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Authors: Kevin Richey
Chapter One
The sun is killing me today.
I pull my cap down over my eyes and try to concentrate on the game. I thumb the baseball against my palm, feeling its smooth surface and rough stitches, and glance across the field. White puffy clouds linger in the sky. The air is crisp, and the young grass so bright it almost hurts my eyes. My teammates are silent and stock-still in their positions, all faced toward me, their faces dark under the shadow of their caps. Everyone is watching, waiting for me to throw the ball.
I am the pitcher. I am the youngest varsity pitcher at my school in almost three decades. Everyone in Mayfield is expecting me to live up to that promise. It’s a small town, and people don’t have much else to do except root for the local high school team. And this is the last practice session before our first big game tomorrow.
It doesn’t help either that my dad is the coach. If I screw up, not only will my teammates be pissed, but I might not get a ride home. My dad’s not the just-do-your-best type. He wants me to win. He expects me to win. Because if I lose, there are plenty of people in town who will say he only let me on the team because I’m his son.
Little do they know, he’d never do that. He’d much rather be a good coach than a good father.
I turn to where he’s standing behind the batting cage, and his face is so tense with anxiety that it’s making me choke.
I can’t look at him. I close my eyes and inhale slowly, letting the clean air fill my chest. I can do this. It’s simple. I’ve trained for this. I begin the motion of the throw, and the instinct that comes from a thousand practice pitches in the backyard takes over.
My left foot lifts and I touch the tip of my toe to my right shin. This is to provide balance as I lean my shoulders back, my right arm extending behind my head. Then, as fast as I can, I throw my left foot forward and use the momentum to heave my torso forward into the throw. My elbow practically snaps as it bends to keep up as I whip my arm forward, uncocking my right forearm as I fall into my stride. I fling the ball out as if throwing a fireball that will burn me if I hold it a moment longer. It leaves my fingers in a blur and my hand is left pointing with two fingers and a thumb toward home plate.
The batter, Bobby Duko, doesn’t have time to blink before I hear the thud of the ball in the catcher’s mitt. Duko swings a half-second later as I step back onto the mound, regaining my balance.
It’s quiet. Everyone’s mind struggles to catch up to what just happened. I’ve just thrown the ball really, really fast. Faster than they’d ever seen a ball thrown before.
My dad is the first to react. “Throw the ball back, Johnson,” he shouts at the catcher. Everyone else is stunned by my pitch, but my dad’s been the one practicing with me in private. No matter how fast I pitch, according to him, it can always be faster. It can never be fast enough.
Aaron Johnson tosses the ball back to me. Duko knocks the end of his bat on the home plate, sending out a white cloud of dust. His teeth are gritted as he sets his shark eyes on me, and I know he’s going to aim to hit the ball right at me.
Duko’s had a grudge against me since last fall, when I outshone him as quarterback, even though I was on the JV team and he was on varsity. Word around school is that his parents even held him back in middle school so that he’d be bigger for the team, and it worked: he’s huge: 6’6”, built like a tank, and mean. But I was the star of last fall, and the talk of the town. And now I’ve beaten him again, taking the position he was hoping for.
I pitch again, and he swings at the air. He lets out a shout of rage as the ball is thrown back, and I ignore him. I breathe in, close my eyes, and strike him out. Before he can have another tantrum, my dad calls out for us to switch positions. Duko throws down his helmet on the ground like a toddler, and stomps onto
The sun is killing me today.
I pull my cap down over my eyes and try to concentrate on the game. I thumb the baseball against my palm, feeling its smooth surface and rough stitches, and glance across the field. White puffy clouds linger in the sky. The air is crisp, and the young grass so bright it almost hurts my eyes. My teammates are silent and stock-still in their positions, all faced toward me, their faces dark under the shadow of their caps. Everyone is watching, waiting for me to throw the ball.
I am the pitcher. I am the youngest varsity pitcher at my school in almost three decades. Everyone in Mayfield is expecting me to live up to that promise. It’s a small town, and people don’t have much else to do except root for the local high school team. And this is the last practice session before our first big game tomorrow.
It doesn’t help either that my dad is the coach. If I screw up, not only will my teammates be pissed, but I might not get a ride home. My dad’s not the just-do-your-best type. He wants me to win. He expects me to win. Because if I lose, there are plenty of people in town who will say he only let me on the team because I’m his son.
Little do they know, he’d never do that. He’d much rather be a good coach than a good father.
I turn to where he’s standing behind the batting cage, and his face is so tense with anxiety that it’s making me choke.
I can’t look at him. I close my eyes and inhale slowly, letting the clean air fill my chest. I can do this. It’s simple. I’ve trained for this. I begin the motion of the throw, and the instinct that comes from a thousand practice pitches in the backyard takes over.
My left foot lifts and I touch the tip of my toe to my right shin. This is to provide balance as I lean my shoulders back, my right arm extending behind my head. Then, as fast as I can, I throw my left foot forward and use the momentum to heave my torso forward into the throw. My elbow practically snaps as it bends to keep up as I whip my arm forward, uncocking my right forearm as I fall into my stride. I fling the ball out as if throwing a fireball that will burn me if I hold it a moment longer. It leaves my fingers in a blur and my hand is left pointing with two fingers and a thumb toward home plate.
The batter, Bobby Duko, doesn’t have time to blink before I hear the thud of the ball in the catcher’s mitt. Duko swings a half-second later as I step back onto the mound, regaining my balance.
It’s quiet. Everyone’s mind struggles to catch up to what just happened. I’ve just thrown the ball really, really fast. Faster than they’d ever seen a ball thrown before.
My dad is the first to react. “Throw the ball back, Johnson,” he shouts at the catcher. Everyone else is stunned by my pitch, but my dad’s been the one practicing with me in private. No matter how fast I pitch, according to him, it can always be faster. It can never be fast enough.
Aaron Johnson tosses the ball back to me. Duko knocks the end of his bat on the home plate, sending out a white cloud of dust. His teeth are gritted as he sets his shark eyes on me, and I know he’s going to aim to hit the ball right at me.
Duko’s had a grudge against me since last fall, when I outshone him as quarterback, even though I was on the JV team and he was on varsity. Word around school is that his parents even held him back in middle school so that he’d be bigger for the team, and it worked: he’s huge: 6’6”, built like a tank, and mean. But I was the star of last fall, and the talk of the town. And now I’ve beaten him again, taking the position he was hoping for.
I pitch again, and he swings at the air. He lets out a shout of rage as the ball is thrown back, and I ignore him. I breathe in, close my eyes, and strike him out. Before he can have another tantrum, my dad calls out for us to switch positions. Duko throws down his helmet on the ground like a toddler, and stomps onto
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