Sparks the Matchmaker (Aaron Sparks Series) by Russell Elkins Read Free Book Online

triumph to take home with him: he wanted to win this game. It would be even better if he got the chance to play the hero and score the tying run.
    Ollie was up. It was 9-10 in the bottom of the ninth with two outs. “Don’t swing at the first pitch,” Sparks said through the chain link fence as he walked toward the batter’s box.
    Ollie watched as the first pitch bounced off the back of home plate and the umpire called, “Strike!”
    “What are you talking about? That hit the plate!” Ollie yelled at him.
    “It hit the black lining on the back of the plate,” the umpire argued back. “That’s a strike.”
    “Open your eyes,” Ollie said. “That hit close to the center of the plate. You just want this game to be over so you can go home.”
    “Turn around. And this time, maybe you could swing the bat,” the umpire said.
    Sparks said, “What are you doing? Why are you arguing balls and strikes? What, you worried about striking out or something? Just hit the next pitch. And make sure you run hard.”
    Ollie turned his glare from the umpire to the catcher and chuckled to himself. He and Keith had always joked about how to tell if someone knows nothing about softball. This catcher was a walking advertisement. This guy’s dressed like he’s about to go to the grocery store. Wearing blue jeans was forgivable, as was failing to wear a hat. But to wear tennis shoes? That was laughable.
    “This is your pitch,” Sparks said. “Run hard.”
    Ollie took a swing. Ollie got a solid thwacking piece of the ball; he was certain it was going to clear the fence in straightaway center field. Sparks had a reason for telling me to run hard, so run hard Ollie did. The ball missed clearing the outfield fence by a few inches, striking the top rail and ricocheting back into the outfield. The outfielders were clearly not expecting that. As they scrambled to track it down, Ollie rounded first base. The outfielders chased the ball as it bounced and rolled back toward the infield, and Ollie rounded second. The right-centerfielder reached the ball first, firing it toward home plate.
    Ollie’s teammate, coaching at third base, yelled, “Stop!” trying to get him to hold up and wait for the next batter.
    But Ollie wanted to tie up the game. Thinking of Sparks telling him to run hard, he rounded third and headed for home plate.
    He could see the catcher standing one step away from home plate in his tennis shoes, waiting for the ball. Ollie’s run would tie the game, it would force extra innings. He lowered his right shoulder. He would plow right over the catcher and tag home.
    The ball took a single hop and then buried itself in the catcher’s mitt. Ollie’s shoulder found the catcher’s midsection somewhere between his silly blue jeans and his ridiculously hatless head. The pathetic catcher was half his size; he barreled him right over. Ollie’s flying momentum carried him across home plate and the little man with the ball went tumbling toward the backstop.
    But he held onto the ball, which meant Ollie was out.
    “What are you doing?” the opposing team’s pitcher yelled as he threw his mitt down.
    Ollie’s run would have tied the game, but he was out. The game was over.
    “This is city league softball,” the pitcher said, stalking toward home plate, “not the Majors! You don’t plow people over at home plate!”
    As the fight began to break out, Ollie quickly set aside the knowledge that he’d just lost the game for his team. He turned toward the pitcher who was loudly making his way toward him. From both sides of his peripheral vision he could see that he’d emptied both dugouts; both teams were converging on the action bubbling up around home plate.
    He was about to offer up his witty retort when out of the corner of his eye he saw the catcher’s fist. It was coming in quickly, alarmingly so. Ollie could only turn his head away in an effort to protect his jaw. Ding! The catcher’s knuckles crashed into his skull