Batting Ninth by Kris Rutherford

Chapter One

Strike Three!
    I pressed the toe of my cleat into the remaining white chalk that outlined the batter’s box.
    “Nice catch,” the Red Sox catcher said.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    I had made a great fielding play to end the top of the sixth inning. It gave my team, the Rangers, one last chance to pull out a win. Now I was at bat with the game on the line.
    There were two outs, the Red Sox leading, 5–4. Jimmy Lee, our tall, lanky center fielder, stood on second base, and my best friend, Jose Martiz, took a lead from third.
    Relax, I thought, drawing a deep breath of the salty air that blew in from the ocean only a few blocks away. A base hit and we would beat the Red Sox. No one would have expected that.
    Zach Neal, the Red Sox pitcher, stared squarely into my eyes. Zach was half a foot taller and twenty-five pounds heavier than me and almost every other kid in sixth grade. He also happened to be the best player on the best team in the Brightsport Bronco League.
    Zach shook his head slowly. The smirk almost always pasted on his face turned into a scowl. I wasn’t sure if he was shaking off the catcher’s sign or just signaling that I was an easy out.
    Zach went into his windup. Eye on the ball … eye on the ball, I thought.
    I heard the pop in the catcher’s mitt before I even knew the ball had passed.
    “Strike one!” the umpire shouted.
    Stepping out of the batter’s box, I took off my helmet. It was late May, and the air was still cool. But my eyes stung as sweat dripped from the hair that hung to my eyebrows.
    “Here we go again,” I muttered. I had already struck out twice today.
    As I stepped back in the batter’s box, Zach’s scowl changed into a sneer—the same face he made when he picked on a fourth grader.
    Watch the ball all the way in, I thought. Zach brought the ball and his glove together over his head. Step and swing level, I thought. He took a little off his fastball, and I swung a fraction of a second early.
    “Strike two!”
    A grin replaced Zach’s sneer.
    “Drive ’em in, Chad!” Coach Ramsey shouted from the third base coach’s box. “It’s up to you buddy!”
    Jimmy Lee and Jose clapped in rhythm as they stood ready on their bases. It’s up to me alright, I thought. Too bad I wasn’t in the on-deck circle.
    I knew Zach would bring a fastball, high and tight. Rumor had it that one of his fastballs put a kid in a cast the year before when Zach played in a different league. Zach never admitted it, but he didn’t deny it either. No batter in Brightsport ever faced him without that thought crossing his mind.
    As Zach delivered his next pitch, my eyes narrowed, and I stepped forward, swinging away, trying to make contact. The bat’s vibration didn’t sting my hands like it usually did, but the “ping” of aluminum was unmistakable. I sprinted down the first base line. The Red Sox first baseman hardly even moved.
    “Don’t waste your time, Griffin,” he said, pointing at the ball rolling against the fence in front of the Red Sox’s bench.
    “Foul ball!” the umpire yelled.
    I trotted back to the plate, picked up my bat, and wiped away the chunk of turf that stuck to its handle. A couple of practice swings later, and I stood ready for the next pitch. No doubt, another fastball was on its way.
    Zach Neal didn’t like a kid hitting his best pitch, even if it was just a foul ball. He quickly went into his windup. I tried to focus as the ball sped toward home plate, waist high and down the middle. I drew my shoulders back and stepped forward, putting all my weight into my swing.
    I was out before the ball ever reached the plate. As my left toe hit the dirt, the bottom dropped out of the pitch. I heard the ball thud off home plate and caught a glimpse of it bouncing into the catcher’s mitt.
    “Strike three!” the umpire yelled. “Ball game!”
    I hung the bat across my shoulders and quickly did the math in my head: four for thirty-two, a .125 batting average. And not