See No Color by Shannon Gibney Page A

pitcher to make up his mind. You have make up yours,” a deep voice said behind me. I turned around and found myself face to face with Hank Aaron. He was wearing an old Brewer’s cap that was torn along the brim, a T-shirt, and lightweight khaki pants. His smile was broad and sincere, and it paralyzed me.
    â€œYou just let him dictate the terms of the at bat, and you can never afford to do that,” he told me. “I’m not going to talk to you about where your hips should be, or the right way to hold the bat. I leave the mechanics to other people, who know better.”
    Dad snorted. He knew, like we did, that there was no one who knew better than Hank Aaron.
    Aaron leaned forward, so that he could look me straight in the eyes. “All you need to know is what kind of pitch he’s likely to throw, what his release point will be, its location, and the speed.” He laughed. “That sounds like a lot, I know, but all I’m really saying is study him. He’s on your own team, right?”
    I nodded, though what I really wanted to do was reach out and touch his hand. That’s Hank Aaron’s hand.
    â€œSo, you know him, and what he’s likely to throw,” he said.
    I nodded again. Then I looked out at Logan, still perched on the mound, watching all of us in confusion. I felt sorry for him, out there all by himself.
    â€œHe throws me lots of fastballs,” I said. “High and inside.”
    Hank Aaron stood up and crossed his arms over his chest.
    I cleared my throat. “I think he likes to throw one fast, to get me swinging, and then he tends to make the next ones off-speed.”
    Hank Aaron nodded. “Because he’s a good pitcher. But even good pitchers have to give up a few hits when they face good hitters.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. He had a face that made me want to tell him everything: how I was the only girl on the team, how I was Jason’s sister and Dad’s daughter, and how I was going up to the show someday.
    â€œTry again,” he said, gently. “Think about what’s next, where it will be, and when.” Then he stepped away from the plate and walked behind the cage.
    I took a deep breath and looked for Jason in the group of teammates gathered beside the cage. I finally found his Derek Jeter T-shirt and ecstatic grin. He gave me the thumbs-up and winked. I tried to smile, but the sides of my mouth would not move. I didn’t even want to look at Dad. I turned my attention back to the plate and dug my feet deep into the dirt.
    Logan went into his windup and then released the ball when it was well over his shoulder. I anticipated, swung, and connected, pulling the ball toward third base. I dropped the bat and began to run toward first, Hank Aaron’s eyes on my back pushing me forward.
    A few strides into my run, the first baseman’s face appeared before me, red and blurry. “Foul ball!” he yelled, and my chest tightened. Hank Aaron had told me how to hit it, and I hadn’t listened well enough, because the ball hadn’t stayed between the foul lines. I stopped running and turned around. I didn’t want to look at Dad, Jason, or Hank Aaron, so I deliberately stared at my cleats on the long walk back to the cage.
    â€œYou did good, Alex,” Hank Aaron said as I finally reached him. There was nothing sarcastic about his tone; he was telling me the truth. “I hope you don’t mind, your brother told me your name,” he said, his arm around Jason, who looked like he might implode from all the excitement.
    â€œThat’s a good start, a real good start,” Hank Aaron continued. “You just need to work some to perfect your swing a little, so that you swing just a little earlier on a pitch like that. But the important thing is that you’re making up your mind to hit on him,” he said. “Once you do that, it’s only a matter of time.”
    My face was starting to burn: Hank