She raised her arms above her head, still keeping the ball hidden inside of her glove, squeezed in her throwing hand. At the same time, she brought her left foot from the ground, raising her knee (to generate power, just as Coach had taught her).
As Sara's foot began to return to the pitcher's mound, her hands came back toward waist level. The hand holding the ball was finally withdrawn from the glove. Her pitching arm pulled back, and then came forward, as her left cleat impacted the dirt.
She had done this thousands of times before. Perhaps even tens of thousands of times. To throw a ball, and to put it where she wanted to, was an immensely satisfying feat for Sara.
When she had first joined the Hollow Oak Baseball League, she already possessed what Coach called raw talent. She had the ability to throw hard, but her control was inconsistent. Coach had worked with her, teaching her how to develop her windup and delivery, until she had what they referred to as finesse.
Staying fluid was the trick. The entire delivery of the pitch had to be one smooth motion, and not a series of independent moves. The result was power and control. This was what Coach called sound mechanics. Sara's windup had not been mastered overnight, but as a series of small improvements that had happened over time.
Throwing baseballs was what Sara did best. She considered herself lucky to have a sister, particularly one who shared her passion for baseball. They had played catch together for years, starting not long after they were both old enough to walk.
Now, as her pitching arm came forward, the ball was released from her hand. Sara visualized its path, just as Coach had taught her. Physical mechanics were a must, but there could be no success without equally strong mental mechanics.
She had to believe in her arm, and believe that the ball would go where she wanted it to go. And if she did that, generally the ball would go where she wanted. As Coach always said: See it before you do it.
Released from her hand, the ball rolled from her fingertips. It cut through the air like a laser, shooting toward the target of Maria's mitt behind home plate.
Neil watched the ball as it hurled forward. He kicked up his left foot quickly, and swung for the fences. Green Lightning came forward, but the bat met nothing but air.
There was a thwack sound behind Neil, and he turned to see Maria gripping the baseball in her catcher's mitt. A cloud of dust formed, from the impact of the ball striking the well-worn glove.
She looked up at him from her crouch behind home plate and giggled. "I thought you were braced!"
"I am braced!" Neil assured her. He held his green bat before his face and examined it, as if looking for holes in the aluminum. "I mean, I was braced. I just got a little distracted, is all."
"Oh, is that what it was?" Maria asked. She rose from her crouch, and threw the ball back to the mound.
"Pow! I got a little extra heat on that one, Neil," Sara called to him, as she caught the ball. With a touch of flair, she flicked her ponytail from one shoulder to the other.
"I'm telling you, I think there's something in the woods back there," Neil said, pointing toward the distant centerfield fence, far behind Sara.
In truth, while he had been digging into the batter's box, preparing for the forthcoming pitch, Neil had seen something that he had taken a great interest in. And he had found it to be most distracting.
His mind still lingering upon the strange noise he had heard earlier, and the possibility of escaped circus animals running amok, Neil had found his eyes wandering from the pitcher's mound to the woods beyond centerfield.
It was there that he had seen large trees shifting, as if they were being pushed aside by something big, making passage for itself. Something big, making the canopy ripple, making pinecones and acorns fall from the treetops. Again, Neil had felt the hair on his arms rising? as if something were watching him.
And was it possible, that over the sounds of cleats kicking dirt, and the banter of the infielders, and the bubbles of chewing gum bursting, that he had heard something else, faint though it might have been? Had it been? Could he have heard it, even from this distance?
Rustle-rustle-rush-crush. Diminished by the distance, but still as mysterious as when he had first heard it.
Sara looked over her shoulder, toward centerfield. Of course, now the trees were still.
"I'm telling you!" Neil insisted.
"You think there's something in the woods?" Sara asked. "Very interesting. But I think there's something in my glove. It's called a fastball, with Neil's name on it."
Behind home plate, Maria chortled. "Uh-oh. That doesn't sound real good, buddy."
Neil choked up on Green Lightning, and dug his cleats back into the batter's box. "Okay," he said. "Bring it on!"
"Come on, Neil," called his dad. "Focus on the ball!"
He stood in foul territory, just to the right of the first base line. From there, he coached his players on their mechanics, offering advice to the batters and the pitcher alike. His shirt was still soaked with sweat, though he seemed to have recaptured much of his lost breath. Periodically, Coach would have to readjust his glasses, as they slid down his sweaty nose.
As Neil readied himself for the next pitch, he forced himself to recall the things that his dad had taught him. Keep your eye on the ball, all the way through the swing. See it before you do it.
It was important that Neil remember these things. For though he was an outstanding defensive player, he was only an average batter. He had to work hard for every hit he got. Batting was fun (especially when he reached base), but roaming centerfield and chasing down fly balls was his true passion.
Eye on the ball, he thought to himself, as Sara began her windup. But even as he thought this, his attention was once more diverted to the woods beyond, and he could not help but let his eyes wander. Once more? the treetops were swaying.
Chapter Four
They Call Him Nibbler
When Neil had completed his turn at batting practice, he jogged to the dugout. He discarded his bat and helmet, trading them in for his glove and ball cap, which were resting on the bench.
After he had fitted his glove back on his hand, and his hat atop his head, he looked up to see that Mr. Murray was approaching the field. At his heel was a large dog on a leash, his body swaying in time with his fiercely wagging tail.
Neil smiled when he saw them, and called, "Hey, Nibbler!"
"Woof," the dog replied in a friendly manner, thumping his tail against Mr. Murray's leg.
Nibbler was a rescue dog, who had been adopted from a shelter. Therefore, his heritage was not entirely certain, but it appeared that he was probably a Labradoodle, which meant that one of his parents was a Labrador, and the other was a Poodle. The combination made for a silly looking beast with a remarkably pleasant disposition. He weighed about 70 pounds, and he had an apricot colored, wool-like coat with curls, and strange twirls of fur.
His smile was perpetually plastered on his funny face, his tail forever wagging. They called him Nibbler, because it was discovered at an early stage of his puppyhood that? well, he liked to nibble on things. Be it shoes, or socks, or pieces of furniture, Nibbler liked to nibble upon it. Fortunately, his nibbling was gentle in nature, and the damage that resulted was generally minimal.
"Woof," Nibbler said again. He gave his biggest smile.
"What's new, Neil?" Mr. Murray asked.
Mr. Murray was Jack's dad, and also the assistant coach for the ball team. He had a big, black mustache that concealed his mouth, and as Neil and Jack had often pointed out, this made him vaguely resemble a walrus.
"Hey, Mr. Murray," Neil said, pointing to centerfield. "There's a big critter in the woods."
"Oh, yeah?" Mr. Murray asked.
He looked over at the forest beyond the fence, his eyes narrowing in concentration. Nibbler's ears went flat against his head, and he, too, seemed to be studying the woods with great interest.
Neil stroked at his chin, as he had seen his dad do on many occasions, when
deep in thought. Of course, the effect was not as impressive, given that Neil (quite understandably) lacked the wizened, gray-streaked beard of his father. "Yep. Possibly an escaped circus animal, seeking refuge in the woods of Hollow Oak."
"Oh, boy." Mr. Murray's brow furrowed. "That doesn't sound particularly promising."
"Well, I gotta get back to center," Neil said, as he began running onto the field. "If I find out anything else, I'll report my findings, posthaste!"
"Right on," Mr. Murray said. "Stay on top of that, Neil."
"Woof," Nibbler added, his tail thumping.
Batting practice continued for some time. Each of the players had a turn at the plate, and they took enough whacks at the ball until Coach felt that they were dialed in, as he liked to call it.
There were many players, most of whom had a special bat that they were partial to. Many of these bats had received strange names at some point in the past. Jack's bat, for instance, was called Excalibur. Sara and Maria preferred an aluminum beauty that went by the name of Monkey Business. And Neil had Green Lightning, of course.
While the players received batting practice, Sara simultaneously got plenty of work on her pitching mechanics. Though it seemed only a matter of time before her arm fell off, such was not the case. Her energy was unending, and her enthusiasm was similarly unending. Like Neil and Jack and Maria, she had a true passion for the game, as well as what Coach called a rubber arm.
When it was time for Sara and Maria to practice batting, Coach stood atop the pitcher's mound, and Mr. Murray crouched behind the plate to catch. Before throwing on a catcher's mask and mitt, he tied Nibbler's leash to the fence in the dugout, and the dog calmly lay underneath the bench. Although prone to ample nibbling, he was a well-behaved Labradoodle.
Nibbler's tail swept rhythmically from side to side as he watched the children play. As his eyes tracked the baseball and the players, he nibbled upon a batting helmet. With his ears filled with the laughter of children, and his teeth occupied with something to nibble upon, he was happy with his place in life.
Chapter Five
We Are the Green Beans
When Sara and Maria were done batting, Coach called practice to a close. He stepped off of the pitcher's mound, and walked a distance halfway to first base.
"Okay, Beans, bring it in!" he called.
Sprinting from their positions all over the field, the players converged on Coach. They encircled him in a tight huddle, jostling, and bumping, and giggling. They were breathing hard, and although they were tired from a long day of school, followed by baseball practice, they were full of smiles and laughter.
There was something indefinable and magical about the experience of playing baseball at their age. Though the Beans could not quite pinpoint what it was, they knew that this feeling of unity and joy was something special? something that they would not forever have, but that they would always look back upon fondly: To be here, under the sun, with their friends. And to play a game, for nothing more than the sheer fun of it.
"Great practice today, Beans," Coach told them. He swayed on his feet, as he was jostled by the tightly crowding players. "You're all doing great. Tomorrow's game is going to be a lot of fun."
"Hey, Coach!" Jack shouted. "Is this normal?"
Balancing on his left foot, he held his right shoe before himself, and wiggled his toes. They burst through a hole that had been torn in the upper part of his well-worn cleat.
"Gears and sprockets!" Coach exclaimed. He mopped at his sweaty brow with a handkerchief that he had produced from his back pocket. "Boy, you guys are hard on shoes."
The huddle broke, and the players began examining their cleats. They murmured in agreement, and each of them began pointing out the various deficiencies in their footwear. Some of them could even see daylight through the cleats, once they removed them from their feet and held them up to the sky.
"Yeah, this doesn't look right," Sara said, as she pulled at the sole of one cleat, and it came partially free from the upper.
"Nope, that's not right at all," Maria said, as she examined her sister's shoe. "You're going to need to put some more superglue on that one, when we get home."
"Don't worry, kids," Coach said, holding up one hand in an effort to appease them. "The new cleats are on the way. I promise you this much: The cleats? are on? the way!"
This proclamation was met with much hooting and hollering, and general revelry from the ball players. Though they were a bunch of ten and eleven-year-olds, and therefore relatively indestructible in the eyes of Coach, their feet were taking a horrible beating over the course of the season.
"Oh, yes," Coach said. "I'm cooking up something real special for you guys at the sneaker factory. You'll see. Now bring it in tight!"
Quickly returning the cleats to their feet, the players crammed around Coach, huddling close for their customary finale to an after-school practice.
"What color are we?" Coach asked.
"Green!" the players shouted back, in unison.
"What do we run like?"
"A machine!"
"And who are we?"
"The Beans!"
Amid the excitement that encased him from all sides, Coach shouted, "That's right! We're the Green Bean Baseball Machine!" Pumping his fist in the air, he added, "Don't forget it!"
Together, the team chanted, "Green Beans, Green Beans, Green Beans!"
It was a strange mascot, to be sure. But it was theirs to embrace, and embrace it they did.
Chapter Six
A Real Gut Buster
No sooner had Coach finished his rally cry than the air was forced from his lungs in a great whoosh of breath. Jack planted his shoulder into Coach's belly and wrapped his arms around his midsection, trying to tackle him. Roaring like a lion, Jack was nonetheless unsuccessful in his effort to topple Coach, for he was simply too powerful for the boy.
Coach laughed at the futile effort (as best he could, with his shortness of breath), and wrestled Jack away from his body. "Not this time!" he declared.
But as Coach deflected Jack's attack, Neil pounced, wrapping his dad up from the other side.
"Hullabaloo!" Coach cried in alarm. "What manner of skullduggery is this?"
Screaming like a troop of crazed spider-monkeys, the entire team joined the fray, bringing Coach to his knees. He mumbled something about respect for one's elders, but he was soon laid out, flat on the grass.
For though he had a tremendous advantage in size over the children, he was quickly overwhelmed by their superior numbers. A great pig-pile ensued, with Coach intermittently letting out an oof! or gah! as another player would dive atop the mountain. It was a real gut buster, to be sure.
Though it was awfully hard on his back and his joints, Coach theorized that these frequent pig-piles were probably good for team morale. Therefore, he accepted this post-practice ritual with good nature.
Once, when they were at home, Coach had confided to Neil that he considered it to be a team-building exercise, which was a valuable tool that the greatest managers in the big leagues used. Of course, the team-building exercises in the big leagues usually didn't involve all the players trying to rupture the spleen of their coach?but that was a minor point, he insisted.
"Mr. Murray," he gasped from the bottom of the pig-pile, as the players squirmed above him, hooting, and hollering, and demanding that he surrender. "A little help here, eh?"
Watching from a safe distance, Mr. Murray slowly shook his head. It was all he could do to restrain Nibbler, who was quite excited, on his leash. "Uh? sorry, Coach. I know when I'm outmatched."
"Gobstoppers," Coach muttered from the bottom of the pile, as he futilely clawed at the grass, pulling for freedom.
There was a flurry of fur and claws, and Mr. Murray called out, "Nibbler, no!"
Alas, it was too late. Excited beyond measure by all the chaos, Nibbler had overpowered Mr. Murray, and torn free from his grip. The Labradoodle charged, full tilt, at the pig-pile, his tail waggi
ng fiercely, his tongue lolling madly. The leash came with him, trailing uselessly behind.
And as Coach lay at the bottom of the pig-pile, pinned flat and unable to defend himself, that is exactly what he saw coming at him. An energized and animated Labradoodle, barreling forward, drool dangling from his mouth.
Nibbler bounded into the pig-pile, barking wildly, and immediately bounced off of the mass of bodies. With his tail thrashing from side to side, he once more approached the pile, but with a bit more caution. Investigating Coach, Nibbler thrust about with his snout, and began sniffing with great aplomb.
"Get back? foul beast!" Coach gasped.
He twisted his head away from the dog, but Nibbler's persistent snout followed him, sniffing away. With an enthusiasm that was impossible to mistake, Nibbler began licking Coach's face, with his dangling, drooling tongue.
"Oh, come on!" Coach moaned. "This is just ridiculous."
With great happiness, Nibbler continued licking Coach's beard and sweaty brow? and then he proceeded to wash the lenses of his spectacles.
"Not the glasses!" Coach begged.
But it was no use, for Nibbler seemed quite taken with the practice. The glasses must have been particularly tasty, for Nibbler was not content to lick them. Gently wrapping his teeth around the frames, Nibbler pulled the glasses away from Coach's face. Pleased with his prize, the dog wandered a few feet away, and plopped down on the ground with a sigh.
"Gah!" Coach cried. "And now, blinded by the four-legged beast. The darkest of fates!"
Only feet away, Nibbler lay on the grass, facing Coach, and proceeded to nibble away at the spectacles.
"So close? yet so far," Coach bemoaned.
It should be noted, however, that Nibbler was very gentle with his nibbling, and was not intent upon ruining the glasses. He wished only to nibble upon them, as per his usual pastime. As he did so, he smiled innocently at the trapped Coach.
"Yield to the Green Beans!" Jack demanded.
He bounced atop the pig-pile, sending shock waves throughout, the impact of such trickling down to Coach, who gasped and sputtered. Jack's cap had fallen from his head, exposing his unruly mop of dark hair. His dirty face, combined with the wayward tufts and spikes of hair, made him look a bit like a young barbarian.