Page 128 of Big Bad Wolfe

They arrived at the field, the teams in colorful T-shirts, Blue Jays versus Bumblebees. Casey had on a yellow shirt, number twelve. While Zane and the other team’s coach were attempting to herd the excited rugrats into some semblance of order, Jillian got called into the office to meet a couple who wanted to speak with her before enrolling their children in the Center.

She headed inside, promising to return as quickly as possible.

Dean and Loucinda were front and center with other relatives and friends cheering on their kids. Dean had brought a camp chair and stool for Loucinda, and both were waving yellow flags with gusto. “Go Casey!”

Casey gave them a bouncy wave and a broad grin. The kid’s grin turned into a scowl when Jen, also a Bumblebee, sidled close to Casey and kissed him on the cheek “for good luck.”

The coaches finally got everyone semi-organized, and they played two innings. With the score tied at zero, Casey took his turn at bat, uncertainty tightening his lips. He swung with fierce concentration, but was the third Bumblebee to strike out.

Zane patted his son’s slender shoulder as the teams began to change places. “Good job.”

Casey hung his head. “I struck out. Again.”

“You took your best shot, and that’s what counts.” Zane rubbed his jaw. Taking a more active role on the field might increase the kid’s confidence. “I think you should play third base.”

Leery brown eyes widened. Casey frowned, gulped. “I dunno. That’s an important spot.”

“You’re doing really well with your catching when we practice at home.”

Casey wrinkled his nose, shook his head.

“Give it a try.”

“I … don’t …”

“C’mon, you can do it.”

“Uh … okay, I guess. If you want me to.”

Zane smiled at him encouragingly. “All right! Go out there and get ‘em.”

The little boy trudged to third base, stopping once to look apprehensively over his shoulder at Zane.

Zane’s stomach rolled at his son’s stiff, nervous stance and somber eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t have made Casey play a major position. Maybe he wasn’t ready. If he missed a catch, he’d feel even worse.

Zane’s nerves rocketed sky high along with the ball when the batter let loose with a pop fly aimed right at Casey. The little boy looked terrified. He cocked his head and stared up. Raised his mitt. Teetered forward. Then backward.

After a few breathless, strained moments that felt like forever, the ball dropped into the outstretched mitt.

“Yes!” The shout burst out of Zane.

Casey jumped up and down. “I caught it!” he screeched. “I caught it!”

Joy winged through Zane. He shot Casey a thumbs up. “You sure did! Way to go!”

As the inning progressed, Casey’s confidence soared. As did Zane’s pride in his son. The little boy had overcome a difficult obstacle and was glowing in triumph.

The bases were loaded when a chubby girl with red braids and more freckles than face stepped up to bat. Donnie Ray pitched the ball over the plate, and she clobbered it.

Robbie Ray, out in centerfield, missed the catch, scrambled for the ball. The third base runner sprinted home, and the second base runner hit third and then tore all the way home. Robbie flung the ball toward Jen on second base. But it fell short, bounced between her legs and kept rolling as the boy from first made it to second and stopped. He hesitated, then finally started for third just as Donnie managed to recover the ball.

“Donnie Ray!” Casey yelled, waving his arms as the runner trotted toward him.

Donnie pivoted and fired the ball at Casey, who looked good to make the catch. But mid-stride, the runner changed his mind, turned and stumbled back toward second base.

Jen leapt forward, yelling, “No, here! Throw it here!”

Casey glanced at Jen. In that split-second of inattention, the ball whacked into Casey’s face.

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