Free Throwing Like a Girl by Weezie Kerr Mackey

talking so fast I hardly understand anything she says. And worse than that, Sally Fontineau is also on the bad squad, or as Frannie has nicknamed us already, the Bod Squad.
    I’m up third. LeaAnne LaRusso (a ninth grader) explains to me that it’s because I’m playing first base and we’re going in order of positions—pitcher, catcher, first—not ability.
    “Thanks, LeaAnne,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic.
    Gwen Arden, Sally’s gal pal, is pitching. She’s pretty goodactually, and after two foul tips, she strikes out Jenny Yin, and everyone on the field cheers.
    This sucks
.
    LeaAnne catches for our team, so she’s up next. She’s pretty good. If Kat weren’t the best player on the team, LeaAnne might have a shot at starting catcher. But what do I know?
    She swings at the first pitch. I’m watching her feet dig a place for themselves at the plate. She holds her right elbow up high, and even though her stance looks funny, she hits it over Virginia Dalmeyer’s head. It’s not a really hard hit, but it gets her to first. Virginia’s playing short but, according to Frannie, that was Rocky’s position and Virginia’s better at third.
    Anyway, blah blah. I’m up next and everyone’s watching me. Why did I want to play this stupid sport? It’s supposedly a team sport, but really it’s one more opportunity for everyone to stare at the new girl from Chicago who has never played softball before.
Totally humiliating
.
    I try to remember what LeaAnne did. Since I’m a lefty, I have to do everything opposite, but I manage to do it. I stand there trying to stare down Gwen, when LeaAnne yells, “Come on, Ella!”
    It’s as if the sky opened up and the gods shoved a big old spike of adrenaline into my heart. I have to scowl on purpose so I don’t smile. I want to yell thank you to LeaAnne, but suddenly the first pitch goes flying past me and slams into Kat’s glove.
    Kat rises from her squat and tosses the ball back to Gwen so effortlessly that I have to look at her. She grins through her catcher’s mask. “Nice and easy, Ella,” she says. “Don’t take your eye off that ball.”
    Did she say something to me?
    I do exactly what she says. I watch the ball as hard as I can:from Gwen’s glove to the swing of her arm—down, around, then forward again. The ball snaps out of her hand and comes at me fast, but it’s slower in my head. I see it. I think,
It’s low, but I can hit it
. I swing and smack.
That felt so good
. It goes right past Julie Meyers, who plays first base and doesn’t seem to want it as much as I do. She comes completely off the bag to try to chase it down while LeaAnne runs to second—
safe
—and I run through first,
safe
.
    I did it! It wasn’t beautiful. It didn’t sound great, but I did it. I hit the ball and got on base.
    How hard is that? Not very.
    LeaAnne claps for me. Coach, standing beside me at first base, says, “Good job, Ella.”
    Even the construction workers up on their perch cheer.
    This is so fun. I LOVE SOFTBALL!
    We go through our whole rotation and get two runs: LeaAnne the first, Mo the second. We’re very proud, jumping around and laughing. I don’t even care that Sally’s the only one not celebrating. It’s obvious she’s the one who doesn’t fit in. Even the starters tell us we did well.
    In the field I play first base. Coach tells me where to stand and how to position myself when I’m waiting for a throw from third or short, left foot against the bag and right arm extended. The good lineup gets a lot of runs, though. Almost everyone gets on base, and the one fly ball that’s catchable is a pop-up that I drop.
    There are so many ups and downs in sports.
    At the end of practice, Coach runs us hard. She sits on the bleachers blowing her whistle, scribbling on her clipboard. I’m almost hating her right about now.
    And then this truck, a small white flower-shop truck, parks right where Sally parked that first day. A guy in uniform gets outholding a