Foxworth Academy by Chris Blewitt

catcher.  “Pretty boy Logan.”
    Brett turned and peered through the catchers mask.  It took him a moment or two before he recognized who it was.  Lance Hawk.  He ignored him and faced the pitcher.  Although he didn’t completely ignore him because three pitches later, he struck out and lowered his head in disgust.
    “Maybe next time, Logan.” Lance said, mocking him.
    He went 0-2 his first two times up, after which his coach contemplated sitting him in a crucial bottom of the sixth inning at bat, as the game was tied, with one out.  At this level of play, they only played six innings so this was just like the bottom of the ninth and the pressure was on.  He took the first ball on the inside corner and the umpire yelled, “Strike!”  The second pitch he swung through a curve ball to make the count 0-2. 
    “I guess it’s not your day, is it?” Lance said from behind the catchers mask.  “Not going to be your year either when you fail history class.”
    Brett stepped out of the batter’s box and looked back at his coach who was nervously chewing gum in the dugout with his arms folded across his chest.  Brett didn’t have his ‘A-Game’ today, that much was apparent.  There was only one way he could get out of this situation in a positive light.  He stepped back in and crept forward toward the plate.  The pitcher wound up and threw a ball outside.  The count was now 1 ball and 2 strikes. The next pitch was the one he was looking for, high and tight.  He turned into the pitch and it nailed him on the shoulder. 
    Brett grimaced from the pain, tossed his bat toward the dugout, and trotted to first base.  The manager of the other team slowly walked to the umpire behind home plate and made it clear that he was not happy with Brett’s performance at the plate.  Brett reached first base and his coach touched his shoulder and asked if he was okay.  Brett nodded and took a small lead off the base while waiting for the next batter to come up to bat.
    “That the only way you can get to first?” the first baseman on the other team said softly.
    Brett said nothing.
    “Pretty lame.”
    Brett agreed with him, but what could he do now?  Toby Matheson, the team’s best hitter, was up to bat, and it didn’t take long for him to see a pitch he liked.  He roped a line drive right over Brett’s head and Brett took off running.  He rounded second quickly and glanced at the third-base coach.  When he was just a few feet from third base, the coach wind milled his arm again and again, signaling Brett to go for home.  Brett kicked it into gear and charged.  He could see Lance preparing to catch the ball.  Brett was going to have to plow into him if he wanted to score and win the game.  His helmet was slipping off his head as he ran as fast as he could, trying to beat the throw home.  He looked at Lance crouching low about to catch the ball.  He saw the baseball enter the glove and then Lance turn toward him.
    That was the last thing he remembered before he woke up in the hospital. 
    CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    “ B rett?” a voice called.  He rapidly blinked his eyes and immediately tried to sit up.  An arm pushed on his chest, urging him to lie back down.
    “Lay down, son, its okay.”  It was his dad.
    He looked around the hospital room.  “What happened?”
    “You were knocked out.  A slight concussion, but nothing too serious.”
    Brett rubbed his forehead.  “My head hurts.”
    His dad chuckled and replied, “It should.  You ran into that catcher pretty good.”
    “Was I safe?”
    His dad laughed again.  “Is that all you care about?”
    “Was I?”
    His dad smiled.  “Yes and you won the game.”
    A smile crept across Brett’s lips.  “Cool.”
    The door opened and an older man, presumably the doctor, walked in.  “Ahh, look who’s awake,” he said, taking a small pen-like flashlight out of his white jacket pocket.  He pushed a button and shined the light directly into Brett’s