Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Next up was Enzo, who got a single and sent Griffin to third. Then Cole was up, and Cheyenne grabbed my hands. “Why does he have to bat?” she whined. “He’s going to hurt himself.”
“Because they all think they’re still eighteen,” said Bianca behind me.
I laughed, squeezing Cheyenne’s hands. “He’ll be okay.”
But he had a full count on him before a wild pitch sent him jumping out of the way, allowing Enzo to steal second.
“Dang, he’s fast.” I watched him churn up dust as he slid into the bag.
“He is, but he’ll be icing that hip tonight,” said Bianca, but I heard the pride in her voice.
“I can’t watch,” Cheyenne said, putting her face in my shoulder.
I held my breath, watching the next pitch—ball four. “He walked,” I told her as Cole tossed the bat aside and jogged to first base.
“Oh, good.” She clapped and stamped her feet. “That means bases are loaded and Beckett’s up.”
Now it was my turn to be nervous.
But Beckett exuded confidence as he walked to the plate. My heart beat faster as my eyes swept over his tall, muscular frame, his strong hands, the determined expression on his face. He looked sure of himself, but he clearly knew the pressure was on.
I held my breath as the pitcher wound up—ball one.
I chewed the tip of my thumb as the second pitch crossed the plate, and Beckett didn’t swing—strike.
He fouled off the third pitch and took a few practice swings as the pitcher wandered off the mound for a second. Rolled his neck and shoulders.
The next two pitches were high and outside. Full count.
At this point, Cheyenne and I were holding onto each other for dear life, and Bianca and Blair each had a hand on my shoulders. Next to me, Mr. Weaver was fidgety. Griffin looked tense on third base. Enzo appeared antsy at second. Cole took a few steps off the bag at first, ready to run. In front of the bleachers, Elliott and Mariah had their noses to the fence.
“Come on, Beckett,” I whispered.
The pitcher wound up, cocked his arm, and released the ball—a bullet that I thought looked slightly low and inside, but Beckett’s bat met it with a loud crack! The ball soared so high I lost it in the light of the setting sun. The centerfielder ran hard, but it cleared the back fence by at least ten feet—a grand slam, delivering a victory for the team.
The Bulldogs fans stood up and cheered. Mariah and Elliott shouted and jumped up and down. Cheyenne stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly, and Mr. Weaver slow-clapped. “Well done,” he said. “Well done.”
Smiling, I watched Griffin, Enzo, and Cole cross the plate and wait for Beckett to make it around the bases. He jogged at an easy pace, his expression satisfied but not smug. When he scored, the ump called the game and his teammates hollered, slapped him on the back, and offered high-fives.
“Wow,” I said, clapping heartily, “I had no idea how exciting old man baseball could be.”
Cheyenne laughed and whistled again. “Some games more than others, but it’s always fun to watch these guys win.”
“Yes,” I agreed, watching them grin and congratulate each other, happy for them. “Their friendship is really amazing, don’t you think?”
“Totally.”
“Maddie, can you come to the pub?” Blair asked. “We always go after games.”
“I’d like to, but I have Elliott.”
“Bring him!” Cheyenne said. “Mariah can come too.”
I turned to Mr. Weaver. “Would you like to go to the pub for a little bit, Mr. Weaver? You feel up to it?”
“Of course I feel up to it,” he answered. “I’m no old man, remember?”
Laughing, I took his arm, and we made our way off the stands and down to the dugout, where we met up with the guys, who strutted like peacocks all the way to the parking lot.
The pub, which sponsored the team, had reserved several outdoor tables for us, and we crowded around them. Next to me, Beckett draped his arm over the back of my chair, and I felt like a teenager with a crush.
We ordered beers and hot wings and French fries for the kids, and sat around rehashing the game. Everyone congratulated Cole on getting the win, Griffin and Moretti for their hits and base-running, but the most praise was reserved for Beckett’s game-winning grand slam.
“You should have seen the pitcher’s face when you hit that ball,” said Blair. “I think his jaw hit the mound.”
“Pretty sure that’s the farthest I’ve ever seen a ball go on that field,” said Cole, shaking his head.
“That’s because you weren’t there in 1958 when I hit a grand slam to win the state tournament,” said Mr. Weaver, sticking his chest out a little.
“I wish I could have seen it,” Cole told him.
“I was a big hitter too,” the old-timer said. “I know it was a while ago, but it doesn’t feel like it. I wish I could still play.” He perked up. “You guys ever need a pinch hitter, you let me know.”