Batting Ninth
Authors: Kris Rutherford
Let’s Play Ball!
Chad Griffin can’t hit a baseball to save his life. When he steps up to home plate, he usually leaves after the umpire shouts, “Strike Three!” He always bats in the same spot for the Rangers—ninth—the worst hitter on the team. Even worse, he falls short of his dad’s high expectations. But when the Rangers get a major-league all-star as their new coach, Chad’s hitting begins to turn around. But hitting a baseball isn’t Chad’s only problem. As his team strives for the championship trophy, Chad learns the value of playing the game the right way.
About the Author
Kris Rutherford holds a degree in Recreation Administration and has been involved in youth sports as a player, volunteer, and professional for more than thirty-five years.
Chapter 5:
Touching All the Bases
I
pressed the toe of my cleat into the remaining white chalk that outlined the batter’s box.
“Nice catch,” the Red Sox catcher said.
“Thanks,” I said.
I had made a great fielding play to end the top of the sixth inning. It gave my team, the Rangers, one last chance to pull out a win. Now I was at bat with the game on the line.
There were two outs, the Red Sox leading, 5–4. Jimmy Lee, our tall, lanky center fielder, stood on second base, and my best friend, Jose Martiz, took a lead from third.
Relax, I thought, drawing a deep breath of the salty air that blew in from the ocean only a few blocks away. A base hit and we would beat the Red Sox. No one would have expected that.
Zach Neal, the Red Sox pitcher, stared squarely into my eyes. Zach was half a foot taller and twenty-five pounds heavier than me and almost every other kid in sixth grade. He also happened to be the best player on the best team in the Brightsport Bronco League.
Zach shook his head slowly. The smirk almost always pasted on his face turned into a scowl. I wasn’t sure if he was shaking off the catcher’s sign or just signaling that I was an easy out.
Zach went into his windup. Eye on the ball … eye on the ball, I thought.
I heard the pop in the catcher’s mitt before I even knew the ball had passed.
“Strike one!” the umpire shouted.
Stepping out of the batter’s box, I took off my helmet. It was late May, and the air was still cool. But my eyes stung as sweat dripped from the hair that hung to my eyebrows.
“Here we go again,” I muttered. I had already struck out twice today.
As I stepped back in the batter’s box, Zach’s scowl changed into a sneer—the same face he made when he picked on a fourth grader.
Watch the ball all the way in, I thought. Zach brought the ball and his glove together over his head. Step and swing level, I thought. He took a little off his fastball, and I swung a fraction of a second early.
“Strike two!”
A grin replaced Zach’s sneer.
“Drive ’em in, Chad!” Coach Ramsey shouted from the third base coach’s box. “It’s up to you buddy!”
Jimmy Lee and Jose clapped in rhythm as they stood ready on their bases. It’s up to me alright, I thought. Too bad I wasn’t in the on-deck circle.
I knew Zach would bring a fastball, high and tight. Rumor had it that one of his fastballs put a kid in a cast the year before when Zach played in a different league. Zach never admitted it, but he didn’t deny it either. No batter in Brightsport ever faced him without that thought crossing his mind.
As Zach delivered his next pitch, my eyes narrowed, and I stepped forward, swinging away, trying to make contact. The bat’s vibration didn’t sting my hands like it usually did, but the “ping” of aluminum was unmistakable. I sprinted down the first base line. The Red Sox first baseman hardly even moved.
“Don’t waste your time, Griffin,” he said, pointing at the ball rolling against the fence in front of the Red Sox’s bench.
“Foul ball!” the umpire yelled.
I trotted back to the plate, picked up my bat, and wiped away the chunk of turf that stuck to its handle. A couple of practice swings later, and I stood ready for the next pitch. No doubt, another fastball was on its way.
Zach Neal didn’t like a kid hitting his best pitch, even if it was just a foul ball. He quickly went into his windup. I tried to focus as the ball sped toward home plate, waist high and down the middle. I drew my shoulders back and stepped forward, putting all my weight into my swing.
I was out before the ball ever reached the plate. As my left toe hit the dirt, the bottom dropped out of the pitch. I heard the ball thud off home plate and caught a glimpse of it bouncing into the catcher’s mitt.
“Strike three!” the umpire yelled. “Ball game!”
I hung the bat across my shoulders and quickly did the math in my head: four for thirty-two, a .125 batting average. And not one of my hits made it out of the infield. My speed was the only reason I hadn’t gone hitless on the season.
The rest of my team already waited in the dugout by the time I slogged back from home plate. Jose and Shawn Baxter, our burly catcher who could hit a ton but could not run a lick, struggled for the last spot on the bench. Jose gave up when Shawn leaned in with his shoulder and pushed him onto the dirt. I plopped down on the equipment bag and fixed my eyes on a pile of bubble gum wrappers that littered the ground in front of our ace pitcher, Danielle Baker.
“I saw some good things out there today,” Coach Ramsey started. “Great job getting out of that jam in the fourth inning,” he said, nodding at Danielle. “You don’t need to be ashamed about losing to the Red Sox by one run. We do need to work on our clutch hitting. Things are going to come around. See you guys Tuesday at practice.”
Jose and I rode our bikes along the waterfront before turning up Weaver Street and into our neighborhood. Two-story houses, most of them built before Brightsport became a tourist trap, lined both sides of the street. Pine trees stood in front of houses facing the ocean, slowing the wind that blew off the water during the winter and giving shade from the morning sun in the summer.
When we reached my driveway, I leaned my bike against the mailbox that stood at the curb.
“How am I going to be a clutch hitter? I’m no hitter at all,” I said.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jose said. “That was Zach Neal on the mound. It’ll come around. Plus, we pay you for your glove, not your bat.” He grinned, gave a wave, and pedaled off.
I watched Jose bike down the street. Then I walked up the driveway and saw Dad’s company sedan parked in the garage. He’s home early, I thought, leaning my bike against the wall next to the chest freezer.
Dad had never worked so much before. When he was an insurance salesman, he had a lot of time off. But when he became sales manager, he started working all the time. Dad hadn’t made it to one of my games all year. Before this job, he had never missed one.
Before he hurt his knee in the minor leagues, baseball was Dad’s life. He sure missed it a lot. Watching me play must have reminded him of his early playing days. Of course, I wasn’t nearly as good as he had been. But he tried hard to teach me. I could catch any ball hit my way, but when I got to the plate, the whole game seemed to speed up. Half the time, I swung without even seeing the ball. My poor hitting frustrated Dad. Now that he didn’t have time to coach me, there wasn’t much he could do to help out. And I sure wasn’t getting any better on my own.
I walked in the back breezeway and tossed my glove on the trunk where we stored our winter boots and gloves. Mom, preparing dinner, stood at the kitchen counter, still in her nurse’s uniform.Dad read over a pile of paperwork at the table. I looked to see what Mom was fixing for dinner: Brussels sprouts—again.
“Hey there, Chad,” Mom said. “Get washed up. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
“Hold on,” Dad said, barely looking up from his calculator. “How was the game?”
I felt acid boil in my stomach and bit my lower lip between my front teeth. “They beat us. Jimmy Lee hit a home run, though,” I added.
“Good for Jimmy,” Dad said. “But how about you?”
“You should have seen the line drive I caught. Saved two runs,” I said.
“That’s great, but fielding plays don’t show up in the box score. Any hits? How many runs did you drive in?” Dad asked.
Mom peeled a potato and pretended not to listen. “I was 0 for 4,” I said. “I made good contact once, but the pitcher threw me out at first.”
Dad chuckled. “Hit it all the way back to the pitcher’s mound? You really got hold of that one!”
Mom sighed, set down her knife, and stared out the window.
“What?” Dad asked. I was glad he’d turned his attention elsewhere.
“Do you think you could be a little more encouraging?” Mom asked.
“He’s not making any progress,” Dad said, gesturing back in my direction. “I worked all winter with him in the garage and paid nearly two hundred bucks for a new bat. For what? He still can’t hit.”
“Then I guess you should have let him play in the snow like he wanted to,” Mom answered.
I edged my way to the staircase leading to my room. I’d heard this argument before.
Dad’s trophy case stood upstairs at the end of the hallway, the brass trophies shining in a bright spotlight overhead: high-school All-State, college All-American, Southeastern League MVP, and Southeastern League Home Run Champion. Dad was a great catcher. But there was one empty patch of green felt among the trophies and news-paper clippings. Dad always said it would have held the ball from his first major-league hit—a hit that never came. But he saved the spot.
“Someday,” he told everyone, “Chad will be in the majors, and we’ll put his ball there.”
I showered and returned to the kitchen, eating my meal in silence. Dad complained about work, and Mom tried to change the subject—our typical dinnertime conversation. After dinner, I went back to my room to finish the weekend’s math home-work. But I couldn’t concentrate, closed my book, and pulled an old wooden bat out of the closet.
“Step into the pitch and keep it level,” I coached myself aloud, swinging the bat carefully to avoid hitting the lamp on my nightstand. I could almost hear the crack as the ball hit the sweet spot.
