Centerfield Ballhawk (4 page)

“Don’t feel so bad. It’s just a bat,” Carmen said as she rode her bike alongside José on their way home.

“Sure, it is,” he said. “But it felt perfect. Did you see how I was hitting that ball? Like . . . like a big leaguer.”

He wanted to say “like Dad used to hit ’em.” But he didn’t want her to know why he was so anxious to be a good hitter. A
real
good hitter. She’d probably laugh in his face. He would
never
be as good a hitter as their father used to be, she might say.

José and Carmen stowed their bikes in the garage and walked across the lawn to the house. Warm smells of spaghetti sauce greeted
them as they entered the kitchen. Suddenly José slapped his forehead.

“Tonight’s my night to fix the salad and set the table for dinner! Oh, man, how could I forget?” he cried.

“I was just wondering the same thing,” said his father, walking in from the dining room. He noted their grubby appearances,
shook his head, and said curtly, “Looks like I’ll have to do it. You two get washed up before we eat. Dinner in fifteen minutes.”

José and Carmen hurried to the bathroom and soaped their hands and faces. Carmen smiled encouragingly at him in the mirror.

“Don’t worry about Dad. Just tell him you were at the batting cage. He seemed pleased when I asked if I could go there to
practice,” she said.

“Maybe,” José replied glumly. He remembered
his father’s reaction the last time. Even though he wasn’t grounded now, his father might be angry he hadn’t asked permission
to go, as Carmen had.

When they sat down to dinner, their father turned to Carmen and asked, “So, how’d my little slugger do at the cage? Your softball
coach tells me you’ve sent the ball over the fence at least a dozen times so far. I’m impressed. We’ll have to catch one of
her games, won’t we, José?” He ruffled Carmen’s hair and smiled.

José nodded stiffly and concentrated on twirling his spaghetti onto his fork. He listened in silence as Carmen described her
last homer. He was glad she was playing so well, but the sudden lump in his throat made it difficult for him to swallow the
forkful of spaghetti.

I’ve
got
to start hitting better, he thought fiercely. I’ve just got to.

* * *

Tuesday was perfect baseball weather. The sun was shining brightly, it was hot, and there was just enough breeze to make it
comfortable.

The Peach Street Mudders were playing the Stockade Bulls, a team that averaged at least six runs a game. With his new bat
broken in two, José had little hope that he would raise his batting average to anywhere near .375. He would never gain back
the respect he wanted so badly from his father.

The Mudders batted first. Barry led off with a double, and Turtleneck popped out, bringing up José. Okay, José thought, tapping
the plate with the end of his bat. I’ve got to start off with a hit. I might be up only two more times. Three, if I’m lucky.

He waited until he got a two-and-two count, then walloped Eddie Mosk’s knee-high pitch to deep right field. His heart leaped
for a moment.
Go over. Go over,
his mind screamed.

Phil Koline caught it about ten feet in from the fence. Two out. José sighed as he saw his chances of even hitting .333 getting
slimmer.

T.V. Adams, batting fourth, singled through short, scoring Barry. Then Bus struck out, ending the top of the first inning.

“You really laid into that one, José!” Barry yelled as he and José ran out to their positions. “I thought sure it was going
over!”

“But it didn’t,” José said, disappointed.

The Stockade Bulls started off strong their turn at bat. The first two guys singled. Then, with two out, Chet Barker doubled,
scoring both runs.

“Bear down, Sparrow!” T.V. Adams shouted from third.

“Not too easy on those guys, Sparrow!” José yelled from center field.

Eddie Mosk grounded out.

“Let’s go!” Coach Parker cried as he headed for the third-base coaching box. “Give ’em all you’ve got, Rudy!”

Rudy flied out. Nicky Chong singled, then got out on Alfie’s double-play hit to shortstop. It was a fast half-inning. Mudders
1, Bulls 2.

Not until the third inning did the Mudders begin to threaten again. Sparrow led off with a sizzling single through short,
Barry walked, and Turtleneck bounced one over the second baseman’s head, filling the bases.

José came up to bat, and his heart had never beat faster or harder.

The crowd was yelling, “Drive it out of the lot, José!”

He took three straight pitches, all inches away from the plate, and stepped out of the box. A walk would put him on base.,
but it wouldn’t help his batting average. C’mon, Eddie, he thought. Give me something good to swing at.

He stepped back into the box and watched as Eddie wound up for the pitch.

“Steeerike!” yelled the ump.

Then, “Steeerike two!”

“Belt it, José!” cried the coach.

José’s heart pounded like crazy. This was it.

Crack!
His bat met the ball head-on. The white sphere took off like a rocket for left field and sailed over the fence for a home
run!

The Mudders’ fans screamed their heads off. “All right, José!” they shouted as he dropped his bat and trotted around the bases.

Bus singled that inning, too, but the Mudders
failed to score him. Mudders 5, Bulls 2.

The Stockade Bulls came to bat blowing through their nostrils. After two outs and a man on third base, Adzie Healy lambasted
one. It had a home run label on it as it zoomed toward the center field fence. José started to run back the instant he had
seen it hit.

He was almost up against the fence when the ball came flying down over his head. He jumped — and caught it!

“Yes! Great catch, man!” Barry yelled. “Saved us a run!”

José smiled and tossed the ball to him as they ran in together. “Just lucky,” he said.

“Sure.” Barry laughed.

Alfie singled, and Turtleneck walked, bringing José up to the plate.
I’ve got to get a hit,
he thought.
I’ve got to, or Y m sunk.

He grounded out.

Good thing Dad isn’t at the game, he thought as he returned to the bench. At least he’s got Carmen.

The Mudders kept the Bulls from scoring in the bottom of the fourth, then went to town at their turn at bat, scoring two runs.
Mudders 7, Bulls 2.

In the bottom of the fifth, the Stockade Bulls showed the real power they had, as if they had purposely kept it hidden until
now. They pounded Sparrow for five runs, tying up the score, 7 to 7.

In the top of the sixth, Barry singled, then Turtleneck flied out. José slowly stepped to the plate. This could be it, he
thought. A hit now could break the tie. And it would mean a .500 average for him.

He flied out.

José’s heart sank into his stomach. He wished he could vanish.

Then T.V. struck out, and the Bulls were back up to the plate.

The first two guys got on. Then Ted Jackson popped up to the pitcher, and Adzie blasted a line drive to center field. It looked
as if it were
going to hit the ground halfway between second base and José.

José was after it like a gazelle. He knew he had to catch that ball or the game was over.

He dove, then felt the solid
thud!
as the ball landed squarely in his glove.

The crowd stood up, and clapped and cheered for a full minute.

On the next play, a grounder skittered through T.V.’s legs. A run scored, and the game was over. The Blockade Bulls beat the
Peach Street Mudders, 8 to 7.

“It’s my fault we lost! My fault!” T.V. moaned as José caught up with him and they walked off the field together.

“Don’t sweat it, man!” José said. “It’s not the end of the world! Who’s perfect?”

He was thinking of his batting as he said it. One out of four was .250. Far, far from a .375 average. His father would never,
never
think much of him as a baseball player.

Suddenly he heard his name called. “José!
Wait up!”

He turned.

“Dad!” he cried, surprised. “When did you get here?”

“At the beginning of the fourth inning,” Mr. Mendez said.

José’s face clouded. “Then you saw . . .” he started to say, but couldn’t go on. How could he face his father when he’d gotten
out three out of four times at bat?

“What do you want to say, son?” Mr. Mendez asked, putting his arm across José’s shoulders.

“I wanted to make you proud of me,” José blurted out. “I know I’ve been messing up lately, but I thought if I could hit .375,
like you did when you played in the minors, I could make up for disappointing you. I — I’m sorry, Dad. I know I’ve let you
down.”

Mr. Mendez stopped short and looked down at José. “Is that why you’ve been so down in the mouth?” he exclaimed.

José sighed, then nodded.

“Listen, son,” Mr. Mendez said, “I may be disappointed when you go against my wishes — like you did when you hit Mrs. Dooley’s
car — but I’m not disappointed in
you.
I trust you when you say you’re sorry, and that’s that. As far as Mrs. Dooley is concerned, I know you’ve worked hard to
make it up to her. From what I hear,” he added, smiling, “you even applied a little extra elbow grease to her car the other
day.”

José blushed.

Then Mr. Mendez took a deep breath and went on: “It’s been hard since Mom died . . . on all of us. I’ve had to depend on you
and Carmen to pull your own weight . . . maybe too much.” He grinned. “I seem to have forgotten how hard it can be to concentrate
on anything when it’s baseball season. Maybe we both need to be more aware of what the other person is feeling. I’ll try,
if you will.”

José nodded happily.

“And one more thing. Forget about trying to hit like I did, okay? You don’t have to. You’re a born outfielder, José! You’ve
made catches that I never would have been able to, not in a million years.”

José stared at him. “Really? You mean you . . . don’t mind that I can’t hit?”

José’s father chuckled. “’Can’t hit?’ If you call belting a grand slam homer not hitting, well, son, we’ve got to sit down
and have a serious talk about the game of baseball! José, you’re a born ballhawk, so stop worrying about the hitting and concentrate
on your fielding. That’s where your team needs you the most.”

José couldn’t believe his ears. All this time he had thought . . . But then he recalled the joyous cheers after each catch
he had made that day and smiled.

“Thanks, Dad,” he murmured. “I never thought about that. I just figured the guys were being nice when they said they counted on me being in the outfield.” He glanced up at his father. “I like having people depend on me, Dad.”

His father squeezed his shoulder. “Come on. We’ll pick up some ice cream and celebrate those catches with Carmen. I understand
she’s had a hard afternoon, smashing one homer after another for her team. Looks like both of you kids are a chip off the
old block, eh?”

José laughed. He never felt better in his life as he walked with his father to the car.

I might never get a .375 average, he thought. But I’m a hit with my father, and that’s what counts the most.