better.
He walked past the Y and turned up Ninth Street past St. Joseph’s Church toward the high-school athletic fields, then back along Central Avenue, just wandering.
He had time to kill. He was in no hurry, just enjoying some freedom and his own company. There’d be plenty of noise and joking around at the pizza place. This quiet walk was another time to savor, like lying in bed at night with the radio.
For the next little while, Donald had no particular destination. But one thing he knew for certain: He was headed in the right direction.
1
Eddie Ventura scanned the infield, then dug his toe into the dirt near first base. His right hand was sweating inside his glove despite the cool afternoon breeze.
Everyone in the dugout and the bleachers was standing, waiting for Ramiro Velez to deliver the crucial pitch.
Eddie took a deep breath and went into a crouch, ready to dart toward any ball that was hit or thrown his way. The Hudson City Hornets had to get this next hitter out.
“Let’s go, Ramiro!” Eddie called. “No batter!”
Ramiro turned his head slightly toward Eddie, and a faint smile crossed his lips. Eddie hardly ever said anything.
Hoboken had runners at second and third with two outs in the top of the final inning. Hudson City would get one more at-bat, but the Hornets were already two runs behind.
Ramiro leaned back, kicked up his leg, and hurled the ball toward the plate. The batter swung hard, but the ball smacked into catcher Jared Owen’s mitt for strike three.
Ramiro shook his fist.
“Yes!” said Eddie as they raced off the field.
“Big rally now,” Spencer Lewis said to Eddie as they grabbed their bats from the rack. “We need some base runners.”
Spencer was the team’s best hitter and biggest talker, but the Hornets needed to get at least two men on base or Spencer wouldn’t even bat.
And things didn’t look good as Willie Shaw popped the first pitch lazily toward second base. Eddie groaned with the rest of the Hornets as the fielder easily caught the ball.
Lamont Wilkins struck out, and just like that the Hornets were down to their last out.
Jared stepped up to the plate. Eddie shut his eyes quickly, then moved to the on-deck circle.
Relax, Eddie told himself. Time to do something big here.
Eddie was a fair hitter—a lefty—but no way was he one of the stars. He’d had three singles in the first six games and had drawn a couple of walks. But he’d never been one to really come through in the clutch the way Spencer or Jared always seemed to.
The Hornets had lost their first four games this season, but they were presently riding a modest two-game winning streak. A third straight victory today would be an enormous boost, but a loss would put them back in a deep hole.
Eddie’s tall, thin build didn’t provide much power, except in his imagination. On deck for the Hudson City Hornets—EDDIEEE Ven-TUR-a, he thought, sounding to himself like one of the broadcasters for the New York Yankees. If Jared can get on base here, the hard-hitting Ventura will surely make something happen.
A burst of cheers broke Eddie from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Jared sprinting toward first base. Eddie gripped the bat tighter.
Jared rounded first and kept on going, sliding safely into second with a double.
Spencer stepped out of the dugout and gave Eddie a firm punch on the shoulder. “Grind time, Mr. Ventura,” Spencer said. “It’s up to you now, boss.”
Eddie swallowed hard. He walked to the plate and took a practice swing. He heard that imaginary radio voice again: Ventura could homer and tie this game with one swing of the bat. But then again, he’d never hit a home run in his life.
The pitcher took the throw from the second baseman and turned to face Eddie. He squinted and glared. Eddie glared back, trying to look tougher than he felt.
This guy had struck Eddie out twice today. He had a wicked fastball and a decent curve. But he had to be tiring by now.
Jared
He walked past the Y and turned up Ninth Street past St. Joseph’s Church toward the high-school athletic fields, then back along Central Avenue, just wandering.
He had time to kill. He was in no hurry, just enjoying some freedom and his own company. There’d be plenty of noise and joking around at the pizza place. This quiet walk was another time to savor, like lying in bed at night with the radio.
For the next little while, Donald had no particular destination. But one thing he knew for certain: He was headed in the right direction.
1
Eddie Ventura scanned the infield, then dug his toe into the dirt near first base. His right hand was sweating inside his glove despite the cool afternoon breeze.
Everyone in the dugout and the bleachers was standing, waiting for Ramiro Velez to deliver the crucial pitch.
Eddie took a deep breath and went into a crouch, ready to dart toward any ball that was hit or thrown his way. The Hudson City Hornets had to get this next hitter out.
“Let’s go, Ramiro!” Eddie called. “No batter!”
Ramiro turned his head slightly toward Eddie, and a faint smile crossed his lips. Eddie hardly ever said anything.
Hoboken had runners at second and third with two outs in the top of the final inning. Hudson City would get one more at-bat, but the Hornets were already two runs behind.
Ramiro leaned back, kicked up his leg, and hurled the ball toward the plate. The batter swung hard, but the ball smacked into catcher Jared Owen’s mitt for strike three.
Ramiro shook his fist.
“Yes!” said Eddie as they raced off the field.
“Big rally now,” Spencer Lewis said to Eddie as they grabbed their bats from the rack. “We need some base runners.”
Spencer was the team’s best hitter and biggest talker, but the Hornets needed to get at least two men on base or Spencer wouldn’t even bat.
And things didn’t look good as Willie Shaw popped the first pitch lazily toward second base. Eddie groaned with the rest of the Hornets as the fielder easily caught the ball.
Lamont Wilkins struck out, and just like that the Hornets were down to their last out.
Jared stepped up to the plate. Eddie shut his eyes quickly, then moved to the on-deck circle.
Relax, Eddie told himself. Time to do something big here.
Eddie was a fair hitter—a lefty—but no way was he one of the stars. He’d had three singles in the first six games and had drawn a couple of walks. But he’d never been one to really come through in the clutch the way Spencer or Jared always seemed to.
The Hornets had lost their first four games this season, but they were presently riding a modest two-game winning streak. A third straight victory today would be an enormous boost, but a loss would put them back in a deep hole.
Eddie’s tall, thin build didn’t provide much power, except in his imagination. On deck for the Hudson City Hornets—EDDIEEE Ven-TUR-a, he thought, sounding to himself like one of the broadcasters for the New York Yankees. If Jared can get on base here, the hard-hitting Ventura will surely make something happen.
A burst of cheers broke Eddie from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Jared sprinting toward first base. Eddie gripped the bat tighter.
Jared rounded first and kept on going, sliding safely into second with a double.
Spencer stepped out of the dugout and gave Eddie a firm punch on the shoulder. “Grind time, Mr. Ventura,” Spencer said. “It’s up to you now, boss.”
Eddie swallowed hard. He walked to the plate and took a practice swing. He heard that imaginary radio voice again: Ventura could homer and tie this game with one swing of the bat. But then again, he’d never hit a home run in his life.
The pitcher took the throw from the second baseman and turned to face Eddie. He squinted and glared. Eddie glared back, trying to look tougher than he felt.
This guy had struck Eddie out twice today. He had a wicked fastball and a decent curve. But he had to be tiring by now.
Jared
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