Nick, you should be—because they want the best for
you.
”
“That’s what
they
say.”
“And guess what?”
She was really yelling now. “They’re right!”
Gracie turned and pointed across the street at his house. “You told me yourself one time, when you were living in that apartment with the Boyds, you always dreamed about a house like this in a neighborhood like this. A real home with parents inside who’d love you the way your mom and dad do. So they don’t love baseball the way you do. Another boo hoo. My dad loves me to death, and he doesn’t even know what
position
I play in lacrosse. I mean, what planet are you living on?”
Gracie started to walk back toward the house, as if she were done. But halfway across the backyard, she turned around and nearly ran back at him, like she was going to tackle him in the open field.
“I almost told you this in the car, but I didn’t want to say it in front of my mom,” Gracie said. “But you’ve spent so much time in your life feeling sorry for yourself, you don’t know when it’s time to stop.”
FIFTEEN
Gary Watson was so dominating against Maumee Valley that Nick never had a chance to jam things up for him.
He gave up just one hit, struck out ten, and the Tigers won, 10–0.
When the Maumee Valley center fielder got his team’s only hit, a single in the fourth, Joey and Jack promptly turned a 4-6-3 double play to take him off the bases. By the time Gary got around to walking two guys in the top of the last inning, there was no point in either of them trying to steal—they were too far behind.
Nick even got a hit, on a day when everybody who started for the Tigers got a hit, but he wasn’t thinking about that when the game was over. What he was thinking about was how he hadn’t made anybad throws and how that made the day a total success almost as much as the final score did.
Now it was Friday, and the big game against King was coming up on Monday. Nick was upstairs in his room, even on a Friday night, doing homework—he’d been trying to do better with that since Gracie had lit into him—when he heard a knock on his wall.
He looked up. It was his dad, wearing jeans and an old green Dartmouth sweatshirt and his one pair of sneakers, tennis shoes that Nick always thought were as old as his dad was.
“Glad to see you hitting the books,” his dad said. “How close are you to being done?”
“Pretty close.”
“Well, when you are, come on downstairs, there’s something I want to show you.”
This was one of those nights when Nick was stretched out on the floor, papers all around him, his signature studying position. He looked up now and said, “Please tell me it’s not more e-mails from my teachers.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. “Just come downstairs when you’re finished working.”
Nick worked for ten more minutes on math, closed his book, stacked up his worksheets and went downstairs to the living room.
When he got there he couldn’t believe his eyes.
Paul Crandall was sitting on the couch, pounding his fist into a brand-new Wilson baseball glove, black with a brown pocket.
“Dad, I don’t need a new glove. And, besides, I’m a catcher, remember?”
“The glove isn’t for you.” His dad grinned. “It’s for me.”
“You bought your
self
a glove?”
“Be logical, son,” Paul Crandall said. “How can we play catch if I don’t have a glove?”
After just a few minutes in the yard, Nick wasn’t worried about making accurate throws anymore. He was a lot more worried that one of them might send his dad to the hospital.
Even his softest throw seemed to be hitting his dad everywhere except his new glove.
“Remember when I mentioned that I wasn’tperfect?” Paul Crandall said at one point, an embarrassed smile on his face.
Coaches always told you to try to aim the ball at the middle of the other guy’s chest. Trouble was, when Nick managed to pull that off, the ball would actually hit his dad in the
you.
”
“That’s what
they
say.”
“And guess what?”
She was really yelling now. “They’re right!”
Gracie turned and pointed across the street at his house. “You told me yourself one time, when you were living in that apartment with the Boyds, you always dreamed about a house like this in a neighborhood like this. A real home with parents inside who’d love you the way your mom and dad do. So they don’t love baseball the way you do. Another boo hoo. My dad loves me to death, and he doesn’t even know what
position
I play in lacrosse. I mean, what planet are you living on?”
Gracie started to walk back toward the house, as if she were done. But halfway across the backyard, she turned around and nearly ran back at him, like she was going to tackle him in the open field.
“I almost told you this in the car, but I didn’t want to say it in front of my mom,” Gracie said. “But you’ve spent so much time in your life feeling sorry for yourself, you don’t know when it’s time to stop.”
FIFTEEN
Gary Watson was so dominating against Maumee Valley that Nick never had a chance to jam things up for him.
He gave up just one hit, struck out ten, and the Tigers won, 10–0.
When the Maumee Valley center fielder got his team’s only hit, a single in the fourth, Joey and Jack promptly turned a 4-6-3 double play to take him off the bases. By the time Gary got around to walking two guys in the top of the last inning, there was no point in either of them trying to steal—they were too far behind.
Nick even got a hit, on a day when everybody who started for the Tigers got a hit, but he wasn’t thinking about that when the game was over. What he was thinking about was how he hadn’t made anybad throws and how that made the day a total success almost as much as the final score did.
Now it was Friday, and the big game against King was coming up on Monday. Nick was upstairs in his room, even on a Friday night, doing homework—he’d been trying to do better with that since Gracie had lit into him—when he heard a knock on his wall.
He looked up. It was his dad, wearing jeans and an old green Dartmouth sweatshirt and his one pair of sneakers, tennis shoes that Nick always thought were as old as his dad was.
“Glad to see you hitting the books,” his dad said. “How close are you to being done?”
“Pretty close.”
“Well, when you are, come on downstairs, there’s something I want to show you.”
This was one of those nights when Nick was stretched out on the floor, papers all around him, his signature studying position. He looked up now and said, “Please tell me it’s not more e-mails from my teachers.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. “Just come downstairs when you’re finished working.”
Nick worked for ten more minutes on math, closed his book, stacked up his worksheets and went downstairs to the living room.
When he got there he couldn’t believe his eyes.
Paul Crandall was sitting on the couch, pounding his fist into a brand-new Wilson baseball glove, black with a brown pocket.
“Dad, I don’t need a new glove. And, besides, I’m a catcher, remember?”
“The glove isn’t for you.” His dad grinned. “It’s for me.”
“You bought your
self
a glove?”
“Be logical, son,” Paul Crandall said. “How can we play catch if I don’t have a glove?”
After just a few minutes in the yard, Nick wasn’t worried about making accurate throws anymore. He was a lot more worried that one of them might send his dad to the hospital.
Even his softest throw seemed to be hitting his dad everywhere except his new glove.
“Remember when I mentioned that I wasn’tperfect?” Paul Crandall said at one point, an embarrassed smile on his face.
Coaches always told you to try to aim the ball at the middle of the other guy’s chest. Trouble was, when Nick managed to pull that off, the ball would actually hit his dad in the
Similar Books
