The Shortstop

Prologue

"Now batting...number seven...shortstop...Quint Lawson!"

The thousands start screaming my name. Okay, maybe it's more like hundreds, but there may as well be thousands. They are everywhere, lining the fence that runs along the perimeter of the field, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the metal bleachers behind home plate. Hundreds of smiling faces staring at me, just waiting for me to do my thing.

The high school varsity baseball coach sits in the stands. I'm only going into the eighth grade this September and won't be starting high school until next fall. He heard about me and came to see for himself. The chances of me just walking on to that varsity team are pretty damn good. All eyes are on me. The only eyes I care about are the blue ones that belong to my best friend, Annie Weber. Her clapping is the loudest, her smile the biggest. Even as she sits beside my mom, there's no question that Annie is my biggest fan.

She moved in next door when we were five. While playing on my front lawn and minding my own business, she stalked right up to me in her denim shorts and Yankees' T-shirt. She introduced herself and immediately sat down to play with my trucks. There isn't a girl I know who's as cool as Annie. Not afraid to get dirty, not afraid to play like a boy, not afraid to sneak into my garage to have our first beer. She wasn't even afraid when I kissed her behind her shed a few weeks ago.

Not only did I kiss her, I rubbed my boner on her. I couldn't help it. It was there, and she was making it really hard to think straight. When I realized what I was doing, I froze, waiting for her to slap me or run away. She didn't. She kissed me back that day...and every day since then. That's when things changed between us, in a very good way. So now, I'm guilty of kissing and dry humping my best friend every chance I get.

I love kissing her...and I think I love her. Actually, I think I fell in love with her at the age of five and just didn't know it.

We continue to make eye contact, and she gives me a thumbs-up. As I make my way toward the plate, I look over at my dad standing at first base.

With his game face on, he gives me a nod and a single clap. "Come on, son. You got this."

Coaching my teams to the championships year after year since T-ball, he often brags, "I get paid to be a math teacher, but my real job is a volunteer Little League coach."

He's tough, fair, and he sometimes forgets that he's my dad when playing the role of my coach. My mom thinks he puts too much pressure on me. Sure, he pushes me hard, but I push myself harder. I've inherited his talent. His dreams of the big leagues never became a reality. He gave up too quickly. He knows I want this more than anything and is making sure I don't give up like he did. The difference between us is that I won't stop until I get it.

"You keep doing your thing, Quint, and the scouts will be pounding on our door."

Doing my "thing" is just what I'm about to do. All the years of playing have led to this one game. If we win this, our next stop is the Little League World Series. I should be nervous, but I'm not. Over the years, I've stood at this plate so many times it may as well be my home. Baseball is what I was born to do.

"Come on, Quint!" I distinctly hear Annie's scream above all others coming from the bleachers. "You got this!"

The umpire and catcher wait patiently for me to get into position. I take my time, moving through my superstitious routine of tapping home plate with my bat three times and meeting Annie's eyes one last time before I focus on the pitcher. He's nervous. Most are nervous when they pitch to me. At almost twelve, I stand as tall as most grown men. My strike zone is hard to hit, causing them to throw too high, or too low. I like the low ones. I can send them sailing into oblivion.

The first pitch is right down the middle, but I never take the first pitch. The next three pitches are practically in the dirt. The pitcher wipes his brow, looking toward his coach for guidance. A solid tap to shallow right would be enough for me to get one of my two teammates home to win this game. My best friend, David, stands on third base, taking a bigger lead than most would. Dave knows the pitcher wouldn't waste his time trying to nab him when he has to worry about me. Over my shoulder, the umpire reminds me that the count stands at three-and-one.

My eyes remain trained on the pitcher as he shakes off signs from his catcher. At the fourth sign, he finally nods before moving his gaze back to me. He sends two more awful pitches, causing me to purposely tap them into foul territory. It's that or face being walked. I want a hit so bad that I can taste it. This asshole wants nothing more than to walk me, and I'm getting pissed off. Walking is not an option right now. It just became personal, and I need to be the one to end it.

With a full count, an eternity passes as I wait for the next pitch. A stare-down between the pitcher and me hushes the crowd. At that moment, right before he throws that ball, time suspends for me. All noise ceases to exist as my subconscious tells me to cream this ball.

I smile deviously when the ball leaves his glove.

In slow motion, the ball travels right toward me, right down the center, right over the plate...and I send it right over the fence.