M. G. Higgins - Power Hitter

Text copyright 2012 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

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Higgins, M. G.

Power hitter / by M.G. Higgins.

p. cm. (Travel team)

ISBN: 9780761383246 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

[1. BaseballFiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.H5349554Po 2012

2011022573

[Fic]dc23

Manufactured in the United States of America
1BP12/31/11

eISBN: 978-0-7613-8734-3 (pdf)

eISBN: 978-1-4677-7092-7 (ePub)

eISBN: 978-1-4677-3062-4 (mobi)

F OR MR, MY BEST FRIEND AND
FAVORITE TEAM MEMBER

The way a team plays as a whole
determines its success. You may have the
greatest bunch of individual stars in the
world, but if they dont play together, the
club wont be worth a dime.

BABE RUTH

CHAPTER

S ammy Perezs palms were slimed with sweat. He was thankful for his batting gloves. The last thing he needed was for his hands to slip. Taking a deep breath, he strode back to the box. He tapped the plate twice, took another practice swing, and shook his head. The bats balance still seemed off. The weight was all wrong. Nothing about wooden bats felt right! He pictured himself having a Little- League hissy fit and running home to Mom.

Perez, you wuss, Sammy scolded himself. Get a grip. Sammy was usually one of the best hitters on the Roadrunners, an elite traveling team from Las Vegas. Usually.

Taking another deep breath, Sammy eyed the infield. Gus Toomey had a short lead off second, holding his hands out as if to say, Come on, dude, hit it already! On the mound, Carson Jamison squinted and waved off a sign. But there was no question which pitch was coming. And Carson was such a Picasso; hed paint it right where he wanted it.

Uncomfortable or not, Sammy had to try for a hit. He raised his bat, settling into his stance. Carson nodded, wound up, and fired. Yep, it was the high and tight heater Sammy expected. He swung and connected, but the ball clunked off the thin handle, dribbling right back to Carson for an easy third out to first.

Crap! Sammy yelled, not even bothering to run. He threw the wooden bat as far as he could down the third baseline.

Gus nudged Sammys shoulder as he trotted off the field. Calm down, dude. Youll get the hang of it.

Ya think? Sammy followed Gus into the dugout. Im a power hitter, and I cant hit. This really sucks.

Scott Harris, the Roadrunners coach, walked calmly into the dugout carrying Sammys bat. Sammy hesitated before taking it from him. In typical Coach Harris style, he silently crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for Sammy to admit his mistake. Even though Coach was gray-haired and in his fifties, he was as fit and energetic as a drill sergeant.

Sammys hot temper usually cooled off quickly under that glare, but his face still felt hot. Sorry, he said. I shouldnt have thrown the bat.

No, you shouldnt, Coach said. This is your first day using wood, and Im not expecting miracles. Work with Wash on your form and then practice in the cage until youre comfortable.

Sammy reached down for his glove. He didnt know how much working with Assistant Coach Washington would really help him at this point. Sammy knew he was risking Coachs wrath, but he had to say something. Coach, do you really think switching to a wooden tournament is a good idea? I mean, thats a pitch I get on base with nine times out of ten with a composite. He heard feet shuffling and a few murmurs. Most of the Runners were in the dugout listening instead of going back on the field.

Do I have to remind you why were participating in this tournament? Coachs voice was low, but his words were crisp.

Sammy closed his eyes for a second. He could still hear the sound of TJs jaw cracking from the hard comebacker. Any higher and the ball would have fractured his skull and probably killed him. As it was, TJs face was wired up for months. He was an ace pitcher with a great future. But the injury freaked him and his parents, and he quit playing ball.

Sammy noticed some of his teammates had crossed their arms like Coach Harris. Carson, a good friend of TJs, glowered at Sammy.

Tension was thick between pitchers and some infielders, who wanted to avoid injuries, and power hitters like Sammy who were afraid theyd never make it to the pros or to a good college without that aluminum pop and bigger sweet spot.

This wasnt the time to argue. No, Coach, Sammy said. You dont have to remind me.

Good. Coach uncrossed his arms and announced to the team, Well be practicing with only wooden bats before the Austin tournament, which is a week from Friday. And no excuses about the equipment. These are the best professional bats on the market.

Thanks to my dad, Carson added.

Coach nodded. Which Mr. Jamison has generously donated. He looked around the dugout, his eyes wide. Well, what are you standing around for? Get out there!

Sammy trudged to his position in right field. Hed never dreaded playing ball before. But he had a really bad feeling about this tournament.

CHAPTER

S ammy was thankful he didnt have another at bat that practice. The embarrassment of again not getting a hit would have killed him. In the dugout, he shoved his equipment into his bag. Nellie Carville, Carlos Trip Costas, and Darius McKay, three of the teams best hitters, headed for the batting cages with wooden bats tucked under their arms.

Joining us? asked Wash, the Runners assistant coach. Washs baseball roots dated back to a granddad who played in the Negro Leagues. He was a great hitting coach, but Sammy wasnt in the mood for any coaching right now.

No. Ill practice at home.

Wash raised one of his bushy eyebrows.

What? Sammy asked, his temper flaring again. He was one of the hardest-working players on the team, and it really annoyed him when someone hinted otherwise.

Okay, Wash said, holding up his hands. Do what you need to do. Try not to overthink it. He marched off to the batting cages.

Sammy grabbed a couple of wooden bats from the rack, hoping his dad had fixed his broken pitching machine.

Need a lift? Gus asked.

Yes. Thank you.

De nada.

Sammy smirked. Enough with the Spanish.

I need the practice, Gus said as they walked across the parking lot. Espaol is my worst class, and I want to use it over the summer so I dont forget. Anyway, you owe me for all the rides.

Like you cant afford it. Sammy instantly wished he could stuff the words back in his mouth. Sorry. I didnt mean it.

That was low. But I get it. Its the wooden bat thing. Dragging you down, man.

Well, yeah. I smoked the Albuquerque Regional last season. Ten ribbies, two home runs, including a grand slam.

Yeah, I was there, remember?

And it was crawling with scouts. Now were switching to this lame wooden tournament instead. Unbelievable.