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Overview
In his senior year of high school, late bloomer Ryan Ward has just begun to feel the magic of baseball - the magic of catching a wicked slider, of throwing a runner out, of training hard and playing hard and pushing his limits. Giving up baseball would be like getting off the most exciting ride of his life. But when one of his teammates clearly pushes the limits too far, Ryan is faced with a heartbreaking dilemma: he must choose between his love for the game and his sense of integrity - two things that, in his mind, baseball should bring together.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780547771199 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 04/28/1997 |
| Sold by: | HARPERCOLLINS |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| Lexile: | 670L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 3 MB |
| Age Range: | 12 - 17 Years |
About the Author
Carl Deuker is the author of many sports novels, including On the Devil's Court, Heart of a Champion, and Painting the Black, all of which were selected as ALA Best Books for Young Adults. He lives in Seattle, Washington.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Lots of guys can stand on the pitcher's mound and throw a baseball hard. But they aren't pitchers. A pitcher does more than throw: he knows what he's doing out there. He changes speeds; he works the corners, inside and outside, tying batters up or making them reach out awkwardly. And once he owns the corners, once the umpire is calling all those pitches strikes, then he really goes to work. He moves his pitches out or in another inch, so that instead of going over the plate, the ball passes over the edge of the plate. Painting the black, they call it, putting the ball right there on the borderline. Josh Daniels could do that. He lived on that borderline. I know because I was his catcher.
A year ago I would have sworn that I could never play baseball again, that it was absolutely impossible for me to make the school team. But I was right there with Josh when he reached out for that championship ring. My hand was right next to his. Even now I'm not sure who wanted it more.
It all started one night last June. I'd been listening to the Mariners' game. It was one of those three-hour slugfests that went back and forth. We were down two in the last of the ninth when Ken Griffey Jr. came up with the bases loaded. Griffey took the first pitch low, then he got one in his wheelhouse and blasted it. I was only listening,but I swear I could see that drive, see the ball climbing higher and higher and then landing in the second deck. The radio exploded, and my heart just about came out of my chest.
After a game like that, you can't just turn off the radio and knock off. I listened tothe post-game show and the manager's show, but I was still too pumped up to sleep.
I switched to one of those stations that play old rock. I had the sound down low because my mom and dad had been in bed for hours. That's why I picked up the rumble of the engine the moment the truck turned and headed up our block. And when the truck stopped, engine idling, in front of the big empty house across the street, I went over to the window to look out.
The sky was cloudless, with a big full moon overhead. The passenger door opened and a kid who looked to be about my age, seventeen or eighteen, hopped out. I could see him clearly in the moonlight. A big kid with dark, shoulder-length hair and a long, angular face.
The driver, a man I figured was his father, stuck his head out the window. His voice carried in the night air. "I'm going to pull this thing right up to the steps. You guide me, Josh."
The kid climbed onto the porch. He put both hands up and motioned for the truck to back toward him. "Keep coming. Keep coming." His rich, deep voice filled the night air. "A little more... easy now...stop!" The brake lights went on, and for an instant his face turned an eerie red, making him look like a rock star in some MTV video.
The driver's door opened and the man, who was short and stocky, stepped out. "Give me the house keys," he said, looking back into the truck.
A woman's voice answered from inside. "I don't have them. You've got them."
"I do not have them." The man's voice was sharp.
A search took place, the keys were found, and the front door to the house opened. The porch light went on, the rolling back door of the truck was raised, and the unloading began.
If it had been daytime, I would never have stood at that open window and watched, and not just because they could have seen me. Time passes differently late at night. You can stand and look out a window without worrying that you should be doing something else. Those late hours are all stolen hours.
They didn't unload all that much. Mattresses, box springs, some lamps, a table -- just the basics. There was probably some other stuff too, but I didn't pay much attention. Mainly I watched the kid, the way he took the stairs three at a time, his broad shoulders, his rail-straight back.
When I was in sixth grade, I broke my ankle and had to spend a couple of weeks in the hospital. Day after day I'd lie in bed and watch "Leave It to Beaver" reruns on the hospital television. All the time I watched, something seemed strange about the program, but I could never quite put my finger on it. Just before I got out of the hospital, I figured out what it was: Every time Beaver stepped outside, someone his age was there waiting to do something with him. Kids lived in every house up and down Beaver's block.
I don't know about the rest of this country. Maybe it's still that way in some places. But in the Crown Hill neighborhood of Seattle where I live, there are old people, young couples with no kids, and single people. I've lived in this same house my whole life. In all that time, there had been only one year when anybody my age lived on this block -- and that year ended in disaster. So seeing somebody my age was something different.
They worked for about an hour. Then the front door closed and the porch light went off. I found myself yawning, so I went back to my bed. I listened to a couple more songs on the radio. The last one I remember was "Hey Jude." Somewhere in one of those Na Na Na Na's at the end, I fell asleep.
Painting the Black. Copyright © by Carl Deuker. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.