Free Parts & Labor by Mark Gimenez Page A

over like there was an emergency or
something, so I walked over to him. He leaned over and put his hands on his
knees and his mouth in my face, close enough that I knew he had bacon for
breakfast and not that organic turkey bacon Mom makes us eat but real bacon,
the fatty kind that tasted great and caused heart attacks.
    "Max
… DO—NOT—SWING—THAT—BAT. Do you understand me?"
    I
nodded.
    "If
you take that bat off your shoulder, Max, I'm gonna take that bat and …"
    I
could tell he wanted to say something inappropriate that might get him kicked
out of little league coaching for life, but he calmed himself.
    "Just
don't swing, okay?"
    I
nodded then returned to the batter's box. I dug in again then glanced back at
Norbert.
    "Swing
with great force, Max," he said again.
    He
gave me a thumbs-up, just like my dad used to do. Like he believed in me just
like my dad always believed in me. My dad's thumbs-up always made me feel more
confident, like I could hit the ball; I never did, but I thought I could. For
some reason, Norbert's thumbs-up had the same effect. I felt confident. I took
my stance and dug my back foot into the dirt and waggled the bat. I was determined
to hit that ball. The big White Sox pitcher wound up, reared back, and threw
the ball really hard.
    But
the ball didn't come at me hard.
    It came at me slowly. V-e-r-y … s-l-o-w-l-y.
I glanced around. The whole world had suddenly shifted into slow motion. The
players in the field, the fans in the bleachers, Vic and the umpire behind the
plate—everyone was moving in slow motion. Coach yelled, "M-A-X … D-O … N-O-T… S-W-I-N-G!" His words came out long and slow. Everyone was
speaking and moving really slowly. Except me. I looked back at the ball. I
could actually see the laces rotating—the pitcher had thrown a four-seam
fastball. The ball seemed to be hanging in midair. I had heard great athletes
talk about being "in the zone" when the game seemed to slow down for
them. I didn't have a clue what they were talking about … until now. I
was definitely in the zone. And I knew I could hit that ball. So I kicked my lead
leg high like the pros do, then rotated my hips hard and threw the barrel of
the bat at the ball with all my might just like my dad had taught me and I—
    â€”hit
the ball.
    Just
as suddenly, the world returned to normal speed, like God had hit the PLAY
button on the remote right when I had hit the ball. I heard the resounding ping of the metal bat making impact with the hard leather-wrapped baseball, and I felt
an exhilarating vibration run down my arms and through my entire body. It was
the best feeling of my entire life, except for that time Mom made double-fudge chocolate
cake for my birthday, the kind with the pudding in the middle. I dropped the
bat and stood at home plate and watched the white ball rising higher and higher
into the blue sky and flying farther and farther and the fans in the bleachers shouting
louder and louder and Coach and my teammates running out of the dugout and jumping
for joy as the ball flew over the fence and out of the park.
    Max
Dugan had hit a home run.
    A
walk-off grand slam to win the game 4-3. I jogged around the bases like the
pros do and jumped on home plate with both feet. My teammates mobbed me and
hoisted me onto their shoulders, and the spectators gave me a standing ovation,
like I was a big-leaguer who had just hit a home run to win the World Series. I
glanced over at Norbert. He was smiling. Mom was crying, Scarlett's mouth was
hanging open like that time we had walked into Güero's and come face to face
with Matthew McConaughey, and Maddy was jumping up and down and clapping her
hands. I had done something that no ten-year-old or eleven-year-old or
twelve-year-old kid had ever done in league history: I had hit a ball out of
the park. Dead straight over the 295' sign in center field. Vic had pulled
off his catcher's mask, but he remained frozen in place