Dugout Rivals (6 page)

H
ow’d you like that burger?” Jake’s father asked.

“Great!” Jake said as he pushed away from the table.

“Do you have much homework?” his dad asked.

Jake shook his head. “Not really. Hey, did you ever figure out the season stats?”

“Yes.” Mr. Daley paused and eyed his son. “But Coach Sanders doesn’t like to show the stats to the players, remember?”

“Come on, Dad. The season’s over. All we have left is the championship game against the Dodgers.”

“Only?”

“You know what I mean. And anyway, you told Adam
his
stats the other night.”

Mr. Daley stood up. “Tell you what. I’ll print the stats off my computer. You clear the table and clean up the kitchen.”

A few minutes later, Jake and his father sat on the sofa in the living room and studied the neat columns of numbers on the page.

“Wow, look at Adam,” Jake said, pointing. “He hit .571 with five home runs….” He shook his head. “I thought I was going to be the big star on the Red Sox this year. I wasn’t even close.”

“You did pretty well too,” Mr. Daley said. “You hit .383 and scored seventeen runs. And look at the numbers for Isaiah, Evan, Hannah, Chris, and Michael. Everybody helped.”

“How about Ryan?” Jake asked.

Mr. Daley smiled. “Well, he’s good in the clubhouse.”

Jake studied the statistics in silence. “Yeah, everyone did well,” he said finally. “But if we didn’t have Adam, we’d be sunk.”

“And if Adam didn’t have you guys,
he’d
be sunk,” Mr. Daley said, tapping the sheet. “Baseball is a team game. Nobody wins games by himself.”

“Adam does.”

Mr. Daley pointed to the family room. “Get me
The Baseball Encyclopedia,
” he said.

Jake got the big, heavy book and handed it, with two hands, to his father.

“Name a great baseball player,” Mr. Daley said.

“Babe Ruth.”

“Okay, Babe Ruth … Babe Ruth …” Jake’s dad flipped through the pages. “Babe Ruth in 1927 played for the New York Yankees who won 110 games and lost only 44.” He skimmed his finger across the page. “The Babe hit .356 with 60 home runs and 164 runs batted in.”

“Wow!” Jake said, leaning over his father’s shoulder. “He was a one-man team.”

“Hardly. Look at his teammate Lou Gehrig’s stats for the same year.”

Jake stared at the numbers. “He hit .373 with 47 homers and 175 runs batted in.”

“And the Yankees also had a second baseman named Tony Lazzeri who hit over .300 and drove in 102 runs,” Mr. Daley said. “It’s the same in any team sport. Name a great basketball player.”

“Michael Jordan.”

“Jordan never won an NBA title without Scottie Pippen,” Mr. Daley said. He patted
the book. “Okay, let’s get back to baseball. Name another famous baseball player.”

“Derek Jeter,” Jake said, getting into the game.

“You’re only naming Yankees?” Mr. Daley teased. “Okay, the Yankees won 116 games in 1998, but they were loaded.”

“Who’d they have?”

“They had Bernie Williams and Jorge Posada. Jeter won some of those 116 games, but he didn’t win them all by himself.”

Just then the doorbell rang. Mr. Daley looked at his watch. “Who could that be?” he asked.

“Hey, Bernie Williams hit .339 with 26 homers that year,” Jake said, still looking at
The Baseball Encyclopedia.

Mr. Daley got up and opened the door. It was Adam’s mom. “I hope I’m not disturbing your dinner. But I really had to talk to you and your wife.”

“Of course,” Mr. Daley said. “Please come in. But I’m sorry, my wife isn’t here right now. She’s at a Girl Scout meeting with Ivy.”

Mrs. Hull walked in, brushing her hair
away from her face. She looked as if she’d just run a race.

“Well, maybe I can talk to you, then,” Mrs. Hull said, sitting down on the couch.

“Jake, don’t you have some homework?” Mr. Daley hinted to his son.

“That’s all right,” Mrs. Hull said, holding up a hand. “What I want to talk about involves Adam and Jake.”

Jake rested the baseball book on his lap. Mrs. Hull leaned forward to the edge of the couch. “I might be moving to Los Angeles,” she announced.

Mr. Daley looked surprised. “Really?” he asked. “When?”

“Soon. I have a final interview with a company the day after tomorrow,” she said. “If I get the job, I would start right away. So while I’m out there, I’m planning to look for a place to live.”

“What about your boys?” Mr. Daley asked.

“If I get the job, they’ll move to Los Angeles with me,” she said.

“What about the championship game? It’s Saturday.” Jake blurted out.

Mrs. Hull smiled uncomfortably. “Adam doesn’t want to miss the game either. His father is away on business.” She took a deep breath and turned to Mr. Daley. “Your whole family has been so good to Adam, having him over so much—”

“Adam’s an easy kid,” Mr. Daley interrupted. Jake didn’t say anything.

“Well, thanks.” Mrs. Hull smiled. “But I’d like to ask one more favor.”

“Sure,” Mr. Daley said.

“I’m wondering if Adam could stay here with you for a week or so? That way I could get this job thing settled and Adam wouldn’t have to miss the big game.”

“What about Chad?”

“He’s staying with the Slaters.”

Jake looked back and forth between his father and Mrs. Hull. He didn’t know what to think. He wanted Adam to play in the big game. And he wanted to help Adam. After all, it couldn’t be easy to have your mom and dad get divorced, move to a new town, and then have to move again to another place far away. But part of him wanted to
show everyone that the Red Sox could win the championship without Adam.

Jake was tired of everyone making such a big deal out of Adam. It was as if he had taken over the team.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Mrs. Hull continued. “But could you take him just one more time?” She glanced at Jake. “It would really help Adam a lot.”

Y
ou’ll be staying with me in my room,” Jake told Adam. He opened the bedroom door. “You can throw your stuff in here.”

Adam tossed his suitcase on one of the beds. “Hey, I’ll be like your big brother for a week,” he said. He looked around at the framed sports posters on the walls.

“Wait a minute,” Jake protested. “I’m older than you.”

Adam grinned. “I said bigger, not older.”

“You’re not
that
much bigger,” Jake said.

“Let’s see,” Adam said, grabbing a pencil from the desk. “Stand up against the doorframe.” Jake stood against the edge. Adam
leveled the pencil along the top of his head and made a small mark on the wood.

“Now me,” Adam said. The boys switched places. Sure enough, Adam was at least two inches taller than Jake. “See, I’m the big brother,” Adam said as he continued to look around the room. “Hey, you’ve got our schedule up here.” He pointed at the wall next to Jake’s desk. Adam studied the schedule.

“Twelve wins, two losses. That’s pretty good,” he said.

“Good enough to make the championship game,” Jake said.

“Who are we playing again?” Adam asked. He flopped back on the bed, reached down to grab a football from the floor, and began tossing it toward the ceiling.

“The Dodgers.” Jake grabbed the football out of the air. “They’re really good.”

“We’ll beat them anyway,” Adam said. He popped up from the bed. “Let’s play that Outs game in your backyard.”

“I don’t know,” Jake said, remembering how he’d lost the last game. “I don’t feel like—”

“Come on,” Adam said. “Don’t you want to get your championship back?”

“Okay,” Jake said, rising to the challenge. “Grab your glove.”

The boys raced down the stairs. “Where are you two going?” Mr. Daley called from his downstairs office.

“The yard,” Jake called back. “We’re going to throw the ball around.” He and
Adam burst out the back door. The screen door whacked shut.

“I’m up first,” Adam said.

“Okay, I’m home team,” Jake said.

“I have an advantage this time.” Adam held up his glove. “I’ve got my own mitt.” Then he looked at the side of the house and fixed his eyes on Jake’s secret home-run spot. “And I know all your tricks now,” he added with a smile. “You ready?”

Jake walked back to his fielding position. “Okay, you’re up,” he said. He could already sense defeat.

Adam looked at Jake and then at the house again. He pivoted and threw hard at Jake’s secret spot.

Whack!
The ball smacked against the house and rocketed through the air. Adam threw a triumphant fist toward the sky, certain it was a home run.

Jake drifted back until he was just inches from the fence. He looked up and saw the ball falling right toward him. He jumped as high as he could, reaching up … up … up. At the top of his leap, he snagged the ball in the tip of his glove.

Adam’s fist dropped to his side. “What?” he cried out.

Jake proudly tossed the ball back to his friend. Adam caught it and smiled. “That was a pretty good catch,” he said. “Hope you make some as good as that on Saturday.”

C
ome on, guys, time to wake up,” Mr. Daley said as he knocked on the door and walked into Jake’s bedroom. He pulled up the window shade and the Saturday morning sunshine poured in.

“It’s eight o’clock,” Jake’s dad said in a cheery voice. “Game starts at ten. You guys need to eat a good breakfast and get to the field by 9:30 to warm up.”

He slapped Adam on the back. “Especially you, Adam. You’re pitching.”

Jake pushed himself up in his bed. “Is anybody else going to pitch?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It’s the championship game, so Coach Sanders will only bring in
new pitchers if Adam needs help or he runs out of pitches.” Mr. Daley picked some dirty clothes off the floor and dropped them in the hamper. “The rule is that no pitcher can throw more than seventy-five pitches in a game.”

“When did they come up with that rule?” Adam asked.

“It’s been the rule all year,” Mr. Daley explained. “But it didn’t matter because Coach Sanders usually only lets kids pitch three innings anyway. Today is different. It’s the championship game. So let’s get going.”

Jake rolled over in bed after his father left. Adam got up right away and used the bathroom first.

Lying in bed, Jake thought back over the past week. It had actually been kind of fun having Adam around. He loved to play games with him and talk about sports. A few times Jake had tried to talk to Adam about his move to Los Angeles, but Adam hadn’t said that much.

One thing was different now, though.
After being with Adam so much, Jake could see that he was more like a regular kid, not a big sports star.

“Your turn,” Adam said as he walked back into the bedroom and flopped face-first onto his bed. “I’m so tired,” he wailed. “I want to go back to sleep.”

Jake grabbed Adam by his ankles and started pulling him across the bed. “You gotta get up,” he said. “You’re pitching, remember?”

“No, no, let me sleep.” Adam laughed, holding on to the bedpost. “You guys can win without me.”

“Maybe,” Jake said. “But it’ll be a lot easier to win
with
you.”

Later that morning, Jake stood at shortstop, toeing the infield dirt with his cleats. It’s a good thing he’d gotten Adam out of bed. There was no way they could win this game without him.

The Red Sox led the Dodgers 1–0 in the bottom of the fourth inning. Adam had driven in the only run and had pitched a two-hit shutout for almost four innings.

Adam wound up and fired another fastball. The Dodgers batter swung hard but missed. “Strike three!” The inning was over.

The Red Sox ran back to their bench to start the fifth inning.

“Evan, Hannah, Khalil, then Michael,” Mr. Daley called out. “Come on, we need some more runs.”

Jake put his glove on the bench and walked over to his father. “How many pitches has Adam thrown?” he asked.

“Fifty-six,” his father said, without checking his laptop.

Only nineteen pitches left and two innings to go,
Jake thought.

“It’s going to be close,” Mr. Daley said.

The Red Sox didn’t score in the top of the inning. “Come on, 1-2-3 inning,” Jake yelled as he ran back out to shortstop. He really meant it. The Red Sox needed outs … fast.

The leadoff Dodgers batter let the first pitch fly by. Ball one.

“Make him put it over,” the Dodgers third-base coach called, clapping his hands.

Adam tugged at his hat as he stood on
the mound. Then he focused on Evan, who was crouched behind home plate, flashing finger signals.

Adam nodded, and went into his windup. The second pitch cut the heart of the plate. Strike one!

The Dodgers batter topped a slow grounder to shortstop on the next pitch. Jake rushed in, scooped up the ball, and, still leaning forward, made a hard, side-armed throw to first base.

“You’re out!” the umpire at first called.

“All right!” Adam yelled from the mound. “Great play, Jake.”

Jake returned to shortstop smiling. He had saved a hit and a base runner. But maybe even more importantly, his play had saved Adam some pitches.

Adam threw two quick strikes by the second Dodgers hitter. The third pitch just missed the outside corner. One ball, two strikes.

“Come on, Adam!” Jake cheered. “Go right after him.”
Six pitches already,
he thought.
Adam only has thirteen left.

The Dodgers batter sliced the next pitch foul. Then he topped a squibbler toward third base that drifted foul in front of the bag.

“Good at bat,” the third base coach said. “Hang in there.”

The batter popped the next pitch in foul territory, down the left-field line. The third baseman, left fielder, and Jake raced over. Jake called it as he hurried to the ball, but he ran out of room, bumping into the side fence. The ball fell on the other side of the fence just a few feet beyond Jake’s outstretched glove. Jake smacked his glove against the wooden fence.

The batter fouled off two more pitches. Jake pounded his glove. “Come on, Adam. One more strike.”

Adam threw a changeup.

Swinging off balance, the batter lifted a weak pop fly just beyond third base.

“I’ve got it!” Jake called just before the ball settled into his glove for the second out. “Two away,” he said, signaling the outfield after he tossed the ball back to Adam.

Adam threw two pitches wide of the mark to the next Dodgers batter. Two balls, no strikes. He battled back with two fastballs that caught the edge of the plate. Two balls, two strikes.

Adam went into his windup. From shortstop, Jake could see that he was putting something extra on this fastball. The pitch sizzled toward the plate. The Dodgers batter swung and missed.

Strike three!

Jake’s mind filled with calculations as he ran off the field. No runs, no hits, no errors. The Red Sox had gotten their 1-2-3 inning. But Adam had thrown 17 pitches during the fifth inning. Jake made one final calculation as he dropped onto the Red Sox bench for the final inning. Fifty-six plus 17 equaled 73. Adam had thrown 73 pitches. That meant he had only two pitches left.

Even Adam couldn’t win this game all by himself.