On the other hand, I’d also found out that lots of the players had graduated, which meant there would be more positions on the team open. And if Coach Wu was as good as she was tough and if I made the team, I could learn a lot.
If.
If, if, if.
I wasn’t sure I was ready for this …
At last my final class was over. I went back to my locker, got my glove, and headed for the girls’ locker room.
I pushed open the locker room door to a blast of noise and motion. Good grief. There were about a million people trying out for the team! Trying not to stare or get psyched out, I went to my gym locker, got out my gear, and started to change.
After a minute or two, I realized that I didn’t really know all that many people who were trying out. Those I did know, I didn’t know very well. I recognized a couple of girls. One of them, Bea Foster, was another eighth-grader who was in my math class. Like Stacey, Bea seemed to be a math whiz, but unlike Stacey she was neither thin nor blonde nor did she seem as strong-willed. Bea had long black hair she wore in a braid straight down her back and she wasn’t much taller than I was. I wondered if she was a good player.
Just as I finished tying my shoes, the door leading from the locker room to the fields slammed open and a brisk voice said, “Everybody out for tryouts!” A blast of the whistle punctuated the end of the sentence and I jumped.
“Whew!” said someone, putting her hands to her ears.
“Wu. Coach Wu,” said a tall, solidly built girl wearing the jersey from last year’s SMS softball team. “You can tell by the whistle!”
A wiry red-headed girl said nervously, “Is she — mean?”
The tall girl shrugged and headed for the door without answering.
The red-haired girl pulled up her socks, straightened her shoulders, and followed.
I picked up my glove and punched my hand into the well-grooved pocket a couple of times. Then I joined the rest of the players heading out onto the field.
We started out easy. Coach Wu introduced herself, told us how many players she’d be choosing, what the positions were, and a little bit about the team. “My criteria are teamwork, hard work, and talent, in that order,” she announced. “Because if you can’t play as a team, if you’re not willing to work hard, then all the talent in the world isn’t going to make you a winner.”
She lifted the whistle she wore on a silver chain around her neck and blasted it again (I could tell I’d better get used to it!) and we all trotted out onto the field to begin stretches and then warm-ups by throwing softballs to each other.
After the warm-ups, Coach Wu put us through some basic drills. I relaxed a little. Most of the drills were familiar variations on the ones I used for the Krushers. I let go of my nervousness and worked hard at doing every drill as perfectly as possible.
As the tryouts went on, I realized that several of the players — among them the tall girl who’d shrugged off the question about Coach Wu in the locker room — were consistently pairing off for the drills, and that they played together and talked together easily. It wasn’t long before I also realized that they were team members from the year before.
And that they were good.
Very good.
And that they knew it.
Not that they were show-offs or anything. Show-offs are insecure. They crave attention. These players didn’t seem to care if you paid attention to them or not. Nor did they seem to see any reason to pay attention to anyone else. They didn’t really try to talk to anyone else.
Maybe teamwork meant only talking to people on your own team, I thought wryly, watching them.
But they were good. When we were doing fielding drills, one of them snagged a fly ball over her shoulder with her bare left hand. It was an amazing catch, and I winced as I heard the ball hit the palm of her hand.
“Hey, Marcia, quit showin’ off,” drawled the tall girl, who was playing first base.
“Is your hand okay?” called Coach Wu.
Marcia nodded, although even I could see from where I stood at third that her palm was bright red. “No problem,” she answered with studied casualness, and sauntered back to her position at shortstop.
Very tough.
Just then, I heard the bat connect with the ball and the next thing I knew a screaming line drive was headed down the third base line toward me. I reacted instinctively, crouching a little and centering my glove. The ball smacked into it, I grabbed it with my left hand, and winged it to first base. The tall girl caught it easily.
“Nice work,” said Coach Wu. To me!
The girl on first base tossed the ball in the air and looked across at me. She raised her eyebrows.
I nodded, trying to look casual, pulled the bill of my own cap down lower, and settled back into position.
Nice work, the coach had said. And it had been, too. But I couldn’t let that break my concentration.
The tryouts went on and on and on. By the time I got to take a rest on the bench near the end of tryouts, I was pretty beat. Under Coach Wu’s instruction, I’d done softball drills I never even knew existed before. I’d run farther and faster than I thought possible. I tried a new batting stance and half a dozen fielding positions.
Whatever happened, I’d have some new things to show the Krushers.
Marcia and a couple of other girls walked slowly by. I wasn’t sure, but I thought Marcia glanced over at me. As they passed, their voices sank. Were they talking about me? I hoped they were saying I was a good player. Coming from one of them, it would mean something.
Instead, I heard the words, “… about the initiation for …” before someone else said, loudly, “Shhh!”
I frowned. Initiation? Nobody did stuff like that anymore.
Did they?
No. I must have made a mistake. I probably hadn’t heard right.
Before I could think about it further, Coach Wu blew her whistle. “Okay. You’ve all done a good job. I’ll post the results Friday afternoon. If you do not make the team, please remember that we have had many, many good players try out this year. Not every good player will make it. If you don’t, I hope I’ll see you here next year. Now — four laps around the track at a cool-down pace, and I’ll see some of you for the first practice next week. Thank you all.”
She blasted the whistle again and I got to my feet. Four laps.
I mustered my last bit of energy to mount a respectable cool-down pace. I was tired. But I’d done well.
I only hoped I had done well enough to make the team.
* * *
“So how’d it go, slugger?” That was Charlie.
“That’s Ms. Slugger to you,” I said, pretending to put my nose in the air.
“She got you, Charlie,” said Sam.
“Seriously, Kristy, what did happen at tryouts today?” asked Watson.
I looked down at my mashed potatoes. I was so tired and sore I thought I might fall asleep in them, but I was still strangely exhilarated, too.
“It went pretty well, I think.” I told my family about the catch at third and Coach Wu’s encouraging words. “And I got some solid hits. Nothing spectacular, though.”
“Well, the best batters aren’t successful at the plate more than three times out of ten,” my mother pointed out. “That’s why batting averages are always in the two hundreds and three hundreds — it means two or three hits out of every ten times at bat.”
“I never thought about it that way.” Did I have the strength to lift another forkful of mashed potatoes?
“It’s a good team,” said Sam. “But if you do make it, you’d better be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
Sam made his face solemn. “To prove yourself worthy.”
“What are you talking about, Sam?”
“Initiation, what else?” said Sam. “Doing something to show you’re good enough to join a team, or club, or whatever. But don’t be afraid. I don’t think they’re allowed to drive you out to the country in the middle
of the night blindfolded, and then drop you off.”
Watson said, “I don’t imagine initiations of any sort are practiced these days. I’d be surprised if they were.”
Charlie shrugged. “Sam’s just kidding. But you always hear stories. Like the girl who had to spend the night in a haunted house.”
“No problem,” I answered. “Don’t forget, Charlie, we’ve spent the night in a haunted mansion!”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Well, what about the girl who had to wear the same clothes to school for a week without washing them?” said Charlie.
“Pee-uuu,” said David Michael. “You won’t do that, will you Kristy?”
“I don’t think so,” I said “I’ve never heard of anything like this.”
“Coach Wu wouldn’t allow it,” said Charlie. “But what she doesn’t know….” He wriggled his eyebrows.
I rolled my eyes back at him. “Very funny,” I said. “I may be tired, but I’m not so tired I’m going to fall for any of this!”
I suddenly remembered the words I overheard and my voice trailed off.
“No, but you might fall into the mashed potatoes,” my mother said, laughing. “You sound exhausted. Why don’t you go on to bed, Kristy?”
“Yeah, slugger, I’ll pinch hit with the dishes for you,” said Sam.
“Well …” I hated to admit how tired I was. But why pass up a chance not to have to do the dishes? “Okay. Thanks, Sam.”
“No prob.”
I got up slowly from the table and made my achy way to my room. I was almost too tired to think. But still, as I got ready for bed, I couldn’t help wondering: If I made the team, would I have to go through some sort of initiation? I’d never heard of anything like that at SMS for any of the sports. But my brothers said they had.
And what about what I’d overheard?
On the other hand, my brothers were always teasing me.
They were probably teasing me now.
Or were they?
More than the usual number of days came between the Monday of softball tryouts and Friday, when the results were supposed to be posted. And all of the days were extra long. They really were.
Or at least they seemed that way.
I tried not to talk about it, or let anyone know how focused I was on whether I’d made the team or not. But I admit, I was a little preoccupied during the BSC meetings, and while I kept up with my homework, I wasn’t exactly into it.
Friday morning, I thought the bus would never get to SMS. It took twice as long. I was amazed to see, as I bounded up the front steps, that the bus had arrived at the usual time.
A crowd of people had gathered around the bulletin board outside the gym. For a moment I stood at the edge, gathering up my courage.
A soft voice at my elbow said, “Go on, Kristy.”
I jumped. “Mary Anne! What are you doing down here?”
Mary Anne smiled. “Oh, Kristy. How could I forget that the results of the tryouts were being posted today?”
“Have you looked?” I asked.
“Kristy! Go look for yourself!” Mary Anne gave me a little nudge and I plunged into the crowd.
What a short list, I thought as I got closer. Too short. Too short for me to be on it.
Well, I wasn’t going to be disappointed. In fact, I was going to try out again next season and besides …
My brain registered what my eyes had been looking at. “I made it!” I gasped. “I made it!”
I wriggled back through the crowd to Mary Anne.
“Congratulations, Kristy,” said Mary Anne, before I could even speak.
“Did you look at the list before I got here?” I demanded.
Mary Anne nodded. “But even if I hadn’t, I’d have been able to tell from your face.”
I had to laugh. I was so excited. “This is super!” I said.
“It really is, Kristy!” Mary Anne threw her arms around me and gave me a big hug. “Listen, I have to go, but I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”
I nodded in a happy daze as Mary Anne hurried off. I had made the team. Suddenly, the whole world looked different.
A league of my own, I thought.
“Congratulations,” said another voice and I turned to see Bea.
“Thanks,” I said. I paused. I hadn’t really noticed who else had made it. I didn’t have to wonder long.
“Isn’t it great?” Bea shrieked. “I made it, too!”
“Congratulations!”
Bea motioned excitedly to two other girls standing beside her. “We all did — Tonya, Dilys, me, and you. And we’re the only new members on the team!”
That stopped me. “Really?”
“No pressure,” murmured the curly-haired girl on Bea’s right. “Hi. I’m Tonya. You probably don’t know me or Dilys. I’m in seventh grade, and Dilys is …”
“A sixth-grader,” Dilys said. “Don’t rub it in. Not only am I one of the four new members of the team, but I’m the only sixth-grader.”
“You’re so tall. You don’t look like a sixth-grader,” I blurted out. “Ooops. Sorry.”
Dilys laughed. “Don’t be. It’s a compliment. I can hardly wait to not be a sixth-grader anymore, so not looking like one is a good beginning.”
We all started laughing, and then Bea and Dilys started talking at top speed. Tonya, like me, was silent. I wondered if she was savoring the feeling of making the team as I was. I caught her eye and smiled.
“So, you’re the new girls.” I recognized the raspy tone and looked up. Yes. It was Marcia, the girl from the tryouts, flanked by Tallie, the pitcher.
Marcia took a step forward and Bea backed up, bumping into me. I didn’t move. What was going on?
“You think because your name was put up on the board with ours that you’ve got it made? That you’re a member of the team?” asked Marcia.
Bea said, “Coach Wu —”
“Forget Coach Wu.” That was Tallie. She had a funny little smile on her face. “This isn’t about Coach Wu. It’s about you. The Four Musketeers here.”
“Hey,” I said, beginning to feel annoyed, but trying to turn it off. It wouldn’t do to get a bad start on the team. “Hey, I like that. Not a bad name.”
“Yeah?” asked Tallie, turning to inspect me. In spite of myself, I blushed, feeling like a complete dork.
I raised my chin. “What’s the problem, Tallie?”
Tallie kept staring hard at me as she answered, “No problem. It’s just this: You’re not a member of the team until you pass initiation.”
“Initiation!” squeaked Bea.
So Charlie and Sam had been right, I thought. I said aloud, “Initiation? You mean hazing? SMS doesn’t allow that.”
“Very good,” Marcia drawled. “But the SMS softball team does.”
“I don’t know.” Dilys shook her head.
“You don’t have a choice,” Marcia told her. “You don’t do your initiation, you don’t play, it’s as simple as that.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You can’t do that! It’s up to coach, not you.”
“Have you ever played ball with someone who makes you look bad no matter what you do?” said Tallie. “They put a little spin on their throws so you fumble the ball, slide into you at practice, give you the signal to run when you should stay on base?”
“You wouldn’t do that!” Tonya said.
“Check it out,” said Tallie with a truly evil grin.
No one answered. Then Marcia said, “This is what you’re going to do, musketeers. You’re going to spray paint grafitti on the equipment shed at the edge of the track.”
I made one last try. “Does the rest of the team know about this?”
Marcia stepped forward and glared at me. “Yes. We all decided on the initiation task. What’s the matter? Chicken?”
“No, but I’m not stupid, either,” I began, when Tallie said, “Marcia,” in an urgent undervoice.
Marcia looked past me and broke into a big smile. “So welcome to the team,” she s
aid. “Anything we can do, just let us know, you hear?”
“Huh?” said Bea.
“Break it up, girls,” Coach Wu said from behind me. “The warning bell has already rung, you know.”
“Right, coach,” said Tallie. She looked at us. “See you.”
“Later,” added Marcia meaningfully and they sauntered off down the hall.
“I’m going to be late,” gasped Dilys. She shot off down the hall.
“Me, too,” said Tonya. “ ’Bye.”
“ ’Bye,” cried Bea and hurried after her.
Still seething, I ran toward my own first class and slid into my seat just as the bell rang. Maybe almost being late was why I was so distracted.
Or maybe it was thinking about what Marcia and Tallie had said. Surely they were kidding about the hazing.
Or maybe I was kidding myself.
* * *
“It’s a pop-up Oreo!” Claudia pitched a cookie up into the air, thumped her fist into her hand, and then caught it.
“OUT!” cried Stacey.
“You guys are too much.” All the brooding I’d been doing about the initiation scene that morning went right out of my head as I stepped into Claudia’s room. The members of the BSC had beat me there. They’d put up a banner that said, “Kristy at bat! Hooray!” And there was an ice-cream cake on a card table set up right in the middle of the room.
“Okay, Claud,” I said, stepping into the room and making an elaborate pretense of looking around. “I know you made a cake for me. Where have you been keeping it?”
When we stopped laughing, Claudia pulled the director’s chair up to the table. “You have the honor of cutting the cake.”
I divided it up into big chunks for everybody except Stacey, who was eating fruit salad and yogurt.
“Is this the carbo-loading you were telling me about?” asked Mallory.
“Definitely,” I said.
“So when Claud and I coach the Krushers, we should keep this victory food in mind?” Stacey motioned at my heaped plate of ice cream cake with her fork.