Yard Work: A Novel For Young Readers

CHAPTER 6

“Where have you been?”  My best friend Matt asked as I flopped down on the bench beside him.   “We could have used you this morning Carl let two balls go right through his legs at short.  Nearly cost us the game.”

 “I had some things to do this morning,”  I didn’t really want anyone to know that I was a suspected criminal, and judging that no one else had said anything to me I was guessing Amy had not said anything either.  She was okay for a girl.

“What thing, dude this is the tournament?”

“I got in trouble and my dad made me do some work,” not entirely the truth, but not entirely a lie either.

“Whaja do,” Matt pushed?

“Broke something,” Well, it wasn’t the truth, but it was what I was accused of.

“Whaja break,” he asked?

“Look,” I said, “let’s just drop it.”

Coach Thompson who was throwing some batting practice spotted me. “Parker, nice of you to drop by.  We had a game this morning you know?”

“He got in trouble,” Matt blurted out.

Sometimes Matt didn’t know when to just keep it shut, but the answer did seem to appease Coach Thompson.  I guess he wasn’t going to argue with parents.

I took some batting practice, and fielded a few grounders at shortstop. Ricky Carson our top pitcher was warming up. A school bus pulled up, and out stepped the West Boro Tigers.  The first thing we noticed is that they were big, they looked mean, and they had their names on the back of there jerseys.  Something we wanted, but our sponsor Fred and Lina’s family market didn’t have the money to pay for.

“Ain’t no way number 14 is twelve years old,” said Matt.

I looked at number 14, and I had to agree.  I think he had razor burn on his face. 

Number 14 had Hefferman printed across his back, but his teammates were calling him Bull.  I had heard something about him from my cousin who played for another team, said he hit two homers against them, and one of them broke the window of a warehouse that was at least 25 feet beyond the fence. 

We left the field, and gave the Tigers time to warm up before the game.  The umpires arrived and the small bleachers behind the backstop were filling up.  My mom and dad were walking across the field from the parking lot.  Mom gave me a wave as dad unfolded the chairs.  Mom walked a bottle of Gatorade down to me.

“Good luck, honey,” she said as she handed it to me.

“Thanks mom,” I said. 

She still had that worried look. 

A moment later we took the field.  As I took some practice toss from deep in the hole, seeing how far I could throw something started to bug me.  That picture in Izzy Maclaren’s garage, and the other guy that was in the picture.  Who was he?  I just couldn’t get it out of my head.

Bobby our catcher threw the ball down to Matt at second, I tossed it back to Ricky and we were ready to start.  Wow, I think the whole town had come out to see this one.  Sometimes the high school football games didn’t even get crowds like this.

The first few innings went well Ricky Carson was on fire with five strike outs.  I came up in the third with two runners on.  I stood in it was Hefferman that was pitching and from 45 feet away he looked even more mean.  I didn’t even see the first pitch, but I guess there was one because the catcher’s glove popped, and the ump called a strike.

“Okay, Cal now ya seen it, now ya seen it,” called the coaches and a few dads. 

The problem was I hadn’t seen it.

“Come on Cal, Let’s go,” called a voice behind the backstop.

I turned quickly and saw Amy Bearing sitting with her parents about six rows back, her brother Peter played third for us.

I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt more determined than ever to hit the ball. 

Hefferman glared in over his gloves, with a Josh Beckett, Jobba Chamberlin like look on TV.

He threw again, I swung, but probably almost a full two seconds after the ball had popped in the catcher’s glove. 

“Striiiiiiike Twwwwwooooooo,” the umpire called emphatically.

I never understood why they needed to yell like that, and sound like they were about to barf.  I mean anyone watching can pretty much figure out a swing and a miss on a 0-1 count equals strike two.

Anyway, I stepped out took a few practice swings and was back in.

“Come on Cal,” Amy called again.

I now felt more determined than ever.  What was wrong with me?

Hefferman glared, into the wind up, and then the pitch.  It was slower, a curve ball, I guess.  I swung.  The aluminum bat gave a metallic ting.  Hefferman just ducked right back up the middle into center field.  One runner scored, the center fielder bobbled the ball.  Coach Thompson was waving around Eddie.  The throw came in high.  I took off for second and made it easily.  Our team, the parents, and all of the small bleachers were standing up.  

So was Amy. I glanced toward my mom, she was cheering wildly.  I was somehow hoping dad would calm her down. 

“Good hit, Cal! Way to go,” called coach Thompson.

The game stayed pretty much the same.  Hefferman got a hold of one to lead off the fifth which made it a 2-1 game.  But, heading into the top of the seventh we had the lead.  Despite the excitement I continued to think about that picture, and the guy in it.  You know how it is when you have seen someone before and can’t remember where you have seen them, or who they are.  Almost any free moment on the bench I was thinking about it.  I almost missed a grounder trying to make myself remember where that guy was from.

The first batter in the seventh hit a comebacker, and Eddie Thompson who was now pitching threw him out one down.  The next batter hit a pop-up Matt called for it and made the catch.  Two outs.  No one beat the tigers.

The next batter singled though, and then Eddie gave up a walk.  Coach Thompson went out to talk to him. 

As he did I stood at short lost in thought about that picture, and the mystery man. 

“Play ball,” called the ump. 

Eddie was throwing pitches.  I think the count was 2-2 when suddenly it hit me.  I knew where I had seen the man in the picture.  I couldn’t wait to get off the field.

Eddie’s 2-2 pitch was swung on and grounded toward Peter at third he fielded it, and threw across the infield just in time to get the out.

It was over! We had beaten the West Boro Tigers.  Cheers from all around our side of the field erupted.  Are team looked like a bunch of Major Leaguers who had just one the World Series.  We were in one big heap of humanity near the pitcher’s mound.  Matt tackled me from behind as I left the field.

“We did it! Do you believe it!?” He asked me.

“I know,” I said, perhaps not as excited as I should have been.

I picked up my stuff, and ran to my parents.  I really wanted to get going.

Mom gave me a hug, “Great game, honey,” she said

“You did great,” said Dad!

For some reason it’s always akward getting a compliment from your parents with all your friends.

“Thanks,” I said rather sheepishly.

“Way to go Cal,” Amy called as she, Peter, and their parents walked past.

“Thanks,” I tried to say coolly, but my voice kind of cracked.  I don’t know why.

I tried to cover it up, but mom had a real weird smile on her face.  Don’t get me wrong it was great to see her smile after the last week, but I wasn’t exactly sure what she was smiling about.

“So, I think a little ice cream might be appropriate,” said my dad.

“Yeah, that sounds good, and then could we stop by grandpa’s?”  I asked. “I want to see something.”