The Ninth Inning (The Boys of Baseball #1) - J. Sterling Page 0,15

if he, or anyone, got to start over me, what would happen if they went on a hitting streak? There was no way that Coach Jackson would pull a player whose bat was on fire and replace him with someone whose stick was lukewarm. I could very well spend the rest of the season warming the bench, never to see the outfield grass again.

That meant I wouldn’t get drafted.

And there weren’t any more chances after this one. It was my last.

So, like I’d said, I couldn’t let anyone get a chance at playing over me. I had to fix my broken swing. You see, it wasn’t enough that I was the best center fielder in the league. I had to be able to hit at the plate. The only people with an allowance to fuck up their at bats were pitchers and the occasional infielder who was too valuable to replace. But even that was rare. When you were up to bat, you had to perform. It was part of your job. And I was currently failing at mine.

Coach Carter turned serious. “Then, get in the cages,” he directed before grabbing a bucket of balls and arranging a small L-shaped screen for him to sit behind as he threw me some live pitches.

Even though Jack was technically the pitching coach, he was so knowledgeable about baseball in general that if he offered extra help, you would be a fool to not take him up on it. He had hit the shit out of the ball when he was here at Fullton State. As far as we’d all heard, Jack struggled with nothing on the field and excelled at everything. We all wanted to be just like him in that regard.

I took a bunch of hacks with him in the cages, and Coach Carter shook his head as he stood up.

“Stop,” he said, walking over to me, and I suddenly got anxious.

“How bad is it?” I asked, hoping he could tell me exactly where I was going wrong in my mechanics so that we could fix it. A swing was made up of a million different facets, and any one of them could throw the whole thing off.

“There’s nothing wrong with your swing, Cole,” he said, throwing the ball into his glove with a pop over and over again.

Say what? “Coach?”

“There’s nothing wrong. Your swing looks good. You’re balanced. You’re centered. All your mechanics are tight.”

Dammit. “So, why can’t I hit the ball then?” I asked as my hand holding the bat dropped to my side. I tapped the end of it into the dirt, gripping it tight, knowing what he was going to say next.

If there was nothing wrong with my mechanics and everything technically looked good, then there was only one other explanation. My approach at the plate. Also known as a hitter’s mentality when walking up to bat.

Mechanics could be adjusted and fixed with a few swings on the tee and live pitching, but your mental state? That was another issue altogether. There was no cure for being in your own dome. And the more you thought about it, the worse you made it.

I waited for him to say what I already knew but didn’t want to be true.

“It’s your approach.”

Annnnnd … there it is.

I exhaled a loud, frustrated breath, my head shaking, as Coach Carter added, “You’re in your own head. You’re overthinking.”

Tossing the bat onto the ground, I walked over to the three-foot concrete wall and hopped up on it, the heels of my cleats kicking against it like I was a five-year-old kid. Coach Carter hopped up next to me.

“Is there anything going on? I mean, I know it’s your senior year, so that alone is enough to make a batter choke at the plate sometimes.”

He said the words, and I winced. Visibly fucking winced. I wasn’t choking at the plate. I just couldn’t hit anything other than easily fielded ground balls to second base. Shit. Maybe I am choking at the plate.

“Cole?” he said, pulling my attention to him.

“Sorry, Coach. I appreciate you working with me and helping. It’s just the worst-case scenario, you know?”

He nodded because he did know. Jack fucking Carter knew how important a baseball player’s mentality was and how it affected everything. There was no other sport that was as superstitious as baseball.

“I know this sucks. And I should probably yell at you and tell you to stop being a fucking pussy and fix your shit, but I know that’s