Free Soar by Joan Bauer Page B

going to be a coach.”
    Jerwal keeps waiting.
    â€œIs that good or what?”
    That’s Jerwal’s code phrase to twirl around and beep.
    I put my hand up, he puts his arm up, and we do a high five, although technically he only has three fingers.
    A little robot dance.
    Shoulders up, shoulders down.
    Freeze.
    Okay, Lopper. Are you going to play around or get serious?
    I pull out my baseball from the moving box in the corner. I hold the ball, just hold it. Walt says if you hold a baseball long enough, it becomes part of you.
    I get my glove and head outside. It’s not like I’m a pitcher or anything. It’s not like I can run right now.
    But I can stand.
    I stand in the middle of our lawn. My fingers form the two-seam fastball grip.
    Lopper takes his time. This kid knows how to wait.
    The batter’s getting nervous.
    Lopper squints into the sun.
    His arm comes back; he lets strength move through his legs.
    He releases the ball like a bullet.
    The batter never sees it coming.
    â€œStrike three!” the umpire calls.

Chapter
16

    I HAVE FIVE baseball books open on the long black table. Walt is checking his phone. He does this day and night, and probably while he sleeps. I’ve been reading about what it means to be a winner. Everyone seems to agree on this: You’ve got to think like one to be one. You’ve got to let it fill your head.
    But is winning really everything? If you can only be satisfied when you win, I’m not sure you’ll be a good ballplayer.
    Walt is typing away on his computer. SARB is on the table going around in a circle.
    â€œWhat makes people good at baseball, Walt?”
    His eyes don’t leave the screen. “Skill.”
    Actually, that’s deeper than it sounds.
    â€œI want to help this team.”
    â€œThey’ve got to do the drills. Focus on the fundamentals. Catching, throwing, pitching, hitting. Over and over.”
    That makes sense.
    â€œTake pitchers.” Walt pushes back from the screen. “Sometimes they think the whole game’s on their backs. In some ways it is. But they don’t take their time to throw. They don’t play the psych-out game they should to get the batter nervous.”
    I’m taking notes. “That’s good, Walt.”
    Walt gets that Baseball Is Life look in his eyes. He’s talking to me, but in his head he’s back in high school playing ball.
    â€œWhen you’re out there, Jer, and you smell the grass, you feel the ball in your hand, you hear the crack of the bat, you feel your legs pumping to get around the bases, your heart is pounding, and they’re cheering, and you slide into home—you don’t even think about it, you just slide because that’s what makes the play. You do it. You do what makes the play.”
    â€œOkay,” I say. “That’s good.”
    He leans back. “You’re gonna help them, huh?”
    â€œYeah.”
    Walt nods. “Remember, take it easy at first. Change one thing at a time. That’s what people can handle.”
    â€œIs it like that with robots?”
    â€œThey’re programmed. They do what they’re told.” He sighs. “Unless there’s a bug in the system.”
    He throws SARB on the floor. SARB goes backward.
    â€œNo, no, no!” Walt says.
    â—†Â â—†Â â—†
    I have to miss the first two periods of school because I have an appointment with my new cardiology team.
    Walt and I are sitting in Dr. Dugan’s office. Walt drops his phone when she walks in.
    â€œYou do that a lot,” she mentions.
    Walt mutters, “Sorry.”
    Two men in white coats follow her, Dr. Paul and Dr. Bonano.
    â€œWe’re very encouraged about your blood work, Jeremiah. And your monitor readings are pretty good, considering. We’re going to make a small adjustment in your medication that will make you feel better, but first,I want to do a biopsy. Dr. Bonano will handle