Red Bulls. In the back of the room, there are shelves with more Bandits stuffed animals, pennants, and doodads than I would know what to do with. Well, if somebody offered, they’d probably fit in my room.
“You’ve done this before, right?” the announcer asks, handing me a sheet of paper.
“Yeah,” I say, looking over the list of names. “I’ve got it.”
“You’re on in five,” the too-much-Red-Bull lady says, pointing at us.
I read the names softly to myself. But when I get to the bottom of the page, I realize they left one off: Hector’s.
“Excuse me,” I say to the announcer. “Do I get to say the pitcher’s name?”
“Normally I like to add my own special intro for the pitcher.”
“Please?”
“Oh, okay. Sure. Why not, kiddo? Just keep it under twenty seconds. They’ve got a starting time to make.”
Before I know it, we’re getting the three-two-one countdown, and the announcer is saying, “And here it is, your starting lineup for the Tri-City Bandits, read by our very own…Quinnen Donnelly!”
He points to me, and I read the whole lineup without any mistakes—I hope. Then I put on my very best announcer voice for the finale. “And tonight’s starting pitcher, number fifteen, making his first start for the Bandits…Hector Padilla!”
Cheers fill the stadium. I know they’re not for me reading the lineup, but still—there’s something magical about baseball time. Everything just feels right.
“Great job,” the announcer says to me. “You’re a natural. You even knew how to pronounce Hector’s last name. Pa-
dee
-uh. You want to watch the top of the inning from up here? Best seat in the house.”
I think about Casey down in our seats and my hot dog. It’s probably in Casey’s stomach by now, whether it has any gluten in it or not. “Okay.” I sit back down in the bouncy swivel chair.
The first batter for the Cardinals takes a few swings outside the batter’s box. He looks strong and mean, but I bet he’s no match for Hector.
Hector winds up and throws one that catches the inside corner. The batter can’t get his bat around fast enough. “Striiiike one.”
“Come on, Hector. You’ve got ’em,” I whisper.
He winds up and throws. The pitch looks low but maybe on the edge of the strike zone. I have to wait for the umpire to know for sure. “Striiiiike two,” the announcer says.
I turn to give him a thumbs-up. “I know him. I know Hector. He’s my friend.” The announcer smiles at me like I’m a little kid. Like,
Oh sure. Hector’s her friend, and I’m best buddies with the president.
Hector shakes off the catcher and winds up. He throws, and the batter swings. All I hear is the sound of the ball hitting the bat. The next thing I see is Hector, crumpled over, down on the ground.
The announcer puts his hand over the red mute button and swears.
“Where did it hit him?” I ask.
The announcer shakes his head. It all happened so fast.
Someone’s rushing out onto the field—I think it’s the manager—and someone’s following with a stretcher.
Hector’s not moving.
He’s not moving.
He’s not moving.
But I am. I run out of the booth and down the stairs, not even looking where my feet land. I am flying.
“Hector!” I yell.
When I get to the fence around the field, I remember to breathe.
“Sorry, miss, but we can’t allow you on the field right now,” the security guard tells me.
“But—”
“Are you family?”
“No. Nobody is. Hector’s family doesn’t live here.”
Hector is still lying down, and there’s an EMT pressing something onto his face.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Line drive smacked him right in the head. That’s the downside of having an arm like his. Fast pitches come back at you even faster.” The security guard shakes his head. “Poor guy.”
I never considered a pitch coming back to hit me in the face when I was pitching. Just the thought of it makes me touch my face, to make sure everything’s
“You’ve done this before, right?” the announcer asks, handing me a sheet of paper.
“Yeah,” I say, looking over the list of names. “I’ve got it.”
“You’re on in five,” the too-much-Red-Bull lady says, pointing at us.
I read the names softly to myself. But when I get to the bottom of the page, I realize they left one off: Hector’s.
“Excuse me,” I say to the announcer. “Do I get to say the pitcher’s name?”
“Normally I like to add my own special intro for the pitcher.”
“Please?”
“Oh, okay. Sure. Why not, kiddo? Just keep it under twenty seconds. They’ve got a starting time to make.”
Before I know it, we’re getting the three-two-one countdown, and the announcer is saying, “And here it is, your starting lineup for the Tri-City Bandits, read by our very own…Quinnen Donnelly!”
He points to me, and I read the whole lineup without any mistakes—I hope. Then I put on my very best announcer voice for the finale. “And tonight’s starting pitcher, number fifteen, making his first start for the Bandits…Hector Padilla!”
Cheers fill the stadium. I know they’re not for me reading the lineup, but still—there’s something magical about baseball time. Everything just feels right.
“Great job,” the announcer says to me. “You’re a natural. You even knew how to pronounce Hector’s last name. Pa-
dee
-uh. You want to watch the top of the inning from up here? Best seat in the house.”
I think about Casey down in our seats and my hot dog. It’s probably in Casey’s stomach by now, whether it has any gluten in it or not. “Okay.” I sit back down in the bouncy swivel chair.
The first batter for the Cardinals takes a few swings outside the batter’s box. He looks strong and mean, but I bet he’s no match for Hector.
Hector winds up and throws one that catches the inside corner. The batter can’t get his bat around fast enough. “Striiiike one.”
“Come on, Hector. You’ve got ’em,” I whisper.
He winds up and throws. The pitch looks low but maybe on the edge of the strike zone. I have to wait for the umpire to know for sure. “Striiiiike two,” the announcer says.
I turn to give him a thumbs-up. “I know him. I know Hector. He’s my friend.” The announcer smiles at me like I’m a little kid. Like,
Oh sure. Hector’s her friend, and I’m best buddies with the president.
Hector shakes off the catcher and winds up. He throws, and the batter swings. All I hear is the sound of the ball hitting the bat. The next thing I see is Hector, crumpled over, down on the ground.
The announcer puts his hand over the red mute button and swears.
“Where did it hit him?” I ask.
The announcer shakes his head. It all happened so fast.
Someone’s rushing out onto the field—I think it’s the manager—and someone’s following with a stretcher.
Hector’s not moving.
He’s not moving.
He’s not moving.
But I am. I run out of the booth and down the stairs, not even looking where my feet land. I am flying.
“Hector!” I yell.
When I get to the fence around the field, I remember to breathe.
“Sorry, miss, but we can’t allow you on the field right now,” the security guard tells me.
“But—”
“Are you family?”
“No. Nobody is. Hector’s family doesn’t live here.”
Hector is still lying down, and there’s an EMT pressing something onto his face.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Line drive smacked him right in the head. That’s the downside of having an arm like his. Fast pitches come back at you even faster.” The security guard shakes his head. “Poor guy.”
I never considered a pitch coming back to hit me in the face when I was pitching. Just the thought of it makes me touch my face, to make sure everything’s
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