Read Online Parts & Labor by Mark Gimenez - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Gimenez
Tags: school, aliens, bullies
Ads: Link
life. He counted the days until his son
Cade signed a multimillion-dollar major league contract, probably with the New
York Yankees. "He's another Mickey Mantle," Coach had said a hundred
times.
I
wasn't.
Coach
said I was more Mickey Mouse than Mickey Mantle. Funny, but he never said that
kind of stuff when my dad was the head dad and he was just an assistant dad. My
dad said I was going to be a late bloomer, which was better than being an early
bloomer. He said a lot of guys he grew up with were stars in junior high but
didn't even play in high school. They had bloomed early, then wilted.
"Max," he said, "when you bloom, watch out." Which sounded
good, but I couldn't help but wonder, What if I never bloom?
Cade
was an early bloomer. He was tall and lean, and he actually had muscles. He had
struck out every batter so far, which was good for the team, but it made the game
boring for an outfielder. My mom waved at me from the bleachers behind the
home plate fence. I waved back.
"Max,
quit waving to your mommy and pay attention!" Coach Slimes yelled.
Mom gave him a glare. She said Coach Slimes was a moron. I liked that about her. I also liked
that she didn't act like the other moms and tape my every movement at every
game on a camcorder or call me "Big'un" or yell "You da
man!" whenever I got up to bat or run out onto the field screaming
"My baby! My baby!" every time I took a fastball in the ribs and
collapsed to the dirt and writhed in excruciating pain. Whenever that
happened, my dad always walked over from the dugout and squatted next to me and
said in a real calm voice, "I know it hurts, Max. Just breathe deep and
slow and the pain will ease. Deep and slow. That a boy."
Coach
Slimes just yelled from the dugout: "Man up, Max!"
"You're
up, Max!"
Coach
always put me last in the batting orderâmy batting average was exactly .000
because I had struck out every single at-batâso I didn't bat until the bottom
of the third inning. My dad always said, "Remember, Max, Babe Ruth struck
out one thousand three hundred thirty times in his career. But he also hit
seven hundred fourteen home runs." I always thought he made a good
point. Problem was, while I was chasing the Babe's strikeout record, I had yet
to hit a single home run. Or triple. Or double. Or single. Or to reach base
on a fielding error.
My
bat had never even made contact with the ball!
I
walked up to home plate. I was left-handed, so I dug in with my left foot deep
in the batter's box. I dug in and stayed in. I never bailed out of the box.
I wasn't afraid of the ball; I just couldn't hit the dang ball.
We
were playing the White Sox. Vic was their catcher. He and his crew played
baseball too because their Pony league football games were on Tuesday
afternoons and the baseball games were on Saturday. He had regained some of
his nerve over the past two days, so he taunted me from behind his mask.
"Maybe
you should play softball with the girls, Max. The ball's as big as a
grapefruit, maybe you could hit it."
I
made a throw-up sound and leaned toward him, which made him jump back.
"Fooled
you," I said.
Vic's
eyes flashed dark. "Get ready to duck."
In
rec league, the biggest and strongest boys always pitched because they could
throw the ball the hardest. The White Sox pitcher was really big, and he could
throw a baseball really hard. He threw the ball really hard nowâright at my
head.
I
dove to the ground.
Vic
laughed. I spit dirt from my mouth, picked myself up and dusted myself off,
then proceeded to go down on three called strikes. After that first pitch, I
was too nervous to swing. Greatânow I'm afraid of the ball . I dragged
my bat back to the dugout but glanced over at my family in the bleachers. Mom yelled encouragement.
"You'll
hit a home run next time, Max!"
She
always said that but it never happened. Norbert seemed fascinated by the game
and my big sister, Scarlett was reading her teen vampire romance book, and
Maddy was running back
Cade signed a multimillion-dollar major league contract, probably with the New
York Yankees. "He's another Mickey Mantle," Coach had said a hundred
times.
I
wasn't.
Coach
said I was more Mickey Mouse than Mickey Mantle. Funny, but he never said that
kind of stuff when my dad was the head dad and he was just an assistant dad. My
dad said I was going to be a late bloomer, which was better than being an early
bloomer. He said a lot of guys he grew up with were stars in junior high but
didn't even play in high school. They had bloomed early, then wilted.
"Max," he said, "when you bloom, watch out." Which sounded
good, but I couldn't help but wonder, What if I never bloom?
Cade
was an early bloomer. He was tall and lean, and he actually had muscles. He had
struck out every batter so far, which was good for the team, but it made the game
boring for an outfielder. My mom waved at me from the bleachers behind the
home plate fence. I waved back.
"Max,
quit waving to your mommy and pay attention!" Coach Slimes yelled.
Mom gave him a glare. She said Coach Slimes was a moron. I liked that about her. I also liked
that she didn't act like the other moms and tape my every movement at every
game on a camcorder or call me "Big'un" or yell "You da
man!" whenever I got up to bat or run out onto the field screaming
"My baby! My baby!" every time I took a fastball in the ribs and
collapsed to the dirt and writhed in excruciating pain. Whenever that
happened, my dad always walked over from the dugout and squatted next to me and
said in a real calm voice, "I know it hurts, Max. Just breathe deep and
slow and the pain will ease. Deep and slow. That a boy."
Coach
Slimes just yelled from the dugout: "Man up, Max!"
"You're
up, Max!"
Coach
always put me last in the batting orderâmy batting average was exactly .000
because I had struck out every single at-batâso I didn't bat until the bottom
of the third inning. My dad always said, "Remember, Max, Babe Ruth struck
out one thousand three hundred thirty times in his career. But he also hit
seven hundred fourteen home runs." I always thought he made a good
point. Problem was, while I was chasing the Babe's strikeout record, I had yet
to hit a single home run. Or triple. Or double. Or single. Or to reach base
on a fielding error.
My
bat had never even made contact with the ball!
I
walked up to home plate. I was left-handed, so I dug in with my left foot deep
in the batter's box. I dug in and stayed in. I never bailed out of the box.
I wasn't afraid of the ball; I just couldn't hit the dang ball.
We
were playing the White Sox. Vic was their catcher. He and his crew played
baseball too because their Pony league football games were on Tuesday
afternoons and the baseball games were on Saturday. He had regained some of
his nerve over the past two days, so he taunted me from behind his mask.
"Maybe
you should play softball with the girls, Max. The ball's as big as a
grapefruit, maybe you could hit it."
I
made a throw-up sound and leaned toward him, which made him jump back.
"Fooled
you," I said.
Vic's
eyes flashed dark. "Get ready to duck."
In
rec league, the biggest and strongest boys always pitched because they could
throw the ball the hardest. The White Sox pitcher was really big, and he could
throw a baseball really hard. He threw the ball really hard nowâright at my
head.
I
dove to the ground.
Vic
laughed. I spit dirt from my mouth, picked myself up and dusted myself off,
then proceeded to go down on three called strikes. After that first pitch, I
was too nervous to swing. Greatânow I'm afraid of the ball . I dragged
my bat back to the dugout but glanced over at my family in the bleachers. Mom yelled encouragement.
"You'll
hit a home run next time, Max!"
She
always said that but it never happened. Norbert seemed fascinated by the game
and my big sister, Scarlett was reading her teen vampire romance book, and
Maddy was running back
Similar Books
