State Showdown Page 7

  Peter caught Carter’s eye. “No way I was letting that go for a hit,” he said firmly. “Nope. No way.”

  Carter didn’t say anything. But his heart was hammering a staccato drumbeat. One more inning. If we can keep them off base for just one more inning… He refused to finish the thought.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  Run!”

  The shout from the first-base coach was unnecessary. Liam had anticipated the collision between Malden’s pitcher and shortstop a split second before it happened. He’d already taken off when the two collapsed into a heap, the baseball rolling away from them in the grass.

  Now he was thirty feet from second and picking up speed. The pitcher and shortstop untangled themselves and jumped up. Liam was twenty feet away when the player covering the bag started yelling for the ball. Ten feet when the shortstop scrambled forward to get it. Five feet when he picked it up. Three feet when he tossed it to second.

  Liam hit the dirt. But instead of sliding straight, he aimed his outstretched foot away from the bag and reached to touch the base with his left hand. When the Malden player swept his glove down for the tag, Liam instinctively yanked his hand away—and then flipped over to slap the bag with his right!

  “Safe!” the umpire cried.

  The fans went crazy—and their cheers grew louder when Matt, making the most of the catching error, crossed home plate. Ravenna 3, Malden 2.

  “Okay, Carmen, sweeten that lead for us!” Liam heard Sean yell above the din of the crowd.

  But Carmen grounded out.

  Liam jogged off second base. He was happy to have helped the team leapfrog ahead of Malden, but he would have been happier if the gap were wider.

  It was the top of the sixth inning, Malden’s last chance to score. With the Sectional title on the line, the batters would no doubt be giving one hundred and ten percent.

  So we’ll have to give one hundred and twenty, he thought as he suited up in his catcher’s gear. Or even better—

  “Hey, Liam.”

  Liam looked up to see Phillip standing beside him.

  “I just had a great idea,” the pitcher said. “How about we win this tourney here and now by sending Malden’s batters packing one”—Phillip touched a finger to his chest—“two”—he brushed that same finger against the tip of his nose—“three.” He pointed at Liam.

  Liam stared at Phillip. Then he broke into a slow smile.

  To most anyone else, the chest-nose-point gesture would have been meaningless. To Liam, it symbolized the heart of their rocky relationship.

  He’d used it on Phillip first and as a prank—sort of. At last year’s World Series, Liam had learned about the practical joke Phillip had played on Carter during baseball camp. When Liam encountered Phillip shortly afterward, he’d decided to return the favor with a trick of his own. He pointed to a nonexistent stain on Phillip’s shirt. When Phillip automatically looked down to see the stain for himself, Liam jerked his finger up and bopped him in the nose, crowing, “Made you look!”

  Phillip had the last laugh, however. After he struck Liam out, he leaned over Liam, imitated the nose-bop, and whispered, “Made you whiff!”

  He’d repeated the gesture throughout the regular season, whenever he and Liam faced each other on the field. Seeing it always made Liam’s blood boil, for he knew it was meant to remind him of his humiliating strikeout and therefore to undermine his confidence.

  But he knew that wasn’t Phillip’s intention now. Now, Phillip was using the gesture to forge a new bond between them—a bond of trust.

  Liam stood up. Still smiling, he pointed to his own chest, then his nose, and then pointed at Phillip. “One. Two. Three,” he said in sync with each movement. “Sounds good to me. Let’s do it.”

  Then he curled his finger back and held out his fist. Phillip did the same. “One, two, three,” they said together as they bumped knuckles.

  Agreeing to put the batters down in order was one thing; actually doing it was another. And yet Liam felt more confident than he had all game. Phillip appeared more determined, too.

  Zip! Swish! Thud! Zip! Swish! Thud! Zip! Swish! Thud! Three screaming fastballs translated into three strikes and out number one.

  “Two to go, two to go!” Liam cried as he sent the ball to third for the start of a trip around the horn.

  Back in his squat, he sized up the batter. The Malden player was a substitute taking his first turn at bat that game, but Liam remembered him from their previous meeting. He hadn’t been a threat then—and he was no match for Phillip’s changeup now. He reached for the first two and missed. He connected on the third but only for a pop-up toward shortstop. Christopher caught it for out number two.

  The people in the stands buzzed with excitement as the ball whipped around the bases again. Then they fell silent, as if holding their collective breath, when the third Malden batter walked to the plate.

  As the boy tapped the dirt from his cleats, Liam caught a glimpse of his face. He looked nervous. No, more than nervous: petrified. Liam felt a wave of pity for him and nearly murmured a word of encouragement. Then the boy stepped into the box and the urge vanished.

  They were in competition for the title, after all.

  From the mound, Phillip gave the batter a steely-eyed stare. Then he nodded at Liam’s signal for a changeup. After using his arm to wipe sweat from his forehead, he reared back and threw.

  Crack! The ball rocketed into the air behind first base. For a split second, the boy just stood there, openmouthed with astonishment. Then he dropped the bat and ran to first.

  “Go! Go! Go!” his teammates screamed.

  He’s fast, Liam saw with a sinking heart. He’ll beat the throw.

  In right field, Rodney made a valiant dive for the ball, but it fell out of reach. The Malden boy touched first, spotted Rodney sprawled in the grass, and took off for second.

  Bad idea! Liam thought. He was right.

  Rodney sprang to his feet, snagging the ball as he did, and turned to throw to Matt at second. As fast as the Malden player was, there was no way he could outrun a speeding baseball. Even if Matt missed, Phillip was right there backing him up.

  Matt didn’t miss. Foot firmly on the bag, he caught the ball and nailed the runner with the tag.

  The umpire yelled the words Liam and his teammates had longed to hear: “Yer out!”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  One walk. That’s all it took for Carter’s perfect game to vanish like water through a sieve. Disappointment swept over him as he watched the batter toss the bat aside and trot to first base.

  Ash called time and jogged to the mound. He placed the baseball in Carter’s glove and then stared him in the eye. “Forget about it. Focus on the next batter. Be on the lookout for the bunt. And keep one eye on the runner, too,” he added. “He’s fast. His coach might have him try for second.”

  Carter glanced at the boy on first, bit his lip, and nodded.

  “Not that he’d get there safely,” Ash said matter-of-factly. “I’d make the throw. Freddie would make the catch. He’d be out before he even had a chance to hit the slide.”

  “Let’s go, boys!” the umpire called.

  As it turned out, both of Ash’s predictions for what might happen came true. When Carter released the ball, the batter squared off for a bunt and the runner took off for second. But the bunt misfired, popping the ball up a few feet instead of sending it straight down. Ash lunged forward and nabbed it for the out.

  The runner faltered midway down the base path. Carter could almost hear his frantic thought: Go back to first or continue to second?

  He kept going. Ash heaved the ball to Freddie. The runner didn’t stand a chance; Freddie barely had to move to make the catch. He swept his glove down for the tag. The runner was out. Double play!

  Any fight left in Calder’s players evaporated in that instant. The third batter swung at three pitches. He missed each one.

  Final score: F
orest Park 7, Calder 0.

  The fans applauded like mad for both teams, shouting congratulations to their favorite players. Carter barely heard them.

  “I did it,” he whispered. “I pitched a no-hitter.” Then he gazed at his teammates and grinned at his foolish statement. “No, I didn’t do it. We did.” He ran off the mound to join them.

  He’d only gone a few steps when someone hurtled onto the field, grabbed him in a bear hug, and whirled him around. “You were amazing!”

  “Rachel?” Carter disentangled himself from her grasp. “I thought you were back home! How’d you get here? When did you get here?”

  “Nice to see you, too,” she said drily. “I got here just as the game started. Mrs. LaBrie brought me.”

  “Ash’s mom? I didn’t know she was going to be here.”

  Rachel grinned. “Neither did he. Look.” She jutted her chin toward the stands.

  Carter spotted his friend in the crowd just as Ash’s mother found him. The look of pure delight on Ash’s face when he saw her made Carter’s heart glow.

  “Hang on,” he said suddenly. He turned to her with an accusing eye. “No way you were here the whole game. I would have heard you yelling.”

  Rachel made a face. “Mrs. LaBrie wouldn’t let me. She was afraid Ash would look over and see her and that it would throw him off his game. But I can yell all I want now!”

  With that, she threw her head back and bellowed to the sky, “Woo-hoo! Forest Park is going to States! Phew,” she added in her normal voice. “Now come on, let’s go get Ash. I want to hug him, too.”

  “You go,” Carter said. “I want to see my parents.”

  But when he looked for them, he found only his mother. His father, it turned out, was the reason Mrs. LaBrie was at the game. “He called her this morning and offered to cover the Diamond Champs so she could be here,” his mother said.

  “Oh.” Carter tried to hide his disappointment that his dad hadn’t seen his no-hitter.

  Mrs. Jones saw right through him, though. She brushed his hair off his forehead and gazed at him with her soft, warm eyes. “He’ll be bummed, too,” she murmured. “But he realized how badly Ash’s mom wanted to be here. Isn’t it nice that you both had a parent to see your triumph?”

  Carter nodded and then laughed. “Well, she couldn’t have seen a better game, huh? Ash was phenomenal!”

  “He was,” she agreed. “And so were you.” She took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. Forest Park had its official team photo taken, and then parents insisted on taking dozens more of individual players, players in pairs, and players in groups. Mrs. LaBrie and Mrs. Jones must have snapped at least a hundred of Carter and Ash together.

  “There’s one for the wall,” Carter’s mother said, showing one of the grinning boys with their arms around each other’s shoulders.

  Finally, the players were allowed to head for home. Because Mr. Jones had taken their car, Carter, Ash, Rachel, and Mrs. Jones all got a ride with Mrs. LaBrie. Carter sent Liam a quick text to let him know they’d won and that he’d be in touch in the morning. He wasn’t sure if it went through, though, because the signal was poor. After waiting a minute for a reply, he turned off his phone and put it away.

  They stopped just once, to pick up some take-out burgers—or “nasty road food,” as Mrs. Jones called it—but still the sun had long since gone down by the time they dropped Rachel at her house.

  “Not sure I’ll be able to make States,” she said regretfully.

  “Hey, if not, at least your lame-o jokes will,” Carter replied. He patted the pocket of his duffel bag where he kept her little book. She flashed her one-hundred-watt grin and then hurried into her house, ponytail swinging behind her.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs. LaBrie pulled into her driveway. Carter and his mother said their good-byes and walked the short distance to their own house.

  Mr. Jones met them at the door. “Welcome home, champ!” He folded Carter into a huge hug.

  Just then, someone in the driveway cleared his throat. It was Ash. “Uh, Carter, your mom forgot this in our car.” He handed Carter a pair of women’s sunglasses, mumbled a good night, and left.

  Carter watched him go and then looked up at his father. “Dad, can I ask you something? Do you know anything about Ash’s father?”

  Mr. Jones shook his head. “I don’t. But your mother might. You could ask her. Shower first, though, okay?”

  Mrs. Jones was already in bed asleep when Carter finished in the bathroom. He tiptoed in, laid her sunglasses on her bedside table, and crept out.

  It was after eleven o’clock when he finally climbed into bed. Before he turned out his light, he checked his phone for messages. There was one from Sean and one from Liam. He smiled when he read them, for they both said the same thing: “We won!”

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Liam had hoped to video-chat with Carter after his win but remembered his cousin had a much longer drive home from his tournament than he had. He left his laptop on in case a call did come through and then went downstairs to watch a movie with his parents. It was a boring film, all about some historic event he knew nothing about, so after half an hour he decided to just go to bed.

  He didn’t fall asleep but rather lay with his hands laced behind his head, thinking about everything that had happened since the game.

  Sam Witherspoon caught up with him immediately after the congratulatory hand-slap.

  “I thought we had you beat,” Sam confessed. “When DiMaggio gave up that walk and RBI triple just before I came to the plate, I thought, ‘This is it. He’s going down.’ ” He shook his head ruefully. “Even after I got out, I still thought we could pick him apart in the sixth. Truth is, I could have sworn there was friction between you two. I thought we’d be able to use that against you. But when you guys took the field, I don’t know. Something seemed… different.”

  He looked so puzzled that Liam couldn’t help laughing. “Something was different,” he told Sam. “Phillip and I finally stopped pretending we were teammates and actually started being teammates.”

  Sam snorted. “You couldn’t have waited until after today’s game for that to happen?”

  “What can I say?” Liam spread his hands wide. “The time was right.”

  Sam pointed a finger at Liam. “You’re a good guy, McGrath. In fact, I’ve got a hunch that you’re going to make it all the way back to Williamsport. And I’ll be cheering for you the whole way.”

  “Thanks, man.” The two shook hands and then Liam left to rejoin his teammates.

  “There you are!” Rodney cried when he spotted him. “Time for the team photo. Oh, and I nabbed you one of these. Here.” He gave Liam a commemorative trading pin designed especially for their Sectional tournament and watched while Liam attached it to his jersey. “Now come on, there’s like a zillion people waiting to take our picture!”

  “And one sister waiting for a postgame interview.”

  Liam turned to find Melanie hurrying toward him, a huge smile on her face. She handed her video camera to Rodney. “Get this on film, will you?” Then she took Liam by the shoulders and stared him in the eye. “Okay, bro, listen up because I don’t say this very often. Ready? I’m really proud of you.”

  Liam put his hand to his chest and staggered back in mock amazement. “Rodney, please tell me you got that!”

  “Every word, my friend!”

  “Give me that,” Melanie groused as she took the camera back from Rodney. “Now, about that interview—?”

  “Rodney! Liam! We’re waiting!” Dr. Driscoll called from the far side of the field.

  “Sorry, Mel, gotta go! But I promise I’ll let you interview me tomorrow!”

  There weren’t a zillion people poised with cameras, just one official Little League photographer. She instructed the boys to line up behind the championship banner. They arranged themselves as they had for the District Championship photo, with one b
ig exception.

  “Yo, McGrath, got a spot for you right here!” Phillip called.

  When the camera flashed, Liam was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Phillip, their hands joined and raised in victory.

  After the photo, Dr. Driscoll rounded up his players and assistant coaches for a final wrap-up. “I wish there was some way for me to express just how pleased I am with what we accomplished this tournament,” he began.

  “There is!” Rodney cut in. “Take us out for pizza!”

  Dr. Driscoll burst out laughing. “You know what? I think I will! Everybody, dinner’s on me!”

  Half an hour later, the Ravenna players and their families descended on Mario’s, a local pizza restaurant. It was only four o’clock, too early for the dinner rush, so the place was empty. The boys got permission to push several tables together into one big row. Once the red-and-white-checked tablecloths were straightened, the waiters brought pitchers of soda, plastic tumblers filled with ice, and silverware wrapped in paper napkins. Steaming hot pizza loaded with pepperoni, cheese, sausage, and other toppings arrived shortly after.

  “Now this is what I call a postgame meeting,” Rodney said, surveying the spread with great satisfaction.

  “Funny,” Sean said, “I just call it food.”

  The party broke up soon after the pizza was gone. “I’ll be in touch with details about the Sub-Division tourney,” Coach Driscoll told the players’ parents. One by one, the families left until only the Driscolls, the McGraths, and the DiMaggios remained.

  That’s when Melanie pounced. “You know, Phillip,” she said, sidling up to the pitcher with a movie-star smile, “I’ve been trying to get an interview with you and Liam for a while. What do you say? How about tomorrow at one o’clock?”

  Phillip agreed, but only if it was okay with Liam.

  “Of course it is,” Melanie answered for her brother. When Liam started to protest, she hit a button on her camera. Liam heard a playback of his voice say, “I promise I’ll let you interview me tomorrow!”