Baseball Great by Tim Green

who in turn signaled Tucker. Tucker jammed his helmet down tight on his head and set his jaw. The Titans’ big catcher crouched, ready to run, the cords in his neck taut and his fists balled.
    Rocky whispered something to Watson, who strode to the plate. Josh pulled on his batting glove and helmet and waited in the on-deck circle, slowly swinging his bat and studying the motion of the new pitcher. The pitcher wound up, and Watson went into a bunting stance. The pitcher threw a curveball that Watson dribbled down the first-base line. Tucker took off from second.
    The catcher threw his mask in the air. Before the mask hit the dirt, he pounced on the ball and gunned it to the outstretched first baseman. Watson never had a chance, but Tucker now stood bouncing on third, clapping his hands and growling like a red-faced maniac.The dugout went wild. Josh took a deep breath.
    Rocky gripped both of Josh’s shoulders and brought his face so close, their noses almost touched.
    â€œJust a hit,” Rocky said, his dark, close-set eyes glinting under the eaves of a scowl. “No heroics. Swing down on it and hit a hole. You gotta get us a hit. Do it to it, Josh. Be great.”
    Josh breathed deep again and nodded. Rocky sent him off toward the plate, and Josh told himself over and over to swing down on the ball no matter what kind of pitch came at him. Up in the stands, Josh’s father gave him a tight nod. When Josh stepped up to the batter’s box on the left-hand side of the plate, he looked down the third-base line. Instead of sneering, Tucker pressed his lips together, nodding silently and giving Josh a thumbs-up. The muscles in Tucker’s giant forearm rippled. Josh bit his lower lip and looked out at the pitcher on the mound.
    The pitcher nodded and wound up. The first pitch—a fastball—nicked the outside of the plate. Josh let it go, and the umpire called it a strike. Rocky groaned and chattered at the umpire. Josh dug in.
    The second pitch came. All heat and a bit high, a pitch Josh could put out of the park. He raised up and tried to swing down on it, nicking the ball and sending it foul, up and over the backstop behind him. Josh stepped out of the box and took a deep breath, trying topush the 0–2 count into the back of his mind and think only about the next pitch.
    â€œYou can do it, Josh!” Tucker screamed from third base, the cords in his thick neck bulging along with the muscles that ran from his shoulders up behind his ears. The Hempstead Eagles fans were on their feet in the small metal stands, stamping and cheering. His own team stood, ready to gush from the dugout or melt into a blob of depression.
    The pitcher reared back and raised his left foot as if to stomp the mound. His hand came out of his glove from behind his back, lashing past his ear and releasing the pitch.
    The ball came out of his hand dead center and hot, the perfect pitch to swing big on, to knock out of the park.
    Josh cranked back his coiled arms and hips ever so slightly, just a bit more torque for a bit more power.
    The ball zipped at him like the blink of a bullet.
    He swung.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
    THE BAT CRACKED. THE pitcher jumped as if he’d stepped on a nail, and the ball hit the mound at his feet before shooting almost straight up. Josh took off for first, digging his cleats into the dirt. From the corner of his eye he was aware of Tucker, streaking like a big blur, nearly halfway home.
    The ball seemed to float a hundred feet above the mound, then dropped like a rock. Josh kept churning, knowing it would be an easy throw to first when the ball returned to earth and that the shortstop had moved into position to make the play.
    Josh ran. The ball hit the shortstop’s glove, and the throw came. Josh’s foot hit the bag, and the first baseman snapped up the throw from the shortstop with a pop. Josh ran through the bag and twisted around. Theumpire crouched, still staring at the bag, processing