Two-Minute Drill - Mike Lupica [39]
But what even Gracie, as much of a know-it-all as she could be sometimes, didn’t know was how truly fast things could change in baseball, when you least expected them to.
And how fast they were going to change for Nick today.
The JV practiced on the last of the upper fields at Hayworth, the one with the best view of the soccer and lacrosse fields below. The varsity practiced way closer to the white classroom buildings and had the best-taken-care-of field at their school, one with a real dirt infield and a working scoreboard and even bleachers behind both benches, where parents could sit to watch games.
Nick had been stealing looks at the varsity practice all afternoon. At one point, he noticed a big crowd of players at home plate and thought they might actually be quitting early today, even though they were usually still on the field when the JV packed it in for the day.
Soon after that, Nick spotted the varsity coach, Coach Williams, leaning against a tree down the left-field line of the JV field, hanging there by himself in the shade.
Watching them.
“What’s he doing there?” Zach Dugas, their third baseman, said as he stepped to the plate.
The JV version of the Hayworth Tigers was scrimmaging by now, using just two outfielders—there were still only fifteen players on the team, total, until they found out about varsity cuts—and their coach, Mr. Leeman, was doing the pitching for both teams.
“Don’t know,” Nick said. “Maybe he just likes baseball so much he’ll watch any game. Even one of ours that doesn’t count.”
“Doubtful,” Zach said.
Jeff Kantor was the runner at first, having just singled, and there were two outs, which meant to Nick that Jeff was going to be running, even with Mr. Leeman pitching from the stretch.
Everybody was encouraged to run by the coach. He’d told them from the first day of practice they were going to be the runningest team in their league.
Probably running on the first pitch, Nick thought.
Bad idea.
Really bad.
It wasn’t something he’d ever say out loud. When you’d spent your whole life trying to fit in, trying to please people, trying so hard to be one of the guys, the last thing you wanted to do was sound cocky. Or sound like you were big-timing anybody.
But facts were facts. Four runners already had tried to steal today—tried Nick—and he had thrown out all four of them.
He couldn’t help wondering now if Coach Williams of the varsity had seen any of those babies, especially the one that had Ollie Brown by so much at second base that Ollie didn’t even bother to slide.
In the language of baseball announcers, all of whom felt like members of Nick’s baseball family, like funny uncles he’d never met, he had thrown absolute peas all three times.
“Frozen peas,” according to Zach, who’d been Nick’s first victim when he’d been rock-headed enough to try to steal third on him in the first inning.
Everybody knew by now what kind of player Nick was. The rest of the seventh-graders knew he could hit, knew he could run for a catcher, even as stocky as he was, with those short, thick legs that he kept hoping would grow one of these days.
Even at twelve, he could locate a pop foul behind the plate with the best of them, toss his mask away and actually catch the ball, something hardly anybody his age could do.
Like he had some kind of radar tracking system going for him, what Gracie said was like some chip he had inside his body somewhere.
Yet that wasn’t what set Nick Crandall apart on a ballfield. What set him apart was the way he could throw from behind the plate.
Nick Crandall had an arm on him.
He’d always been able to throw, even on the playgrounds, back when he was living in River-dale, in the Bronx in New York City. But last year was the first year he’d really been able to show it off. From the first few days of tryouts last year, when Coach Leeman had asked for volunteers to