Authors: Kris Rutherford
Batting Ninth (8 page)
“Don’t worry, Bobble Heads,” she announced. “You aren’t going to have to make a play.”
Danielle was right on, striking out all three Red Sox and carrying us to our final at bats.
As Jose prepared to bat, I sat on the bench and did some quick math in my head. If I came to bat before the inning ended, there was a good chance we would have already tied the game. That was a big
if
, but Jose got us started by beating out a ground ball for a lead-off infield hit.
Jake Musgrove, who had taken Danielle’s position at third base when she replaced Ryan at pitcher, batted next. He could only make soft contact, grounding out and sending Jose on to second base. With one out, Jimmy Lee followed up with a walk, bringing Danielle to the plate.
The tying run was at bat, I thought. If Danielle could help us pull even, I still had a chance to get my cuts.
Danielle took the first three pitches, one for a ball and two for borderline strikes. As she waited for the fourth pitch, she waved the bat slightly over her head, her knees rocking back and forth. Even from the bench, I could see Danielle’s fierce eyes staring down Zach.
When the ball ricocheted off the bat, I looked up to see Danielle running toward first base, with Jose and Jimmy Lee pausing midway between their bases. The Red Sox left fielder sprinted toward the fence as the ball sailed over his outstretched glove. The entire ballpark could hear the “clank!” as the ball hit the top of the fence and bounded over. All three Rangers rounded the bases and scored, Danielle hopping on home plate with both feet as the team poured from the bench.
The Red Sox’s side of the field immediately started grumbling, and their coach dashed onto the field. The base umpire met him behind the pitcher’s mound and pointed his index finger into the air, twirling it around to signal home run. For the first time in the game, I heard Dad’s voice.
“That’s a homer, Coach!” he yelled.
The argument was short-lived, and the Red Sox coach trotted to the bench with the score tied, 6–6. Zach stomped around the pitcher’s mound, pounding the ball into his glove.
Our rally continued when right fielder Tommy Broadway walked on four pitches. The Red Sox coach trotted back onto the field, this time to settle down his pitcher.
“He’s gonna pull him,” Jose said. But we were both surprised to see him pat Zach on the back and jog to the bench.
Whatever he said must have worked. Zach got the next batter to hit a ground ball, moving Tommy to second base.
Two outs, one man on base. If we could just get a base hit, Tommy would probably score.
Shawn Baxter, our power-hitting catcher, batted next, and I pulled my bat from the rack. Butterflies were about ready to take my stomach airborne. Shawn struck out a lot, but when he did connect, he was sure to get a base hit. If he did it now, we were going to win. The game seemed to rest on Shawn’s shoulders.
Zach looked at his coach who waved to first base: intentional walk. I swallowed hard and held my bat in the dugout as Shawn trotted to first base.
A moment later there was a roar from the bleachers. Tommy Broadway had taken a lead and stolen third base while Zach watched the next batter, Brad Riley, walk to the plate. The intentional walk meant nothing now. Tommy was just a base away from scoring.
While I moved into the on-deck circle, Zach again looked to his coach. The coach again pointed to first base. Another intentional walk! The Red Sox were setting up for an out at every base. The championship would be decided with my bat. With the winning run at third, I was all that stood between Zach and an extra-inning ball game.
Coach Ramsey called time out.
“You up for this?” he asked, his eyes fixed on Zach. Coach Ramsey put both hands on my shoulders and stared squarely into my eyes. “You haven’t hit Zach well all season. I can use a pinch hitter if you don’t think you can handle it.”
I breathed deeply to calm my stomach and glanced at Dad, who smiled and gave the thumbs-up sign.
“No way, Coach,” I said. “I’m ready.”
Coach Ramsey slapped me on top of the helmet. “Go get ’em,” he said and trotted back to the coach’s box.
Mark leaned against the fence as everyone in the ballpark stood. I walked slowly to home plate, avoiding eye contact with Zach. Eye on the ball, I thought. Step into it. Swing smooth and level.
“You better have your best stuff,” Jose shouted at Zach through cupped hands. “My buddy’s not backin’ down!”
Zach couldn’t afford to get down in the count against me. A base on balls and the game would be over. Zach had to come after me, and I expected the first pitch to be a fastball down the middle.
Zach glanced at third base, went into a short windup, and fired his pitch. Hard and slightly inside, I knew it was a strike, but I didn’t swing. Stepping back from the plate, I glanced at Coach Ramsey, then at Mark. They both clapped their encouragement.
The next pitch was just like the first, hard and in the strike zone. I swung this time, but a split second too late. I barely made contact and sent a soft ground ball into foul territory in front of the Red Sox dugout.
“Time out!” Coach Ramsey said. He walked toward the plate from the third-base coach’s box, motioning me to come up the line. He called Mark to come out from the bench.
“You can’t be serious,” Mark said as Coach Ramsey grinned and gave me a couple of instructions. I nodded, staring intently at the ground, barely moving my head.
“Let’s play ball!” the umpire shouted. Coach trotted back to third base, and he whispered some-thing to Tommy.
The entire crowd rose to its feet, and both sets of bleachers rocked as the fans cheered with excitement. But I focused on the mound. Once again, I expected a blistering fastball. Zach set up for what might be his last pitch of the season. He wasn’t going to come at me with anything but his best.
Zach stared in at his catcher and nodded, glanced at third base, then went into a full windup. I twisted my right foot in the dirt to get a toehold.
When Zach released the ball, I shifted my front foot and faced him, dropping my bat into the bunt position. Zach’s eyes widened as he followed through on the pitch. As the ball contacted the bat, I flipped my wrists forward to push the ball toward first base. The Red Sox first baseman sprinted toward the plate as I charged down the first-base line.
Even before the pitch had hit my bat, Tommy started toward home from third base. A two-strike squeeze play! It was all or nothing, a championship, or we were going to extra innings.
I crossed first base safely and turned to look home. The catcher and Tommy were in a heap, the umpire crouching behind them peering at the play through the dust surrounding the plate. Suddenly, the umpire rose and threw his arms to his sides.
“Safe! Safe!”
The rest of the team stormed off the bench as I raced back from first base. While we mobbed Tommy, the Red Sox catcher dropped the ball and glumly walked off the field, leaving Zach sitting in the grass.
As I reached home plate, Danielle stood beside the pile of teammates, watching and shaking her head in amazement. I reached around her shoulder and pulled her cap down over her eyes.
“Great job,” I said.
“You weren’t so bad yourself … Chad.” Danielle straightened her cap, and we both jumped atop the pile.
The entire crowd came together and cheered both teams for a great season. The Red Sox fans politely applauded as we received our trophies.
I turned to Dad and beamed. “Maybe I will have a ball to put in that trophy case someday.”
Mark picked the game ball off the grass and tossed it. Dad plucked it out of the air.
“I think we already have one, sport,” he said. “I think we already have one.”
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For Karen, Kristianna, Klayton, and Kolton
Copyright © 2012 by Kris Rutherford
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This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rutherford, Kris.
Batting ninth / Kris Rutherford.
p. cm. — (A Champion sports story)
Summary: Formerly the worst hitter on the team, Chad Griffin’s hitting definitely improves when a major-league all-star coaches his team, but then the sixth-grader discovers something very disturbing about the coach.
ISBN 978-0-7660-3886-8
[1. Baseball—Fiction. 2. Baseball players—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.R93445Bat 2012
[Fic]—dc22
2011006193
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A Champion Sports Story
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Paperback ISBN 978-1-4644-0003-2