Free Curveball by Rich Wallace Page A

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    Eddie was a fair hitter—a lefty—but no way was he one of the stars. He’d had three singles in the first six games and had drawn a couple of walks. But he’d never been one to really come through in the clutch the way Spencer or Jared always seemed to.
    The Hornets had lost their first four games this season, but they were presently riding a modest two-game winning streak. A third straight victory today would be an enormous boost, but a loss would put them back in a deep hole.
    Eddie’s tall, thin build didn’t provide much power, except in his imagination. On deck for the Hudson City Hornets—EDDIEEE Ven-TUR-a, he thought, sounding to himself like one of the broadcasters for the New York Yankees. If Jared can get on base here, the hard-hitting Ventura will surely make something happen.
    A burst of cheers broke Eddie from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Jared sprinting toward first base. Eddie gripped the bat tighter.
    Jared rounded first and kept on going, sliding safely into second with a double.
    Spencer stepped out of the dugout and gave Eddie a firm punch on the shoulder. “Grind time, Mr. Ventura,” Spencer said. “It’s up to you now, boss.”
    Eddie swallowed hard. He walked to the plate and took a practice swing. He heard that imaginary radio voice again: Ventura could homer and tie this game with one swing of the bat . But then again, he’d never hit a home run in his life.
    The pitcher took the throw from the second baseman and turned to face Eddie. He squinted and glared. Eddie glared back, trying to look tougher than he felt.
    This guy had struck Eddie out twice today. He had a wicked fastball and a decent curve. But he had to be tiring by now.
    Jared took a short lead off second base. Eddie drew back his bat and waited. The first pitch was low and outside. Ball one.
    â€œGood eye, Eddie!” came a cry.
    The second pitch was high and outside. Eddie stepped out of the batter’s box and glanced toward the Hornets’ dugout.
    â€œA walk’s as good as a hit,” Coach Wimmer called.
    Eddie let out his breath. It was true. He didn’t need a home run. He didn’t even need a single. All he had to do was get on base and keep this inning alive.
    Eddie crouched a little lower and inched closer to the plate, trying to shrink his strike zone. The third pitch looked good, maybe a little low, but right down the center of the plate.
    Eddie didn’t flinch. The umpire called, “Ball three!” and the pitcher shook his head in frustration.
    The Hoboken catcher turned to the umpire.
    â€œIt was low,” the umpire said.
    The catcher called time and jogged to the mound to talk to the pitcher. Eddie’s teammates were rattling the fence in front of their dugout. Spencer was grinning confidently at Eddie from the on-deck circle. “Gut check!” Spencer said. “Be the man.”
    Eddie wiped his sweaty palms on his uniform pants. A hundred things crossed his mind at once. Nobody swung on a 3–0 count, so the pitcher would be playing it safe. He’d groove one right down the middle. Eddie could bunt it, then run like mad toward first base.
    Or, he thought, This kid Ventura has the ability to hit away, driving the ball deep into the outfield and bringing Jared home .
    Or he could play it safe, too, like he knew he was supposed to. Take the pitch even if it was a strike.
    And here it came, waist-high but inside. Eddie leaned back as the ball whizzed by.
    â€œBall four,” called the umpire. “Take your base.”
    Eddie couldn’t help but smile as he jogged toward first. The dugout fence was shaking and rattling again; Miguel and Lamont and the others were yelling his name.
    The Hoboken coach walked to the mound and chatted with the pitcher, but he left him in the game.
    Eddie stepped off first base, tensed and ready to sprint all the way home if he needed to.
    Here came the pitch, here came