The 823rd Hit (2 page)

“Of course.” I wasn't worried. We didn't get that much homework at the beginning of the year.

“Second, if you try to argue your way into working on a school night, the whole deal is off.”

Dad was smart. I had been hoping to wheedle my way into working one school night. He saw this coming a mile off.

“OK,” I said. “It's a deal. I accept the two conditions. I won't even
ask
to work on a school night.”

“No matter what,” Dad said. “I'm serious, Chad.”

“No matter what,” I said.

• • •

The Porcupines were going to be in the Prairie League playoffs, for sure. Each of the top four teams earned a spot in the playoffs. Even if the Porcupines lost the rest of their games, they'd be in at least fourth place.

The Porcupines had never been in the playoffs since I could remember. Now that they were headed there, I would get to see the playoffs—and watch them from the dugout! I loved my job.

A few days later, I took a closer look at the playoff schedule. What I read made me groan.

In playoff tournaments, there's a thing called “seeding.” The seeding determines who plays who, when, and where. When there are four teams, the best-ranked team plays the last-ranked team, and the second-best ranked team plays the second-to-last ranked team.

The Porcupines were probably going to finish in either first or second place. The top two teams would have home-field advantage for the first round of the playoffs, which would be a five-game series. That was great news for the Porcupines—but bad news for me.

The playoffs would be starting on a Wednesday night. That meant the Porcupines would play their home games on school nights, and then be out of town for the weekend! So the only way I could work a game during the playoffs would be if the Porcupines lost a bunch of games now and sank into third or fourth
place. Then they would start the series on the road and play at home over the weekend.

That would also give me a chance to see the Porcupines win the first series! They could win one of the first two away games, then come home to win the next two. I could be there for the celebration. That would be awesome beyond belief.

I clenched my teeth. There was only one way for things to work out my way, and it meant betraying my favorite team.

I felt sick to my stomach doing it. I was the biggest Pines' fan in Pine City. As a batboy, I was part of the team. That made it twice as wrong to root against the Porcupines. But I couldn't help it.

I cheered to myself when the Pines went on the road and lost five out of six games, including three in a row to the Swedenberg Swatters.

I started to worry when the Porcupines came home and won three straight games against the Centralville Cougars. In the dugout I was all smiles and high fives and “Way to go!” and “First place, here we come!” I was glad the Pines were playing well. But I had my heart set on being there for some of the playoff games.

Now it looked like the Porcupines were headed for second place. I was miserable. I would miss the playoff games. Even worse, I had betrayed my favorite team for nothing.

Then the Rosedale Rogues came to Pine City.

t was my turn to help the opposing team. I walked into the visitors' locker room, and one of the Rogues asked me to relace his shoes. I was hunched over in the corner, and the players forgot I was there.

“Glad this is the last series in this crummy stadium,” one of the Rogues said.

“It's the sorriest sight in the Prairie League,” another player agreed.

“I don't like the showers here,” said a third player. “The water's not hot enough, and there's no pressure.”

What would they complain about next? That our grass wasn't green enough? That our baseballs weren't round enough?

I finished lacing the shoes and plopped them on the bench. The Rogues still didn't notice me. Not even the guy who owned the shoes.

“The food is pretty boring here too,” he said.

“I miss the catfish fingers and hush puppies back in Rosedale,” said another player. It was Damien Ricken. He had just been called up from Rookie League. Ricken was supposed to be a big-deal pitcher.

By the time the game started, I didn't care about seeding and school nights. I just wanted the Rosedale Rogues to lose. I wanted them to be sorry they ever came to Pine City. I rooted for the Pines with all my might. Unfortunately, the Rogues were on fire. They scored four runs
in the first inning, before the Porcupines even came up to bat. Worse, Damien Ricken struck out the first three Porcupines batters and was back in the dugout before I knew it.

“So that's the competition?” he asked the Rogues' catcher.

“Yep,” the catcher answered with a grin.

Damien noticed me watching.

“Hey, kid. Where are the good places to eat around here?”

“Um … I like the food here at the ballpark,” I said. I wanted to make that clear.

“I don't eat while I'm pitching. What about restaurants?”

“The Pine City Café,” I said. I liked the pizza place better, but grown-ups always liked the Café.

“Don't get your hopes up,” the catcher said. “It'll be closed by the time we get out of here.”

“Figures,” said Damien. “This town is all pines and no city.”

The guys on the bench cracked up.

I was fuming, but I kept my cool. “The pizza place is open late,” I told him.

• • •

The Porcupines never caught up. They lost to the Rogues, 7–2.

The next night wasn't much better. It was my turn to work in the Porcupines' dugout. They were losing, 6–1, by the fifth inning.

“I'll be glad when we're done playing these Rogues,” said Mike Stammer, the Porcupines' shortstop. He had just struck out for the second time that night. “I won't miss them a bit.”

“Me, neither,” said Tommy Harris. “The only thing I like about tonight's pitcher is that he's not Damien Ricken. Man, that Ricken guy
has a good slider. I really hope we don't have to face him again this season.”

“You'd better hope we
do
see them again,” said Teddy Larrabee. Teddy was the first baseman. People call him Teddy “the Bear” Larrabee, because he's big and kind of hairy. “You'd better hope we see Damien Ricken's slider, too,” he added. “We'll have to get past them to win the Prairie League championship.”

“I was hoping we could sneak by when they weren't looking,” said Wayne Zane.

“That's not what I meant,” said Teddy.

“Just sayin',” said Wayne. Wayne was the catcher, and he
thought
he was the team comedian. He grabbed his bat and went to the on-deck circle while Sammy Solaris, the designated hitter, went to the plate.

Sammy got a base hit. The crowd cheered, but the Porcupines were still behind by five runs. Wayne strode to the plate. Meanwhile, Teddy headed for the on-deck circle. I had his bat ready.

Wayne drew a walk. The crowd cheered louder. The Porcupines had a rally going!

The Bear swung on the first pitch. The ball went high and deep, straight down the right field line. It hit the foul pole, bounced off it, and went into the stands. Now, if a ball hits the foul pole, it's fair, even if the ball ends up in foul territory. That made Teddy's hit a home run! The crowd clapped and stomped. The Pines were still down by two runs, but they were coming back!

Sammy, Wayne, and Teddy circled the bases. We all met them at the dugout steps and traded high fives. Danny O'Brien went up to bat. Brian Daniels was on deck. I used to have trouble telling them apart. Now I could finally keep them straight.

“Chad, can you go get that ball back?” Teddy asked. “It's kind of a big one for me.”

“What's big about it?” Wayne Zane asked.

I was wondering too. Teddy had hit home runs before, although not enough for this one to be a big number.

“That was my eight hundred and twenty-third hit,” Teddy explained.

“No, it wasn't,” Wayne said. “Not unless you hit about seven hundred in Rookie League. And if you had done that, you'd be in the major leagues by now—
and
be a shoo-in for rookie of the year.”

“I'm not just counting professional baseball hits,” Teddy explained. “I'm counting
every
hit.”

“What, like high school baseball?” Sammy asked.

“High school, junior high, Little League—all of it,” the Bear replied. “Every hit.”

“Even T-ball?” Wayne asked.

“Even T-ball,” said Teddy. “A hit is a hit.”

“I have a follow-up question,” said Mike. “What's the big deal about hit number eight hundred and twenty-three?”

“Well,” said Teddy. “Today is August twenty-third. So … today is eight twenty-three. Get it?”

“Yeah. That is kind of a coincidence,” Tommy said. He pronounced it “co-inky-dink.”

“Also,” said Teddy, “today is my birthday.”

“Hey! Happy birthday!” Tommy shook his hand. “Wow—you do need to get that ball back.”

“See?” Teddy looked at me. “Find out who caught that ball. Tell 'em I'll trade a new ball for it.”

“Sure,” I said. “I'll try.”