car?”
She nods. “We just want to make sure we find Jake.”
I don’t believe what she says. At least, I don’t believe her intent. Rachel’s words buzz behind my eyes, making my thoughts pulse like lightning. They think Jake shot those kids. It does not make any sense. Except . . . Except for Doug Martin-Klein.
CHAPTER 7
JAKE: AGE SEVEN
Ten seven-year-olds screamed, hanging from the chain links like little apes. I let them. Some of the parents, and all of the other coaches, thought I was, at the least, disorganized. I liked the kids’ spirit, though. No one could say my guys weren’t having fun.
“Let’s go, Jakey,” I called out.
He stood outside the batter’s box, his cleats digging at the rust-colored infield mix. His shoes appeared so small that I smiled. If he knew I thought he looked cute , Jake would have killed me. Shaking my head, I turned to the other boys, the members of our team, the Johnson Plumbers, or as we liked to call ourselves, the Mighty Green Machine.
“Who’s up next?” They looked at me like I’d asked for the formula for rocket fuel. “Check the lineup. Remember?”
Ritchie and the other Jake, Jake T, hustled over. I turned back to the game. My Jake tightened one of his batting gloves and took up his stance. I found it amusing that all the kids owned two batting gloves, at least one bat, their own helmet, and at least one mitt.Almost all of them stowed their equipment in a nylon baseball bag, including my son.
When we were kids, it was a little different. I remembered showing up for my Little League practices wearing Toughskins, a striped T-shirt, and hand-me-down sneakers, often from my sister. The coach showed up with a chewed cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth and four (or less) batting helmets (most missing sections of foam), two aluminum bats, and (hopefully) some catcher’s gear. One kid came to the first game sporting a single batting glove. We all looked at him in awe and ignored the fact he struck out twice. He became our idol, or at least his batting glove did.
Jake hacked at the first ball, swinging so hard that he nearly fell over. I noticed his cheeks getting red.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I whispered.
“What, Coach?” Ritchie barked out behind me.
I turned and smiled at him, noticing one of the other kids behind him.
“Carter, stop eating that,” I said, walking over.
Carter, a kid with bristly hair and flat eyes, sat in the dirt, crisscross-applesauce (the new PC term for Indian-style I’d learned from Jake’s preschool teacher). His pudgy hand, an inch from his open mouth, held a spilling mound of infield mix. His eyes met mine and he jammed it into his face. Most of the dirt puffed into a dust cloud surrounding his bulbous head but I could see dirt covering his tongue and teeth.
“Wow,” I said.
“Carter hit me,” Ben said.
“What?”
Ben was our power-hitting, best-catching, soon-to-be pitcher. I could not fathom Carter hitting Ben.
CRACK!
I spun around in time to see the baseball flying over the shortstop’s head.
“Runrunrun,” I called out, but Jake was already at first. He flew around the bases as the left and left-center fielders just looked at the ball rolling between them in the thick grass of the outfield.
“Get the ball!” their coach screamed.
Jake kept running. The Mighty Green Machine, sans Carter, sprang up and threw itself against the fence. The chains rattled as they cheered.
“JAKEJAKEJAKE!”
Finally, the left fielder retrieved the ball. By that time, Jake was headed to third.
“Whoa!” My hands went out in front of me, willing Jake to stop. I would have hated seeing him get thrown out after such a great hit. I forgot we were talking about seven-year-olds here. The throw from left careened past the third baseman, hitting the fence of our dugout.
Jake’s (cute little) cleat hit the bag at third and he headed home. The catcher, looking very professional, threw his helmet down and
She nods. “We just want to make sure we find Jake.”
I don’t believe what she says. At least, I don’t believe her intent. Rachel’s words buzz behind my eyes, making my thoughts pulse like lightning. They think Jake shot those kids. It does not make any sense. Except . . . Except for Doug Martin-Klein.
CHAPTER 7
JAKE: AGE SEVEN
Ten seven-year-olds screamed, hanging from the chain links like little apes. I let them. Some of the parents, and all of the other coaches, thought I was, at the least, disorganized. I liked the kids’ spirit, though. No one could say my guys weren’t having fun.
“Let’s go, Jakey,” I called out.
He stood outside the batter’s box, his cleats digging at the rust-colored infield mix. His shoes appeared so small that I smiled. If he knew I thought he looked cute , Jake would have killed me. Shaking my head, I turned to the other boys, the members of our team, the Johnson Plumbers, or as we liked to call ourselves, the Mighty Green Machine.
“Who’s up next?” They looked at me like I’d asked for the formula for rocket fuel. “Check the lineup. Remember?”
Ritchie and the other Jake, Jake T, hustled over. I turned back to the game. My Jake tightened one of his batting gloves and took up his stance. I found it amusing that all the kids owned two batting gloves, at least one bat, their own helmet, and at least one mitt.Almost all of them stowed their equipment in a nylon baseball bag, including my son.
When we were kids, it was a little different. I remembered showing up for my Little League practices wearing Toughskins, a striped T-shirt, and hand-me-down sneakers, often from my sister. The coach showed up with a chewed cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth and four (or less) batting helmets (most missing sections of foam), two aluminum bats, and (hopefully) some catcher’s gear. One kid came to the first game sporting a single batting glove. We all looked at him in awe and ignored the fact he struck out twice. He became our idol, or at least his batting glove did.
Jake hacked at the first ball, swinging so hard that he nearly fell over. I noticed his cheeks getting red.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I whispered.
“What, Coach?” Ritchie barked out behind me.
I turned and smiled at him, noticing one of the other kids behind him.
“Carter, stop eating that,” I said, walking over.
Carter, a kid with bristly hair and flat eyes, sat in the dirt, crisscross-applesauce (the new PC term for Indian-style I’d learned from Jake’s preschool teacher). His pudgy hand, an inch from his open mouth, held a spilling mound of infield mix. His eyes met mine and he jammed it into his face. Most of the dirt puffed into a dust cloud surrounding his bulbous head but I could see dirt covering his tongue and teeth.
“Wow,” I said.
“Carter hit me,” Ben said.
“What?”
Ben was our power-hitting, best-catching, soon-to-be pitcher. I could not fathom Carter hitting Ben.
CRACK!
I spun around in time to see the baseball flying over the shortstop’s head.
“Runrunrun,” I called out, but Jake was already at first. He flew around the bases as the left and left-center fielders just looked at the ball rolling between them in the thick grass of the outfield.
“Get the ball!” their coach screamed.
Jake kept running. The Mighty Green Machine, sans Carter, sprang up and threw itself against the fence. The chains rattled as they cheered.
“JAKEJAKEJAKE!”
Finally, the left fielder retrieved the ball. By that time, Jake was headed to third.
“Whoa!” My hands went out in front of me, willing Jake to stop. I would have hated seeing him get thrown out after such a great hit. I forgot we were talking about seven-year-olds here. The throw from left careened past the third baseman, hitting the fence of our dugout.
Jake’s (cute little) cleat hit the bag at third and he headed home. The catcher, looking very professional, threw his helmet down and
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