“Ciara, tell my daddy what we both did today!”
Sharlee sat at the Jeters’ dinner table, practically bouncing up and down in her chair. Her new best friend and current T-ball teammate, Ciara, a cute red-haired girl who was always giggling, sat next to her.
“We both hit home runs!” Ciara chirped, and the two girls high-fived.
“Yessss!” Sharlee cried. “We already won our first two games, and we’re never gonna lose, ever!”
Derek sat across from them, trying to eat his spaghetti despite his sudden loss of appetite. He was happy for Sharlee—really, he was—but he would have been a lot happier if things had been going better in his own baseball life.
“Mommy saw the whole game!” Sharlee went on. “Right, Mom?”
“Uh-huh, yes I did,” said Mrs. Jeter. “It was super. You guys both rocked. But if you don’t eat your supper, you won’t be strong enough to hit any more homers. Right, old man?” She turned and gave Derek a wink.
He smiled as best he could and said, “That’s right, Sharlee.” Normally his words would have had a lot more enthusiasm behind them, but Derek just couldn’t work it up. Not tonight.
Inside he was churning with anxiety about the team’s first game tomorrow.
“Are you okay, old man?” his mom asked.
Derek looked down at his plate. Nothing ever got by her. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Fine.”
“Hmmm,” Mrs. Jeter replied. Derek looked up in time to see her exchange a meaningful glance with his dad. “Not hungry tonight, slugger?” she asked.
“I guess not,” he said. “I’m kind of tired. Big day tomorrow. . . . I think I’ll go up to my room.”
Mrs. Jeter glanced at the two little girls, who were having a grand old time making each other giggle. “Derek, if you’re done eating, why don’t you come help me do the dishes?”
He knew what that meant. She wanted to talk to him. Alone.
He followed her into the kitchen and got a towel so he could start drying the dishes as she finished washing them. “So,” she began almost right away, “you want to tell me what’s on your mind? Or are you going to make me guess?”
Derek sighed. It was like both his parents had eyes in the backs of their heads. They knew everything that was going on with him, almost as soon as he did.
“It’s Dad,” he said. “I thought he was going to be the coach I always dreamed of. But so far it’s not turning out that way.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “Like, for instance?”
“For instance, he thought I was clowning around—and it wasn’t even me; it was Gary—so he made me play the outfield the whole rest of practice! I hardly got one ball hit to me the whole time, and Dad knows I’m a shortstop! How does he expect me to get better at it if I’m stuck in the outfield, not getting any action at all?”
“Hey, was Willie Mays ‘stuck’ out there? Or Mickey Mantle? Or Babe Ruth?”
“That’s not the point, Mom! Dad knows I want to play short! He’s just trying to punish me.”
Mrs. Jeter handed him another dish to dry. “Maybe he’s thinking it makes you a better player to get experience at every position. Maybe he was trying to remind you what a privilege it is to play shortstop, captain of the whole infield. Captains have to set a good example.”
Funny, Derek thought. His dad had said almost the same thing. “But the whole reason it happened is because of Gary!” Derek said. “And neither Dad nor Chase did anything to him!”
“They didn’t put him in the outfield?”
“He already plays there.”
“Or bench him?”
“That would have just been doing Gary a favor,” Derek said glumly. “He hates sports, remember?”
“Oh, right. You did mention that.”
“He even lied about having asthma, to explain why he couldn’t run drills like the rest of us!”
Mrs. Jeter opened her eyes wide. “Really? Are you sure? Maybe you just didn’t know he had it.”
“I’ve been in class with him three straight years,” Derek said. “He’s never even used an inhaler. And besides, when I called him on it, he pretty much admitted it right to my face!”
“I see. Hmmm. . . .”
“So he sits there on the bench and makes farting noises, and puts bubble gum on my hat and ruins it, and makes jokes about how stupid all the kids look in their uniforms, and stuff like that. And half the kids laugh at him!”
“At him, or with him?” Mrs. Jeter asked.
“Who knows, who cares? They’re not paying attention to baseball! And Dad and Chase don’t even notice! All Dad does is punish me instead!” Derek threw the dish towel onto the floor angrily and folded his arms across his chest.
His mom shut the water off and gave him a stern look.
“Sorry,” he said, and bent down to pick up the towel. He handed it to her so she could dry her hands.
“You know, Derek, your dad’s a pretty wise person. Maybe he trusts you boys to figure out a solution for yourselves.”
“Huh? How can we do that?”
“Well, old man, let’s see. . . . How can you yourself make sure your team plays up to its potential?” Patting his shoulder, she said, “I’ve got to go make sure those girls don’t laugh themselves silly.”
Smiling, she left him there to think about what she’d said.
It was a lot to digest. And right now, with their big first game looming, Derek felt overwhelmed with it all. After all, he was only eleven—well, in a month and a half, anyway. How was he supposed to be able to come up with all the answers for himself?
• • •
Derek’s dad had called for the team to arrive at the field an hour early so that he and Chase could give them some extra attention. Chase was doing fielding drills with most of the kids, while Mr. Jeter helped Gary, Eddie, Jonah, and a couple of others with their swings.
From the start of the first practice, the two coaches had approached their team as teachers. There had been no talk of winning games or getting pumped up for the competition the season would soon bring.
But to Derek, baseball skills were only one part of a winning team. Another part, and just as important, was team spirit. And so far the Indians’ spirit was all messed up. Half the kids were sore at Gary and his high jinks, while the other half enjoyed them. It might not have mattered in practice, but what about in games?
“Okay, Indians. Gather round,” said Mr. Jeter, calling everybody over to the bench. The Cubs had arrived, and it was their turn to warm up on the field.
“Coach Bradway is going to read off the starting lineup for today,” Mr. Jeter continued when everyone was paying attention. Even Gary seemed interested at the moment—probably to make sure he didn’t have to play right away, thought Derek.
“Just because you aren’t starting doesn’t mean you won’t get in the game,” Mr. Jeter went on. “And it doesn’t mean you won’t start next time. If you’re at a different position than you expect, it doesn’t mean that won’t change next game, or the game after.”
He didn’t look at Derek as he said it, but Derek was afraid those words applied to him. Was his dad really going to stick him in the outfield? For real?
“Coach Bradway and I want you boys to experience as many aspects of the game as possible. That’ll make you better ballplayers down the road. So no matter where you are in the batting order, or in the field, or on the bench, remember, you’re there for a reason, and you’re there to give it your best. All right. That’s my two cents. Coach Bradway?”
Chase stepped up and began. “Batting first, and playing second base, Mason. Batting second, playing center field, Dean. Batting third, and catching, Derek.”
“What?” Derek was so shocked that he shouted it out loud. Immediately he wished he hadn’t. He could feel his dad’s stern look, even though he didn’t return it.
Catcher? Catcher, of all positions?
It immediately occurred to Derek that his mom must have mentioned to his dad what he’d said about the outfield not getting enough action. His dad had obviously responded by putting him at a position where you were in the middle of things on every single pitch!
It wasn’t shortstop, but it was better, at least, than being stuck in the outfield and waiting pitch after pitch for a ball to be hit your way.
On the other hand he’d never caught a game before. That made him think of what his mom had said last night, and what his dad had just repeated, about learning all aspects of the game. It made sense to Derek—sort of—but it didn’t make him happy, that was for sure. He wanted to be a shortstop, and nothing but a shortstop!