Matt settled in on the right side of the plate. Charlie began feeding balls into the machine. The balls came across the plate in roughly the same spot every time, right across the heart. Matt was taking healthy cuts, hitting at least three out of five pitches, most of them to the outfield. He was beginning to feel warmed up.
“Okay, that's enough,” Charlie said. “Now comes the fun part.”
Matt had no idea what Charlie meant. He stood back from the plate as the manager bent over the side of the machine and adjusted it. Suddenly the ball was coming across the plate, but high and inside, just the kind of pitches that scared the daylights out of Matt.
“Go ahead, get in your stance,” Charlie said. Matt complied, lining up slightly farther away from the plate than he had before.
“Get closer,” Charlie said. “You can't hit from the warm-up circle.”
Matt felt a twitch of anger. Charlie was now making jokes at his expense. The manager, who didn't even play the game. Nice.
“Okay, Matt,” Charlie continued. “I just want you to stand there for about twenty pitches. Don't move back at all, unless you think the ball is going to hit you.”
Matt nodded. He stood inside the batter's box as Charlie began dropping balls into the top of the machine. They were whizzing within six inches of his batting helmet. Initially he flinched and moved backward. But over the last ten pitches, Matt stood his ground.
“I'm going to turn up the speed now,” Charlie said. The balls began whirring faster past his batting helmet. It was more difficult to stay in there and Matt felt himself instinctively sliding backward a couple of times. But for the most part, he stayed in the box.
“Good stuff,” Charlie said, looking impressed. “Now comes the tough part. This machine has an alternate switch on it. I'm going to set it up for a strike, a ball inside high and a ball inside low. Then I'm going to mix them up. I want you to hit the good pitches and leave the bad ones, okay? But don't jump out of the box unless you think it's going to hit you.”
Matt stepped back in the batter's box. The first pitch was clearly a ball, low and inside. He left it alone. The second was a strike and he took a cut at it, hitting it foul. The third pitch was high and inside and he couldn't help himself. He jumped back from the plate.
“Come on, Matt,” Charlie exclaimed. “It's only going fifty and it's a soft ball. It's not going to hurt you even if it does hit you.”
Matt was burning inside again. What did Charlie know about anything? When had he ever played ball? Matt focused again and stepped back into the box. He would show Charlie.
Matt gradually began making the right decision on almost every pitch. Charlie put up his hand. “Last drill for today,” he said authoritatively. “I'm turning up the speed to seventy.”
Matt realized it would get tougher, but he jumped back in the box. After struggling through the first few pitches adjusting to the higher speed, he began to relax and find the groove again. Soon he was standing in there and not swinging at the faster, inside pitches. And he was smacking the ball into the outfield on the strikes.
“That's enough for today,” Charlie barked. “Good job, Hill.”
Matt glanced at the clock on the outside of the school. It was already noon. He had been taking batting practice for two hours. He was sweating heavily from all the swings.
“We'll do this again next week, okay?” Charlie said. “We'll have you hitting like A-Rod in no time.”
Matt groaned inside. Charlie was doing his best Coach Stephens impersonation. It made him feel a little funny taking orders from a manager. But at the same time, Matt had to admit that Charlie seemed to know a thing or two about batting. A couple of tips he had given Matt about his swing had been bang-on. And it was nice of the manager to give up his Saturday morning to help him out. After all, it wasn't Charlie who was afraid of the ball.
“Thanks, Chucky,” Matt said, using the nickname many of the players substituted for the manager's real name.
“Can you just call me Charlie, or even Charles?” he replied. “I hate Chucky. It makes me think of that puppet from those horror flicks.”
Matt and Charlie shared a laugh. Then they wheeled the pitching machine back into the locker room and stored the practice balls away.
“Thanks, man,” Matt said, giving Charlie a high five.
Matt noticed a satisfied look in the manager's eyes.
“No problem,” Charlie said. “It's all about helping the team, right?”
Matt and his mom were just sitting down to Sunday dinner of baked ham, roast potatoes and corn on the cob when the phone rang. “Let the machine get it,” Mom said. Too late, Matt had already picked up.
“Mattster.” The bubbly voice was unmistakably Jake. “What's up?”
Matt explained that he was just about to eat dinner. “I'll call you back, okay?” he said. He returned to the table a little happier than when he had picked up the phone. Since that weird night at Long Lake, he hadn't felt quite as close to Jake. It was good to hear from him, whatever he wanted to talk about.
“It was just Jake,” Matt said. “I'll call him back.”
It was just the two of them for dinner tonight. Mark had visited the previous weekend and he was coming home only once a month or so now. But that was all right with Matt. He enjoyed the occasional quiet dinner with his mom. The weeks were so hectic with school, sports and Mom's job as a real estate agent that it was nice to be able to catch up.
Unlike some kids, Matt kind of enjoyed spending time with his mother. Sure, she could be pretty hokey at times, but they had plenty of laughs together and he always knew she wanted what was best for him. That never failed to come across, no matter how mad she got at him for not cleaning up his room, doing the dishes or for stalling on his homework.
“I see from your school newsletter that you have a dance coming up,” she said. “Are you planning to go?”
“I don't know. I guess. But I can't figure out if we're supposed to take someone. You know, like a date?” Just the word “date” seemed forced and a bit silly to Matt.
“I don't think you have to, Matt,” Mom said, her lips slipping into a half grin. “Is there somebody you were thinking of taking?”
“Naw, not really,” Matt said before quickly changing the subject. “We've got a game tomorrow. Are you coming?”
“I'll try to make it but I've got a house to show in the afternoon. What time does it start?”
“Right at 4:30,” he said. “We're playing Manning. I don't think they're very good.”
Matt went on to offer his analysis of the entire South Side baseball team to his mother, player by player. She listened intently. Matt knew it wasn't because she was a huge baseball fanâin fact, she barely knew the rulesâ but she was interested in whatever he was doing.
They were just finishing dessert, an apple pie that Mom had baked the previous fall and frozen, when the phone rang again. Matt jumped up to grab it. It was practically a reflex action.
“Sorry, man.” It was Jake again. “Can you talk?”
Matt took the portable phone upstairs to his room. He closed his door, stretched out on his bed and looked out the window as dusk was settling in on Anderson Crescent. “What's up, Jake?”
“I've got an idea,” Jake said hesitantly. “It's about the dance.”
Matt waited for Jake to continue.
“I kind of want to ask Marcia,” he said.
“You mean Marcia Evans? You want to take her to the dance?”
“I don't know about
taking
her,” Jake said. “Maybe just meeting her there and hanging out. You know, more casual. Not like it's an official date or anything.”
Matt chuckled to himself. Not like a date? This was exactly like a date. Jake just didn't want to use the word. But Matt couldn't really blame him. This was brand-new territory for both of them.
“So, I was wondering,” Jake continued. “Marcia is like best friends with Andrea, you know. And you and Andrea get along pretty good⦔
Matt could tell where Jake was going with this one. “Why do you say that?” he asked defensively.
“It's pretty obvious, dude. I mean, I heard she asked you to watch the softball game the other day.”
Matt blushed. He was glad nobody could see him.
“She's all right,” Matt said. “I mean, she's pretty cool. We could hang out. If she wants to, that is.”
“Awesome,” Jake said. “Let me talk to Marcia and I'll set it up. Okay?”
“All right,” Matt replied. “Later.”
As Matt hung up, he felt a strange mix of nerves and excitement.
The next morning, only Phil was waiting under the oak tree on Anderson Crescent. He and Matt hung around for a couple of minutes to see if Jake would show up. He didn't. “We'd better go or we'll be late,” Phil said, eyeing his watch.
They walked the rest of the way to school together. By the time they arrived at South Side, the bell was about to ring. Matt strolled down the hallway to his locker, which was just outside Room 107, where they took morning advisory.
He was pulling out his books for the first few classes of the day when he heard a voice behind him. “Hi, Matt.” He turned around to see Andrea standing there. She smiled.
“Jake said you guys are going to the dance on Friday,” Andrea said matter-of-factly. “So, are we all going to hang out there?”
“I guess so,” Matt stammered, feeling his throat tighten and his voice rise slightly. “I mean, yeah, if that's good with you.”
“Okay,” Andrea replied. She turned around and headed into class without another word. That was weird, Matt thought.
As he entered class, he noticed Andrea talking to two or three other girls, including Marcia Evans. They were smiling and whispering. They all looked at him while he hurriedly found his desk.
The second bell rang and Miss Dawson began her advisory session. Every morning she would use the twenty-minute period to answer questions students had about middle school. But she always began the session with a two- or three-minute talk that carried a theme. Today's theme was “Making Responsible Choices.” Matt barely heard a word she said. All he kept thinking was that he had just agreed to a date. He was going to his first school dance and he was taking a girl. Well, maybe not taking her, but meeting her there and hanging out together. What would Phil and Amar say? What about the guys on the team? What would he wear? It might have been the first time in his life that he had thought much at all about what he was going to wear.
As Matt headed into the dugout, he looked up into the stands behind the third-base line. There was his mom, sitting beside Mrs. Piancato and Phil's grandmother. She had made it to the game after all.
Once on the bench, he waited for Coach Stephens to put the lineup card on the fence. Coach never told anybody except the pitcher and catcher who was playing where until the lineup card went up. That way, everybody warmed up as if he was starting. With his mom in the stands, Matt said a silent prayer, wishing his name would be on that list. But when Coach Stephens hung the lineup card, Kevin Archibald's name was written in at second base. Matt would be starting the game on the bench.
“Here you go.” Charlie handed Matt the clipboard with the game sheet. He was going to be keeping stats again. Once again, Matt bristled. He wasn't in a South Side uniform just so he could be a manager.
The Manning Minutemen did not have a good team this year and were no match for the Stingers. That much was obvious from the first at-bat, when South Side third baseman Howard Berger ripped a pitch into right field and it rolled all the way to the fence. By the time the Manning fielder had reached the ball, Berger was already on third.
Next up was Phil, who walked on just four pitches. That brought Jake to the plate. With two balls and no strikes, Jake hammered the next pitch to deep center field. Howard and Phil scored easily, and Jake was standing up at second with a huge grin on his face. The rout was on.
By the time the top of the fifth came, the Stingers had a 10-0 lead and it was no longer a competitive game. Matt had immersed himself in the detailed process of keeping stats. “Hill, you're going in at second for Archibald,” Coach said. Matt handed the clipboard to Kevin, grabbed his glove and ran out to second.
Although he tried to be casual about it, Matt stole a glance into the stands and waited for his mom to realize that he was finally in the game. A smile broke out over her face and she waved at him. “Let's go, Mats!” she yelled.
Matt lowered his head. It was the nickname his mom liked to use whenever she was excited but it was kind of embarrassing. He had become “Mats” while he was in kindergarten. He had begun signing his name that way because he was a huge fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs' captain Mats Sundin. The name had stuck.
Manning was such a weak team that Matt didn't get a single ball hit to him at second base. In fact, nobody was touching anything being thrown by Andrew McTavish, who was likely the second best pitcher on the South Side team behind Steve White.
Meanwhile, the Stingers continued to roll on the offensive side of the game. Matt got his first at-bat in the bottom of the fifth, taking four straight balls as Manning's starting pitcher faded fast. He managed to score too, when McTavish drove him home with a sharp single to right.
In the bottom of the sixth, Manning's coach called a time-out. He walked to the mound to talk to his pitcher. The two spoke briefly before the lanky pitcher lowered his head, put the ball in the coach's hand and walked slowly into the dugout.
Seconds later, a towering replacement trotted out toward the mound. Matt recognized this kid. It was Kenny Forshaw. Forshaw stood at least six-foot-five and had been a terrific post player for Manning's basketball team. But he had never seen Forshaw play baseball, let alone pitch.