Free Centerfield Ballhawk by Matt Christopher, Ellen Beier Page A

you,
     José?” he said, kidding.
    “Somebody
might have to,” José said.
    He swung at the remaining pitches that shot out of the ball gun — hitting some, missing some — then stepped out of the batting
     cage. He wiped his sweating forehead with his shirtsleeve.
    “You guys want to see a real hitter?” Bus said. “Stick around.”
    He paid for a round and hit every pitch but two.
    Then Barry took his turn.
POW! POW! POW!
    He hit every pitch solidly. José watched him with envy. If I could hit like that, I wouldn’t have to come to this batting
     cage, he thought. I wouldn’t have to worry about being a disappointment to my father.
    When the pitches stopped coming, Barry stepped out of the cage. He hadn’t even worked up a sweat, José noticed.
    “What
are
you doing here?” Barry asked him. “Weren’t you grounded?”
    “Yeah,” Bus joined in. “Sparrow told us how you creamed that old lady’s car.”
    José’s face turned red with embarrassment. “I was grounded from playing on the team. My dad didn’t say anything about practicing.
     And I figured I should stay in shape.” He didn’t want to tell them the real reason he was practicing. He didn’t think they’d
     understand.
    “Good idea,” said Barry. “I sure hope your dad changes his mind. We really need you.”
    José blushed again, this time with pleasure. “Aw, I bet you won’t even notice I’m not there,” he said modestly.
    “Sure we will,” said Bus. “You’re the best fielder we have.”
    José enjoyed the compliment, but he wishedhe was valued for being a good hitter. A good hitter like his father was — he’d batted .375 when he’d played in the minors.
     If he could match his father’s average, José figured, he might get back into his father’s good graces.
    With new determination, José bought another round. It was only a dollar for fourteen pitches. He stepped in the box, held
     his bat ready, and triggered the gun. A ball shot out of the mouth of the pitching machine like a white meteor.
    José swung.
Crack!
The ball bounced off the top of his bat and hit his cheek.
    Oh, no! his mind screamed as he stepped out of the batter’s box and rubbed his fingers lightly over the bruise. He could feel
     it beginning to swell.
    Yikes! How was he going to explain this to his father? He had told him that he was going over to Barry’s house. A lot of good
     this practice session had done him!

3

    The three boys quit playing and headed for home. Barry and Bus talked about the Bay Street Stingers, the team they were playing
     against tomorrow. José worried about the red spot on his cheek and what he’d say to his father.
    When he reached his house, José saw that the garage door was open. His father was working on the car.
    José walked on the grass on his way to the front porch, hoping it would muffle his footsteps.
    “José?”
    José stopped dead. His father had heard him.
    Nervous, José turned and entered the garage. He covered the bruise with his hand, moving his fingers a little as if he were
     scratching an itch.
    Mr. Mendez was pouring oil into the engine’s crankcase. He looked at José. “You look sweaty,” he observed. “You and Barry
     been playing ball?”
    José shrugged. “Well, yeah. In a way.”
    Mr. Mendez’s eyes narrowed. “In a way? What do you mean?”
    “We were having batting practice.”
    His father frowned. “Batting practice? Even though I told you you were grounded?”
    “From everything? I wasn’t playing with the team . . .”
    Mr. Mendez straightened up. He was staring at José’s cheek. Suddenly José realized that he had forgotten about the bruise
     and had taken his hand off it.

    “What happened to your cheek?” Mr. Mendez asked.
    Jose’s throat ached. He had to tell his father the whole truth now. “I bruised it,” he said.
    “How?”
    “I was at the batting cage, and I fouled off a pitch.”
    “I see,” said his father. “So you didn’t go to Barry’s house. You