Read Online Unpopular: An Unloved Ones Prequel #3 (The Unloved Ones) by Kevin Richey - Free Book Online Page A

the field as I walk toward the bench. He growls at me as we pass, but I’m not scared. He wouldn’t dare injure the star player the day before a big match, right in front of the coach. He’s dumb, but not crazy.
    The rest of my teammates are buzzing around me as we near the bench, chuckling with anticipation for tomorrow’s game.
    “Jackson High is going down,” grunts Johnson as pass him for the bench. I nod to him, but I’m still too tense to share his glee.
    I can feel my dad’s eyes on me.
    The other guys bat first. I look over at my dad, and see him take a roll of Tums from his pocket, and place one in his mouth. His stomach has been bothering him the last few months. My mom thinks it’s an ulcer.
    I’m roused from my thoughts when it’s my turn up at the plate. I put on my helmet and pick up a bat. Bobby Duko is our alternate pitcher, and there’s a sneer on his face as he twists the ball in his fingers. He winds up and tosses his pitch.
    I know he’s doing this with all his might, but as the ball comes at me, it seems slow in the air. I see it drift toward me and arrange my arms and shoulders. I feel the hot sun on the skin of my arms. The ball nears, and I wait for it to come within striking distance, my eyes locked on it, each individual stich crisp and bright in my vision. It eventually travels before me, and I swing my entire body. The bat connects with a crack, and the ball instantly speeds up into a blur as it rockets in an arch away from me and above the field.
    I take a few steps forward toward first base, but my teammate on first hasn’t bothered to run. His eyes are following the streak of the ball in the air as it sails over center field. I come to a stop and notice that no one else is moving either. They’re all watching the ball. It has just reached the peak of its arc somewhere in outer center field, higher than a falcon, and keeps sailing beyond the rest of the field, beyond the fence and the boundaries of the schoolyard.
    “Whoa,” I hear Johnson whisper behind me as he stands up and lifts the cage of his catcher’s mask.
    Once the ball lands, no one makes any attempt to retrieve it. Instead they all turn to me with a quiet awe. Johnson is the first to break the silence behind me. He throws up both his arms, and lets out a cheer. He comes up to me and starts patting me on the back. Following his example, the rest of the team runs in from the field and rushes forward from the bench, crowding around me and hooting and laughing and cheering like we’ve just won the World Series.
    Even Bobby Duko comes in from the pitcher’s mound, although he keeps his distance, kicking his foot into the dirt and not making eye contact with anyone. I think he’s just relieved everyone has forgotten that he couldn’t even swing at my pitch.
    “All right,” my dad says after a few minutes, “that’s enough.” He’s still behind the batting cage, and comes forward now with an off-centered gait. He walks with a slight limp from an injury to his knee that ended his college career before it started. “Let’s call it a game,” he says. “Hit the showers and rest up for tomorrow.”
    The team trots off the field, and as I pass with the guys, my dad calls to me.
    “Just a minute, Sam.”
    I pause and let the guys filter around me before walking over to him. He’s standing alone by home base, wearing a school jersey that is tucked under his gut and into his pants. He takes his cap off and wipes the sweat from his forehead. His scalp shines with perspiration; his buzz cut is doing him no favors as his hair thins with age. He places his cap back on, and waits until the field is clear before he turns his gaze toward me.
    I can’t help it. There’s a part of me that shrinks inside when he looks at me with that grim expression. His face is set with wrinkles around his eyes that make him look constantly disappointed with the world, and deep frown lines on either side his mouth that make his lower lip