.5 To Have and To Code by Debora Geary

forgotten her little brother was in the room.  No.  But he doesn’t know that.  And threatening to turn his baseball collection into pink daisies hadn’t sounded dire enough.
    Daniel was still standing the doorway.  “Noted.”  He pushed off the wall and opened the conference room door.  “Email me the address.  I’ll bring my own Doritos.”
    She watched him go.  And wondered what the heck she’d just gotten herself into.

Chapter 7

    Daniel reached down and plucked a couple of dandelions—and then in the age-old ritual of summer, popped the tops off.  He watched the cheery yellow heads take flight.  One landed sunnily in the clover.  The other did an ignominious face-plant into some unidentified sticky goo.
    He snorted.  And felt way too much empathy for the stuck dandelion.
    It was a pretty decent metaphor for his day.  He’d cleared his plate, expecting to spend the day dancing with Realm’s code—and discovered it was Sunday.  Old work contract handed off to a buddy.  New one twenty-four hours away.
    Which left him wandering aimlessly, face first in the sticky nothingness that was his life.
    He’d done the circuit of his usual hangouts.  The pool hall, empty.  Baseball diamond, full of ten-year-olds.  And the group of kids on Skate’s basketball court had been way too white and polite for what he needed.
    No job, no life, and nowhere to go.  A pitcher without a team.
    And that was a really pathetic whine for 10 a.m.
    He looked up and discovered he’d walked in circles—right back to the baseball diamond.  The kid in right field tossed a seriously erratic throw in the general direction of the infield.  Daniel grinned as the second baseman and shortstop nearly beheaded each other trying to catch it.
    The catcher, clearly the intended target for the ball, shook his head in disgust and the batter slid into second base, kicking up way too much dust and missing the bag by at least a foot.  Nobody noticed.
    No umpire, no coaches, and two undermanned teams.
    Pick-up game.  The very best kind.
    Daniel leaned against the ratty backstop, watching the kid on the mound pitch.  And decided, after watching a handful of throws, that the boy catching behind the plate was destined for the bigs.  Getting his glove on balls that wild was a real talent.
    The pitcher had speed and a nice spin on the ball.  And his aim should have people over on Shattuck Avenue ducking.
    The last batter of the inning struck out to amiable catcalls, and the teams moved to switch places.  Daniel watched the tow-headed kid who’d been pitching meander over to the bench, his fingers in constant motion on the ball. 
    Practicing his grip.  He’d been that kid once.
    Daniel tossed out a comment before the boy got to his friends.  “Nice speed you’ve got.  If you cut down on that windup, stuff will go straighter over the plate.”
    The kid glanced up, suspicious scowl in place.  “Who are you?”
    Nobody a ten-year-old had ever heard of.  “I used to pitch some.”  He held out his hand—baseball was a game of action, not words. 
    The ball landed in his fingers—warm, gritty, and slightly sticky.  “All those pitchers on TV, they do those long, crazy windups.”  Daniel demonstrated, feeling his back muscles kink in protest.  Wimp.  “Wanna know why?”
    Big eyes stared at him.  “Helps them throw better.”
    “Nope.”  Well, a little, but as he recalled, ten-year-old life was pretty black and white.  “Psychs out the batters and confuses the guys on base.  And it makes ’em look good on TV.” 
    He eyed the kid.  “You don’t need that stuff.  Just a simple windup.  Set your foot against the rubber, pull back like this, and send the ball straight for the catcher’s mitt.”
    “I’ve never seen anyone throw like that.”
    Great—a natural-born skeptic.  “Sure you have.  Watch the infield players the next time you go to a game.  They have to be fast, and they have to be accurate.