High and Inside
South
  Â
Side
 Â
Sports
high
and inside
Jeff Rud
O
RCA
B
OOK
P
UBLISHERS
Copyright © 2006 Jeff Rud
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Rud, Jeff, 1960-
High and inside / Jeff Rud.
(South Side sports; #2)
ISBN 1-55143-532-2
I. Title. II. Series.
PS8635.U32H53 2006 Â Â Â Â Â Â jC813'.6 Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â C2006-901307-1
Summary
: Twelve-year-old Matt must learn to face a high and inside pitch while dealing with allegiances to friends and doing the right thing.
First published in the United States, 2006
Library of Congress Control Number:
2006922295
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, the government of British Columbia and the British Columbia Arts Council.
Cover design: John van der Woude
Cover photography: Getty Images
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Stn B.
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468
Printed and bound in Canada
www.orcabook.com
08 07 06 ⢠5 4 3 2 1
For Auntie Betty,
who will be dearly missed by many.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to editor Andrew Wooldridge and publisher Bob Tyrrell for their guidance and support; and to all the players at Fireman's Park for providing inspiration.
Contents
The baseball left the pitcher's hand in a white blur, hurtling toward Matthew Hill. Instinctively Matt ducked his slender shoulders and lurched backward, stumbling slightly as he retreated from the batter's box.
Matt heard the snickers coming from the dugout behind him. And he could anticipate what was coming next. “Don't back away, son,” Coach Jim Stephens said firmly from down the first-base line. “You can't hit it if you don't even swing the bat.”
“C'mon, Hill,” laughed the lanky teammate who had tossed the pitch. It had been a slightly high fastball that had ultimately split the heart of the plate. “I'm only throwing three-quarter speed. Don't be afraid of the ball.”
Afraid of the ball! There, somebody had actually said it out loud. Matt Hill was afraid of the baseball. This was humiliating. If only he had a shovel in his hand instead of a bat; then at least he could pry up home plate and crawl underneath it.
It was just a practice, the final one for the South Side Stingers varsity baseball team before the regular season began. But it felt like Game Seven of the World Series as far as Matt was concerned. And the seventh-grade rookie had just struck out looking. Worse than that, he had struck out ducking. And now to top things off, everybody on the team knew he was afraid of the ball.
The black-haired boy on the mound was Steve White, a ninth-grader with a bit of an attitude and the South Side team's pitching ace. It was just batting practice, but Matt was nevertheless nervous standing in the box against the lefty, who was one of the fastest pitchers in the city. White's stuff was certainly much faster than any of the chuckers Matt had faced in Little League.
He dug in again, sinking his cleats into the soft clay of the batter's box and getting set for the next pitch. He was determined to hang in there this time and not back away, no matter what happened. White went into his long, deliberate windup. It seemed like forever, but in fact it was only a couple of seconds before the older boy uncoiled and sent the ball again in a flash toward the plate.
This time Matt stayed in the box, swinging at the spot where he anticipated the baseball would cross. But this pitch was slightly inside. It nicked him on the index finger of his right hand and ricocheted off his cheekbone. The pain shot through his finger and the left side of his face at the same time, but Matt stayed on his feet.
“Uhhhh,” he groaned. Somehow he stifled the urge to cry, but he couldn't hold it in completely.
“You okay, Matt?” said Coach Stephens, a look of concern crossing his angular face. He hurried toward the plate. The coach examined Matt's swelling cheek for a few seconds and then patted him on the back. “You'd better go take a seat for awhile in the dugout. Have Charlie get you some ice.”
“Sorry, Hill,” yelled White from the mound. He didn't sound overly sorry. “It was an accident, man.”
Matt nodded. He turned and walked toward the dugout, handing his bat to Charles Dougan, the South Side team manager. Dougan was a small blond boy with a brace on his left leg that filled up the entire space between where his blue gym shorts ended and his white sock began. He grabbed the bat from Matt and added it to the collection he had arranged in meticulous orderâfrom smallest to largestâby sticking their handles into the chain-link fence.
Matt took a seat in the dugout. Charlie plopped down beside him, momentarily forgetting the coach's call for ice and instead staring intently out at the plate. Everybody on the South Side team was watching the same thing. Up next for his cuts at batting practice was Jake Piancato, one of Matt's best friends and the purest hitting member of the Stingers. It was only practice, but everybody was eager to watch Piancato try to get the best of White in this matchup.
Steve White stared at Jake from the mound, his dark eyes seeming more intense than they had minutes earlier when Matt had been at the plate. White again went into his windup and practically threw his entire body forward as he delivered the ball toward Jake. It was obvious that White didn't want Piancato to hit the ball, practice or not.
Jake didn't flinch. He stood in there strong, taking a hard but controlled swing and sending the baseball on a crackling rope into right field for what probably would have been a stand-up double in any real game.
“Nice poke, Piancato,” Coach Stephens shouted. “Give him a couple more, White, and remember, the object here is just to throw strikes, not to get strikeouts. Save that stuff for the games.”
Crimson rose on White's cheeks. He was easily South Side's best pitcher this season. But he wasn't the team's best player. That honor, beyond a doubt, went to Jake. This at-bat was simply reinforcing that fact. Even White had to admit it, but he didn't have to like it.
For as long as Matt had known Jakeâwhich was practically as far back as he could rememberâhis blond curly-haired friend had been a natural athlete, good at whatever he tried. So good, in fact, that sometimes it seemed as though Jake didn't have to try very hard at all.
In no sport, though, was he more naturally talented than baseball. This was Jake's game. Not only had he been one of the city's best hitters as a Little Leaguer, he was also a terrific shortstop, able to cover much of the infield with his natural, bouncy athleticism. Despite the fact that, like Matt, he was just a first-year seventh-grader at South Side, Jake had dominated early-season practice sessions for the Stingers in almost every way.
Steve White bore down on the mound again, narrowed his eyes on the target and fired another pitch toward the plate. He had taken nothing off this one, despite the coach's advice. But to Jake it was as if the lefty's fastball was moving in slow motion. His bat ripped forward, his weight transferring perfectly from his legs through his impressive forearms. This time the ball arced high over the white wooden right-field fence, disappearing into some lilac bushes that lined the school diamond.
“Ka-jaccka,” yelled South Side catcher, Phil Wong, imitating the local late-night sportscaster who punctuated every major league home run highlight with that annoying, incomprehensible word. “What have you been eating for breakfast, Jaker?”
A smile crossed Jake's lips and his blue eyes danced, lighting up the broad face framed by curls. But this wasn't a cocky grin. It was merely a reflection of the joy of being able to do something well. It wasn't in Jake's nature to want to show somebody up.
Matt had to smile too, at the sight of his friend being so dominant at the plate. But at the same time, his own performance gnawed at him. He had played well enough in the field during pre-season practices for the South Side squad, but he had been consistently nervous at the plate and today was no exception. It was true what his teammates were quietly saying about him; he was afraid of the baseballâat least he was whenever a fast pitcher was delivering it. And getting hit in the hand and on the cheek today wasn't going to make the next trip to the plate against White, or any other fireballer, any easier.
“That's enough, guys,” Coach Stephens said, obviously feeling that Jake's over-the-fence shot had provided a proper punctuation to practice. “Let's bring it in. Good workout today. I just want a few words and then you can all take off home.”
The sun was beginning to dip in the spring sky and the air had that sweet, fresh-cut-grass smell that made everything seem alive and full of promise. Baseball season was just starting and summer vacation wouldn't be far behind. Matt loved this time of year.
“Okay, boys, listen up,” Coach Stephens said. “We've got North Vale on Monday in our opener. They're going to be tough this year, but so are we. Have a good weekend, relax and spend some time with your friends and families. But I want you all here Monday at 4:00 PM, prepared to play some heads-up baseball. Is everybody ready?”
Maroon ball caps nodded all around.
“I said, is everybody ready?”
“Yes sir!” This time the South Side players shouted back in unison.
“I can't hear you,” Coach said playfully.
“YES SIR!” they screamed.
“That's more like it.”
The South Side players headed for the locker room, excited about their first game being just a few days away. Matt walked across the field with Jake and Phil, two of his best friends since pre-school days. The three had played baseball all through Little League and now they had moved up together to middle school ball.
“What's up, Matty?” Phil asked, noticing how quiet he had been.
“Only that I stink,” Matt replied. “I don't know what it is. All of a sudden, I just can't hit.”
“Don't worry,” Jake said reassuringly. “You're just getting used to the speed of middle school pitching. You'll be okay once you adjust.”
“For sure,” Phil added. “It is a lot faster.”
Matt nodded. It was nice of his friends to try to make him feel better. But inside, he wasn't so sure they were right this time. Neither of them was having much trouble hitting the baseball so far during South Side practices. So why was he?
The three boys showered and changed and headed home down Anderson Crescent together just as they had always done since their early school days at nearby Glenview. When they reached Matt's block, he said goodbye to his buddies and was heading toward his house when he heard a familiar voice calling from behind.
“Hey, Matt. Hold up a second.”
It was Neil Peters, a neighbor, out for a walk with his dog, Joker. Neil was a city police officer with the canine squad and Joker, a sleek black German Shepherd, lived with the Peters family when the two weren't on duty. Matt often ran into Officer Peters and his dog on their street. It seemed to him that Joker got a walk at least four times a day.
Matt bent over to pat Joker's soft, noble head. The shepherd's ears stood straight up, almost as if they were at attention. Joker was a beautiful dog, smart and extremely well-trained. But he wasn't a pet in the normal sense of the word. He was a working dog, and Officer Peters and Joker were partners.
“You just coming from practice?” the policeman asked. “How's the team looking anyway?”
Officer Peters loved baseball and had even coached Matt, Jake and Phil for a couple of seasons early on in Little League. He had been the one who had first shown Matt how to throw a baseball properly, how to step, turn and deliver so that he got maximum power sending the ball across the infield to first base.
