“Go to the food tent and find Mrs. Sullivan. Tell her I said you could each have two of the big hotdogs and a drink,” I said.
They took off without even a thank you.
“You just made a mistake. Now they know you’re a soft touch and will feed them. You’ll regret it, I promise you that,” Ty predicted.
“That’s okay. If he gets to be too much of a pest, I’ll tell him he has to be a batboy to work off his food debt.”
Ty grabbed his stomach.
“David. David. David.”
I punched him in the chest. Okay, maybe I was a ‘stupid boy.’
◊◊◊
I was the world’s worst dad in the making. The varsity talked me into feeding them all at the food tent before the JV game. I would have to get better at saying ‘no’ to starving children, or I would go broke.
While we hit the food tent, the crowd began to arrive. For a chilly Tuesday evening, we had a good turnout. All the bleachers along the lines pretty much filled up. The outfield bleachers had also filled up, mainly with younger kids. When I trotted out to center field to start the game, I spotted three older guys in the stands wearing baseball jackets for the Reds, Mets, and Blue Jays’ organizations. I tipped my hat and then turned to focus on the game.
Moose had posted the lineup for tonight’s game, and there were no surprises.
(Order) Name – Position
(1) Ty Wilson – 3rd Base
(2) Bryan Callahan – Shortstop
(3) Wolf Tams – 1st Base
(4) David Dawson – Center Field
(5) Johan Bauer – Designated Hitter
(6) Brock Callahan – 2nd Base
(7) Milo Bauer – Right Field
(8) Don Crown – Left Field
(9) Tim Foresee – Catcher
Bert Nelson – Pitcher
Our JV team had won the opener easily, 6–3. I expected a similar result tonight. Lang Academy rarely got a chance to establish team chemistry because of the nature of their student body. Many of the boys were only there for a short time. Finding out that their parents weren’t making idle threats was usually all it took before they decided to make amends.
The first batter we faced turned out to be none other than Harper’s friend Ray. I’d met him a few times and liked him personally. He wasn’t the most responsible guy I’d ever met, but if I hadn’t been sent to my uncle’s farm, I might have turned out like him. Ray had a drug problem in that he liked them way too much. His parents had sent him to Lang Academy in a last-ditch effort to get him cleaned up.
On Bert’s first pitch, I heard the crack of the bat, indicating a well-hit ball. I did a drop step to my right because the ball was over my head. I had to use all of my speed to catch it just as Don yelled, “wall” to warn me of my impending collision with the fence.
“Nice jump on that ball. Good job,” the Mets scout called out.
Bert got the next two to strike out. When we came up to bat, I watched their pitcher. He was a tall, lanky kid who had a slow delivery. It looked like he had one pitch, a fastball. His slow delivery made it easy to pick up the ball as it left his hand. His length gave him enough leverage to put a little more heat on his pitches than most high school kids had. This reminded me of using a pitching machine. I was confident that our guys could handle him.
Ty was up first. From the bench, I watched what I would have called a strike get called a ball. A man in the stands got up and hollered about the umpire being blind. The second pitch was the same deal. I began to wonder what I was missing. Moose flashed a sign to Ty to put the bat on his shoulder and take the next two pitches. He shook his head in disbelief when he was walked.
By now, the Lang Academy parents were on their feet, yelling at the umpire. I decided they might have a case when both Bryan and Wolf were walked as well.
When I got into the box, I was determined not to walk. I concentrated on my five hitting steps: rhythm, seeing the ball, separation, staying square, and weight shift and transfer. I quickly visualized what I had to do and planted my back foot. The problem with
As soon as his arm reached its apex, I began my stride. I concentrated on not overswinging. With my quick hands and the ball’s velocity, I would have a solid hit if I made contact. I slapped it over the first baseman’s head, down the right-field line, and the ball rolled to the fence. I saw that the right fielder hadn’t picked it up cleanly, so I raced around the bases. He tried to be a hero and gun me down at third instead of hitting his cutoff man.
Coach Haskins waved me around third. The reason why became apparent when the ball flew over the third baseman’s head. Neither the catcher nor the left fielder had come down the line to back him up, so I easily trotted home.
