Batting Ninth Read Free

pitching machine before Mark stepped in to talk to me.
    “Get the right posture,” he said, pushing my feet apart and forcing me to lift my shoulders. “The rest is in your head.” Slowly crouching but keeping his injured leg extended to the side, Mark stared directly into my eyes and pointed two fingers at his own.
    “Use your eyes,” he said. “Never take your eyes off the ball. Count the stitches while the ball is coming to the plate.”
    Obviously, Mark had never stepped to the plate against Zach Neal.
    In just a few minutes, Mark taught me more about hitting than Dad ever had. By the end of practice, I made solid contact with nearly every pitch. But I still didn’t hit one out of the infield.
    “Strength and distance will come,” Mark said. “Don’t try to kill the ball. Work on your form.”
    I shifted my stance and waited for the next pitch. “Ping!” I lined the ball hard to third base, where Danielle was busy chewing bubble gum.
    “Nerdface!” she shouted as the ball bounced off her knee. “Tell me when you’re gonna hit the ball like that!”
    I couldn’t believe I was hitting it at all.
    *****
    I raced home from practice without waiting for Jose. “When’s Dad going to be home?” I shouted before I even shut the door behind me.
    “It’ll be a few days, Sweetie,” Mom yelled from the laundry room. “Remember, he’s out of town.”
    I hated it when Mom called me “Sweetie,” but I tolerated it when none of my friends were around.
    I walked into the laundry room and picked up a towel. “Well, I need to show him what I learned at practice.”
    “You could always show me,” she said.
    “You don’t know anything about baseball.”
    Mom put her hands on her hips.
    “Really? I was a baseball wife for three years,” she quickly retorted.
    “Back then, maybe,” I said. “But baseball has changed.”
    Mom paused. “You bet it has. And not for the better,” she said. “We didn’t worry about things like steroids back then. I’m glad the majors finally banned them.”
    I didn’t need a steroids lecture. We got plenty of those in health class, and I could hardly turn on the Sports Network without seeing a story about some major-leaguer who had juiced up in the past. Everyone knew steroids were bad news.
    “We have a major-league all-star helping us out,” I said. “Mark Wilcox—ever heard of him?”
    Mom dropped her hands from her hips. “Mark Wilcox? From the White Sox?”
    “Yep, that’s him.”
    “What’s he doing in Brightsport?” she asked.
    “Says he’s in the minors rehabbing his knee. He’ll probably be going back to Chicago before the season is over.”
    Mom looked at me like she did the time I had played catch with an autographed baseball from Dad’s trophy case.
    “Your father is not going to be happy,” she said and walked upstairs, leaving a basket of laundry on the floor.
    What did she mean by that? I thought. I had actually learned something about hitting and a major-leaguer was teaching me.
    I grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and walked to the living room to catch the end of the White Sox game on TV. They were playing the Angels. As I watched an Angels batter fly out to left field, baseball suddenly seemed more important—a little more personal. After all, Mark Wilcox was my pal!

Chapter Three

Making Contact
    I t was raining Wednesday morning, so Mom drove me to school. But by the end of the day, the sun had dried out the schoolyard. Even though it was only a mile or so home, the bus took the long way, so I ran instead. I wanted to get to the field early for our game with the Hornets.
    Mom startled me when I came in the house.
    “I thought you were working,” I said.
    “I decided to take off,” she said, holding up a shirt from her closet that matched my Rangers uniform. “I have to see how all that practice paid off. And Dad will be calling tonight. This time, I can tell him about the game.”
    Mom didn’t usually go to my games, and that was just