Your Little League Team Assignment: Pythons.
Liam stared at the subject line of the e-mail. Then he took a deep breath and clicked on the message to open it. He scanned the contents quickly, passing over the information about practices, fundraising, and uniform requirements to get to the team roster.
He smiled broadly when he saw R. Driscoll and S. Driscoll. It made sense they were together, because their father was the Pythons coach. Someone named J. Mendoza was on the roster, too, and Liam wondered if it was the same Mendoza who’d reminded him of Babe Ruth at the tryouts. He didn’t recognize any other name on the list—except for R. Hall.
Oh, great, he groaned inwardly. But his dismay at being on a team with the obnoxious Robert Hall was nothing compared with his relief at not seeing P. DiMaggio on the list.
I’ll still have to face him on the field, he thought, but at least I won’t see him every practice and every game!
The Pythons had their first practice three days later. Liam felt confident when his mother dropped him off at the field. Thanks to her help and extra time in the batting cages, his hitting had started to improve.
But his confidence faltered as he crossed the grass.
Several of his new teammates were gathered at the bleachers, laughing uproariously. One of them noticed Liam. He nudged another, who glanced over and then quickly whispered something to the others. Their laughter died as one by one, they turned to look at him. Their silent stares hit Liam like a bucket of cold water.
Then they parted and Liam came face-to-face with Robert.
“Well, if it isn’t Major Whiff!” the burly boy drawled. “Come to show us your famous swing?” He took an exaggerated cut with an imaginary bat and then fell to the ground.
Don’t let him know he’s bugging you! Sean’s advice echoed in Liam’s mind.
Surprise him, he told himself.
“Actually, Robert, it was more like this.” Now Liam pretended to miss a pitch, ending with a comical, slow-motion corkscrewing twist that made the other boys laugh out loud.
Liam smiled and stood up. “Yeah, not my finest moment,” he admitted ruefully as he brushed off his pants. “But see, that’s the thing. It was just one moment. And it was months ago! So how about we leave it in the past where it belongs? Or at least, judge me by how I play now instead. Okay?”
A few of the boys shuffled their feet. One or two shrugged. Others looked at Robert, who just rolled his eyes.
Not exactly the enthusiastic reaction I was looking for, Liam thought, but it’s better than having them laughing about me behind my back!
“Little help here?”
Rodney, Sean, and Dr. Driscoll had arrived and were lugging mesh bags of equipment across the field. Liam and the rest of the Pythons hurried to lend a hand. Once everything was in the dugout, Dr. Driscoll introduced the Pythons assistant coach, Mr. Dumas, a tall balding man with a paunch and a thin mustache. Then he put his clipboard aside.
“We’ll hit the field in a minute,” he said. “But first, I’m going to teach you something very important.” He looked around at them and smiled. “I’m going to teach you how to breathe.”
“Seriously?” Robert exclaimed. “I’ve been doing that my whole life!”
A few of the players snickered.
“This is a different kind of breathing,” Dr. Driscoll said. “Close your eyes. Now breathe in slowly through your nose. Hold it. Now let it out through your mouth.”
He told them to repeat it while he explained the purpose of the exercise. “There will be times during games when the pressure will be tremendous. This breathing technique will help calm you. If you’re calm, you can focus better. If you’re focused, you’re ready for whatever comes your way. Another way to stay focused? Between pitches, look at the webbing of your glove. It will keep your eyes from wandering.”
Although he felt a little foolish, Liam did the breathing exercises because he liked Dr. Driscoll. Still, he was glad when they were over and the real practice began.
First up was a throwing drill. “Rodney, Sean, help me demonstrate the relay,” Coach Driscoll requested.
The three formed a line with twenty-five-foot spaces between them. Rodney placed a ball by his feet. When his father yelled go, Rodney picked up the ball and hurled it to Sean in the middle. Sean spun and sent it to his father—who missed the catch.
“Whoops, my bad!” Dr. Driscoll retrieved the ball and threw it back to Sean. Or he tried to, anyway. Instead of hitting his son’s glove, the ball flew far over his head.
“Been a while since I’ve thrown a ball, I guess,” Coach Driscoll said.
“Yeah, like forever,” Liam heard Robert mutter.
Liam shot him a look. Robert made a face in return and then, still looking at Liam, whispered something to the boy next to him. The boy flicked his eyes at Liam and hid a grin.
“You get the idea,” Dr. Driscoll said. “Groups of three. Hustle, now!”
Sean motioned for Liam to join him and Rodney.
But instead, Liam moved between Robert and his friend. Before they could react, he swung his arms around their shoulders and squeezed.
“Thanks anyway,” he called to the Driscoll boys, “but I’m dying to show these two what I can do.”