“Of course. I need to. I’ve invested too much not to take it seriously,” I admitted.
“Where?” Tim asked.
“I’m good with our final two besides Michigan,” I said.
“Oklahoma and USC,” Tim confirmed.
“Either of those would work,” Wolf added.
“I need to get my lawyers in touch with the schools and explain my requirements for my image and other special needs because of movies and the like. I don’t expect there’ll be a problem because the attorneys talked to them before. But I want to make sure before we get back into it with them,” I said.
“Did you ever get the NCAA straightened out?” Tim asked.
“They agreed in principle, and I have a letter to that effect, but we haven’t finished negotiating. They’re dragging their feet,” I explained.
“What happened to that guy who blackmailed you?” Tim asked.
I smiled.
“They fired him after investigating him. Seems I wasn’t the only one he’d strong-armed,” I shared.
“So, Lisa Felton?” Tim asked.
“So, Gina and Pam?” I asked back.
“Let’s go lift,” Wolf said.
I chuckled because they hadn’t yet closed the deal. I hadn’t either, but Lisa and I would be fine. On the other hand, Tim and Wolf were still in that ‘not sure if she likes me’ phase. I predicted that by this time next week, they would be on surer footing.
◊◊◊
After school, Moose had us all go out to the practice field. Moose gathered us all around to give us his opening speech of the season. I held up my hand.
“Yes, David,” Moose said to acknowledge me.
“Can I give them your annual speech to start practice?” I asked innocently.
There were chuckles all around. He eyed me.
“By all means,” he said, turning it over to me.
I slowly walked to the front, mimicking our coach.
“Okay, settle down. I’m Moose. Just so we’re clear, I answer to Coach or Moose. Either one is fine. Coach Haskins is going to work with the outfielders. Coach Herndon will work with the pitchers and catchers. The rest of the infield will be with me. The JV team will go with Coaches Stevens and Hope.
“I also want to clear something up for you freshmen and first-year players. You will not be playing varsity ball. I don’t believe in throwing anyone onto the varsity squad before they have at least a year of high school ball under their belts. This is nonnegotiable. The first one of you that has his momma or daddy call me about it will be running until they either drop or quit, I don’t really care which.
“There will be two teams this year, varsity and JV. Normally I try to put only first-year players on JV. If you’re cut from varsity, I’ll
The older players clapped at my rendition of Moose’s annual kickoff talk with the team. Someone in the back raised their hand, so I pointed at him, staying in character.
“Yeah, I think I can win a spot on varsity. I was the best player in my summer league last year. I’m sure I can contribute.”
“No,” I said to mimic Moose’s expected one-word answer.
“I’m serious. No matter who you have playing at any position, I’m sure I can beat them out.”
I looked closer because I smelled a rat. I suddenly realized it was Tristan Pratt, the left fielder from Team USA. Tristan had been the youngest player to make the national team, and we’d become friends. He had an older sister who made me nervous. I wondered if she had come with him.
“I’ll take his challenge,” Ty offered.
“Okay. Let’s have a little batting practice,” I suggested.
Only Moose, Coach Haskins, and I knew who Tristan really was, so when Coach Herndon grooved a fastball and Tristan parked it, everyone suddenly became interested. The sound a ball makes when it’s hit with authority is a distinctive crack.
On the next pitch, Coach Herndon threw a curveball. I kept a straight face as I walked over to stand next to Ty as we watched the ball clear the centerfield fence with ease.
“The nerve of that upstart, thinking he can just come in and play for us,” I said indignantly.
“Uh … yeah,” Ty stammered when Tristan hit a solid line drive that would have been a double.
I looked over at him.
“You’re not worried, are you?” I asked.
“That kid can hit,” Ty whispered to me.
“You want me to take this?” I asked.
He nodded.
When Tristan finished hitting ten pitches, I stepped into the box.
“You’re going down,” I called to Tristan.
Smartass had said he was the best this past summer. He had awakened the competitive beast.
“You might think you’re good, but I’ve got your number,” Tristan quipped.
Coach Herndon gave me an identical fastball to the one that Tristan had seen. I concentrated on my hitting steps and crushed it. My teammates had been nervously murmuring to each other as Tristan put on a hitting clinic. Now it was my turn. I wanted to remind everyone there precisely why I was named MVP last summer.
