ball bag and began rolling balls in front of the plate. Maybe ten or twelve of them. When he was done, he lined them neatly up in the dirt, at the edge of the batter’s box closest to the pitcher’s mound.
Then he grabbed his glove out of the bag and jogged out to second base.
“Drill’s simple enough,” he said to Nick. “Start on either side. Pick up the ball on the end and throw the sucker. Then the next one. And the next. There’s only one rule: no hesitation between throws. Imagine it’s like that three-point shooting contest they have at the NBA All-Star game and I’ve got the clock on. You’ve got just long enough to pick out your target—that would be me—and let those babies fly.”
“One question,” Nick said.
“Shoot.”
“Can I wear my mask?”
“Knock yourself out. Then start trying to knock
me
over with that arm of yours.”
Nick fixed his mask in place as if this were a real game and he was getting ready for the next batter and the next pitch. The mask really was a beauty, what Paul and Brenda had called his Opening Day present, even though they actually gave it to him as a surprise a few days before JV practice had started.
“So technically it’s Opening Day because you’re
opening
it now,” Brenda Crandall had said, and Nick could see how pleased she was that she’d made a little joke, then even more pleased at how excited Nick had been, in a Christmas way, when he’d opened the box sitting there that morning on the table in the kitchen.
It was exactly the one he’d wanted, the one he’d been checking out on the Internet, the Rawlings Coolflo hockey-style catcher’s mask, the Pro 2.
Today, more than ever, Nick needed it to be his superhero mask.
He needed to get his powers back, at least to show this coach, the one who kept saying he believed in him so much, that he did have some game after all.
Right now he didn’t care about Gary Watson and the other guys.
Just this coach.
“Go!” Coach Williams yelled.
Nick picked up the first ball in the line and promptly sailed it over coach’s head.
But before he could hang his head for long, just at the idea that this one-on-one practice was starting out exactly the way real practice had ended,he heard Coach Williams say, “You’re on the clock, dude. Throw the keys.”
Nick picked up the next ball and let it rip. It wasn’t perfect, but it had some steam on it, and Coach Williams managed to grab it without taking his foot off the bag. Even made a sweep tag on an imaginary runner for show.
On the third ball, Nick fired a strike.
Then another one.
And another.
By the last couple of balls, he wasn’t even looking where he threw. He could picture Coach standing there, feet straddling the bag.
Better yet, he felt like he knew exactly where the ball was going.
He was sweating when they finished, and out of breath. The good kind of tired you could get in sport. But the only rest he got was when Coach Williams jogged back in from second to put the balls back in the line in the dirt in front of the plate.
“Again,” he said.
When he had gotten halfway through the second group and was five-for-five throwing strikesdown to second, Coach Williams told him he could stop. Nick’s arm was tired—not that he was going to admit that in about ten thousand years—but he didn’t care. When he tipped the mask back off his face, he couldn’t help it. He was smiling.
On the varsity field.
Coach Williams tossed his own glove away as he passed the pitcher’s mound, smiling himself. “If you can do it with me here today, you can do it with your teammates tomorrow.”
“Can I tell you something, Coach?”
“You can tell me anything, son. That’s going to be our deal.”
“They don’t feel much like my teammates.”
“They will,” Coach Williams said.
“How do you know?”
“Because they’re gonna start seeing what I see in you.”
“What’s that?”
“A guy born to be a catcher,” Coach said. “It’s in
Then he grabbed his glove out of the bag and jogged out to second base.
“Drill’s simple enough,” he said to Nick. “Start on either side. Pick up the ball on the end and throw the sucker. Then the next one. And the next. There’s only one rule: no hesitation between throws. Imagine it’s like that three-point shooting contest they have at the NBA All-Star game and I’ve got the clock on. You’ve got just long enough to pick out your target—that would be me—and let those babies fly.”
“One question,” Nick said.
“Shoot.”
“Can I wear my mask?”
“Knock yourself out. Then start trying to knock
me
over with that arm of yours.”
Nick fixed his mask in place as if this were a real game and he was getting ready for the next batter and the next pitch. The mask really was a beauty, what Paul and Brenda had called his Opening Day present, even though they actually gave it to him as a surprise a few days before JV practice had started.
“So technically it’s Opening Day because you’re
opening
it now,” Brenda Crandall had said, and Nick could see how pleased she was that she’d made a little joke, then even more pleased at how excited Nick had been, in a Christmas way, when he’d opened the box sitting there that morning on the table in the kitchen.
It was exactly the one he’d wanted, the one he’d been checking out on the Internet, the Rawlings Coolflo hockey-style catcher’s mask, the Pro 2.
Today, more than ever, Nick needed it to be his superhero mask.
He needed to get his powers back, at least to show this coach, the one who kept saying he believed in him so much, that he did have some game after all.
Right now he didn’t care about Gary Watson and the other guys.
Just this coach.
“Go!” Coach Williams yelled.
Nick picked up the first ball in the line and promptly sailed it over coach’s head.
But before he could hang his head for long, just at the idea that this one-on-one practice was starting out exactly the way real practice had ended,he heard Coach Williams say, “You’re on the clock, dude. Throw the keys.”
Nick picked up the next ball and let it rip. It wasn’t perfect, but it had some steam on it, and Coach Williams managed to grab it without taking his foot off the bag. Even made a sweep tag on an imaginary runner for show.
On the third ball, Nick fired a strike.
Then another one.
And another.
By the last couple of balls, he wasn’t even looking where he threw. He could picture Coach standing there, feet straddling the bag.
Better yet, he felt like he knew exactly where the ball was going.
He was sweating when they finished, and out of breath. The good kind of tired you could get in sport. But the only rest he got was when Coach Williams jogged back in from second to put the balls back in the line in the dirt in front of the plate.
“Again,” he said.
When he had gotten halfway through the second group and was five-for-five throwing strikesdown to second, Coach Williams told him he could stop. Nick’s arm was tired—not that he was going to admit that in about ten thousand years—but he didn’t care. When he tipped the mask back off his face, he couldn’t help it. He was smiling.
On the varsity field.
Coach Williams tossed his own glove away as he passed the pitcher’s mound, smiling himself. “If you can do it with me here today, you can do it with your teammates tomorrow.”
“Can I tell you something, Coach?”
“You can tell me anything, son. That’s going to be our deal.”
“They don’t feel much like my teammates.”
“They will,” Coach Williams said.
“How do you know?”
“Because they’re gonna start seeing what I see in you.”
“What’s that?”
“A guy born to be a catcher,” Coach said. “It’s in
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