Alex and the Enderson Brothers: Book One
162
Alex and the Enderson Brothers: Book One
162eBook
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780983507789 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Cedar Grove Publishing |
| Publication date: | 03/14/2013 |
| Series: | Alex and the Enderson Brothers |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 162 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
| Age Range: | 9 - 12 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Fast Pitch
By J. Creighton Brown III, Timothy Martin
Cedar Grove Books
Copyright © 2015 James Creighton Brown III & Tim MartinAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9835077-8-9
CHAPTER 1
Crack!
It was a bright spring day at Arizona's Scottsdale Stadium. Mom and Pop were just dropping me off in the parking lot when I heard the crack of a wood bat, the sound of a baseball hit sharply. Sweet! I couldn't help smiling. It was music to my ears. I grabbed my glove off the car seat and broke into a run. The World Champion San Francisco Giants were in spring training. My family was there to cheer on the team. I'd probably been to about a million ball games, but I still got a shiver down my spine as I stepped into the dark, cool, concrete corridor leading into the park. I watched the small rectangle of brilliantly-colored field grow larger and larger, and then experienced the stadium in its full glory as it opened up before me. It was all there, the sights, the sounds, and the smells of baseball, the game I love.
My name is Teresa Jayne Zanotti, but my friends call me TJ. I'm seventeen and baseball is my life. My brother plays for the Giants, Pop is their trainer (at least he was until he retired a few years back), and my Mom has got to be the team's biggest fan.
Pop started calling me TJ the first year I played Little League. He thought it sounded more like a baseball player than Teresa Jayne. Teresa is a name you would give to a girl who wears nice dresses and lipstick, and paints her fingernails. TJ is someone who can hit a baseball hard and plays shortstop like a professional.
By the way, that's my favorite position. I play shortstop for the Menlo Park High junior varsity baseball team.
Every year my family comes to Arizona to watch the Giants in spring training. I spend most of the week at the ballpark hanging out with the players and talking with them. Giants fans like to show our colors, as they say.
On this particular day I was wearing my favorite Rich Aurelia jersey. My ponytail hung out of a San Francisco Giants hat. As I hurried down the stairs toward the dugout, I overheard two boys talking. One pointed to me and said, "Where's that black girl think she's going? She can't just walk down onto the field."
"Look at that jersey," said his friend. "I thought Rich Aurelia was white. Ha, ha!"
"Yeah, and I thought he was a man."
"The security dude is gonna bust her, big time."
This kind of stuff happens to me every so often. Some guys think a girl has no business near a baseball field, like it's their turf or something. I remember when I tried out for Little League. A few of the coaches thought the same thing. Then after I hit .450, led the league in stolen bases, and made All-Stars, they didn't think that anymore. Thank you, Title IX! A security guard was hurried over, and one of the boys hollered out, "Officer, do your duty. Arrest her."
"Hey TJ," the guard said, tipping his hat. "How's it going?"
"Hi Eddie," I replied cheerfully.
"How do think we'll do today?" he asked.
"Well, it's a split squad game, so Sanchez might play. I think DeRosa and Tejada are at Valley of the Sun playing in the other game. But with Lincecum pitching I think we'll whoop 'em. After all, it's only the Indians. Heck, my Little League team could probably beat Cleveland."
Eddie swung open the gate. TJ stepped through and they proceeded down the field.
"Man!" he said. "We've got to get you in the Giants front office, TJ. I've never seen a kid with more baseball smarts than you. By the way, how're your parents?"
"Fine, Eddie," I said. "How's your family?"
"All fine, honey. You know, your brother's looking really good at shortstop."
"Yeah, he's the best," I replied. "Next to me, of course. Are we gonna see you back in San Francisco?"
"You betcha," he said. "Working' spring training down here in Arizona and the regular season at AT&T Park is about the best job a man could have. Besides playin' the game, of course."
We stopped close to the dugout. "I heard you played the game really well," I told him.
"Thanks, TJ. Give my best to your folks."
"See you, Eddie," I said, sprinting for the dugout. "By the way," I hollered over my shoulder, "maybe you ought to check those two kids' tickets, if you know what I mean."
"You know it, TJ," replied Eddie winking. He turned and threw the boys a nasty glance. "Hey, you kids, lemme see those tickets."
You might wonder what a seventeen-year-old kid like me is doing in the Giants' dugout. Since my Pop was one of the team trainers for almost 20 years, my brother and I almost lived with the Giants. I still get to hang out with the players anytime I want. I ask you, how cool is that?
I hopped down the steps into the dugout. The team had just finished batting practice, so I walked along the bench, slapping high fives.
"Hey, TJ," said Sanchez. "You bring your glove? We may need you today."
"Sure, Freddy," I replied. "But if I covered second, where would you play?"
"Score one for you, TJ," he said, laughing.
"Has anyone seen my brother?" I asked.
"I think he went to grab a coke," said Huff. "By the way, nice jersey."
"What, this old thing?" I said.
He chuckled. "Are you gonna play Varsity this year?"
"Yep. Tryouts are a week after we get back home."
"Well, it's not gonna be easy," he said. "Varsity is to Junior Varsity like the Bigs are to Triple A. Your high school is gonna get one heck of a fine shortstop."
"I'll give you five bucks to tell that to my coach," I replied. The team manager, Bruce Boche, stepped over. "Darn it, TJ," he said, "quit bugging my first baseman. He has a hard enough time concentrating on the ball."
That's when my brother hopped back into the dugout. He was all smiles.
"Hey, Sis," he said.
There's something you should know about Bobby. Not only is he the best brother in the world, he's also the greatest shortstop. I'm not kidding. He's quick and smart, and he knows everything there is to know about baseball.
"Hey, Bobby," I said.
He leaned down and gave me a hug. "So, what's happening?" He nudged a fellow player down the bench to clear a spot for me. "Grab some pine."
I plunked myself next to him. "You ready for the game?" I asked.
"Always," he said.
I picked his glove off the bench and admired it. This wasn't just any old glove, mind you. It had been with Bobby through college, Double A, Triple A, and all the way into the Majors. I couldn't remember ever seeing Bobby without that glove. "Still got the old Ball Magnet, huh?"
Bobby smiled. "I don't let it get too far away. The Ball Magnet is just a couple pieces of leather and a few yards of cowhide string, but it's my best friend. When I put on that glove in February, it's like when the swallows fly back to Capistrano. That old mitt means springtime and baseball."
"It's funny how you get attached to a silly old glove," I said, "even if it does say 'Educated Heel' on it."
Our conversation was interrupted when the umpire shouted, "Play ball!" "Let's go, Giants," hollered Boche. "Take the field."
I handed out high fives to the players as they exited the dugout.
"Hey, TJ," asked the manager, "you playing ball this year?"
"Yup," I replied. "I'm going out for varsity at Menlo High."
"Work hard," he said. "If your brother can't cut it, I'm drafting you."
I blushed. Not a bad compliment, coming from the manager of the San Francisco Giants.
"Thanks, Skipper."
That day our team was facing the Cleveland Indians. I watched from the dugout, entranced by the Giants' defense. They played like a well-oiled machine. Bobby was perfect, as usual. He even turned a 6-4-3-double play to end the 9th inning. The Giants had won 5 to 2 over the poor Indians. It was a great game and a perfect ending to a very happy day. The guys were busy signing autographs when Bobby and I strolled past. Leaning against the fence were dozens of fans. One boy pushed a pen and paper toward Bobby.
"Mr. Zanotti," he shouted, "can I have your autograph?"
"Sure, kid," said Bobby. "What'd you think of the game?"
"It was great," the boy responded. "You guys are a shoo-in for the pennant."
"Maybe you should get her autograph, too," Bobby said, pointing at me.
My jaw dropped. "What?"
"You boys could be looking at the future of professional baseball." He handed me the paper and pen.
"Go ahead, TJ. Give them an autograph."
"You're nuts, Bobby"
"Please," said the boy.
I could feel my face turning red. I was probably glowing like a firefly. "Well, I guess. ..."
The boy smiled. "Gee, thanks."
I signed the paper, and Bobby and I headed off the field. In the parking lot, he turned to me.
"Hey TJ," he said smirking, "could I have your autograph, too?"
I punched him in the shoulder. "Sure. For twenty bucks."
CHAPTER 2It was fun riding back to the motel with Bobby. I hadn't gotten a lot of time to talk with him since he had started spring training.
"Where were Mom and Pop today?" he asked. "I didn't see them in the stands."
"Mom wanted to go shopping before we head back to San Francisco," I said. "She made Pop go with her to try on stuff."
"Pop? Shopping?" Bobby shook his head sadly. "I'll bet he wasn't a happy camper."
"I'll say. But we all know who's the boss in the family. I had them drop me off at the ballpark."
"How'd you get out of shopping?"
I threw my brother a look. "Are you kidding? Mom knows how I am about Spring Training. There was no way I was gonna miss a Giants game."
Bobby laughed. "That's my sister." He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. "Of course, you and I both know you and Mom will go shopping once you get back home."
I sighed. "Yeah."
Our drive took us past a little league complex that was teeming with dozens upon dozens of kids. Bobby pointed in the direction of one field.
"Look over there," he said, "Little League tryouts. We've got some time before dinner, let's stop and check it out." Bobby pulled over to the curb where we could witness the organized confusion.
"This is a pretty cool complex," I said. "Look at how many fields there are."
"Yeah, it reminds me of one of those Age of Man time lines we studied in history," said Bobby. "Starting at the dawn of creation on field number one are the T-Ball players. Half the kids are chasing butterflies with their gloves, the other half are on top of the backstop or under the benches. Coaches are trying to parent, and parents are trying to coach."
"Then, on field number two, we step up to minors," I added. "Lots of dropped balls, but at least their gloves are on the correct hand. Some actually look like ball players, although the parents look more like primates pacing along the fence." Bobby and I laughed. "And on field three we come to the majors," he said. "I remember how scared I was to face live pitching instead of the machine."
"Me, too," I added. "Getting back in the batters box after getting plunked the first time was not easy."
"The coaches seemed different back then," Bobby said. I'm just glad we had Pop to coach us."
I stared at him. "Are you forgetting that time I made an error and he smacked himself in the nose with his clipboard?"
"Oh, yeah," he said. "It bled for over half an hour."
Bobby put the car back into gear and we pulled away from the field. There was a long moment of silence. I think my brother must have been reflecting on his Little League days. I know that I was.
Finally I asked, "Bobby, have you ever thought about coaching baseball?" He shrugged. "I don't know. Someday, maybe, in the right situation. The fundamentals we learned in Little League are still the fundamentals we use in the pros. The game kids are playing today is the game the greats once played: Ruth, DiMaggio, Gehrig, Mays, Clemente ... all of them."
"Don't forget Cal Ripkin Jr. and Ozzie Smith, aka The Wiz — greatest shortstops ever."
Bobby nodded. "The game is the common bond between us. I don't care what age or color you are, or what country you're from."
"Hey," I said, "you forgot to mention gender."
Bobby glanced over at me. "Listen, I meant it when I told that kid back at the park about you being the first female pro."
"Really?" I asked. "You think I can make it all the way to the pros?"
"I don't think you can. I know you can. You're gonna make history someday, TJ." The tone of his voice told me he was serious. I waved my hand in dismissal, but I was grinning from ear to ear.
We passed another field where girls' softball tryouts were underway. I shook my head sadly.
"Look at that," I said. "Could anything be more pathetic?
They throw like a bunch of girls."
"Careful now," said Bobby, "there's a girl in the car."
"I'm serious. Softball is for sissies. It's for baseball wannabes and beer-bellied old men who never played hardball." I pointed at a player rounding the bases. "Look at the way they run. That's disgusting. I'd hang up my cleats before I'd play with that big old ball."
"Well, I hope it never comes down to that, Sis," he replied.
"Nothing could ever get me interested in softball," I grumbled.
"Me, neither," he said. "Let's seal the deal."
Bobby and I bumped fists and did our complex secret handshake, which ended with both of us spitting out the window.
Later that evening at the motel, we sat with Pop watching ESPN Sports Center. Mom stepped out of the kitchen wearing a San Francisco Giants apron over her dress.
"Wash up everyone," she said, "dinner's almost ready."
We washed our hands and took our places at the table.
"How'd the game go today?" asked Pop.
"Great," said Bobby. "Two for four with an RBI. Skipper said I may get to start against the Dodgers."
"I hate L.A.," I chimed in.
Pop nodded solemnly. "As all good Giants fans should, TJ. I raised you right."
Mom placed her casserole on the table. "That's enough baseball talk now," she said. "Save it for the season."
"Hey, Pop," Bobby asked. "Did you have fun shopping?"
"Matter of fact, I did. Look what I bought."
He reached into a bag and pulled out a Giants number 24 jersey, orange pants, San Francisco sandals, and a pair of Willie McCovey number 44 underwear. He held the shorts high for all to see. "I like these skivvies so much I'll probably never take them off."
"Then we'll just have to throw you and your underwear into the washer," replied Mom.
As we ate dinner, Bobby told Mom and Pop about our visit to the Little League complex, and how it brought back so many memories.
"You know, TJ," Pop said, "I kept you playing hardball instead of softball after the minors because I wanted you to experience the game in its purest form. Softball is ..." he thought for a long minute, choosing his words carefully. "It's kind of a tainted strain in the natural order of things, like a hairy bird or a fish with feathers, or some other weird animal on the evolutionary tree whose extinction didn't surprise anyone." He looked at Mom, who rolled her eyes.
Pop lifted his glass. "A toast: to TJ and Bobby. May you always play your best, enjoy the game, and have fun. Remember, no matter what, your mother and I are behind you one hundred and one percent. Salute!"
* * *
March is kind of a crazy month for me. That's when we head home to San Francisco. It's sort of like going backwards in time. Or maybe it's like one of those yin/yang things.
In Arizona, its always 85 degrees. You wear sandals and shorts, and you've constantly got sunscreen and Chapstick on. It really seems like summer. Then you come home to San Francisco and it's a chilly 50 degrees. You're back to wearing big sweaters, hoodies, jeans and sometimes a hat or cap. It's kind of a shock, really. But I'd rather play baseball in 50-degree weather than watch it in 85-degree weather. Tryouts were here, and I had a job to do.
Back at school, it was forever before the final bell rang. I could hardly wait to get to the baseball field. I was confident about making the team, and I could already see myself at the position of shortstop, wearing my orange and black Menlo Park varsity uniform.
I had heard that Coach Burns was old school all the way. He certainly looked the part with his tattered Menlo Park High 21 sleeveless sweatshirt and taped-up wood fungo bat. I wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Would this guy judge me for my true ability, or would being a girl screw up my chances? I wondered if it too late to run back into the locker room and glue on a mustache.
Burns had us warm up on the field for a half hour, then he waved us back to the dugout. "Bring it in," he hollered, in his hard-as-nails voice. We jogged over and formed a circle around him. His two assistant coaches, Clem Snyder and Booger Biggs, stood nearby. Snyder was a tall, thin man. Biggs was short and blocky with big ears.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Fast Pitch by J. Creighton Brown III, Timothy Martin. Copyright © 2015 James Creighton Brown III & Tim Martin. Excerpted by permission of Cedar Grove Books.
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