Centerfield Ballhawk by Matt Christopher, Ellen Beier Page B

went to the batting cage instead.”
    José clamped his mouth shut and nodded. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, he thought.
    “Why did you go to the batting cage? You’ve never gone there before, have you? Isn’t it expensive?”
    “No. It’s only a buck for fourteen pitches. I’ve saved a few dollars from raking leaves,” José explained. “And I — I wanted
     to work on my batting.”
    “I don’t see why,” said Mr. Mendez. “You’re not going to be playing ball for a while.Remember? Now, go inside. When I’m done out here, we’re going to have a little talk.”
    José knew what that meant. His father would do all of the talking. Loud, angry talking. The ache in his throat got worse.
     “Yes, sir.”
    He started out of the garage.
    “I’m disappointed, José,” his father said sternly. “You tell me one thing and do something else. What’s with you? Can’t I
     trust you anymore?”
    Sure, you can, Dad, José wanted to say. You just have to give me a chance.
    José took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said softly.
    “That’s all I’ve been hearing from you lately: ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s time that you took responsibility for your actions,” said
     Mr. Mendez. “Did you call your coach yet? Tell him you won’t be playing for the next two weeks?”
    “No,” said José. He’d been hoping, likeBarry, that his father would change his mind.
    “You’d better,” said Mr. Mendez. “Then go to your room until I call you.” He turned and went back to pouring oil into his
     crankcase, and José went into the house to wait for another lecture.

4

    Fighting back tears, José put an ice cube on his bruised cheek, then went to his room. He lay on his bed, wondering why things
     had gone sour with his father. Two weeks without baseball! He might as well have said two months.
    If only I could make him proud of me again, José thought. Hitting .375 would do it. But how could he become a good hitter
     when he was one hundred percent grounded?
    José groaned and punched his pillow. Then he had an idea. He could still
read
aboutbaseball, couldn’t he? Maybe he’d pick up a few pointers. José got up and looked for his book on Little League baseball.
    But it wasn’t on the shelf. It was missing.
    He looked up, down, and sideways for the book but couldn’t find it.
    Somebody stole it, he thought. But who’d do that?
    It had to have been Carmen. He knocked on her door and asked her about it.
    “Yeah, I borrowed it,” his sister replied. She was eleven, a spitting image of their mother, who had died two years earlier.
    José stared at her. “What do you want it for?”
    “I wanted to bone up on the rules for softball. Linda Baker is putting a team together in the girls’ softball league, and
     she asked me to play first base!”
    “That’s great,” José said without much enthusiasm. Maybe you’ll wind up a better ballplayer than me, he wanted to add.

    “What’s with you?” Carmen asked, noting his glum expression. “Did you break another window?”
    José scowled at her. “No, one was enough. Dad grounded me from baseball.”
    “Yeah, I know.” Carmen shook her head in sympathy. “Maybe he’ll forget about it.”
    “Not this time,” said José. “I’m in deep.”
    Carmen didn’t say anything for a moment. What could she say? José thought. She never had any problems with Dad.
    Then she went over to her desk and pulled his book out from under a pile of homework. “Here,” she said, handing it to him.
     “If you can’t play baseball, you might as well read about it.”
    José smiled weakly. “Just what I was thinking,” he said. “Thanks.”
    He left her room and picked up the phone in the hallway. He called Coach Russ Parker and told him that he couldn’t play for
     the next two weeks.
    “Why not?” Coach Parker wanted to know.
    José explained, then hung up. I just hope I still remember how to play when the two weeks are up, he thought.
    The