Free Trial & Error by Paul Levine Page B

runner from third walked home.
    Bobby scrambled to his feet, whirled, located the ball just behind him.
    The runner from second scored standing up.
    Bobby picked up the ball, but for reasons known only to the gods of the game, he dropped it. Picked it up again, dropped it again. Shactman was shrieking.
    The runner from first crossed the plate. The score was tied.
    Bobby picked up the ball cleanly this time. The batter neared third base at full speed. The third base coach waved him around, betting Bobby couldn’t make a decent throw to the plate.
    Plenty of time. I can do this.
    Miguel Juarez, the husky catcher, a ringer on the Beth Am team, stood at the plate, waiting for the throw.
    I can throw the ball to him on the fly. Yes, I can.
    The batter rounded third, head down, hauling ass for home. Bobby remembered everything Uncle Steve had taught him. He planted his back foot and stepped forward, reaching down with his right arm and extending his left arm for balance. He kept his eyes on Miguel and came over the top, releasing the ball just after his arm passed over his head. The motion was smooth, and Bobby was amazed at how hard he’d thrown the ball.
    “A cannon for an arm.” That’s what they say on
Sports Center
about Vladimir Guerrero.
    The throw was right on line. Straight at Miguel Juarez, guarding home plate. This was gonna be AMAZING.
    “What a throw by Bobby Solomon! Our top play tonight on ESPN. Does that kid have a gun or what?”
    Hands on hips, Miguel looked up. Watched the ball sail over his head. Over the backstop. Over eight rows of bleachers. And land in the parking lot with the sound of glass shattering.
    The batter scored and leapt into the arms of his ecstatic teammates. High-fiving, yelling, laughing, smacking one another on the shoulder, blowing bubbles with their gum. Final score: Plymouth Church Pioneers 10, Beth Am Bobcats 9.
    “Gonna mess you up, dipshit.”
    Rich Shactman jacked an elbow into Bobby’s gut, then trotted past him toward the dugout. Bobby dropped to one knee, thinking he might vomit, but he caught his breath and got back up.
    Coach Kreindler gathered the team’s bats in front of the dugout.
    “It’s him or me, Coach!” Shactman tossed his glove against the concrete block wall of the dugout.
    Kreindler turned toward the boy, confused, the aluminum bats
ping
ing against each other.
    “The scouts from Gulliver and Ransom only come to the playoffs,” Shactman whined, “and we’ll never make them with Solomon messing up.”
    “
Nu?
What would you have me do, Rich?”
    “Throw Solomon off the team. I’m your star.”
    “Gevalt.”
    “So what’s it gonna be, Kreindler? Solomon or me?”
    Bobby heard every word. Watched as Kreindler shot a worried look in his direction. But the coach never answered. Just kept gathering up bats and balls.
    No. Not poison or explosives or a spear. There’s one thing I’m better at than Shactman. Swimming. I’m going to
drown
him.

SOLOMON’S LAWS
    5. Listen to bus drivers, bailiffs, and twelve-year-old boys. Some days, they all know more than you do.

Seventeen
    THE HABITS OF DOLPHINS
    “That was a great throw,” Steve said.
    “It broke a rearview mirror in the parking lot,” Bobby said.
    “Hard and true, right on line to the catcher. A bit high, maybe…”
    “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
    “The mint chocolate chip is supposed to make you feel better, kiddo. I’m here to tell you the truth. You have what they call a long arm.”
    Uncle and nephew were sitting at a table outside Whip ’N Dip on Sunset Drive. Bobby had barely touched his ice cream. Steve had already polished off a cone of peanut butter swirl. And sure, he was trying to cheer up the boy. But Steve meant what he’d said. The velocity of the throw had been astonishing. The skinny kid had a rubber arm.
    “You should be pitching.”
    “Coach Kreindler will never let me.”
    “I’m gonna work with you on your control, teach you a few pitches.