Read Online What Hearts by Bruce Brooks - Free Book Online

the runner, who was sosurprised by the sight of the ball arriving in front of him that he went into his slide six feet early and never even reached the base.
    The umpire jerked his hand. The runner howled. Infielders strutted, slapped hands. The catcher, standing tall, jutted his jaw, jammed his mask on with a warning glare at the next batter, as if to say he hoped the kid had watched carefully and learned not to try to fox him with any twisty pop-ups. Asa trotted back to his position in center. Inside, his sense of right and wrong registered once again the justness of baseball: it was too fine a game to allow a triple off a dippy pop five feet from home plate.
    The grass was wet now. Asa had to straighten his knees and jog on his heels, more upright, slower. He hated slowing down. Asa liked a challenge, but a dew slick was not a challenge. A challenge allowed solutions without sacrifices; adjustments, yes, but not sacrifices. Sacrificing speed was cheap and easy. Anyone could slow down.
    The third batter of the inning swung too hard at an inside pitch and dribbled a grounderto the second baseman, who bobbled it but had plenty of time to throw it in the direction of first. The first baseman caught it, looked around for the bag, and stomped on it an instant before the runner arrived. Three outs. Time to bat.
    Asa knew he batted fourth this inning; he could get his cuts if one of his teammates got on base. This, he also knew, was unlikely. It was equally unlikely that he would reach base when his turn came. The Quik-E-Freeze Cool Guys had not scored a single run in the first four games of the season.
    Asa watched the boys assemble on the bench, rowdy and happy in relief that another spell amidst the mysteries of defense had somehow been brought to an end. For them, playing in the field was a bad dream—fielding frantic grounders that seemed to pick up speed as they kicked closer, and fly balls that vanished on the way up, only to reappear suddenly coming fast as cars; remembering which base to throw to when there was one out instead of two, or two on base instead of three. They tried to survive until the moment whenthree outs had miraculously accumulated, then—hooray! r—it was off to the dugout to jostle and laugh and spray insect repellent in each other’s ears until Coach told you you were on deck.
    Mack and Jeff, who Asa knew were scheduled to bat first and second this inning, sat along with the rest, waiting without a clue. Only Tim, the third baseman, up third, seemed to know his spot: his batting helmet was already on.
    â€œMack up, Jeff on deck, Timmy in the hole,” said Coach Henderson. The boys scrambled eagerly. Asa listened for the slightest sound of disappointment in the coach’s voice, but there was nothing but warmth and ease. He never seemed to expect them to keep up with the game. Watching him, you would think he barely paid attention himself: he seemed committed more to making the kids all feel good than to building a ball team.
    Mack hit a line drive back to the pitcher. This boy, whose height and clear jawline revealed he was nearer 13 than 12 (the league’s upper age limit), ducked and stuck up his mittsideways without taking the extra second to try to open it for a catch. The ball caromed off the glove to the shortstop, who threw Mack out.
    â€œGood hustle,” said Coach Henderson as Mack returned, full of pep, no regrets, happy with the feel of the decent smack he had given the ball. Jeff stood in and the coach clapped. “Little bingle, Jefferoo.” Inspired, Jeff swung early at three high pitches in a row. Out two.
    â€œGood cuts,” said the coach.
    â€œYeah,” said Jeff, eyes aglow. “I almost fouled that second one!”
    â€œAttaboy.” The coach and Asa watched Tim move out to the plate. Asa waited a moment, then stepped over to the on-deck circle.
    He loved being on deck. He loved swinging two bats in a leisurely, patient way, as if