As the season went on, our team continued to play

mediocre ball. We’d win a game and then lose a game.

Then we’d win a game and lose two. By the middle of

May, we were 6–9, and the coach wasn’t too happy about

it. We were not exactly a well-knit group either. Ever

since the Doc’s assassination, the riots in school, and the

fights and stuff, we’d been divided between white kids

and black kids. Our team was roughly half white and half

black, and even before the racial problems, most of the

white kids had stuck with the white kids, and the black

kids had struck with the black kids, but at least on the

field and in practice, we all used to get along all right.

However, since all the trouble, there was hardly any team

spirit or camaraderie. Jonathan still wasn’t talking to me

or to anybody who was white.

The whole season was a drag. Worse yet, I still had

not done anything to distinguish myself at shortstop, and

my mediocre play was one of the reasons we were such

a mediocre team. Even though I was hitting under .250

right-handed, my confidence was at such a low level that

I didn’t want to buck my coach’s wishes and try batting

lefty. My fielding was still pretty sporadic, and sometimes

I would make a really good play one inning and then

totally botch one the next inning. To make matters worse,

Darrell had just about recovered from his injuries.

We had a big game against Mayfield, and I knew I

had better do something good, or else Darrell was sure

to take over at shortstop. The game was on a Monday

afternoon, so I decided to ride over to the baseball batting

cages that Sunday to try to get in a little extra batting

practice. The batting cages were out on the highway, and

I had always wanted to go there, but it was a bit dangerous

to get there on my bike. However, I figured the extra

practice was necessary for me this time, so I took the

chance and headed out there.

The cost was a quarter for nine pitches, and I wasn’t

exactly rolling in dough, but I did have a couple of bucks,

so I changed them for eight quarters and set myself up in

one of the batting cages. The stupid mechanical arm was

extremely wild, and I got as many bad pitches as good

pitches, but since I only got a limited number of pitches, I

wanted to swing at everything. So I swung at everything.

By my sixth quarter, I started to hit the ball better. I made

a few adjustments in my stance and tried not to step in the

 bucket all the time. I was tempted to try batting lefty, and

sure enough, I couldn’t resist, so I got up lefty. I dragged a

few bunts and slapped a few grounders to left field. What a

shame. If I could only get a few chances batting lefty, I could

show the coach that I’m a pretty tough out. I shook my head.

I knew there was no way I was going to get up lefty in a

game. I was just about to be replaced by Darrell anyway,

and there was no way I wanted to antagonize the coach.

I was down to my last quarter, and I decided I’d try

another machine. I hoped it would throw more good

pitches. Sure enough, the new machine pitched nine

beautiful strikes, and I got good swings and hit the ball

hard just about every time. There was a net pretty far

out there to stop the balls, and I even hit the net a few

times. I was really feeling good about my hitting, but

unfortunately, I had run out of money. However, just as I

was putting away the bat, I heard a thud. I turned around

and noticed that the machine was still pitching. Evidently,

it was busted or something and didn’t know how to turn

off. Well, I didn’t want to waste that opportunity, so I

picked up the bat and got right back up there, swinging

away and hitting the ball better than I had all season.

After the nine pitches, the machine paused for a bit, and

I was just about to put the bat away, but then it started

pitching again—all strikes too. I took nine more good cuts

and hit the ball really well. I even hit the net a few more

times. I was starting to sweat, and after the nine extra

pitches, I stepped aside to see if the machine would keep

pitching. Sure enough, it started up again. I went right

back up there, swinging away. What an opportunity it

was—an endless amount of pitches with nobody waiting 

 on deck like in practice, no coach yelling at me, and

no complaints by the pitcher that he was getting tired.

It was just pitch after pitch, strike after strike, and, the

way I was swinging, base hit after base hit. I felt as if

I had finally cured myself of my bad habit of stepping

in the bucket, and furthermore, I was building up my

confidence. Because I was right-handed and was stronger

when batting righty, I found that when batting righthanded,

I had more power, and I was actually hitting the

ball pretty far. Then I started to notice that my left hand

was hurting. I could see that I was developing blisters. I

figured I should stop before the blisters got any worse,

but I couldn’t give up that great opportunity. It was like a

baseball player’s dream. I had never had so many pitches,

and since there was probably nothing in the world I liked

better than hitting a baseball, I just couldn’t stop.

Finally, when my left hand was really starting to

hurt and the blisters started to bleed, I called it quits.

I remembered reading that Ted Williams used to take

batting practice until his hands were bleeding, and I felt

proud of myself. Best of all, I was more confident in my

ability to hit than I had been all season.

The game was at Mayfield, so as usual when we had

an away game, we got out of school early. That was one

of the best advantages of being on the baseball teams.

When we had an away game, they had to let us out early

to catch the bus to the away school. I always felt totally

cool getting up in the middle of the last-period class and

giving my pass to the teacher, and out I went. What status.

Well, I was psyched about the Mayfield game. I was raring

 to go. It was a pretty long ride to Mayfield, which was out

in the sticks, so we didn’t get to the field until a quarter

to four. Since it was that late, we had no opportunity to

take batting practice. Without batting practice, I didn’t

notice the problem until I was on deck for my first time at

bat. As I took a few practice swings, I discovered that old

Ted Williams mustn’t have had important games on the

days after he took batting practice until his hands bled, or

maybe he was made of better stuff than I was, because my

hands hurt so much from the blisters that when I gripped

the bat, I could hardly swing. I got a sick feeling in my

stomach that somehow I had blown it. What a jerk I was.

There I was, brimming with confidence from my hours of

batting practice, but I couldn’t even hold a bat.

There was one out, and Gorski was on second with

a double. I stepped to the plate and decided I was going

to be tough just like Ted Williams. I swung at the first

pitch, and my left hand hurt so much that I had to let go

of the bat. The bat went sailing out toward shortstop. As

I went out to get the bat, I heard somebody on the bench

say, “Hey, look. The Wrecker’s just as wild throwing a bat

as he is a ball.”

Real funny. I felt pretty darn embarrassed, but I was

a heck of a lot more worried than embarrassed. This was

probably my most important game ever, and I was not

even able to swing a bat. I took the next two pitches, one

for a ball and one for a strike. I swung at the next pitch

and hit a weak grounder to the first baseman, and boy, did

my hand hurt. The contact of ball to bat to blister made

me see stars. I tried not to show the pain and headed over

to a far corner of the bench. I didn’t want to tell anybody,

because it had been extremely stupid on my part to let

myself get a hand full of blisters. I also didn’t want to

seem like a crybaby or an excuse maker, so I kept my

mouth shut.

Big Billy came over to me and sarcastically said, “Nice

hit, buddy. Maybe you’d better start aiming your bat at

Darrell if you hope to keep your job.”

“Thanks a lot, Billy,” I said.

It was even tough out in the field. Every time I caught

a ball, the blisters hurt like crazy. My next time up, I was

afraid to swing because not only did it hurt to swing; it

hurt twice as much when I made contact. I was lucky that

the first two pitches were balls, and I hoped that maybe

I could draw a walk. I took the next pitch, but it was a

strike. The next one was a ball, so I had a 3–1 count. I

was leading off the inning, so it was a good idea to try

to get a walk, but I had no such luck. The next pitch was

a strike, and so was the next. I looked at both and never

took the bat off my shoulder. I walked slowly back to the

bench and really heard it from the coach.

“Take the bat off your shoulder! You can’t get a hit if

you don’t swing. Jeez! What—are you afraid you might

hurt your hands or something?”

I wanted to say, “Yeah, Coach, you moron, that’s

exactly right.”

Well, as the game went on, I felt pretty darn bad

because it seemed as if everybody else was hitting the ball

all over the place—on both sides. By the top of the fifth 

inning, when I came up for my third at bat, the score

was 8–7. We were behind. Gorski was on third this time

after a run-scoring triple. I really hoped the coach would

call for the squeeze sign. With the way I was swinging,

I hoped he would see that it would be best for me to

bunt. Oh, how I wished I could have gotten up there

lefty, dragged a nice little bunt down the first-base line,

knocked in the tying run, and then beat out the play for

a bunt single. But of course, there was no way I would

ever buck the coach’s order, especially in situation like

that. How I wished I had never met up with the pitching

machine that wouldn’t stop. I took the first pitch, which

was right down the middle for a strike. I could hear the

coach yell, “Swing the darn bat!” I took feeble swings at

the next two pitches and missed them both. I went over to

the far corner of the bench and sat down. Even Big Billy

wouldn’t come over to say anything to me.

By the time the seventh inning rolled around, we were

down 13–10. I was scheduled to bat third that inning. I

went over to the first-aid kit, pulled out a can of Band-

Aids, and put some on over the blisters. While I was doing

that, I noticed Darrell had picked up a bat. My heart

sank. The first two guys got on base, and I was due up.

I had a bat in my patched-up hands, but the coach said,

“Put the bat down, T. J. Darrell, get up there, and see if

you can hit the ball.”

I felt positively miserable, but I had to admit that deep

down, I felt relieved. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to

hit the ball with my blistered hands, and I figured it was

just as well to let Darrell get a chance. Sure enough, ole

Darrell got up there and blasted a double into left-center 

field. Two runs scored. Darrell eventually came around to

score, and we went ahead 15–13. The players went crazy.

It was the first time in ages that there had been any spirit

on the team. I had to admit I did feel kind of good for the

team and for Darrell, but most of all, I felt relieved. We

went on to win the game 15–14, and at least I didn’t have

to worry about being the goat. But that was Itsville for me.

I didn’t start a game for the rest of the season.

Darrell did pretty well at shortstop, but really, over

all he wasn’t that great anyway. Darrell hit with really

good power, and occasionally, he’d belt a long one, but

he struck out a lot because he swung so hard. In the field,

he definitely had a better arm than I did, and he threw

overarm, which the coach loved, but he booted a lot more

grounders than I ever did. And of course, Darrell was a

hot dog and a loud mouth, and after a while, most of the

kids on the team couldn’t stand him, even the black kids.

I was disappointed at sitting on the bench, but at least

I was relaxed. I didn’t have to listen to the coach chew me

out, and I didn’t have to get nervous before games. I got

to pinch-hit a few more times during the season after my

blisters healed, and I got a few base hits. It was a lot easier

to hit when I wasn’t fighting for a job. I just got up there

and swung away. I had made some improvements in my

batting stance thanks to my time at the batting cages, so

I felt good up at bat. Eventually, the coach started yelling

at Darrell like he yelled at everybody. He kept getting on

Darrell for swinging at bad pitches. Darrell was a free

swinger up at the plate. That was his style. Sometimes

he’d really blast the ball, and sometimes he’d miss it, sort

of like the Mick or any power hitter. Well, the coach really

would get on Darrell, and I could see that Darrell was

starting to boil. Knowing Darrell, I figured he was set to

explode, but when, none of us knew.