Hit It All The Way To Toledo!

HIT IT ALL THE WAY TO TOLEDO! Lou Gehrig of the New York Yankees “The ballplayer who loses his head, who can’t keep his cool is worse than no ballplayer at all” CHAPTER ONE I stood at home plate, held the bat high and tried to look ready. I was anything but. Today was only my third game with the Hotshots and my mouth had gone dry. Worse my legs started to tremble, great, now everyone would know I was scared. I hated being the new kid. The ball whizzed by. I swung like I was blindfolded, like a guy whose brain had disconnected from his body. “Steerike one!” yelled the ump. Cheers exploded from the Firecracker fans, and my gut clenched. If I didn’t get a hit for the Hotshots, my teammates would be mad enough to stuff this bat down my throat. I’d be lucky if they didn’t kick me out of the sixth grade, and no one, not even my new best friend, Red, would ever sit with me at lunch again. A spot between my shoulder blades tingled, and when I turned, I saw Red standing by the dugout, heard him yell, “Come on JJ, you can do it!” I gripped the bat so tight my knuckles ached. The pitcher fired the ball and I swung with everything I had. “Steerike two!” “Firecrackers–Firecrackers–bam–bam–bam!” Yelled the Firecracker fans. The noise almost drowned out the groans from the Hotshots. Almost. I inhaled the scent of newly cut grass and glanced at the dugout again. Calvin-the-Creep, the Hotshots’ catcher and my archenemy, hung on the fence glaring me into a hit. Slugger sat with his head in his hands, praying, I guess. Slugger was the Hotshots’ star player and the coolest kid in my new school. Everyone liked him, even girls. I sighed and wiped the sweat off my forehead. While I waited for the next pitch, my gaze drifted to the stands. I stared at the empty seat where Dad should have been. Sure, I knew he wouldn’t be there. Not for this game, not for any game, not anymore. I let the bat down to touch the plate like he’d taught me. One for a single, two for a double, three for a triple, four . . . well, I could forget that. I hadn’t hit a homer since Dad died. I risked a peek at Coach. His lumpy face scowled at me. He counted on me to at least get a base hit. But as the pitcher wound up I saw myself striking out and froze. The ball shot past. Outside and low. Smack, it hit the catcher’s mitt. “Ball one!” Sweet. I’d gotten lucky. My eyes cut to the pitcher. I tapped the plate with my bat, then lifted it up, gave it four pumps and settled into my stance. “Hey batta–batta–batta!” Yelled the kids on the Firecracker team. “Swing batta–batta–batta!” I tried to block ‘em out. “Never let ‘em see they’re getting to you, son,” That’s what Dad always said. “Gotta stay cool.” The noise got to me anyway. Oh so what, it would rattle anyone. The ball came flying. This time I swung so hard it felt like my arms would fly off. “Steerike three!” The Ump yelled, “Yer-out!” The Firecracker fans stood and roared. They yelled their stupid cheer over and over again. I wanted to cover my ears, wanted to dig a hole in the dirt and bury myself. Then the fans, the players, and even the coach, flung their baseball caps into the air. The game had ended. I stood frozen at home plate clutching the bat as if my life depended on it. Maybe it did. My teammates looked mad enough to chew it to smithereens, and spit the splinters in my face. As the Hotshots and the Firecrackers lined up to shake hands, Calvin-the-Creep shoved me in line with the other guys. In a real low whisper so Coach wouldn’t hear, he said, “You’re jinxin’ the team. Why don’t you give it up and quit?” I ignored him and shook hands with every single kid from the Firecracker’s team. The whole time I felt Calvin’s glare burning a hole into the back of my skull. I swallowed my guilt and stumbled toward the dugout, head hanging low, and feet dragging. Our first loss was my fault. I knew Calvin blamed me, knew that in some way or another he’d make me pay. The guy hated my guts. Just last week he tripped me in the dugout, and my face hit the bench. I got a split lip and Coach yelled at him, told him he’d better watch it or he’d be kicked off the team. Boy, would that make me happy. Another time he snatched my Babe Ruth glove and threw it in a trash dumpster. Lucky for me the janitor found it and gave it back. Good thing, too, cause Dad bought me that glove. He’d showed me how to season it, how to rub the petroleum jelly in just right so the leather would stay soft and flexible. I ran my fingers over the glove and a sharp pang of missing wrapped around me, choking me until I almost couldn’t breathe. “Hey, JJ, wait up,” Coach called. “Want to talk to ya a sec.” I whirled around and faced him. He drew me aside and we walked out of earshot of the team. I bet he was sorry he hadn’t benched me. “Nice swing.” Coach tried to smile, but his pouchy brown eyes showed disappointment. He liked to win. I didn’t blame him, I liked to win, too.