Kristy at Bat

  “If you want to.”

  “I do,” said David Michael, picking up the kit and hugging it to his chest.

  Abby could see that he was still proud of his collection, Felipe Martinez or no Felipe Martinez. That was good. “Do you mind if we stop at my house on the way?” she asked. “I have something I’d like to bring too.”

  David Michael looked interested. “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They set out, David Michael with his collector’s kit under one arm. “Maybe Barry won’t even be there today,” he said hopefully.

  “I hope he is,” said Abby as they neared her house. “I have a few things I want him to see.”

  David Michael gave her a puzzled look.

  They’d reached Abby’s porch by then. “Come on in,” she said. Then she asked David Michael to wait in the hall while she ran upstairs. She returned carrying an old, battered shoe box.

  “What’s that?” asked David Michael.

  “This,” said Abby, “is my baseball card collection.”

  David Michael’s eyes grew round. “You have your own collection? Cool. Can I see?”

  “I’ll show it to everyone when we get to the playground,” Abby told him. “But if we don’t move it, we’re going to miss the whole swap session!”

  They arrived at the playground to see that the group of kids had already gathered. Abby and David Michael joined them.

  Barry seemed to be running the show. “You’re just in time,” he said. “We were about to go around and talk about what’s new in our collections. I’m going first.” He held up a page in his collector’s kit. “My dad brought home this card for me last night. Matt Adamec. This card is already worth a lot, and it’s growing in value.”

  “Matt Adamec,” said Abby. “How about that? It just so happens that David Michael’s sister — my friend Kristy — is hanging out with Matt this week.”

  Barry looked stunned. “What?” he asked.

  “My sister’s at Dream Camp,” David Michael explained. “It’s where you go and play baseball all week with some of the really great retired players. Matt Adamec is one of her coaches.”

  “Whoa!” said Jake. “That is so awesome.”

  “What other players are there?” asked Buddy Barrett.

  “Oh, Bill Bain,” said David Michael casually. Abby smiled.

  “Bill Bain!” said Jackie Rodowsky. “My dad talks about him all the time.”

  “Mine too,” said another boy.

  “I have a Bill Bain card,” said Barry. “It’s in mint condition.”

  Everybody ignored him.

  “Tell us more about the camp,” said Jake. “Do the famous players really hang out with the campers?”

  “Uh-huh,” said David Michael. (Watson and I hadn’t told our family how little we’d actually seen of Bill Bain.) “They eat meals with them and everything. And my sister even met this lady, Gloria, who was in the women’s league. Kristy said she’s really cool.”

  “Wow,” breathed Laurel. “I saw the movie about that league.”

  Barry interrupted, “Are we going to talk about this dumb camp all day, or are we going to do some trading? Didn’t anyone else bring some new cards?”

  “Actually, yes,” said Abby. “I brought my whole collection.” She held up the shoe box.

  Barry looked unimpressed. “What do you have?” he asked in a bored tone.

  “Mostly just players I really like,” said Abby. “Like, I have Dave Campbell from when he was with the Red Sox, because I remember going to a game at Fenway once. My dad took us to visit our aunt up in Boston one summer, and we went to a doubleheader against the Yankees —”

  “Right, right,” said Barry impatiently. “What else?”

  “Let’s see,” said Abby, rummaging through her box. “I have a Pete Richardson. Remember that catch he made during the pennant race a couple of years ago? Unbelievable. And an Alonso Garcia, and a Bucky Shephard …”

  The other kids had gathered around to see, and some of them were talking excitedly about Alonso Garcia’s latest home run. Barry spoke over their voices. “Don’t you have anything good?” he asked. “I mean, like valuable?”

  “Like this, maybe?” Abby said, holding up a card that was in a special plastic wrapper. “A nineteen seventy-seven Reggie Jackson?”

  Barry gulped, and his eyes grew wide. “Whoa,” he said. For a second, that’s all he could say.

  Abby was wearing a tiny smile. She knew she’d finally impressed Barry. That card was most likely worth more than any card he’d ever seen. “Want to check it out?” she asked, handing it over.

  Barry took it carefully. He’d had a moment to recover, and now he returned to his cool stance. “Nice,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’d consider a swap. I have a limited-edition Roger Howard card you might be interested in.” He handed Abby’s card back and began to page through his collection.

  Abby held up a hand. “Don’t bother looking for it,” she said. “This card is not up for trades.”

  Barry nodded. “I can understand that. It’s a very valuable card.”

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Abby. “But not just in the way you mean. It’s valuable to me because my dad gave me this card before he died. Reggie Jackson was his favorite player, and nineteen seventy-seven was a great year for Reggie. So this card means a lot to me. I’ll never trade it or sell it to anyone.” She looked at the card and smiled sadly, then stuck it back into her shoe box.

  David Michael was staring at her. Abby had the feeling that she’d finally reached him, that the lightbulb had gone on in his head.

  “You know what?” he said suddenly. “I’m really glad I have those Charlie Lawson cards. I’m going to save them and give them to my kids someday and tell them all about what a great ballplayer he was.” He turned to Barry. “You might think you made a great trade the other day,” he said, “but you didn’t, really. The card you ended up with is worth more money, but I have two cards of one of my favorite players. That’s much better.”

  “David Michael is right,” said Jake. “And who knows? In twenty years, that Charlie Lawson card might be worth a ton anyway. Values change all the time.”

  Barry looked deflated. “Yeah, well …” he began, then fell silent. His glance fell on his collection. “Anybody else want to try to trade for favorite players?” he asked.

  Nobody answered him. The kids had all crowded around David Michael. “So what’s Matt Adamec really like?” Jake asked. “Did Kristy say if he’s been batting right or left? He’s a switch hitter, you know.”

  “Does Bill Bain still have a great arm?” asked Buddy Barrett.

  Abby smiled as she watched David Michael answer their questions. Mission accomplished, she thought.

  I rolled over, opened my eyes, and groaned. The second I woke up on Saturday morning I remembered: This was the day of the game. And things were not looking good.

  Watson was still mad at me.

  Bill Bain probably was too.

  I hadn’t been playing well all week.

  And despite Matt’s and Gloria’s hard work, our team was not really a team yet.

  On the plus side …

  There was no plus side. Or at least, I couldn’t think of one. Unless you counted Vicki’s victory with her dad. But that wasn’t going to do the Blue Batters much good when they met the Red Devils on the field in — I grabbed my watch off the nightstand table — just under three hours.

  There was no doubt about it.

  The Red Devils were going to thrash us.

  I groaned again. Then I peered hopefully at the curtained windows. Maybe it would be pouring, and they’d have to cancel the game.

  I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Then I padded to the window, pulled back the curtains — and groaned again. It was a gorgeous spring day: blue sky, puffy white clouds, new green grass and all. Phooey.

  Oh, well, I thought. What’s the worst that could happen? Total humiliation? I shrugged and w
ent off to brush my teeth and wash my face.

  Once I’d washed and dressed, I poked my head into the living room to see if Watson was up and about. The night before he’d been very polite and distant with me, which is how Watson can be when he’s angry. He hadn’t even given me a chance to apologize.

  Not that I would have.

  I still felt that I had done the right thing. After all, what I had said to Bill Bain had been the truth. Word had spread about our confrontation, and several campers had congratulated me at dinner for having the guts to tell off “the great one.” Even Mr. Sahadevan, who worshipped Bill Bain almost as much as Watson did, thought I had done the right thing. He told me so during dinner, right in front of Watson. But Watson had acted as if he hadn’t heard.

  After dinner, as I was puttering around in my room before bed, I had ached for my dad again. He would have seen through Bill Bain just the way I had, instead of holding him up as a hero who could do no wrong. Wouldn’t he? I had to admit I wasn’t sure. I didn’t really know my dad.

  I did know Watson, though. And I knew he wasn’t usually one to hold a grudge. So I was hopeful, that morning, that he would have put his anger behind him.

  I found him in the living room, poking through his pile of memorabilia. “Guess I might as well pack up all this junk,” he said when he spotted me.

  I didn’t know what to say. Watson’s chances of going home with a Bill Bain autograph seemed slimmer than ever.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Watson said. “That’s all kid stuff anyway — wanting autographs and all. We were here to play ball and learn some new skills, and I certainly did that.”

  “So did I,” I said. Watson was talking to himself more than me, but at least he didn’t seem so mad anymore. Now he just seemed sad, which was actually almost worse. I tried to cheer him up. “I had a great time, Watson,” I went on. “Thanks a lot for bringing me here.”

  He smiled at me, without really seeing me. “Sure, sure,” he said. He was still holding the baseball he’d hoped to have autographed, squeezing it gently in his right hand. Then he carefully put it down on the table and walked toward the door. “Ready for breakfast?” he asked.

  The dining room was full of campers in fresh-looking “game” uniforms. Everyone was in high spirits as they chattered about the game and the players who would join us that day. A few local celebrities would be popping in to play, since our game was not only going to be videotaped but also shown on local TV. The mayor of the town, the police chief, and a famous writer who lived nearby were all going to be guest stars for the Blue Batters. The Red Devils would be joined by a judge, a U.S. senator, and a factory owner.

  It was exciting to think about playing ball on TV, but scary too. The possibilities for humiliation were so much greater!

  Nobody else seemed worried. Mr. Sahadevan was psyched for the game. Gloria was all keyed up, tossing out last-minute batting tips as we ate our omelettes.

  Even Vicki seemed excited. “Now that the pressure is off,” she whispered to me as we left the dining room together, “I can just enjoy myself. After all, this is the last baseball game I’ll ever have to play!” She held up her hand for a high five, and I gave her one. “I owe you big-time, Kristy Thomas,” she said. “I’ll never forget the way you helped me.”

  “You did it all,” I said. “You didn’t even need me there. You were awesome.”

  “You were pretty awesome yourself yesterday,” said Vicki, “telling off Bill Bain that way. My dad was so impressed.”

  “I wish Watson had been.” By then we were walking to the playing field, and I glanced back to see Watson and Mr. Sahadevan following us. “He wasn’t too happy with me.”

  Vicki shrugged. “You did the right thing, though. Just remember that. Maybe someday Watson will see it too.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Whoa!” said Vicki. “Look who’s here.”

  We’d arrived at the field, and as we rounded the bleachers a figure came into view. Vicki was the first to see who it was.

  It was Bill Bain.

  Dressed in a coach’s uniform.

  Waiting for us.

  He nodded when he spotted me, but he didn’t say anything. In fact, he didn’t say a word until our entire team was assembled on the field. Watson stood near me, staring at Bill Bain as if he were seeing a ghost.

  Finally, when everyone including Matt and Gloria had gathered, Bill Bain began to talk.

  “I’m not much for speeches,” he said, “so bear with me. I have a few things to say.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked straight at me.

  Oh, no.

  “First off, I have an apology to make. This young lady was right on the money when she let me have it yesterday.” He nodded in my direction.

  I felt dizzy for a second, as if I were going to pass out.

  “I’ve been rude, and I’ve let you all down,” he went on. “And I’m sorry for that. I don’t know if it’s possible to make it up to you, but I’m going to do my best. I’ll be with you one hundred percent for this game, and I’ll be around as much as I can until the end of camp.”

  Wow. I snuck a glance at Watson and saw that he was smiling. In fact, he was grinning. He saw me, and he reached over to put an arm around my shoulders.

  Bill Bain was looking at me again. “I want to thank you all for being patient,” he said. “Now, what do you say? Should we start our warm-ups? The Red Devils will be here in an hour, and then it’ll be game time!”

  We burst into applause. “Go, Blue Batters!” shouted Mr. Sahadevan.

  “Go, Blue!” everybody yelled. Then we ran onto the field and, with Bill Bain leading us, went through our warm-ups.

  First we stretched. Then we jogged. Then we ran the basic drills for fielding and baserunning. Batting practice was last, and by then our “celebrities” had joined us. I was happy to see that our famous writer was a strong hitter, and the police chief looked as if he might be a fast runner. The mayor was kind of pudgy and nonathletic-looking, but maybe he’d surprise us.

  Bill Bain was certainly surprising me. He took control of our team easily, slipping into the role of coach as if he’d been doing it all along. It didn’t take him long to size up our skills and decide where and how to use each player. The best part? He put me at first base.

  Yes!

  Maybe I needed to ask Bill Bain to have a little talk with Coach Wu.

  The Red Devils appeared, and Bill Bain declared that it was time to “play ball!” The Devils won the coin flip and decided to take to the field first so they’d have “last ups” at the end of the game.

  After consulting with Matt and Gloria, Bill Bain had put together a batting order for our team. Mr. Sahadevan led off. Another of our stronger players, Mr. James, batted next. I was third, and Watson was fourth.

  Mr. Sahadevan started us off with an awesome hit to left field, a double. Mr. James banged out a single. So when I came to the plate, there were runners on first and third. I wanted so badly to get a great hit and bring home the first runner of the game.

  But it wasn’t to be.

  I struck out. One, two, three.

  Bummer.

  Watson struck out too.

  And our fifth hitter, the mayor, popped the ball up, straight to the pitcher.

  “That’s okay,” said Bill Bain, clapping his hands. “Good inning, good inning. Now go on out there and make sure they don’t score either.”

  We grabbed our gloves and ran onto the field. From my spot at first, I could see all my teammates. We tossed a ball around the way Matt and Gloria had taught us, warming up. The throws were accurate, the catches perfect.

  Suddenly, we were a team.

  And we played like one.

  Unfortunately, the Red Devils weren’t looking too shabby either. By the sixth inning, the score was tied. Four to four. I went up to bat with the bases loaded, hoping against hope for a good hit — and struck out again.

  It was so frustrating. Oh, sure, I’d made some
decent catches, and Watson and Mr. Sahadevan and I had even turned a really flashy double play in the third inning. But for some reason I wasn’t going to be happy until I made a great hit in front of Bill Bain and the rest of my teammates.

  Finally, in the ninth inning, with the score tied again at six to six, I had one last chance. I came up to bat, this time with nobody on base. We needed a run badly, but I knew the most I could hope for was probably a double. The Red Devils had some excellent fielders.

  I swung twice and missed. Two strikes. Then I let a couple of bad pitches go by. Two balls. One more pitch. I swung — and connected. Hard. The ball flew up, up — and away. I took off running and didn’t stop until I’d crossed the plate.

  A home run! I could hardly believe it. My team was cheering and jumping around. The video cameraman was pointing the camera straight at me. I gave him a double thumbs-up and a huge smile.

  That would have been enough to make my day, but what happened next was even better. Watson came up to bat and connected on the first pitch. He ran as fast as he could and made it all the way to third base. A triple!

  The next batter hit a grounder between first and second base, and Watson took off for home. As he crossed the plate, Bill Bain was there, cheering him on.

  The look on Watson’s face as he held up his hand for a high five from his childhood hero said it all. Dream Camp had turned into a dream come true for him. And from that moment on, I knew it didn’t even matter whether we won the game. We were winners already.

  Oh, by the way, we did win. The final score? Nine to seven. Go, Blue Batters!

  “Aren’t you going to change for dinner?” I asked Watson. “That uniform is looking — and smelling — pretty used.”

  “I know,” he said happily. We were lounging around in our living room, talking over the game and reliving some of the best moments. Watson still grinned every time he thought about the triple he’d hit. “Nice blast,” he mused. “That’s what Bill Bain said to me. ‘Nice blast.’ Can you imagine? Me, Watson Brewer, complimented like that by the great Bill Bain?”

  Watson seemed to have forgiven — and forgotten — everything Bill Bain had done.