Free The Distance to Home by Jenn Bishop Page B

the park, except for right under the streetlamps at the edge of the playground.
    “Hector?”
    He kicks at the wood chips under his feet. He’s way too big for the swing. Even with his legs bent all the way, both feet are touching the ground.
    I sit down on the swing next to him. Even my feet drag on the ground. Have I really grown that much?
    “Do you want to talk?” I ask.
    He sniffs. I don’t look at his face to see if he’s crying or if he just has allergies. It doesn’t seem right. “I want to pitch good.”
    It’s
well, I think.
You want to pitch
well. But the last thing Hector needs right now is a grammar lesson, so I zip it.
    “You will,” I say. “That was only one game.”
    “No. Two games. Two times I failed. Two times I pitched bad.” He kicks at the dirt again.
    “No one’s counting that first game. What happened that day, it wasn’t your fault.” A breeze comes over the park. I shiver and wish I had my sweatshirt.
    “This game, though? This game
was
my fault.”
    “But you guys won. You won anyway. That’s what teammates do. They help each other out.”
    I think about the Panthers. How last summer it was all of us around the table at Gracie’s.
    That’s what we did to win, too. We always helped each other out.
    “I’ve disappointed my family. My family needs this. My brother, Victor, he used to play baseball for the Pirates. But he wasn’t good enough. They kicked him off the team.”
    I hold on tight to the chain, turn my head, and listen.
    “All Victor wanted his whole life was to play baseball. That was his dream, you know? After they cut him, he had to move to New York City and start a whole new life without baseball. My mother, she expects…she expects big things from me. I want to give my family a big house and a car. I want to give my mother everything she wants, everything she deserves. To do that, I need to be good. No—I need to be great.”
    “But they know you got hurt, right?” I think about what Brandon said back at Gracie’s. Of course Hector was nervous being up on the mound for the first time after what had happened. Nerves happen sometimes, even to the very best players.
    Hector doesn’t answer me.
    “You didn’t tell them?”
    “I didn’t want them to worry.”
    “What about your sister, Mikerline? Did you tell her?”
    He swings slightly. He doesn’t answer that question, either. “You used to play baseball, right? Did you love it?”
    The feeling of the packed dirt of the mound beneath my feet. The butterflies in my belly when I had to pitch to a really good hitter. High-fiving all my friends on the team. The crack of the bat when I sent the ball soaring, soaring, soaring over an outfielder’s glove. The post-win ice cream trips with Coach Napoli and his super-long beard. Did I love baseball?
    I swallow hard and nod. Of course I did.
    “Why did you quit?” Hector asks.
    I pick at a bumpy piece of the metal chain. I don’t know where to start. “I let them down—my team. I made this big mistake and then…”
    “What if this is how I’m going to pitch from now on? What if my best days are already behind me? Maybe I should just quit now while I’m ahead.” He stares down at the ground as he says it. I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. Quitting when he’s made it this far?
    “Quit? No—you’re crazy—what are you talking about?”
    “I pitched badly. Don’t lie, Quinnen. Today, I was throwing everywhere but the strike zone. I walked three batters
in a row.
Do you know what my ERA is right now? 27.00.
27.00!
I’ve had bad games before, but I’ve never seen a stat line like that. Not with my name next to it.”
    I remember what I told Casey when we were watching from the stands, what I noticed. It’s the kind of thing I’m sure the manager noticed, too, but maybe he didn’t have a chance to talk to Hector about it yet. “You slowed down a lot between pitches. Starting with the second inning today. In the first inning, you didn’t