Between The Lines

The yellow foul pole leaned over Field Three like it had been bent by a storm, though the sky above the local baseball complex was clear. Hunter noticed it while he jogged through the gate, glove tucked under his arm and his new number pinned crookedly to his shirt.

“Keep moving, Hunter,” Michael called from behind him. “Tryouts don’t wait.”

Hunter grinned and ran harder.

He had played well in rec league all spring. He had caught pop flies that made his coach clap twice. He had lined a double over the first baseman’s glove and stolen home while everyone shouted. Rec league had taught him that he belonged on a baseball field.

Today, he wanted to prove he belonged on this one.

Field Three was crowded with boys in matching shirts, bright cleats, and gloves that looked almost as big as Hunter’s chest. A black equipment bag sat beside every fence post. Coaches moved between two diamonds with clipboards pressed against their hips. Parents filled the metal bleachers, talking in low voices that rose whenever a boy missed a ball.

Hunter stopped near the dugout.

A white board leaned against the fence. At the top, in thick black marker, someone had written:

ONE OPEN SPOT.

Under it were rows of names.

Hunter found his.

He touched the letters with one finger. His name was written near the bottom, but it was there.

“One spot?” Roger asked.

Hunter turned. Roger stood behind the fence with Emily, Connor, and Brodie. Brodie held a foam finger twice the size of his arm. Connor had his hands in his pockets and watched the field like he already knew how this would end.

“One spot,” Hunter said.

“That means they’re picking one kid,” Connor said.

“I know.”

“Not helping,” Emily said.

Michael rested a hand on Hunter’s shoulder. “You don’t need to be the biggest kid here. Just be the one they remember.”

Hunter looked at the field. “They’ll remember me.”

He believed it when he said it.

Coach Martin blew a whistle. “Players to the infield! Catching groups first. If your name is on the list, find your number and get ready.”

Hunter joined the line at shortstop. The boy ahead of him wore a red sleeve and had a glove that snapped shut like a trap. Hunter rolled his shoulders and watched the coach toss the first ground ball.

The ball skipped over the dry dirt.

The red-sleeved boy charged, scooped, and fired to first. The throw smacked the baseman’s mitt.

Hunter’s turn came.

Coach Martin hit the ball harder. It bounced once, then kicked left. Hunter planted his right foot, pushed off, and reached across his body. The ball struck the pocket of his glove. His fingers closed around it.

“Good hands!” one coach called.

Hunter rose and threw.

The ball flew chest-high to first base. It landed clean.

He jogged back into line, trying not to smile too much.

From the bleachers, Brodie shouted, “That was my brother!”

A few parents laughed. One woman turned and shushed him.

Hunter glanced toward the fence. Emily waved. Michael gave him a thumbs-up. The small flash of pride in his chest grew warmer.

The next grounder came faster. Hunter attacked it, got low, and made the play. On the third, he backhanded the ball and threw while moving away from first. The throw sailed wide, but the coach at first reached across his body and caught it.

“Better footwork,” Coach Martin said.

Hunter nodded. He knew what that meant. Good play, not good enough.

The tryout moved to batting. Boys lined up outside the cage while a coach fed balls from a short distance. Hunter waited with his bat resting against his shoulder. The metal fence vibrated every time someone hit a ball.

Crack.

A line drive.

Crack.

A high fly.

Crack.

A miss.

Hunter watched each swing. The coaches marked their clipboards. Some parents leaned forward. Others whispered names.

When Hunter stepped in, the batter’s box felt smaller than it had during rec league. The pitcher tossed the first ball inside. Hunter turned his hips and drove it through the opening between shortstop and third.

“Good line,” Coach Martin said.

The second pitch came low. Hunter bent his knees and slapped it over the first baseman’s head. The third was outside. He reached and sent it hard toward right field.

“Nice adjustment,” another coach said.

Hunter stepped out of the cage, gripping the bat with both hands. His palms were damp, but his smile stayed put.

A tall boy with sandy hair entered next. He took one warm-up swing, then launched the first pitch over the back net. The ball struck with a deep boom.

Parents on the bleachers reacted at once.

“That’s the arm they need.”

“He played up last year.”

“Look at that bat speed.”

Hunter’s smile faded.

The tall boy hit two more balls hard. When he left the cage, a coach wrote something beside his name. The boy glanced at the board and walked toward the next station as if the open spot already belonged to him.

Hunter tightened his grip.

He had not come to watch someone else win.

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