Hit & Miss (2 page)

Suddenly Sharlee said, “Daddy,
I
want to shoot now.”

“I know, Sharlee, but the game's not over yet,” Mr. Jeter said. “When we're done, it'll be your turn.”

“But I wanna shoot the ball!” Sharlee had a pretty good shot for a five-year-old, even if you did have to hold her up near the hoop. In fact, she was a really good overall athlete for her age.

It must be hard for her to watch other people play and not be part of it,
Derek realized. Just then he saw his buddy Vijay riding by the courts on his bike. “It's okay, Dad,” he said. “Let Sharlee shoot now. We'll take a time-out for a couple minutes.”

Mr. Jeter saw Vijay, shrugged, and nodded. He bent down so that Sharlee could leap into his arms and take some shots. Mrs. Jeter got up and handed her the ball, while Derek turned and yelled, “Hey, Vij!” waving to get his friend's attention.

Vijay slowed his bike and came to a stop on the other side of the chain-link fence. His bike basket was filled with newspapers. Vijay had a morning route on Saturdays, delivering papers from Mount Royal Townhouses, where they both lived, all the way down the avenue to the university, about a mile away.

With the money he earned, he bought heaps of baseball cards. Vijay had the best collection in the neighborhood. He was baseball crazy, in fact, and it was all thanks to Derek, who'd taught him the game when Vijay and his family had first arrived in Kalamazoo.

“Hey, Derek,” he called. “Where's your mitt? We've got practice this afternoon. Don't you want to warm up first?”

“Busy, Vij,” Derek answered, nodding toward his family. “One last game of H-O-R-S-E. Gotta beat the big guy, show him who's got game.”

“Oooh, I don't know, Derek,” Vijay said, grinning but shaking his head. “Your dad is really good. No one can ever beat him.”

“Not either of you guys, that's for sure,” Mr. Jeter said, overhearing. “How 'bout it, old man? You quitting already?”

“Not a chance,” Derek shot back.

“Guess who I found out is on our team,” said Vijay. “Jeff Jacobson. And Jason and Isaiah, too. Practically our whole gang from the Hill!”

“Awesome,” said Derek, excited. The year before, most of his friends had been on other teams. “Gotta go take care of business now, Vij. See you at the field.”

“For sure. Go, Red Sox!”

“Ouch.” Derek winced.

Why did his team have to be the Red Sox? As a passionate Yankees fan, he always rooted
against
the real Red Sox. And he'd
never
been on a team called the Yankees yet.

This would be the second year in a row that Derek and Vijay were on the same team. Vijay wasn't very good at sports, but Derek had worked with him on his baseball game, and he was definitely improving every year. And it was great that a bunch of their other friends were on the team.

“HEY!” Derek shouted as his dad stole the ball, taking advantage of Derek's mind wandering.

“Gotta pay attention!” Mr. Jeter said, sinking a perfect shot from the foul line. Derek figured it would be an easy shot to duplicate. But the “time-out” had somehow thrown him off his rhythm. To his and everyone else's surprise, he missed off the back rim.

“Point game,” said his dad, cocking his head to one side.

“That's
H
-
O
-
R
-
S
for Derek,” Mrs. Jeter announced. “
H
-
O
-
R
for you, Jeter.”

“Jeter” was what she called her husband, and he called her “Dot,” short for Dorothy. They both called Derek “old man,” even though he wasn't a man yet—and he certainly wasn't old.

One more letter and his dad would win.
Again.
Derek gritted his teeth, determined not to go down without a fight.

They went at it for ten more minutes, both of them on fire, hitting shot after shot. Then, finally, Derek missed one. The ball went out of bounds, hitting the fence right next to Sharlee—but she didn't even budge to get it and throw it back to them.

“Come on, Sharlee. Let's have the ball,” Mr. Jeter called to her.

But Sharlee wasn't listening. She was standing at the fence, staring across the street at two boys who were passing by. Derek noticed that one of the boys was looking back
at her. He seemed older than Sharlee by a year or so, although he was almost Derek's size.

Sharlee had a frown on her face, and that was strange, because she was almost always happy and bubbly. “Hey, now,” said Mr. Jeter. “What's the matter, Sharlee? Are you not feeling well?”

“I'm fine,” Sharlee said. “FINE.” She slowly turned back around. “I'm thirsty. Is there anything to drink?”

“I brought some juice,” said Mrs. Jeter. “Here, come on and sit by me.”

Sharlee went over to her mom and sat down. Derek turned to his dad. “What's up with her?” he asked.

“Beats me,” said Mr. Jeter. “I've never seen her lose interest in a ball game like that.”

“Me neither,” Derek agreed. He looked down the street to where the two boys were walking. They were sharing a joke, it seemed, both of them laughing and looking back in Derek's direction.

“You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to,” Mrs. Jeter told Sharlee. “But I hope you know that talking about things can help make them better.”

“Come on, old man,” Mr. Jeter said to Derek. “Let's finish this thing and see who's boss around here.”

Derek knew his dad was saying they should give Sharlee some privacy with her mom. He also knew he had a chance to finally beat his dad at something!

That was before Mr. Jeter sank a thirty-footer, too long a
shot for Derek to hit. His shot fell two feet short, and the game was suddenly over.

Now it was Derek's turn to be sullen, but not for long. His dad came over to him and clapped him on the back. “Good game, old man. Your shot is getting there, it really is. Nice ballhandling, too. Very impressive.”

It was a sincere compliment, and it made Derek feel much better about losing to his dad yet again.

In the car on the way home, Sharlee still seemed out of sorts. Derek wondered what had turned her from her usual self into this silent, sulking little girl . . . .

He was determined to find out, but for now he had to eat and get going. His new team was waiting for him, and he didn't want to be late!

His mom turned around in the front seat and said, “You know, Derek, I was looking at the Tigers' schedule for this season, and I saw that the Yankees are coming to town in the beginning of June.”

It took him a second to realize she was talking about the major leagues, not Little League. “What? Mom, Dad, can we go? Can we, please?”

Derek loved nothing more than watching his beloved Yankees play, especially live. In the summers he often got to go to Yankee Stadium with his grandma, who lived in New Jersey and was the world's biggest Yankees fan.

But it was rare that the Yankees came to Detroit, usually only once a year.

“Well, let's see,” said his mom. “Have you been keeping up with your contract?”

“Totally!” Derek said.

“Are you sure?” his dad asked. “When was the last time you read it over?”

“Um . . .”

“Not lately, I know that,” Mr. Jeter said with a crooked grin. “Because I've got it in my drawer.”

“I know it by heart!” Derek insisted. “And you know I've been doing good at following it.”

“ ‘Well,' not ‘good,' ” his mom corrected him.

“ ‘Well,' I mean. So I think we should all sign a
new
contract, saying you agree to take me to the Yankees-Tigers game as a reward for keeping my
old
contract!”

His parents looked at each other and smiled. “Well, at least he's not afraid to stick up for himself,” said Mrs. Jeter, and they all laughed—all except Sharlee.

“Okay, Derek, you've made your point,” said his dad. “Never mind any new contracts. If you keep to all the rules between now and June, we'll take you to that game.”

“Woo-hoo!” Derek yelled, exultant. He could feel the thrill of the coming baseball season coursing through him. The major-league season had started weeks ago, but today was the start of
his
baseball season.

He couldn't wait for practice to start!

Standing at shortstop on one of the four baseball diamonds that made up Westwood Fields, Derek looked around him and saw a team full of promise—even if the team did happen to be named the
Red Sox
.

Isaiah Martin was there with his full catcher's regalia—mask, shin protectors, chest protector, and big padded mitt. He, like Derek and Vijay, was one of the kids who played ball at Jeter's Hill—or, as Derek called it, simply “the Hill.”

The grassy slope at Mount Royal Townhouses was the only place to play ball near their houses. The other kids had named it after Derek, who was there nearly every day except in the dead of winter.

Isaiah had been on the Tigers last year with Derek
and Vijay. He was a really good catcher. Not bad at hitting either, with some power and a good eye for balls and strikes.

Jeff, another regular from Jeter's Hill, was on the Red Sox too. He'd been on the champion Yankees last season, wearing Derek's favorite number—13—and playing Derek's favorite position, shortstop. Jeff had never really believed in Derek's dream of someday being shortstop for the New York Yankees. In fact, he'd regularly made fun of it.

But now they were going to be teammates, and that was a good thing, Derek thought—because no matter how much he shot his mouth off, Jeff could really pitch and hit, and he was a pretty good fielder, too.

Jason Rossini was another kid Derek knew from the Hill. He, too, had been a champion last year for the Yankees.

Man,
thought Derek.
This team is loaded!

He sort of knew Buster Murphy and Rocco Fanelli from Saint Augustine's. He was surprised to see that Rocco had enrolled in Little League, considering he usually showed zero interest in sports. “Murph,” however, was pretty good at soccer and basketball, so maybe that meant he could play baseball, too.

Everyone else on the team was new to Derek, although he'd played against a few of them. He recognized a little speed demon who'd also been on the Yankees last year.

Sure, there were two or three kids who didn't seem to
be very good at fielding, but every team had some less talented players, even the best teams.

Last year Derek's Tigers hadn't been the strongest team. But they'd ended with a winning record. This year he was hoping for much more . . . maybe a championship, or at least a trip to the playoffs.

Beyond that, he wanted to make sure he got to play shortstop. Last year, because the coach's son had wanted the position, Derek had had to play second base for most of the season.

He concentrated hard now, knowing that first impressions mattered to coaches. Derek handled all his chances in the infield. He did well on fly balls to the outfield, too, although he had no desire to play there. He showed off his arm by uncorking a couple of rocket-like throws back to the infield, and he saw the coaches give each other wide-eyed looks.

During running drills he showed off his speed. Only the little skinny kid from last year's Yankees was faster. Again Derek saw that the coaches noticed.

This was going very well so far, he thought hopefully. Now if only he could impress them with his hitting . . . .

The head coach, Marty Kaufman, seemed like a nice man. He was tall and heavy, with a droopy mustache and long dark hair that stuck out from the back of his Red Sox cap.

His son, Miles, looked just like him except for the
mustache. Derek had already noticed that Miles wasn't a very good fielder.
Maybe he can hit,
thought Derek. In any case Derek was pretty sure Miles was not going to be competing with him for the shortstop job, and that was a big relief.

Derek waited patiently for his turn to hit. Coach Kaufman was doing the pitching for now, while his assistant coach, Mike Murphy, supervised the kids who were out in the field. Coach Murphy's son, Buster, was a tall kid too, even bigger than Miles.

Vijay stood two players ahead of Derek in line, waiting to hit. He was telling the two kids behind him all about Derek. “Did you know that he was the most valuable player in the all-star game last season? All-star! Most valuable!”

“Vijay, cut it out,” Derek told him, embarrassed to be bragged about. He liked for his glove and his bat to do the talking for him.

“So modest,” Vijay joked. “But come on, Derek, you know you're a great player.”

“I'm okay,” he answered, looking for a way to change the subject. “Hey, it's your turn, Vij. Let's see if you remember how to swing that bat.”

He knew Vijay remembered. Twice in the past two weeks, Vijay had gone with Derek and his dad to the batting cages. Derek's parents were totally behind his baseball dreams, and they supported his friendships, too.

Vijay swung and missed at two easy pitches, before finally
connecting on one and sending a line drive to right field. “Attaboy,” Derek said, clapping. “That's the stuff. Keep your eye on it.”

Vijay hit a few more good balls, and then gave over to the next kid in line. As the next kid took his position in the batter's box, everyone turned to look, including Derek.

It wasn't that Derek knew every kid in the neighborhood, or that Kalamazoo was such a small town, but he'd seen every other kid in the league around town before, at least a few times. After all, he'd lived in Kalamazoo for the past five years.

This kid, he'd never seen in his entire life. He was built like an athlete, tall and thin, with a face full of freckles. He didn't seem to know how to stand at the plate. In fact, the kid seemed like he didn't know much about baseball at all.