Free Stealing Home by Todd Hafer

Brett off that mound with a bulldozer.
    On the next pitch, Brett tried to get Locke to bite on a fastball out of the strike zone, but he kept his bat still, shaking his head at Brett as the umpire called, “Ball!”
    Now would be a good time for your curve, Cody urged silently. You haven’t thrown a hook since early in the game. Come on, Brett, cross him up. He’ll be sitting on your fastball.
    Ten seconds later Cody’s intuition was proven correct.
    Brett groaned as he brought the gas one more time. The pitch was belt-high as it crossed the outside of the plate, and Locke gave it a ride deep to center field.
    For a moment silence engulfed the field. Then, as if someone had flicked on the world’s biggest TV, the place was buzzing with screams and shouts of expectation—or dread.
    Alston half-turned and tracked the ball as it sailed toward the fence in straightaway center. Cody saw him stay focused on the ball’s arc, even as his feet hit the warning track. Then, as the ball headed down, Alston leaped so high that Cody thought he might rocket right out of his cleats.
    “Man,” he heard himself say, “Alston’s going to be dunking in basketball next year, for sure!”
    But for today, Alston was merely jumping at just the right angle to lean his body over the fence and snag Locke’s fly ball in the end of his webbing, robbing the Lancers of a sure home run.
    Cody thought Alston might spike the ball or toss it into the air in celebration. After all, he was the biggest showboater in the state of Colorado. But instead he grabbed the ball from his mitt and, holding it out in front of him, sprinted directly toward Brett, who was embracing his brother on the pitcher’s mound, the two of them bouncing up and down as if they were on pogo sticks.
    Alston got to the mound and offered the ball to Brett, patting the pitcher on the back, and Brett took the memento in both hands.
    “Terry Alston,” Cody said to no one in particular, “there’s hope for you yet.”
    Cody joined the postgame celebration on the pitcher’s mound, cringing every time a teammate clapped him on the back. It’s worth it, he kept telling himself. It’s so worth it.
    After the jubilee he headed for the stands. His dad and Beth had shown up late in the second inning, but at least they made it. He couldn’t see them now, but he did spot Pork Chop’s two most significant others.
    “Where’s my dad?” Cody asked Mr. Porter and Doug as he carefully made his way up the aluminum bleachers toward them.
    Chop’s father chuckled and nudged his elder son, who started chuckling, too. “Last time I saw him,” Mr. Porter said, “he and Beth were behind the backstop, reading your coach the riot act.”
    Cody tilted his head and frowned. “You gotta be kiddin’.”
    “It’s true,” Doug affirmed. “They were gettin’ medieval on ol’ Coach Lathrop.”
    “But…I don’t get it—”
    “You might not be getting it,” Mr. Porter said, “but your coach sure is!”
    Cody ran down the bleachers, taking them two rows at a time and “oofing” in pain with each step.
    His dad and Beth flanked Coach Lathrop. Luke Martin had his arms folded over his chest, which Cody was sure he was puffing out to make it bigger than it really was. Beth was brandishing her index finger like a sword, right under the coach’s nose.
    “Don’t you dare try to deny it, sir,” she was scolding him. “We have the word of several of Cody’s teammates. You were aware of his injury and you told him to lean into a fastball from maybe the hardest-throwing pitcher in the state. That is just wrong!”
    “Look,” Coach Lathrop fired back, “don’t you tell me how to do my job. Who are you, anyway? You’re not the boy’s mom.”
    Beth pulled her hand away from his face. For a moment Cody thought she was going to slap him. She seemed to be thinking about it. Finally she put her hands on her hips and said, “No, I’m not his mother, may God rest her soul. But I’m someone