Plunked Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part I: Digging In

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part II: In the Dirt

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part III: Rally Cap

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Jackson hits an absolute bomb to deep center field. The bat makes a PING that could shatter glass. Jackson is one of our best hitters, and that’s his best shot of the day. Coach Wainwright has seen enough.

  “Next batter!” he shouts.

  That’s me. My name is Jack Mogens, and I’m a sixth grader at Tall Pines Elementary. I pass Jackson and we bump fists.

  “Think you just brought down a satellite,” I say.

  “Hope my TV still works,” he says.

  It’s Thursday night at Culbreath Field, and Little League practice is in full swing. Jackson grabs his big first baseman’s mitt and heads back into the field, and I take my place at the plate.

  Coach is ready to go on the mound, but he gives me a little time to get set. You’ve got to have a routine. All the big leaguers on TV do, so I do, too. First, I sort of dig my front foot in. I bat right-handed, like most kids, so my left foot is out front, and I twist my toes into the dirt a few times. Then I settle my weight onto my back foot. They always say: Sit down on the back leg. So that’s what I do.

  Next, I take four swings, two fast and two slow. That way, when the pitch comes, I won’t be too fast or too slow! At least that’s the idea. I’m still kind of working out the kinks.

  Coach Wainwright has run out of patience on the mound. As soon as I look up, he lobs one in. He calls them lollipops, batting-practice fastballs. But he’s three times the size of the kids who’d normally be pitching to me, so there’s still something on them. And by “three times,” I don’t mean he’s seventeen feet tall. I’m talking sheer bulk here. Coach throws left-handed, and he’s one hefty lefty.

  The pitch is headed my way. I squint down hard, trying to pick up the rotation of the ball so I can see where it’s going. It’s coming in on me, cutting in toward my body. I hate it when it does that, and OK, maybe I bail out a little. I push my body back out of the way as I push my arms forward. That’s a recipe for a weak ground ball, which is exactly what I hit.

  The ball dribbles pathetically down the line. Jackson, already back at his usual spot at first base, has to wait on it to arrive.

  “Come on, Mogens!” Coach yells from behind his little pitching screen. “That pitch was barely inside. You’ve got to stay in there. I’m not gonna hit ya!”

  I know, I know, I think. I just don’t like the ball coming at me like that. I like the outside pitches. It’s easier to extend my arms on those.

  There’s nothing for it now. Jackson tosses the ball back to the mound, and I dig in for the next pitch.

  This one is on the outside half, and I scald it into right field. Hitting the ball to right is like gold in Little League. I mean, no offense to anyone, but they always put the worst fielders in right.

  “That’s the ticket!” yells Coach.

  I let the smallest smile slip onto my face and dig in again. I need a few more of these before my turn is up. This is my sixth year of Little League, if you count T-ball, and my second in majors. I want to be the starter in left field. That’s a big deal here. Our roster is maxed out for the second straight year, and there’s really only one spot up for grabs in the outfield. My defense is there, my arm’s OK, so this is what’s left. I’ve got to get the job done with my bat and turn these lollipops around.

  Once my turn is up, I head out into the field. This isn’t really the time to show off your glove because there are extra fielders out here, waiting their turn at bat. You can’t run and show any range without crashing into the next kid. That’s OK, though. We’ll shag fly balls later. For now, I settle in and wait for anything hit right at me. And I do some thinking, too. What am I going to do with those inside pitches?

  Pretty soon, batting practice is over, and we all head in for the next thing. We can see Coach setting up at home plate with a bat in his hand, so we know we’re working on sliding again.

  “Lawsuit drill,” I say to Andy as I catch up with him.

  He turns around with a big, doofy smile on his face and says, “Hope no one gets killed.”

  Andy Rossiter is my best friend on the team. Scratch that: Andy Rossiter is my best friend, period. He has been since second grade. He’s got a decent shot at starting at third this season. That’s our goal: me starting in left, him at the hot corner. We’re not taking no for an answer.

  We laugh at “lawsuit drill,” but it’s kind of a nervous laugh. By the time Assistant Coach Liu starts lining us up at third, no one is even smiling. No one likes the lawsuit drill, or, as Coach Wainwright calls it, “Learning to slide! Why is it so hard for you dumb monkeys?”

  The brave kids at the front of the line are pushing through the pile of batting helmets, looking for the ones that fit them. We’ve been practicing for a few weeks now, so we’re starting to recognize the helmets we like from the dings and dents and scuff marks on them. We’re also starting to realize how those dings and dents and scuff marks got there.

  We’re all “Brave” kids, in one way: Our team is the Tall Pines Braves. It’s just that some of us are braver than others. One by one, the first group of kids takes off from third, heading for home. Coach is standing by the plate, facing down the line. Right before they get there, he takes a little swing with that aluminum bat of his.

  He swings it slow, like he’s pushing it through water. And yeah, he could probably pull it back if you weren’t going to make it. But Coach gets distracted sometimes, and I’ve only got one skull.

  Anyway, that’s why we call it the lawsuit drill, even though I’m pretty sure our parents signed away all of our rights as human beings on that permission form. Either way, it’s really, really important to slide in time.

  Right now, Katie Bowe is going. And I know what you’re thinking: You’ve got a girl on your majors team? Yeah, and she’s probably going to be our starting shortstop. She’s also one of the first ones down the line and slides a good two feet under Coach’s swing. She pops up in a cloud of dirt and ponytail: Safe!

  The line’s moving now, and there’s not one kid who doesn’t swallow hard waiting for his turn. Coach hasn’t smacked anyone’s head back to third yet. Then again, we’ve been practicing for less than a month. It’s my turn. I double-check my helmet and race down the line.

  Practice is over until Saturday, when we’re going to hit the batting cages in Haven. My head is still attached, but
there’s a decent chance I’ll die in a car crash on the way home. Dad is just not paying attention. He’s driven these same few roads all his life, and I guess he feels like he doesn’t need to look anymore. I don’t agree at all. I always buckle up, first thing, when he’s driving. If I still had a batting helmet, I’d put it on.

  There isn’t a lot of traffic in Tall Pines at night, but there isn’t none. And here’s my dad, fiddling with the radio and then making way too much eye contact. Don’t get me wrong: It’s polite to look at the person you’re talking to. It’s just maybe not such a great idea while you’re driving. But here he is, looking at me when he asks a question and looking over when I answer. I keep my answers short.

  “How’s Wainwright?” he says.

  And then he half answers his own question with: “Can’t believe he’s still out there coaching.”

  “He’s good,” I say, and then pause so Dad will look back at the road.

  He corrects his course a little, pulls the tires back off the double yellow line, then looks back toward me: “Yeah?”

  “Bigger than last year,” I say. And, whatever, it’s true. It’s getting pretty noticeable.

  Dad looks back at the road. There’s a good chance he’ll chew me out for “judging a person by their appearance.” Dad has been reading a lot of parenting books lately. I’m pretty sure that’s where all of this eye contact is coming from, too. But he just cracks a smile.

  “Oh, well, you know, it’s not so easy for us old guys to stay slim,” he says. Then he looks down at the beginning of a bulge at his belt and laughs.

  “You’re not old!” I say.

  “I’m no spring chicken!”

  Dad is always saying things like that. What is a “spring chicken,” anyway? A chicken is a chicken, right? Or does a spring chicken turn into a fall turkey?

  “Not old like Coach,” I say. I don’t really like to think of my dad getting that old — and it won’t be an issue if he doesn’t start looking at the road!

  A car honks and he swerves back into his lane.

  “Eyes on the prize,” I say.

  He laughs again. He loves that one, too.

  “Speaking of packing on the pounds,” he says, “we need to pick up dinner on the way home.”

  “Really?” I say, because we don’t normally get takeout after practice.

  “Affirmative, soldier,” he says. “The orders come straight from High Command.”

  He means Mom.

  “Where?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, what do you think?” he says.

  Tall Pines is only an exciting place to eat if you’re a termite. There are exactly three options around here at this time of the night. Still, I consider the question carefully. This is dinner we’re talking about, and I’m always super hungry after practice. (Mom calls me the locust plague!)

  “Well, there’s pizza,” I say.

  “That’s a good one,” says dad. “Pizza at Brother’s. And the Sicilian Express is always a pastability, too.”

  He uses the same pun every time, but I’m not really in the mood for the kind of food they make there: pasta and chicken parmesan and things like that. It’s kind of a warm night, and I’ve been running all over the place. We finished up with sprints, and I’m sweaty and dirty in that way where the dirt is sticking to the sweat so much that you almost feel muddy.

  “Seems a little fancy right now,” I say, meaning I feel like the Swamp Thing. “And they always give us like seventy-two pounds of pasta.”

  Dad seems a little disappointed, but I point to his belt to make my point. I think he’ll laugh, but he doesn’t. People get touchy about that stuff. It’s like it’s OK for them to say, but not for anyone else.

  “There’s McDonald’s,” I say, but I guess I sort of sunk that one by pointing at his stomach, too. Dad considers the options for a few moments.

  “The pizza place it is,” he says, making the turnoff. “They make a mean Greek salad.”

  I don’t understand why you would go to a pizza place and get a salad, but parents think about things differently. And it works out for me, because we can get a medium pizza (which is actually pretty large). Then Mom and Dad can just have a slice or two to go with their Greek salads, and leave the rest for me.

  Anyway, we survive the decision-making process without a head-on collision.

  “Make the call,” Dad says, nodding to his cell phone in its little holder. It’s illegal to talk on your cell while driving here, so I place the order. We pull into the lot like three minutes later. Tall Pines isn’t that big a town. There’s something I’ve noticed around here: the bigger the tree in the name, the smaller the town. “Tall Pines” … that’s just trying too hard.

  So we wait in Brother’s for our order. There are already three other kids from the team there, and more will probably pull up. Dad stands by the counter and talks to the parents and other people he knows from town.

  I go over and say hi to Tim Liu, who is Assistant Coach Liu’s son. He’s a nice guy, but he’s locked in a pretty fierce battle at second base. His dad being a coach is kind of a problem, because if he gets it, people will grumble. I think a few kids have started the grumbling a little early, but I’m not one of them. I like Tim, and he really is a good fielder.

  Then there is a younger kid named James, who I don’t know that well, and Katie Bowe. It’s weird with Katie. When we’re at practice, she’s just the shortstop. She keeps her hat pulled down low in a way that makes her look sort of tough. If it wasn’t for the ponytail, you could almost forget she’s a girl. But then, after practice, like literally one second after it’s over, the hat comes off, and there’s just no doubt.

  Like right now, she has some dirt under her right eye, but it doesn’t look bad the way it would on me. My hand goes up and brushes my face without me even meaning to. It’s actually kind of cool on her, like it’s a look or something, and a few days from now all the girls in school will be doing it.

  She glances up and I look down fast. I don’t think she saw. Or maybe she did. I turn back to Tim and say the first dumb thing that pops into my mind.

  “Really, lot of dirt and, um, out there today,” I blurt out. It’s barely even a sentence.

  “Huh?” he says.

  I smile and shake my head, trying to think of something smart to say. Then I realize Katie is still looking over at us, so there’s no chance of that.

  Saturday morning is like a military mission. We head to the batting cages at Hungry Hut, over in Haven. The Haven and Tall Pines leagues officially merged a while back. We’re playing the Haven Yankees in our first game, so this is a trip behind enemy lines. It’s like a war movie. I mean, there is pretty much no chance of gunfire, but some Haven players might see us and sort of scout us out. Or they might even be at Hungry Hut taking their own cuts in the cages.

  We go early, so we can get there right when the batting cages open up at ten. There is no sign of the Craven Yankees. That’s what we call them. It means cowardly. Kids on the Tall Pines team have been calling the Haven team that for forever, from back when people used words like that.

  There is no sign of them or pretty much anyone else. The Hungry Hut doesn’t serve breakfast, and it’s pretty early for a burger and onion rings. A girl comes out and pushes up the cover of the pick-up window. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that says “I’m sassy! Get over it.” Then she goes around to the side door and you can hear her moving stuff around inside. There’s a loud thump because I guess she got too sassy and knocked something over.

  Cars are pulling up one after another now, but it’s all kids from our team. You get to recognize the cars after a while. Kids are spilling out the side doors of minivans and heading straight over to the cages.

  Most of the cars just drop them off and then hightail it back to Tall Pines. It’s Saturday morning. Most of the parents have been working all week, and now it’s time to mow the lawn or go to Home Depot or Stop & Shop or whatever grown-up thing they want to cross
off their list first. A few of the parents get out, though: the two assistant coaches, a few of the dads who’ve played ball, and a few of the moms who like to watch their kids do things like take fifteen cuts in the batting cages.

  Coach Wainwright is already over at the little shack, trying to wrangle a deal from the guy who works there. The guy’s name is Jimmy or Joey or something like that. I come to the cages pretty regularly during the summer, and it’s pretty much always this same guy. He doesn’t look completely awake yet.

  Coach is doing all the talking, and Jimmy/Joey is sort of leaning back to get out of spit-spray range.

  “What about some sort of bulk discount,” Coach says, but not really as a question.

  Jimmy/Joey looks over at us: a platoon of Tall Pines’s smallest athletes. The line is long and getting longer. He looks back at Coach. “OK,” he says. “Three for the price of two. But just this once.”

  He walks over to unlock his little shack, and Coach flashes us a big smile and a thumbs-up sign. Coach is a goofball sometimes.

  Jimmy/Joey goes inside and starts dragging racks of bats and helmets out for us. Coach puts his hands up, meaning, Let the man do his job. Once he drops his hands, we swarm the racks.

  All three coaches start shouting at once: “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” and “One at a time!” But it’s like trying to stop a cattle stampede. We’re elbowing each other aside and hand-fighting for the best stuff. I bulldoze my way in and am the second guy to get to the second rack of bats. You want to get a good bat and a helmet that doesn’t flop around on your head or squeeze your eyes out of their sockets.