Loudly.
Yeah. He was one of those Little League coaches. Having played on her own teams, and having hung around on Jack’s and Gus’s even before Teddy became a player too, Cassie knew that there weren’t as many of them as people thought.
Her dad agreed with her.
“I know coaches like that are the cliché,” Chris Bennett had said to her one time.
“Like in the movies,” Cassie had said.
“In the movies and even in books,” her dad had said. “But the truth is that most of the coaches I’ve either coached with or against get it. They really do. They understand that it’s not about them, that it’s always supposed to be about the kids. But too often people watching can’t see that—or maybe can’t hear that—because of the one or two percent who don’t get it, who really do think it’s all about them, and make such a spectacle of themselves.”
Ken Anthony was clearly in the 1 or 2 percent.
He wasn’t just having the guys on the Cubs practice like they were playing. He had them practicing like they were playing game seven of the World Series for the real Cubs.
At one point he even decided that Jack, playing shortstop, had been slow covering second base on a potential double play, even though anybody could see that the ball had been hit too slowly to the Cubs’ second baseman, J. B. Scarborough, for them to have had any chance at turning two.
“Game of inches!” Ken Anthony yelled at Jack. “Game of inches. And one of those inches can cost you a run, a game, maybe even a championship. So next time let’s get rid of that ball a little sooner.”
Cassie was alone in the bleachers, starting to think she was watching more of a baseball detention than practice. But out loud, no one there to hear her, she pretended that she was talking to Coach Ken Anthony.
“What planet are you from?”
In that moment it was almost as if Jack could hear her, or just read her mind, something he did a lot. Because when Cassie looked back at him, he was looking straight at her, grinning, eyebrows raised, as if to say back to her, Can you believe this guy?
Cassie shook her head.
No, she could not.
He was absolutely as bad as Teddy had said he was. She really started to think, after less than an hour of watching this, that maybe things on her team weren’t nearly as bad as she’d thought they were.
The only time Mr. Anthony managed to calm himself down was when his son, Sam, took the mound. Cassie knew who he was, because Jack had pointed him out to her when she’d showed up after one of her practices last week.
Sam Anthony was tall, the tallest boy on the team, and looked more like a football player to Cassie than a baseball player, even though big-league baseball players were looking more and more like football players to her all the time. But as big as he was, and as hard as he tried to throw, he didn’t look like he had what announcers always called “overpowering stuff.”
Cassie frankly didn’t think he could throw a ball as hard or as well or as accurately—or even as gracefully—as Jack Callahan did when he was on the mound.
But his father acted as if he were watching a future Hall of Famer when Sam struck out J.B., and then struck out Gus. It wasn’t a scrimmage. But there were enough players on the team that the coach could put seven fielders behind Sam, and Teddy behind the plate. Sam’s dad, calling balls and strikes, had announced that they were all supposed to pretend that Sam was pitching in a tie game.
Jack came to the plate after Gus.
Cassie knew that Jack wasn’t going to help the pitcher out by swinging at the same borderline strikes that J.B. and Gus just had. Jack, even if he did have to take a strike, was going to make Sam Anthony work, waiting for his pitch.
Sam threw a pitch that looked to Cassie to be nearly a foot outside.
“Strike one,” his father said. “Caught the corner.”
Jack didn’t even turn around. Didn’t step out of the box. Just stayed in his stance.
The next pitch was farther outside, and Mr. Anthony had no choice but to call it a ball. Same with the next pitch. The count was 2–1.
“How about giving me a better target,” Sam called in to Teddy behind the plate, as if missing as badly with the last two pitches was Teddy’s fault. Or his mitt’s fault.
Teddy had been yelled at enough by Sam’s dad today. Cassie could see he wasn’t going to take it from his son. He didn’t get up, or flip back his mask, and stayed in his crouch. He just put his glove out in front of him, directly behind the plate, the same height as Jack’s waist.
“I’m sorry,” Teddy called out to Sam. “I didn’t realize I was hiding back here.”
Cassie heard Mr. Anthony say, “Cool it, Madden. The pitcher always knows best where his target should be.”
Now Teddy was the one who didn’t turn around. He just nodded and left the mitt exactly where it had been before Sam had chirped on him.
But Sam missed again, enough inside that his dad had no choice but to give a little shake of his head and say, “Ball three.” And Cassie felt herself smiling, because she was a pitcher, and could see what was happening here. This guy was afraid of Jack, even in a glorified batting practice. He was pitching around him, but wanted that to be anybody’s fault but his own.
“What are you waiting for, a perfect pitch?”
Now Sam was talking to Jack. But Cassie knew that he could talk to Jack Callahan forever and not get a response out of him.
Jack ignored him. Just took a quick step out of the box with his front foot, adjusted his batting helmet, stepped back in, took his stance, set
