Free The Youngest Hero by Jerry B. Jenkins Page A

cold?”
    “I’m still sweating,” he said, his parka slung over his shoulder.
    “That’s a good time to stay bundled up,” I said. “That wind will chill you.”
    “C’mon, Momma. I’m no baby anymore.”
    I looked at him, and to my horror realized he was right. He was smaller than the kids he played with, but for his age he was
     tall, lankier than ever.
    “So, how’d I do?” he asked at home as we ate.
    “How’d you do? You did fantastic! I don’t understand how you can hit that ball.”
    “I don’t either. I remember when I couldn’t hit that thing to save my life. It would come in there and bang off the wall before
     I had time to think.”
    “So how do you do it?”
    “I don’t think.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean I really don’t think about it. Daddy used to tell me to use my instincts rather than my mind. I didn’t know what he
     meant until I had to try to hit a small ball, pitched from close in, by kids this big. I mean, Daddy pitched as hard as he
     could to me, but from—”
    “Did he really?”
    “I think so. He said he did, and I know I couldn’t hit him.”
    “You hit him a lot, El.”
    “But not when he was pitching his fastest. Nobody could. At the end of each practice he would throw me a dozen or so of his
     hardest pitches. I don’t think I fouled off more than one or two ever.”
    “Did he throw faster than this Darnell?”
    Elgin nodded. “Yeah, but I’d have to say this is a little tougher, because a tennis ball is lighter and can move a lot more,
     and it does come in from so much closer.”
    “How do you do it?”
    “I started to hit fastpitch when I finally realized that I didn’t have time to think. I could guess, that’s all.”
    “That doesn’t make sense.”
    “Sure it does. Big leaguers guess. They try to guess what pitch a guy will throw and about where he will throw it. It gives
     them a little edge.”
    “Only if they’re right.”
    “Exactly. But there’s not enough time to think about where the pitcher’s arm is and the spin of the ball. Daddy says that
     all goes into the hitter’s computer.”
    “His brain.”
    “Right. But you just see that and react and hope for the best.”
    I shook my head. “Do you realize that baseball tryouts are next Saturday?” I said.
    “Momma,” Elgin said, “I know how many days and hours there are to go.”

11
    I found myself one of hundreds of parents who showed up with their kids for the baseball tryouts the following Saturday. Elgin
     had not slept well. I had heard him up in the night several times.
    We sat in bleachers, huddled in our coats, as kids continued to sign up and pay.
    “This league goes from age eight to twelve, El. Lots of competition. It’s okay to be nervous, to wonder how you’ll do.”
    “I don’t wonder that at all.”
    “You don’t?”
    “No. Now what’s the deal with the ages?”
    “The man told me that they have a minor league and a major league. He said it’s just as likely to see a twelve-year-old in
     the minors as it is to see an eight- or nine-year-old in the majors. It’s all based on ability. Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll
     be one of the younger ones in the majors.”
    Elgin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked into my eyes. “You don’t get it, do you, Momma? What I’m excited about.”
    “What’s there to get, El?”
    “I’m not nervous, that’s what. I’m not worried. I’m excited because I can hardly wait to get out there and play. You know
     there’s nothing I’d rather do.”
    “But don’t pretend that you’re not just a little worried—”
    “I’m not.”
    “A little nervous?”
    “I’m not.”
    “Then why are you sittin here fidgeting?”
    “You’re gonna think I’m bragging.”
    “Well, I probably will. You’ve been getting a little showy here lately.”
    “Then I’d better not tell you why I’m so excited.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “I don’t want you thinking I’m too big for my britches, like you