PART OF JOSH LOVED his father dearly, but another part . . . well, “hate” was a word his mother said you should never use. He did hate some of the things his father did. Certainly he hated when his father stood talking to someone, the way he was right now, when he was supposed to be coaching baseball. Thankfully, it was some guy in a suit, not Diane—his dad’s girlfriend and the woman who had destroyed their family—huddled up with him in the corner of the dugout. But Josh still stood in the on-deck circle, worried.
Here they were in Baltimore in the championship game of the final tournament of the season, and his dad wasn’t even paying attention.
He again pushed the image of Diane from his mind. Instead, he thought of the never-ending stream of representatives from companies like Nike, Legal Sea Foods, and Marucci Sports—who came to Syracuse and scouted the Titans while his dad piled on the charm. He was always trying to get money for the team. That’s who Josh had this guy in the suit pegged for, a rep from some sporting goods company.
“Who else wears a suit to a baseball game?” he silently asked himself.
The crack of a bat turned his attention back to the field.
Benji Lido, one of Josh’s two best friends in the world, rumbled down the first-base line, scuffing up puffs of white chalk. The ball rebounded off the left-field wall, but a strong-armed outfielder from Oxford, Mississippi, and too many double cheeseburgers under Benji’s sizable belt kept him at first. Their pitcher, Kerry Eschelman, was safely on third. Coach Moose, Josh’s dad’s muscle-bound assistant, was coaching the Titans’ runners at third base. He grinned at Esch and pointed toward Josh in the on-deck circle.
Their catcher, Preston McMillan, gave Josh the high sign.
Benji bounced on the first-base bag, clapping his hands and shouting. “This is it, y’all. Heavy hitter two is on the bag! Man in scoring position! And heavy hitter one is about to blast it over you rebel boys’ heads!”
Josh’s teammates elbowed each other and snickered. Even Billy Duncan, their tall, awkward right fielder who’d struck out three times already, broke into a grin from his seat on the end of the bench. Jaden Neidermeyer, Josh’s other best friend in the world, was in the dugout keeping stats for the team. Jaden buried her face in her hands, covering her striking yellow-green eyes and honey-brown face. The Oxford Wildcats just stared, still amazed at Benji’s loudmouth antics even though they’d gotten a full dose of them now for nearly six whole innings.
Josh swung his bat a final time, then stepped out of the on-deck circle heading for the batter’s box. The stands behind the backstop teemed with balloons, banners, caps, and colorful summer clothes. Two parents with their fingers curled around the wire of the backstop talked in the loud, rude voices some adults felt free to use in a kid’s world.
“Scoring position? Since when is first base scoring position?”
“Since the LeBlanc kid is up next. Everyone on base is in scoring position when that kid hits.”
Josh’s cheeks warmed, and he directed his gaze ahead at the catcher and umpire, even though he wanted to turn and enjoy the praise from the well-informed strangers. The Titans were down 3–1, but with Benji on first and Kerry Eschelman on third, everyone knew that Josh could win the game—and the entire tournament—with a home run. He’d already hit one in this game, scoring the only run, and he’d hit eight over the course of the last three days.
With two outs under his belt, Josh knew the Wildcats right-hand pitcher would go for the win himself. His name was Kable Milligan, and he had a fastball that seemed magnetically drawn to the low outside corner of the plate. So while players might be able to get a piece of Milligan’s pitches, they rarely ever got a solid hit.
Batting left-handed, Josh took a swing at the first pitch and fouled it off. He glanced at the dugout for his father’s encouragement, but the guy in the suit still held his attention. Josh knew that if the sports rep was on the fence about awarding the Syracuse Titans travel baseball team some sponsorship, winning this tournament would go a long way toward the right decision. It was all or nothing.
Despite his father’s coaching, Josh hated pressure. He knew true champions got cool under pressure, but he could feel the droplets of sweat beading on his upper lip. And when Benji opened his mouth and began to jaw about heavy hitter one, Josh shot him a look and signaled for total silence.
No such luck.
Benji seemed inspired. “That’s right! Silent but deadly! That’s Josh LeBlanc, ladies and gentlemen! That’s heavy hitter one! Over and out, good buddy! We’re sendin’ some whipped Wildcats down the Mississippi on a riverboat ride! Ha! Bring me home, my fellow heavy hitter!”
Josh shook his head and bit his lip. He stopped looking at Benji, knowing it had been a mistake to try and shush him. Benji and his mouth were two separate things, and while Benji was lovable and funny, his mouth was like a broken toilet. Getting it to stop running was no easy task.
Josh breathed in deeply the smell of dusty dirt and warm grass, hot dogs and cotton candy. He nodded at the ump and locked eyes with the Mississippi pitcher, a lanky, dark-haired kid with freckles and a mean-looking smile. Milligan wound up. In it came, fast, low, and outside—just as Josh expected.
He stepped toward the plate and barreled up to the ball.