Biggie by Derek E. Sullivan Read Free Book Online Page A

must have had fun in gym class, huh?” Coach Phillips asks.
    I nod my head slightly. Sweat rolls down my cheek, cold sweat that normally teams with tears. But as of now, I don’t feel like crying. Let me repeat. For now, I don’t feel like crying. I’m out of my element, my comfort zone. I should want to go home. I should want to sit in my room, but for some reason I can’t explain, I say something loud enough for Phillips and the Laser to hear. “I like pitching. I’m good at it.”
    â€œHave you ever played baseball before?” Coach asks.
    â€œMaddux, my younger brother has taught me how to pitch.” I look right at Laser. “We invented an unhittable pitch.”
    I squeeze my lips as tightly as possible, look away, and nod.
    Coach Phillips walks over to a big, black bag and pulls out a catcher’s mitt that he tosses to Kyle and a clean, white baseball. He rubs the ball with his hands as he walks up to me. As he places the ball in my hand, he says, “Show me this unhittable pitch.”
    Every night for the past two weeks, Maddux and I have sneaked down to the indoor diamond to work on pitching. At first I didn’t own a glove, so Maddux had to softly toss the ball back to me. Eventually, I bought one off Craigslist for three dollars. Slowly but surely over the past few nights, I’ve been able to throw the secret pitch, nicknamed “the Wiffle ball” by Maddux, over and over again for strikes. Maddux says the pitch is part knuckleball, slider, curve, and change up.
    I will need that smorgasbord of a pitch if I’m going to get through tonight. As I slip my three-dollar glove on without sneaking a peek at Laser, I try to imagine Maddux catching instead of Kyle. Maddux is a hell of a coach and I know I can throw strikes. I hold the ball in my left hand and put my forefinger firmly on one seam and my ring finger firmly on the other. My bird finger gently rubs the center of the ball and my thumb and pinkie hold the ball tight at the bottom. After a deep breath, I throw the pitch. The ball floats in the air, zigzagging left to right, north to south, and lands in Kyle’s glove. His wrist barely moves. Laser gives me a small smile, which helps me breathe easier. At least I know I’m not in trouble.
    Kyle throws the ball back. Once again, I put my fingers in the correct spots with the proper pressure and throw the pitch again. Perfect.
    â€œKyle, roll it!” Coach yells.
    Kyle doesn’t throw the ball to me this time. Instead, he rolls the ball a few feet out in front of him. It’s déjà vu. I’m back in the parking lot playing Wiffle ball.
    â€œGo get it, Biggie,” Coach Phillips commands.
    I run as fast as I can, pick up the ball, and race back to Coach Phillips. Then, like a professional bowler, he rolls the ball along the basketball floor. Before it stops, Coach tells me to “chase it.”
    Confused, I turn and look at Coach.
    â€œBiggie, you’re pitching, and a throw got past our first baseman. It’s your job to back him up and grab the ball before everyone scores. Now go,” he says calmly, as if he knows how this story’s going to end.
    The ball settles against the bleachers on the other side of the gym. I run for it as fast as I can. When I reach the ball, my breaths are choppy, my legs are sore, and my hands shake. I turn and look at Laser. He seems a mile away.
    â€œThrow it in here,” Coach yells.
    I position myself and fire the ball as hard as I can. It slices and lands nowhere near Coach, Kyle, Maddux, or Laser.
    â€œBad throw and it took forever,” Coach Phillips yells. “Everyone scored.”
    Shit. My butt lands with a thump on the bleacher.
    â€œLet’s try it again, Coach,” Kyle says with the ball in his palm.
    I can’t go again. I can’t even walk back to the spot. Saliva rolls out of my mouth and onto my chin like I’m three months old. I spit