Batting Ninth by Kris Rutherford Page A

one of my hits made it out of the infield. My speed was the only reason I hadn’t gone hitless on the season.
    The rest of my team already waited in the dugout by the time I slogged back from home plate. Jose and Shawn Baxter, our burly catcher who could hit a ton but could not run a lick, struggled for the last spot on the bench. Jose gave up when Shawn leaned in with his shoulder and pushed him onto the dirt. I plopped down on the equipment bag and fixed my eyes on a pile of bubble gum wrappers that littered the ground in front of our ace pitcher, Danielle Baker.
    “I saw some good things out there today,” Coach Ramsey started. “Great job getting out of that jam in the fourth inning,” he said, nodding at Danielle. “You don’t need to be ashamed about losing to the Red Sox by one run. We do need to work on our clutch hitting. Things are going to come around. See you guys Tuesday at practice.”
    Jose and I rode our bikes along the waterfront before turning up Weaver Street and into our neighborhood. Two-story houses, most of them built before Brightsport became a tourist trap, lined both sides of the street. Pine trees stood in front of houses facing the ocean, slowing the wind that blew off the water during the winter and giving shade from the morning sun in the summer.
    When we reached my driveway, I leaned my bike against the mailbox that stood at the curb.
    “How am I going to be a clutch hitter? I’m no hitter at all,” I said.
    “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jose said. “That was Zach Neal on the mound. It’ll come around. Plus, we pay you for your glove, not your bat.” He grinned, gave a wave, and pedaled off.
    I watched Jose bike down the street. Then I walked up the driveway and saw Dad’s company sedan parked in the garage. He’s home early, I thought, leaning my bike against the wall next to the chest freezer.
    Dad had never worked so much before. When he was an insurance salesman, he had a lot of time off. But when he became sales manager, he started working all the time. Dad hadn’t made it to one of my games all year. Before this job, he had never missed one.
    Before he hurt his knee in the minor leagues, baseball was Dad’s life. He sure missed it a lot. Watching me play must have reminded him of his early playing days. Of course, I wasn’t nearly as good as he had been. But he tried hard to teach me. I could catch any ball hit my way, but when I got to the plate, the whole game seemed to speed up. Half the time, I swung without even seeing the ball. My poor hitting frustrated Dad. Now that he didn’t have time to coach me, there wasn’t much he could do to help out. And I sure wasn’t getting any better on my own.
    I walked in the back breezeway and tossed my glove on the trunk where we stored our winter boots and gloves. Mom, preparing dinner, stood at the kitchen counter, still in her nurse’s uniform.Dad read over a pile of paperwork at the table. I looked to see what Mom was fixing for dinner: Brussels sprouts—again.
    “Hey there, Chad,” Mom said. “Get washed up. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
    “Hold on,” Dad said, barely looking up from his calculator. “How was the game?”
    I felt acid boil in my stomach and bit my lower lip between my front teeth. “They beat us. Jimmy Lee hit a home run, though,” I added.
    “Good for Jimmy,” Dad said. “But how about you?”
    “You should have seen the line drive I caught. Saved two runs,” I said.
    “That’s great, but fielding plays don’t show up in the box score. Any hits? How many runs did you drive in?” Dad asked.
    Mom peeled a potato and pretended not to listen. “I was 0 for 4,” I said. “I made good contact once, but the pitcher threw me out at first.”
    Dad chuckled. “Hit it all the way back to the pitcher’s mound? You really got hold of that one!”
    Mom sighed, set down her knife, and stared out the window.
    “What?” Dad asked. I was glad he’d turned his attention