Pinch Hit (26 page)

The umpire had at least a bit of sympathy. “Kid, you okay?”

Trevor nodded and looked up.

He blinked at what he saw, and blinked again. Something big and dark leaped over the fence along the warning track in left field. The dog—it was a big dog—sprinted into the middle of the field behind second base. The dog spun around, planted itself, barked twice, then tilted its head with a tongue lolling from the side of its mouth.

There was an uproar from the crowd and the players. Trevor stared for a moment before he spoke under his breath. “Wolf?”

“Pssst!”

Trevor looked behind him.

McKenna Steele gestured wildly. “Come on. Now. Sam's in the bathroom.”

Trevor looked around. No one paid any attention to him. People were pointing and laughing as the umpire circled the dog with caution. Trevor took off, slipping between a break in the backstop before the fence along the dugout began. He ducked between bleachers and dashed into the bathroom.

“See you in a minute,” McKenna said.

Inside, it took a couple seconds for Trevor's eyes to adjust.

“Trevor? Is that you?” Sam's voice came from the last stall.

Trevor flung open the door and saw his twin brother standing there in a pair of boxers.

“Hurry.”

“Did you see how close that was?” Trevor asked as he shucked off his uniform. “Sharp wanted me to bat lefty! I made you proud in the field, though. You should have seen the line drive I snagged to end the inning, but I never batted lefty in my life.”

“It's my fault,” Sam said, tugging on the uniform pants. “I meant to tell you.”

Sam pulled the top over his head and accepted the blue cap from Trevor. “Your phone's in the jeans pocket.”

“Yours is in your bat bag,” Trevor said.

“Great, I'm ready. We did it. I've got to go.” Sam hugged him and patted his back before bolting out the door and into the sunlight.

Trevor slowly pulled on the jeans and T-shirt Sam left, wondering in the back of his mind how they'd gotten so dusty and dirty and where the big tear had come from.

After half a minute he heard the bathroom door swing open. He froze as the footsteps scratched along the concrete floor and stopped outside the stall.

“Trevor?”

“Here.” Coach Sharp handed Sam a clump of paper towels.

“What, Coach?”

Coach Sharp pointed toward a patch of dirt just outside the batter's box. “You don't expect anyone else to mop up your puke, do you?”

“My…” Sam swallowed.

“Hurry up. That guy's got his dog and we're ready to go. I don't know what your problem is, Sam, but if it's gonna make you puke again, bat from the other side.”

“You want me to bat lefty?”

“Don't play with me, boy. I won't say it again. This pitcher's throwing a sidearm curve with plenty on it. You want to try and stand in and hit it when it's coming right at you like that, be my guest, but if you do, we won't be winning any championship and you won't be winning that spot with USC. That's my prediction, but you do what you want.”

Coach Sharp turned away muttering about the puke.

Sam looked at the mess, stopped breathing through his nose, and stumbled toward the batter's box. He bent down, looked away, and scooped up as much of the puke as he could, wiping it off the dirt before the umpire told him that was fine and to get himself into the batter's box.

Sam jogged over to the on-deck circle and dumped the dirty paper towels into the trash, then stepped up to the plate, on the right side where he could bat lefty. Sam took a couple practice swings and hunkered down, eyeing the pitcher.

Trevor stayed silent until he saw a girl's feet beneath the stall door.

“McKenna?” He pushed the door open.

“We've got to go.” McKenna held out her hand. “If they find out you played in the game, they'll disqualify Sam. Come on, Trevor. We can't ruin it for him.”

Trevor nodded and took her hand. She led him out, stopping at the door to make sure the coast was clear. “Hurry.”

She took his hand again and they dashed away from the stands and out into the parking lot. They didn't stop until they were safe inside the limo. It was then that he noticed the sad look in McKenna's eyes.”

“We did it,” he said. “What's wrong?”

“Trevor,” she said in a quiet voice, “I have to tell you something.”

The pitcher had a wicked side arm, and Sam couldn't recover enough from the strangeness of it to get off a good swing on the first pitch.

“Ball.”

Sam got lucky. The pitch had been the curve Coach Sharp spoke of, one that would be brutal to try to hit from the other side of the plate. Now that he had a line on it, Sam knew he could tag it batting lefty.

The next pitch was all heat, but low. Sam let it pass.

“Strike!”

Sam glanced back at the umpire. He got nothing but a stony stare in return. Sam shrugged, stepped out of the box, took a couple swings, and stepped back in. The next pitch was another curve. Sam swung with everything he had. The bat connected and sent the ball flying with a solid crack.

Sam took off.

But he stopped halfway down the first-base line as the ball sailed too far to the right.

“Foul!”

Sam returned to the plate and the 1–2 count. Behind the backstop sat two men in USC hats, the coaches there to pick the MVPs. Up behind them, his dad, his real dad, waved and gave him a thumbs-up. Sam's heart swelled at the sight of his father, and he ached to hug him. Instead he gave a nod and a thumbs-up and stepped back into the box.

The pitcher wound up and threw. It was the curve, sailing way outside and glimmering with its red dot. Sam knew right where it would be when it crossed the plate. He stayed back, waiting on it, then swung with legs, hips, shoulders, arms, and wrists.

CRACK
.

This time, it went straight.

This time, it was gone.

Before McKenna could speak, Trevor heard the crack of the bat and the cheer of the crowd. He let down the window, just enough to smell the hot dogs and the cut grass mixing with the warm smell of tar from the pavement.

The cheering died down.

“He must have done it,” Trevor said.

Dolph opened the door with a whistle, and Wolf jumped in and sat still.

“Done what?” McKenna asked.

“Hit that pitcher batting lefty.” Trevor shook his head, impressed.

“So,” Trevor said, “what do you have to tell me?”

McKenna took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “It's your mom, Trevor. Not your mom, but your biological mom.”

Trevor held up a hand. “Don't, McKenna. I told Sam. I don't want anything to do with her.”

“Okay,” McKenna nodded hard. “That's good.”

Dolph got in behind the wheel. “Where we go, Mr. Trevor?”

Trevor looked at McKenna.

She shrugged and said, “Pierce Everette must be having a cow. We bolted out of there, and people were going crazy. Sam climbed over the fence behind the studio. It's going to take some explaining to settle things down, so we might as well get it over with right now.”

“Back to the studio, Dolph.”

Dolph gave him a worried glance in the mirror as he started the car.

“Dolph thinks they'll blame him,” McKenna said.

“You let me worry about
them
, Dolph, you hear me? I got your back, and I appreciate your help.”

Dolph grinned and pulled out of the lot.

Trevor took one more deep breath, knowing it would be a long time—if ever—before he smelled those smells again and felt the thrill of playing to win mixed with the knotted fear that you might lose.

Then he put the window up and sat back in his seat.

They got onto the highway and rode for several minutes before he asked, “Why did you look so sad when you were going to tell me about our mother, McKenna?”

McKenna's lower lip disappeared.

“Well, you can tell me why without telling me who, right?”

“I guess.”

“Okay,” Trevor said. “Why?”

“Well, she's gone, Trevor.”

“She left the country?” Trevor tilted his head.

“No. Gone, gone.”

Trevor felt suddenly cold. “You mean, dead, gone?”

McKenna nodded. “I'm sorry, Trevor. That's why I thought you'd want to know.”

Trevor felt like the seat were gone from underneath him, as if he were floating. Pain pierced his heart in a spot he hadn't even known was there.

After Sam's home run, Lee Pitts struck out Dorian Klum and sent the Blue Sox back into the field.

Sam played well on defense, helping with a double play and fielding a pop fly. Still, the Sherman Oaks team was able to score another run, so Coach Sharp put Klum on the mound at the end of the third inning, even though the plan had been to let Graham pitch three full innings before Klum took over.

Dorian did his thing. He put down the last two Sherman Oaks batters with just nine pitches. Sam watched the USC coaches talking to one another after the last pitch of the inning, a fastball that must have been close to eighty miles an hour, and he knew he'd have to do something special at bat if he was going to beat Klum for the MVP.

That's just what he did. In the bottom of the fourth, Sam got up and blasted a second home run to tie the score. His team went crazy, and as Sam stepped on home plate after rounding the bases, he couldn't help grinning to himself. The three USC coaches all had their eyes on him as they whispered to one another.

Klum kept the pressure on. He hit a solid double, blasting a line drive into the hole between left and center field. Pitts kept pitching and finished the inning without giving up another run. Klum put three down with fourteen pitches to end the inning. In the fifth Sherman Oaks put in a fresh pitcher, a redheaded kid with freckles who looked like a stork but threw like a bull, and the inning was scoreless for both teams, even though the Blue Sox worked through the rest of their lineup.

There were two outs in the fifth when Sam stepped up to the plate. He wanted to hit three home runs and thought that if he did, it would lock up his spot with the USC coaches. The stork had a changeup that Sam bit on, swinging and missing. He let the next pitch by because it almost hit the plate—ball. The third pitch was a fastball outside. Sam swung for the fences and connected. He started down the first-base line only to watch the ball drift outside the post in right field. The foul ball left him with a 1–2 count.

Sam grit his teeth and hunkered down. The next pitch was way inside but burning fast. Sam stepped back and took the ball. On a 2–2 count, the stork threw another changeup. Sam tried to hold back, but he'd already committed to the swing. He connected with a crack, and the ball took off. Sam sprinted for first, keeping an eye on the ball as it started to come down. The left fielder ran for the fence.

It would be a close call.

The ball fell inside the fence.

Sam rounded second as the left fielder scooped up the ball and made an amazing throw to third. The third-base coach waved Sam off. He stopped on a dime and raced back for second. The third baseman rifled it to second. Sam dove and touched the bag just as the tag came down.

“Safe!” the umpire shouted from home plate.

Sam got up and dusted off. He was the potential go-ahead run, and Dorian Klum was up.

Sam wanted to win, badly, but a part of him couldn't help not wanting Klum to get a hit. With two hits and the way he pitched, Klum just might edge Sam out for the MVP.

Klum didn't make Sam wait. He blasted the first pitch over the second baseman's head. Sam rounded third and dug in for home. Maybe it was the thought of Klum winning the game that made him hesitate, maybe it was the skill with which the right fielder scooped up the ball. The third-base coach screamed at Sam to keep going.

Sam found his speed again and lowered his head. The throw came in. Sam slid into the plate for the lead in a cloud of dust.

Before the dust even settled, the umpire shouted, “Safe!”

The team went wild, and Coach Sharp had to bark at them to settle down so they could finish the inning. They still had to keep Sherman Oaks from scoring in the top of the final inning if they were going to win, and they had to win. If they didn't, neither Sam nor Klum would have to worry about being MVP. Only the winning team's MVP would go to the USC Elite Training Center.