The Batboy by Mike Lupica

now, he was close enough as the Motor City cleanup hitter stepped into the box. He was the biggest kid in the game, and strong. Brian had heard the other kids calling him “Buddha,” not sure whether the nickname was meant to be a compliment or not.
    Thinking, It sure does fit, though.
    Buddha had hit the ball hard every time he’d been up, even if he still didn’t have a hit to show for his efforts.
    Inside, Brian said to himself. Do not let him extend those massive arms.
    Inside , Kenny G.
    The first pitch wasn’t close to being inside. Not only did Buddha extend his arms, but he got all of the pitch, hitting a hooking line drive toward the left-field line.
    Hard to Brian’s right.
    And this ball wasn’t going to hang up like the one Brian had hit earlier. Buddha had gotten on top of Kenny’s fastball, putting all this topspin on it, like the killer forehand in tennis.
    Getting a good jump on the ball wasn’t Brian’s strong suit as an outfielder. He had a strong arm, and if he could get his glove on the ball, he could catch it. But he wasn’t fast and he knew it.
    He’d been ready for this one, though, and got a good jump on it. Still, he felt his heart sinking the way the ball was, the ball tailing away from him too hard and too fast, Brian just knowing it was going to land fair. And if it landed fair, both runners would score and the Sting would lose. And Kenny would have finally gone nine, only to lose the game.
    Brian waited until he couldn’t wait anymore and went into his dive, extending his left arm across his body, lying out with his glove hand as much as he possibly could.
    He felt two things then, one right after another.
    He felt the ball in the webbing of his—what else?—Hank Bishop glove.
    Then he felt his right shoulder hit the outfield grass at Kenning Park as hard as if he’d used that shoulder to try to break down a door. But Brian wasn’t worrying about that, he was just worrying about keeping his glove as high above the grass as he could, even if that meant his shoulder had to take all the impact when he hit.
    So he didn’t roll. It was basically as if he’d just belly-flopped out there, about a foot from the chalk of the left-field line.
    But with his Hank Bishop glove high enough for the infield umpire to see.
    The glove that held Kenny’s first complete game ever in its webbing.
    Brian sat up, holding the glove above his head now, like some kind of trophy. The ump signaled out. Brian sat right where he was and saw Kenny, still standing on the mound, throw his own glove up in the air.
    Then he watched as his bud ran toward the Sting’s bench, where Kenny’s father was pumping his arms in celebration. They hugged, hard.
    Brian stood and began slowly walking off the field, his shoulder suddenly hurting a lot more than it had a moment ago.

CHAPTER 16
    T here were so many questions he wanted to ask Hank Bishop, so many questions he realized he would probably never get answers to.
    It was pretty clear by now that Hank wasn’t just rusty at the plate. Even Brian could see that he didn’t have the same bat speed he used to have.
    There was something else, too. Brian couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly, but something about Hank’s swing itself looked different. Brian told himself it was just the angle he had, now that he was watching on the field. But even watching from home when the Tigers were on the road, there was no denying it. Hank Bishop was no longer the hitter he once was.
    Brian remembered Tim McCarver one time on the Game of the Week saying that getting a fastball past Hank Bishop was like getting table scraps past a hungry dog.
    Now Brian wished there was some way to ask him what that was like. What it felt like to swing and know instantly that the ball was headed out of the park for a home run. What adjustments he had to make at the plate now that his hands wouldn’t do what he wanted them to do, what his brain was probably still telling them to do.
    And did it make