Free Batting Ninth by Kris Rutherford Page B

elsewhere.
    “Do you think you could be a little more encouraging?” Mom asked.
    “He’s not making any progress,” Dad said, gesturing back in my direction. “I worked all winter with him in the garage and paid nearly two hundred bucks for a new bat. For what? He still can’t hit.”
    “Then I guess you should have let him play in the snow like he wanted to,” Mom answered.
    I edged my way to the staircase leading to my room. I’d heard this argument before.
    Dad’s trophy case stood upstairs at the end of the hallway, the brass trophies shining in a bright spotlight overhead: high-school All-State, college All-American, Southeastern League MVP, and Southeastern League Home Run Champion. Dad was a great catcher. But there was one empty patch of green felt among the trophies and news-paper clippings. Dad always said it would have held the ball from his first major-league hit—a hit that never came. But he saved the spot.
    “Someday,” he told everyone, “Chad will be in the majors, and we’ll put his ball there.”
    I showered and returned to the kitchen, eating my meal in silence. Dad complained about work, and Mom tried to change the subject—our typical dinnertime conversation. After dinner, I went back to my room to finish the weekend’s math home-work. But I couldn’t concentrate, closed my book, and pulled an old wooden bat out of the closet.
    “Step into the pitch and keep it level,” I coached myself aloud, swinging the bat carefully to avoid hitting the lamp on my nightstand. I could almost hear the crack as the ball hit the sweet spot.

Chapter Two

Infield Hit
    D ude! What did you get on that math test?” Jose asked at my locker in the sixth-grade hall-way. “I only got a 66.”
    I read the grade Mr. Kahler had scribbled on the test that stuck out of my math book.
    “Looks like a 98,” I said. “It should have been a 100, but I forgot to carry a four on one of the division problems.”
    “A 98! I never got a 98 in my life!” Jose said.
    “I guess I’m a natural,” I said, grinning only slightly.
    Zach Neal stood a few lockers away, searching for his baseball glove. It’s a wonder he ever found anything in his locker. Candy wrappers spilled out onto the floor every time he opened it.
    “Too bad hitting a baseball doesn’t come so easy, huh, Griffin?” Zach said. “Now, how many times did I strike you out this season?”
    Even though every kid in school knew Zach could pitch, hit, catch, and run better and faster than anyone else, he never missed a chance to remind us.
    “Funny, I didn’t know you could count,” Jose said, stepping between Zach and me. Zach glared at Jose and took a deep breath.
    “I can count as high as the Rangers’ chances of making it to the championship,” he said, sneering just like he had in Sunday’s game. “Zero.”
    “Well, we’re gonna start poppin’ the ball. Ain’t that right, Chad?” Jose looked over his shoulder for me. But I had already started walking away, moving my way through the crowded hallway. I remembered the rumor of the kid Zach had put in a cast. I didn’t want to give him a reason to do the same to me.
    *****
    Jose and I biked from school to the Waterfront Baseball Center, a park that sat almost directly on Brightsport Beach, the one sandy piece of coastline in the state. When school was out for the summer, tourist traffic would make it unsafe to bike around town. But we’d practiced on Tuesday afternoons since the snow had melted, and we were going to keep riding as long as we could. Pedaling into the parking lot, we saw several teams already warming up and spied the blue and white Rangers ball caps on field number three.
    “I hear Coach Ramsey has a surprise today,” Jose said as we passed the concession stand. “Wonder what it is. Popcorn? Ice cream?”
    “Do you ever think of anything besides food?” I asked.
    “I can’t help it. I’m starvin’!”
    “You can come over for dinner,” I reminded him. Jose was a