “Strike!”

  Liam shot the umpire an incredulous look but didn’t argue. The second pitch was to the same place and this time, Liam swung.

  Tick! Foul ball up the first-base line.

  “Steee-rike two!”

  Liam stepped quickly out of the box. He tapped the bat against his cleats, knocking the caked-in dirt loose. Moisture gathered on his upper lip and he wiped it away. From the stands and hillside came a sound like rolling thunder.

  Are they rooting for me, Liam wondered, or against me?

  The umpire gave an impatient jerk of his head. “Let’s go, son.”

  Liam stepped back into the batter’s box and faced DiMaggio again. Their eyes met, Liam’s dark brown clashing with Phillip’s jet black, and suddenly the noise of the crowd fell away. Time seemed to slow. The only sounds Liam could hear were his steady breaths and the drub of his heart.

  This pitch is mine, Liam thought.

  DiMaggio wound up and threw. Liam uncoiled, swinging harder than he ever had, swinging for the fences, swinging for glory, for his team, for himself.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Liam lay on the top bunk in Carter’s bedroom, throwing a rubber ball at the ceiling over and over.

  Carter watched him for a moment and then said tentatively, “Um, if that leaves a mark, my mom will kill you.”

  Liam sighed. Then he sat up and tossed the ball to Lucky Boy, who caught it in his mouth and wagged his tail. “At least someone’s happy,” he mumbled.

  Carter bit his lip, not knowing what to say to that. In fact, he never seemed to know what to say to his cousin these days.

  The Little League Baseball World Series had ended more than three weeks ago. The West had won the title, beating the team from Japan six runs to four. Carter and his teammates had prime seats for the match.

  Liam had begged the coach not to go. “Please don’t make me,” he’d pleaded. “I—I just can’t show my face there, Coach.”

  And Coach Harrison, his eyes full of pity and understanding, had allowed Liam to stay away. “If anybody asks, I’ll say you came down with something,” he said kindly.

  Carter figured that wasn’t too far from the truth anyway—then, and now.

  If only he’d hit it, he thought. Or at least hadn’t…

  He sighed, shaking his head to clear the memory. It stuck there all the same, playing like a rerun of a bad television sitcom. Liam swinging hard at the third pitch. Liam missing it by a mile. Liam corkscrewing around, carried by the momentum of his powerful swing, and falling flat on his face.

  And the cameras catching every miserable moment, before, during, and after.

  As awful as the strikeout was, it was the after that Carter found most difficult to think about. Liam had rolled over in the dirt and lay on his back, unmoving, while the West players jumped and screamed and celebrated their victory with Phillip DiMaggio, the game’s hero.

  Carter hurried out to his cousin’s side. At that same moment, DiMaggio broke free and came to the plate, too. He crouched down next to Liam and offered him a hand up. The reporters had lapped up the gesture, praising DiMaggio for his thoughtfulness and good sportsmanship.

  What a load of moldy baloney, Carter fumed now. DiMaggio hadn’t come over to extend an olive branch; he’d come to deliver a parting shot.

  “Hey, McGrath,” he whispered, just loud enough to be heard by the cousins but no one else. He touched his finger to his chest and then his nose, imitating the nose-bop prank Liam had pulled on him two days before. Pointing at Liam, he smiled. “Made you whiff!”

  Carter had been so stunned by the taunt that he hadn’t been able to speak. It wasn’t so much what DiMaggio had said, but that he’d said it at all. Little League had a motto of sportsmanship that was well-known to all players. First and foremost, they were expected to be respectful to others. With his words, Phillip had completely disregarded that code.

  But Liam’s and Carter’s were the only ears it reached. Without proof, it would be their word against Phillip’s—just as it had been when Carter stumbled on the base path.

  The sound of his mother’s voice broke into Carter’s thoughts. “Liam, hon, your mom wants you home for dinner in ten minutes.”

  “Okay,” Liam called back. Then he asked Carter if he wanted to come over to eat. “We’re having tacos, I think.”

  Carter loved tacos, but when they went downstairs and asked his mother for permission, she shook her head.

  “Sorry, Carter, but not tonight,” she replied. “School tomorrow, remember?”

  Carter and Liam had started at the middle school two weeks ago. Carter was still adjusting to his early morning wake-up time, not to mention his teachers and homework load. The only plus so far was that he and Liam shared a few classes. Since they went to one or the other’s house every day after school, they were able to do their homework together.

  “I guess I’ll get going then,” Liam said. “See you tomorrow, Carter. ’Bye, Aunt Cynthia. ’Bye, Lucky Boy.”

  Carter’s mother smiled. “Don’t forget to call when you get home, so I know you’re safe!”

  The reminder was an old joke between the famili
es. The boys had been traveling the short stretch of road between their two houses by themselves ever since they could walk. When they were younger, their mothers had insisted that they check in upon their arrival. Now, they said it to be funny.

  Liam gave a polite laugh and then banged out the door.

  His mother turned to Carter then. “How’s he doing these days?” she asked, her eyes full of concern.

  Carter lifted a shoulder and let it drop.

  “I wish Amanda would get him to talk to somebody about it,” she said. “Especially now that—” She stopped in midsentence.

  Carter looked at her curiously. “Especially now that what?” he asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, nothing. So, how do hamburgers sound? With French fries?”

  Carter had the distinct impression that she was trying to change the subject. But his stomach gave such a growl at the mention of food that he decided it was better for her to focus on dinner than on answering more questions.

  Twenty minutes later, he and his parents were enjoying a fine meal of burgers, fries, and steamed zucchini with butter. Their local farmer’s market had had a bumper crop of the squash that year, and Carter had eaten so much of it that he was sure his skin was going to turn green. But since his mother also used it to make zucchini bread with chocolate chips, he didn’t complain.

  After dinner, he helped clear the table and then sat down to finish one last piece of homework. When he opened his binder, however, he discovered he didn’t have the right worksheet. Luckily, Liam had the same assignment—and a printer with a copy feature.

  His mother was in the shower, so Carter told his father that he was running over to the McGraths for a minute. His father, eyes glued to a ball game on the television, waved him away with a grunt.

  “Come on, Lucky Boy, we’re going to go see Liam!”

  His dog leaped up and padded to his side. The night air was cool and pleasant, with just a hint of apple in the air from a nearby orchard. Carter sniffed and wished he’d grabbed an apple from the bag hanging in the closet. They were fresh-picked by his own hand two days ago, and nothing tasted better than that first crunchy bite!