Coach Harrison bounced on the balls of his feet. “Okay, boys, round up.”
Carter, Ash, and their teammates gathered in a circle by the dugout with Mr. Harrison and his assistants, Mr. Filbert and Mr. Walker.
“Hands in the middle,” Mr. Harrison said. “And—”
“Forest Park, one-two-three! Forest Park, one-two-three!” the boys bellowed, flinging their hands skyward in unison on the second three.
It was four o’clock on Saturday afternoon—game time. The Forest Park All-Stars were facing the team from the town of Calder. Forest Park was up first.
Mr. Filbert barked out the batting order. “Detweiler, O’Donnell, Ruckel!”
Second baseman Freddie Detweiler shoved a batting helmet over his stick-straight brown hair and chose a bat.
“Go get ’em, Fredzo!” cried Raj Turner, Freddie’s best friend and the game’s third baseman.
Freddie flashed a big smile. His new braces, complete with plastic bands that matched the team colors of forest-green and white, glinted in the late-afternoon sun. He did indeed “get ’em,” knocking out a single between first and second.
First baseman Keith O’Donnell was up next. Part Irish, part Scottish, the eleven-year-old had the freckles, thick reddish-brown hair, and pale skin common to his ancestors. He also had a stubborn streak that ran a mile deep. At one practice, he’d muffed a catch to first—and then refused to leave the field until he’d made the same catch successfully twenty times in a row.
He practiced his hitting with the same tenacity. That practice paid off now. Crack! The ball rocketed past Calder’s shortstop. Keith reached first and Freddie landed safely at second.
Craig Ruckel, a two-time All-Star, came to the plate—and struck out swinging. Back in the dugout, he complained that the sun had blinded him.
“I should wear that black stuff under my eyes,” he grumbled. “I really should.”
“Coach Walker has some,” Raj volunteered.
Craig grunted but didn’t move from the bench. Raj caught Carter’s eye and grinned. Carter shrugged. Sometimes Craig complained just for the sake of complaining.
Charlie Murray batted cleanup. Another returning All-Star, he was one of the fastest kids on the Forest Park team. He didn’t need extra speed this time, though. After tapping the ball foul three times, he socked a rainmaker that soared high and dropped between center and right fields. Bases loaded, one out.
Ash was up after Charlie. Little League doesn’t have an on-deck circle, but while Charlie was at the plate, Ash took practice cuts with a pretend bat. When Charlie reached first, Ash grabbed a real bat and hustled toward the batter’s box.
“Play is to any base!” the Calder catcher reminded his teammates.
Carter sat forward and rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms down the front of his thighs. Come on, Ash, get a hit! he pleaded silently.
A single now would get them on the board first. That would be a huge boost for the team. Plus, Carter was up next. If Ash got a hit, then he would come to the plate with one out instead of two. And finally, a solid hit would give Ash a confidence boost. Every player, no matter how good, could use that.
Ash let the first pitch go by for strike one. The next pitch, though—crack! He connected for a knee-high line drive.
The crowd cheered—and then gasped when the pitcher made a desperate sideways lunge, snared the ball before it hit the ground, and then flipped it to Calder’s first baseman. Double play!
“Great blast, Ash!” Rachel’s voice rang out from the stands. “You’ll get ’em next time!”
Ash stormed into the dugout, clearly disappointed, and started pulling on his catcher’s gear. Carter tried to break the tension. “Hey, Ash, I—”
Ash cut him off. “Forget it. Let’s go over their order again.” He rattled off the names and most recent batting efforts of the first three Calder hitters. “Larry Miller: bats righty, hit three singles and a double, struck out twice, popped out, and grounded out twice in Calder’s bid to be District champs. Jarvis Greenaway: bats righty, one homer, two singles, four strikeouts, very fast on the base paths. Ricky Muldoon: bats righty, two singles, a triple, grounded out four times. He could be dangerous.”
“Not to us.”
Ash looked up then. Carter handed him his catcher’s helmet and smiled encouragingly. After a second, Ash stood up. “Yeah, not to us.”
“You boys ready?” Coach Harrison called out.
“Absolutely!” Carter said. He grabbed his glove and raced out to the mound.
And he was. Maybe it was the perfect baseball weather. Maybe it was the fact that the stands were packed with familiar faces—his parents, Rachel, the Delaneys, and lots of kids from his hometown Little League. Maybe it was simply that he and Ash had been playing together as pitcher and catcher for months. Whatever the reason, he took to the mound with confidence coursing through his veins.
Larry Miller stepped into the box. Carter sized him up and then nodded at Ash’s signal for a fastball high and tight. He reared back and threw. Larry swung and missed.
“Strike one!”
Two more strikes sent Larry back to the dugout. It took just three more pitches to strike out Jarvis Greenaway, too.
Ricky Muldoon came up with a little swagger in his step. He returned Carter’s stare-down with a fierce look of his own. Not that it did him any good. Swish! Swish! Swish! He took three monstrous cuts and hit nothing but air.
I just retired the side with nine straight pitches, Carter thought with amazement.
A few of his teammates smiled at him as they trotted into the dugout. But to his puzzlement, no one congratulated him. Not that he needed praise, but he’d assumed Ash or Coach Harrison at least would comment on the three-up, three-down inning.
What the heck? he thought as he tried and failed to catch Ash’s eye.
Then it hit him. He sank down on the end of the bench, his heart hammering in his chest.
I’m one inning into a no-hitter!
Baseball, like any sport, has many superstitious beliefs. The superstition surrounding a no-hitter is among the most sacred. Players and fans of all ages believe that merely mentioning a no-hitter could jinx the pitcher. Many refuse to talk to the pitcher at all for fear of accidentally putting a whammy on his streak.
“Jones!”
Carter snapped back to the present. He gulped when he saw Mr. Filbert beckoning to him.
He’s going to say something to me about the… the… Carter refused to even think the word.
To his profound relief, the coach simply held out a helmet and said, “You’re up first.”