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the potential for random undergarments turning up by her pool tonight.
    And I actually felt sorry for him about an hour ago.
    Vow to avoid substitute relief pitchers officially reinstated.

opening
    Day

Chapter 6
    Lenny London: Why not just skip ahead to the World Series? Why all the foreplay? I smell a conspiracy within the hot dog industry.
    4 hours ago
    Annie Lucas: What is the statistical probability of throwing a strike? I mean, I know it’s harder than shooting fish in a barrel, but how much harder? And what really defines a strike? Throwing it within the strike zone or getting the batter to swing and miss? These seem like two very different skills.
    3 hours ago
    I’m sitting in Dad’s office a couple hours before the game starts. I’m trying to get my weekend homework done so I can let loose at Lenny’s party tonight. I’ve been running and reading and running and reading…words and mile paces are starting to ooze out my ears and I need some pure teenage fun. And I can only assume a private party at Lenny’s will be free of Larry Johnson’s judgmental, strike-issuing self.
    The phone on Dad’s desk rings, pulling me away from Gatsby . I can’t tell who he’s talking to, but I don’t think it’s Frank. His posture is too formal for a Frank call. After a minute or two, the vein on the side of his neck bulges, his forehead wrinkling. “I’m really not sure this is the best plan… Yes, I understand…What about Halloway…?”
    Halloway? Right. Another pitcher.
    “I see,” Dad says. “We can’t get two or three innings out of him? I realize I said he had the arm to be a starter, but I was referring to the future—preferably the distant future, and I’m sure that you know that.”
    He’s gotten snippier with each word, but I have no idea what’s going on.
    Dad slams the phone down and drops his head in his hands. “Fuck.”
    “What? What happened? They aren’t going to use Brody?” That last part is a wild guess. Brody is the player Dad is most invested in and therefore most likely to get this upset over.
    “They’re using him.” He’s up on his feet, piling up papers onto his clipboard. “He’s starting.”
    “That’s good, right?”
    “No, Ann, it’s not good.” He sighs, stops moving, and looks at me. “I need you to go up to the seats wherever you’re supposed to meet Lenny, all right?”
    I pile my books into my bag quickly, but I press him for answers before leaving the office. “Dad, what’s going on?”
    He closes the door, leaning his back against it. “Johnson doesn’t like the idea of Brody replacing a seasoned player, he never has. But he also knows that he has to give Frank room to do his job. In addition, I’ve gotten the sense that Johnson isn’t too keen on having two pitching coaches.”
    It’s exactly what Brody said. Damn.
    From what I’ve heard, Johnson expects Frank to sign some hotshot free agents from other teams for a tenth of their former salary. Yeah, right. Frank might be from the Yankees where twenty million dollar contracts are regular occurrences, but he’s realistic about the Royals much smaller budget and commitment to developing younger players. Like Brody. I’m not a baseball expert, but this seems like a great strategy to me. Too bad Johnson doesn’t agree. Or maybe his real issue is the ex-convict thing.
    My stomach twists into knots. The problem is clear now. And if I’m feeling sick, I can’t imagine what Dad’s feeling. “Johnson wants you and Brody both to screw up so he has an excuse to dump you?”
    God, I hate that Brody was right. I hate that Johnson saw me in the bar. That I’ve added an unnecessary strike to my family’s record.
    “Something like that,” Dad says. “I’m temporary, too, Ann. I haven’t signed a full contract yet.”
    I sink back into the chair. “Shit…”
    Dad bends down and rests his hands on my shoulders. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. I need to focus on getting Brody ready