Free Pinch Hit by Tim Green Page A

is this?” Trevor added an extra dash of excitement to his voice.
    Sam’s dad looked up and blinked. “I won’t do it.”
    Trevor’s insides froze.

22
SAM
    Sam got up and wandered through the house, sneaking around and feeling like a thief. He slipped out the front door into the cool night. The air made him want to run, but what Trevor said about Dark Cellar made him fight the urge. He had to take advantage of the situation to help his dad. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
    He tiptoed down the walkway. A sudden hissing made his heart break into a gallop. Sprinklers. The hissing became a steady chug, and Sam scurried not to get wet. He crossed the cobblestone driveway and rounded the garage, a building twice as big as most people’s homes. On the other side, the batting cage waited like a crouching giant draped in black netting.
    On a metal post was a switch. He flipped it, and white light flooded the cage. The pitching machine hummed to life. Sam slipped through the netting and into the cage. He took a bat from the rack, stepped on the foot pedal, and blasted the first pitch that came at him. He hit righty for a while, then switched over, remembering that he never discussed the ability to switch-hit with Trevor and doubting that someone who never played in a league possessed such a skill. Sam made a mental note to warn Trevor to be ready with some excuse if the coach told him to bat lefty.
    Sam kept the pitches coming and he kept swinging until the machine spit air. He removed the basket from the machine and began to fill it with the yellow rubber balls scattered across the concrete floor inside the cage. He reloaded the machine and stepped back into place, swinging and smashing the balls into the net in a steady rhythm that left him glazed with sweat and feeling almost comfortable. After the last pitch, he stood for a moment breathing.
    Someone sniffed and Sam spun around.
    Trevor’s mom stood in bare feet wearing a dress red as a fire engine. In one hand was a champagne glass, in the other a pair of shiny black high-heeled shoes. Her hair looked out of place, and her eye makeup was smudged. Her eyes glistened with tears.
    She scowled at Sam.
    â€œWhy are you doing this to me?”
    Sam swallowed. “What am I doing?”
    Trevor’s mom narrowed her eyes. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

23
TREVOR
    Trevor finally found his voice. “Won’t do what?”
    Sam’s dad’s eyes glazed over. He guided the pipe stem toward his mouth and missed, hitting his chin and then his cheek before finding it with his teeth, clenching down, and nodding. “They can’t toy with us. Blackballing us one minute, helping get a green light the next. No, I won’t do it.”
    Trevor couldn’t help the short burst of laughter. “You’re kidding, right?”
    Sam’s dad scowled. He fished through his desk and held up a copy of Dark Cellar . “This is no joke. This is old-school horror. A classic in the making. Do you know how many people are interested in this? Do you know who I’m meeting tomorrow? Evan Tuttle, an associate in Jerry Bruckheimer’s production company. Bruckheimer. What do you think of that?”
    â€œBruckheimer doesn’t do horror… Dad.”
    â€œWhat about Cat People ? Tuttle says Jerry is a big fan of horror. He loved doing Cat People . Trevor Goldman.” Sam’s dad spit the name out. “Who is he? Hollywood royalty. We don’t need him. You think James Cameron needed a father to make him famous? Steven Spielberg? H. P. Lovecraft? Orson Welles? They were all originals, and so am I, Sam. So am I. Trevor Goldman has us blackballed one minute and we’re going to go crawling to him the next? No siree.”
    Trevor winced at the burning words and retreated from the office. He wanted to shout at Sam’s dad for being such a fool and tell him that was probably why he’d never