7 Days at the Hot Corner Read Online Free PDF Page B

this actually makes me kind of mad. So I’m mad that he’s mad. Nice, huh? Real mature.
    I realize that I’ve been standing here quiet for a long time, with neither of us saying anything at all. It’s weird. I almost feel guilty about not talking. But he hasn’t said anything either—why is it my responsibility? Why do I have to be the one to start some ridiculous conversation about things that I don’t even want to talk about? Come to think of it, there’s nothing I could say to him right now that wouldn’t take us straight back to my yelling and swearing at him again.
    I look at him lying there on my bed, lying on his back, with his arm up over his face, his elbow covering his eyes, like he’s trying to take a nap.
    I feel a sudden urge to just go over and punch him.
    Instead, I gather up my bag, grab my two aluminum bats, and kind of intentionally clank them together so that he can tell I’m moving around and getting ready to leave. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t move a single muscle. I decide not to say good-bye; I walk to my bedroom door and go out, slamming it pretty hard; hey, it’s my door!
    Third base defense, final thoughts: No matter how well you position yourself in the field, no matter how much you practice and how quick your reflexes, no matter how hard you try, there’s no way to anticipate what’s coming your way next. It’s just the nature of the game; to play is to risk a laser shot or a bad hop or a simple botch job where you take your eye off the ball half a second early. So here’s the truth: No matter how good you are, no matter how much you love the game, playing the hot corner can humble you. I’m feeling pretty humble right now.

Day 2
(Wednesday)
    Baseball offense: I love the line in the movie Major League where the announcer says of a player, “He leads the league in most offensive categories, including nose hair....” Of course, in baseball by “offense” what you’re talking about is hitting—kind of simple really: “See da ball, hit da ball.” But like everything else, it’s not that easy. Offense in baseball, if you think about it, actually means risking your life: You have a guy who can throw as hard as anybody you’ve ever met, standing sixty feet, six inches away. He rockets a hardball, an object with the density of a rock, pretty much at you. We ballplayers call this “fun.”
    We won our game yesterday. That makes fifteen in a row. Joe DiMaggio, Shoeless Joe Jackson, Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, and every other baseball god and legend are smiling down on me right now saying, “Keep it rollin’, rookie!”
    But I haven’t been at school for five minutes this morning when I hear a big uproar behind the gym, near the student parking lot where I’ve just parked. I’m opening the black storage box on the driver’s side of my truck cab when I see three kids running, with another kid following right behind them.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I ask the kid lagging behind the others, moving as fast as his short legs will carry him.
    â€œThere’s a fight!” he pants excitedly. “Somebody’s beatin’ up the gay kid.”
    Travis! I toss my books in my truck bed and take off running after the others.
    When I round the corner, I’m still fifty feet or so from a circle of what looks like a hundred kids. I can’t see inside, but the kids watching are silent. It’s so quiet that as I run toward the circle, I can hear the sickening sound of a fist smacking into flesh.
    I feel a buzz of adrenaline, mixed with a killer dosage of anger and fear. I’m sure that when I get to the middle of the circle, I’ll see some big, dumb, vicious Neanderthal beating up Travis.
    As I get closer, I hear another punch land and the crowd give a soft gasp.
    I see the guy throwing punches: It’s Floyd Ingram, a real quiet guy who finally