Syl squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Duane to spike him. Then —
“Oof!” The breath rushed out of his body as Duane fell on top of him instead.
The coach was at their side in a flash. “Are either of you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” Duane gasped as Jim pulled him to his feet.
“Syl? How about you?”
Syl rolled onto his back with a groan. “I think Duane got me out,” he said with a weak grin. He sat up to the sound of laughter.
Coach Corbin checked him over to be sure he wasn’t seriously injured. “Your ribs may be sore tomorrow,” he said, helping him up. “But other than that, you should be fine.”
Then he called the team together. “This seems like a good time to talk about sliding,” he said. “Who can tell me what Syl did wrong?”
With an apologetic look at Syl, Trent raised his hand to answer. “He went in headfirst.”
“Why is that bad?” Coach Corbin prodded.
Trent replied, “Because if you go headfirst, you could get hurt really badly. The base player could accidentally kick you in the head or stomp on your neck or hit you in the face with his glove or grind his spikes into your hand or —”
The coach cut him off with a nod. “I think you’ve made your point, Trent. Thank you.” Then turning to the rest of the team, he said, “Diving slides do put you at much greater risk for serious head and neck injury.” He smiled at Syl. “So no more belly whoppers, okay?”
Syl nodded.
Coach Corbin checked his watch. “We don’t have much time left,” he said. “Let’s use it to focus on sliding. Everyone except Jim, Syl, and Eddie line up behind home plate. On my mark, take off for first base, touch the bag, keep running, and slide into second.”
He pointed to Jim, Syl, and Eddie. “Grab your gloves and head to your positions. Eddie and I will take turns throwing the ball from home to second so you, Jim, can practice making tags. Remember to sweep your glove up and away from the runner after the tag so he can’t knock the ball free.”
Jim gave him a thumbs-up sign and hurried onto the field.
“What about me, Coach?” Syl asked.
“Back up Jim in case he misses a catch,” Coach Corbin said.
Syl was dismayed at being sent to shag balls, but he tried not to let it show. Coach probably just wants to give me a chance to recover from Duane falling on me, he reasoned as he found his glove. He touched his rib cage and winced. I guess it is a little sensitive.
Still, standing in the field behind second base waiting for Jim to misjudge a throw was boring. Syl watched his teammates slide into second, but after a few minutes, that got tiresome, too. When a bright yellow butterfly flitted into his line of vision, he allowed his gaze—and his mind—to wander after it.
Why can’t butterflies fly in a straight line, like birds? I wonder what it feels like to be cooped up in a chrysalis? I’ve seen yellow, orange, and blue butterflies but never purple—
“Heads up, Syl!”
The ball had gotten past Jim. It got past Syl, too. He scrambled after it, plucking it from the grass with his bare hand. If it had been in a game, A.C., the runner, would have made it safely to second standing up.
“Sorry, Jim,” Syl said sheepishly. He got into his ready stance, determined to pay better attention from then on.
A few minutes later, the coach called him in to take a turn at sliding. Syl tossed his glove into the dugout and ran to the plate. He crouched, waiting for the signal.
“Go!” Coach Corbin barked.
Syl took off as fast as he could run. Dust flew up in a thick cloud behind him as he toed first base and pushed off toward second. As he did, a sudden gust of wind blew the dust cloud over him. Temporarily blinded by the grit, he had no idea how close he was to Jim or the bag.
I better hit the dirt, just in case!
He dropped down into a bent-leg slide.
Unfortunately, he started too far away and ground to a halt with inches between his foot and the base.
Jim caught the throw and stepped on the bag for the out. Then he grinned, touched Syl lightly with his glove, and sang out, “Ting!” as if he’d tapped a crystal goblet with a spoon.
Laughter filled Syl’s ears. He joined in to cover his embarrassment.
“This is why we’re doing the drill, folks,” Coach Corbin said. “If you don’t practice the slide, you won’t be able to do it properly during a game. And that could cost your team.”
Fortunately for Syl, practice ended shortly after that. The coach reminded everyone that the tee-ball league had the field for the rest of the week, so he wouldn’t see them until the game on Saturday.
“Try to get some extra practice on your own, if you can,” he added. “We’re playing the Orioles.”
Syl and Duane exchanged glances. “They’re tough,” Duane said. “At least, one of them is—a kid who only hits homers.”
The coach caught Syl’s eye and grinned. “Well, we know what it’s like to have one of those on the team, don’t we? But even if we don’t slug out big hits all the time,” he added, “we’ve got a good team. Right?”
The boys cheered and then broke off, laughing and talking, into small groups.
Syl found an open spot on the bench and changed his spikes for his sneakers. He was dog-tired from practice and wanted nothing more than to bike home and relax. But Mr. Teacy was waiting for him. So, with a deep sigh, he made his way to his bike.
“Syl, wait up!” Trent hurried over to him. “Do you have your cell phone?” When Syl nodded, Trent grinned. “Excellent! Call your mom and see if you can come over to my house. I got a sick new four-player video game. Jim and Duane already got the okay to come and play it, so now we just need you.”
Syl hesitated, thinking.
He hadn’t actually promised Mr. Teacy he’d meet him today, had he? And there was no practice tomorrow or the next day, which left two entire afternoons open for bunting practice. Wouldn’t it make more sense to go then, when there’d be lots of time, instead of now, when he was due home for dinner in an hour? Not to mention the fact that he was so tired he wouldn’t be in his best form today!
No, he finally decided, I’ll wait until tomorrow.
“Just give me a minute to call my mom,” Syl told Trent. “If it’s okay with her, then I’m game to play your game!”