standing on the other side of the field, but she saw me catch Kat’s ball. She saw me pivot and throw. She says, “Good job, Ella.”
And this makes me very happy. What doesn’t make me happy is the reading of the lineup at the end of practice. We’re sitting on the bleachers passing around water bottles as Coach talks about the other team, their record from last season, their strong returning players. She talks about what we have to remember when we’re batting and fielding. And then she reads the lineup: Julie Meyers is starting at first base. I get that sinking feeling, but then I have a reckless moment of hope that maybe Coach might have put me in another position—right field, possibly. But she stops reading, and I’m not starting anywhere in tomorrow’s game.
I tried to prepare myself for this, but it’s still a blow. Eventhough I’m not good enough to throw on target or smart enough about positions, I still had this crazy little hope.
Mo and Frannie accompany me off the field. They aren’t starting, either.
“You okay?” Mo asks.
I nod, because if I speak it might come out squeaky, like right before I cry. They drape their arms around my shoulders to comfort me, and a small part of my frustration melts away.
Later, in the car, Rocky gets right to the point. “What’s the verdict?”
“Julie Meyers is playing first tomorrow.”
She nods. “You’re gonna be better than she is. No worries about that. You’ll definitely play, Ella. The question is, are you gonna
make
it long enough to start in a game? Because at the rate you’re going, your disappointment will get the better of you.”
I hear Theresa snort in the backseat. I don’t respond. Neither does Rocky.
We drive all the way to my house, a good fifteen minutes before Rocky says, “Well?”
“I’m not gonna sabotage myself, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“Good. We can start our first lesson on Friday. After practice.”
I climb out, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and glance through the windshield at Rocky. The sun bounces off the glass so I can’t see her very well, except for her chin and the curve of her smile. I can’t hold mine back, either.
Regular
Season
At dinner my parents ask annoying questions about tomorrow’s game. I tell them I’m not starting, and the way they look at each other makes me realize they didn’t think I would be anyway. Great.
They say they want to come. My father is even taking off work early.
“No. You can’t.”
“What do you mean? We want to watch the game,” my father says.
“To see you win,” my mother adds.
“That’s my point. I probably won’t play at all.”
Neither responds to this. Finally, my mother says, “Ella, when I say
you
I mean the team. Watching
all of you
play.…” She lifts her eyebrows for emphasis. “You might want to think about that. It’s called being a part of the team.”
“Whatever,” I say, stalking off to my room to bury myself in homework.
Thursday, game day, pours rain.
Frannie and Mo come up to me after fourth period. Mo says, “Can you believe this weather? On opening day?”
“I know,” I say, as if I’m so upset. But after lunch the skies clear and the sun comes out strong, almost steamy. From my Spanish class I can see a little bit of the softball field where the maintenance guys are throwing sand over puddles in the outfield.
By Behavioral Science, word is that the game’s on.
Nate gives me a brotherly pat on the back. “Ready for the big game?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Fort Worth Country Day,” he says, like that’s a complete thought.
“Right.”
Mr. D hands back our food budget with a bright red A. Nate and I high-five each other, which causes a wave of eye-rolling by girls in the class. Nate never catches any of this. They’re too careful.
The newest assignment, along with reading boring sociological data of marriage in different cultures, is a family tree. I have to complete
And this makes me very happy. What doesn’t make me happy is the reading of the lineup at the end of practice. We’re sitting on the bleachers passing around water bottles as Coach talks about the other team, their record from last season, their strong returning players. She talks about what we have to remember when we’re batting and fielding. And then she reads the lineup: Julie Meyers is starting at first base. I get that sinking feeling, but then I have a reckless moment of hope that maybe Coach might have put me in another position—right field, possibly. But she stops reading, and I’m not starting anywhere in tomorrow’s game.
I tried to prepare myself for this, but it’s still a blow. Eventhough I’m not good enough to throw on target or smart enough about positions, I still had this crazy little hope.
Mo and Frannie accompany me off the field. They aren’t starting, either.
“You okay?” Mo asks.
I nod, because if I speak it might come out squeaky, like right before I cry. They drape their arms around my shoulders to comfort me, and a small part of my frustration melts away.
Later, in the car, Rocky gets right to the point. “What’s the verdict?”
“Julie Meyers is playing first tomorrow.”
She nods. “You’re gonna be better than she is. No worries about that. You’ll definitely play, Ella. The question is, are you gonna
make
it long enough to start in a game? Because at the rate you’re going, your disappointment will get the better of you.”
I hear Theresa snort in the backseat. I don’t respond. Neither does Rocky.
We drive all the way to my house, a good fifteen minutes before Rocky says, “Well?”
“I’m not gonna sabotage myself, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“Good. We can start our first lesson on Friday. After practice.”
I climb out, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and glance through the windshield at Rocky. The sun bounces off the glass so I can’t see her very well, except for her chin and the curve of her smile. I can’t hold mine back, either.
Regular
Season
At dinner my parents ask annoying questions about tomorrow’s game. I tell them I’m not starting, and the way they look at each other makes me realize they didn’t think I would be anyway. Great.
They say they want to come. My father is even taking off work early.
“No. You can’t.”
“What do you mean? We want to watch the game,” my father says.
“To see you win,” my mother adds.
“That’s my point. I probably won’t play at all.”
Neither responds to this. Finally, my mother says, “Ella, when I say
you
I mean the team. Watching
all of you
play.…” She lifts her eyebrows for emphasis. “You might want to think about that. It’s called being a part of the team.”
“Whatever,” I say, stalking off to my room to bury myself in homework.
Thursday, game day, pours rain.
Frannie and Mo come up to me after fourth period. Mo says, “Can you believe this weather? On opening day?”
“I know,” I say, as if I’m so upset. But after lunch the skies clear and the sun comes out strong, almost steamy. From my Spanish class I can see a little bit of the softball field where the maintenance guys are throwing sand over puddles in the outfield.
By Behavioral Science, word is that the game’s on.
Nate gives me a brotherly pat on the back. “Ready for the big game?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Fort Worth Country Day,” he says, like that’s a complete thought.
“Right.”
Mr. D hands back our food budget with a bright red A. Nate and I high-five each other, which causes a wave of eye-rolling by girls in the class. Nate never catches any of this. They’re too careful.
The newest assignment, along with reading boring sociological data of marriage in different cultures, is a family tree. I have to complete
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