Stef Ann Holm by Lucy Back (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

he’d already met Lucy, Drew didn’t think it was her. It was a dad. And God knew how Drew could relate to having a dad who didn’t give a good rip.

The tryouts got underway. A batting cage had been built on the far corner; the pitching machine was plugged in. Boys went into the cage, chased after some balls and took swings. Drew had his group of boys hit five pitches from an Iron Mike in the cage.

When Jason was up, he took a halfhearted swing, the ball catching the tip of the bat and fouling. But there was something in his stance, an act of defiance, as if he hadn’t fully reconciled to failing on purpose.

“Put some mustard on it, Jason. Come on!” Drew shouted, as he cheered the boy on, encouraging him.

The machine spat out a ball and Jason held back, then swung and missed intentionally. Drew didn’t let up, clapped and told him to try again.

“It’s easy to miss the good ones, harder to hit the bad ones. I think you can go after one. Your choice.”

Then another ball spewed from the machine. This time, Jason grabbed wood and hit the thing so hard the ball slammed into one of the cage’s metal poles with a metallic ring before bouncing back and rolling on the ground.

Drew met Jason’s gaze. The boy had poker eyes—expressionless and unreadable—but his body language spoke volumes. Cocky and sure. There was a confidence in his stride when he turned to leave his place on the diamond.

“If that’s how you hit when you want to hit like a loser, then we are going to the state series when you give me your best,” Drew said.

Jason looked down, then gave him a half smirk and a snort.

The other boys rallied during their turns, having to catch three pop flies. Then Drew had them hit grounders so the outfield could get some practice in throwing to the bags.

Last year, Ryan Hall had been a cherry pie, but his parents sent him to a winter baseball camp, and damned if the kid wasn’t hitting the ball with the meat of the bat and with a lot more confidence. Cal “Brownie” Brown’s fielding was a little loose, but his throws to first were pretty good. Even Nutter had improved. His real name was Vince Lawrence, but he’d taken a few nut balls that dropped him to his knees, and had ended up with a nickname that stuck.

“Don’t let that ball find some leather, Nutter.”

“Yeah, Coach. I’m trying not to.”

“You’re doing good. Much better than last year. Great job.”

Drew had them slice a few dewdrops, slow balls that the boys could connect with. Then he gathered the kids around. “All right, any of you who want to try to pitch, we’re having a pitching tryout. Line up.”

Drew kept his gaze on Jason, wondering if that was the boy’s position. He had a hunch. And that hunch played out. Jason got in line to pitch, and when he was on the bump, he threw a high, hard one that about took the hat right off of Ryan.

After Jason delivered his sixth consecutive strike, Drew walked out to the bump. “What have you been doing with that pitching arm?”

Toeing the rubber, gazing down and then up, Jason shrugged. “Throwin’ rocks at tin cans.”

“Think you can throw a slider?”

“Yeah.”

“Give it to me.”

Jason threw a slider that was smooth as glass, and Drew knew he had himself a team-winning pitcher this year.

Stuffing his fingertips into his waistband, Jason looked over his shoulder to watch Matt fielding grounders. He ran so fast and hard, his cheeks got red.

His younger brother struggled with playing good baseball, but he wanted it really bad. It didn’t seem fair that it came so easy to Jason, when Mattie was the one who really wanted to be on a team.

Jason glanced at Drew, wanting to hate him, but not quite being able to. He’d razzed him on the field, told him to play for shit, but something in Jason wouldn’t let him.

He knew he’d made the team. He was an ace pitcher, had been on the Senior League in Boise last year, and they’d dusted the competition in the playoffs. The experience of winning had been a rush, but going to the games and knowing his dad wasn’t watching had sucked.

He’d wind up, look over his shoulder, catch a brief glimpse of the stands, and damn if he didn’t hope to see his dad sitting next to his mom each time.

But it never happened.

Digging the toe of his tennis shoe into the grass, Jason wished he was eighteen so he could do what he wanted. As soon as he was of age, he was moving out.

Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Some little kids were just about wetting themselves trying to throw pitches. Peewees. A bunch of wannabe Little Leaguers. You could tell this was their first year. Jason had watched them when he was in the batting cage. The peewees’ mouths dropped open as the Iron Mike spat out balls, and it seemed like an effing new tricycle to them.

He noticed the majors were pretty good. Mattie might be in for a shot. Some of those guys were throwing the ball pretty hard. Maybe too hard.

Jason ducked as a ball sailed toward him. “Hey, shit-head,” he said as a boy ran over to pick it up.

“Sorry!” he mumbled, and ran back to the group.

Shifting his stance, Jason tucked his hands in his armpits and slouched.

Come on, let’s go. I wanna get outta here.

“All right,” Drew said, pulling Jason from his thoughts. “Tryouts are over. Pick ’em up.”

Jason sniffed, rubbed his nose, then took off his plastic helmet and bent over to pick up the baseballs on the field and collect them in his hat.

I hate it here and I’ll never like this bass-awkward town. Rednecks and losers with shit for brains. Brian’s probably at a party tonight. I wonder who’s there. Probably