See No Color by Shannon Gibney Page B

Aaron thought that it was only a matter of time before I would become a great hitter. Hank Aaron had instructed me, Alexandra Lynn Kirtridge, and I had begun to learn.
    â€œBut you know, that ball almost didn’t roll foul, though, third baseman,” he shouted up the field. “And you really weren’t in the correct position to field it in case it was fair. You need to position yourself on the field according to each hitter. For Alex, I’d say you probably need to move in and to the left a bit, so you can be in prime position to field the ball and then throw to first for the out. Here, I’ll show you. Let me play third for a minute. Alex, you go back to the plate and hit again. I’ll show you what I mean.”
    Dad threw him a mitt, and he jogged toward third.
    Jason and I locked eyes. We were going to play with Hank Aaron, who hit 755 home runs and had 6,856 bases. Hank Aaron, the all-time leader in total bases and runs batted in.
    â€œMr. Aaron!” a high-pitched female voice yelled onto the field. I whipped around to see who it belonged to and spotted a thin, white woman, dressed in a light blue business suit, in the stands. “I’m sorry, but we may have to cut this short. We’re already going to be late for your four thirty.”
    My stomach sank; there was a certain kind of authority to her tone that would be hard for anyone, even Hank Aaron, to ignore. I knew that he would be leaving us.
    Hank Aaron paused in mid-stride, considering her words. A minute ago, he had been smiling, but now his face was serious, almost inaccessible. “I forgot about that,” he said. He laughed. “Guess I was having too much fun out here with you guys.” He started walking toward the stands. “Just have too many appointments in one day.”
    We almost played ball with Hank Aaron. We were ready to pull the long ball.
    He was shaking Dad’s hand, thanking him for the opportunity to meet each of us. “They’re a great group, I can see why you’ve gone so far with them,” he said. “I’ll be watching for them, especially that little girl. She’s got something. Smarts and tenacity.”
    Dad’s face was positively glowing. He thanked Hank Aaron for taking the time out of his busy schedule to work with us.
    Tenacity. It was a strange and awkward-sounding word, and I had no idea what it meant, though I could tell from the way Hank Aaron said it that it was a good thing.
    He turned and waved to us one last time before he disappeared into the darkness of the stadium corridor.
    â€œGoodbye, Hank Aaron,” I said under my breath. It seemed like he was gone right after he arrived.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    A t some level, I knew this was going to happen—I was a likely valedictorian, not a moron. But it still caught me by surprise.
    .285/.355/.399. A slash line in decline was what I was. Two weeks before the state tournament, I found myself in an extended batting slump. Dad now had me batting seventh—or worse, he’d taken to keeping me out of the starting lineup “to rest” and then pinch running me—if we had a lead. And that wasn’t all, either. These strange, ever-moving blobs on my chest were growing bigger by the day and making things tight everywhere. Lying in bed at night, I could almost feel my hips starting to spread, and my sense of balance was off at the plate. I knew that things could change rapidly in my body, but I had no idea it would happen so fast. Meanwhile, Jason’s hands were growing, his knuckles bulbous and pink—like Dad’s. When he talked, he stretched out his fingers and moved them around in circles, which was something I had never seen him do before; that was how Dad talked. My hands were still small, my fingers stubby. They weren’t growing, and when I talked I moved them a little, but they mostly remained still, controlled, at my side.
    Jason and Dad pretended not to notice what was