Due Diligence Read Online Free PDF Page A

David had gotten a good jump on the ball, street clothes, limp and all. He reached it on the third bounce, just as the runner was rounding third and heading home on what should have been a routine, run-scoring double. David fielded the ball cleanly, pivoted, and threw home.
    It wasn’t until the umpire shouted “Out!” that any of us were able to grasp the sheer glory of David’s play. In baseball jargon, he threw a frozen rope. In plain English, he hurled the ball on a line drive from deep right field all the way to home plate. Our amazed catcher caught the ball on the fly just to the third base side of home, where an equally amazed runner ran into the tag for the final out of the inning.
    David received several congratulatory whacks on the back from our players and a kiss from me, but the celebration quickly faded as we returned to reality. It was out last time at bat, and we were still two runs behind.
    Our first batter flied out to left field. I was up second and reached base on a throwing error. Our hopes started to build when Benny followed with a clean single to center field. I hollered encouragement from second base, but our next batter popped out to third base. We were down to our last out, still trailing by two. I watched nervously as David Marcus limped to the plate, pausing to tap the bat against the heels of his street shoes.
    â€œCome on, David!” I called.
    He assumed a batting stance that hardly looked intimidating. Indeed, it was remarkable how relaxed his stance looked: bat held low, wrists at about waist level, elbows not cocked. And yet, I realized after a moment, it was a stance that I had seen used before, most recently by the Cardinals third baseman Todd Zeile. “Please,” I said under my breath.
    David swung and missed the first pitch. The momentum of his swing and the slickness of his shoes made him spin and lose his balance. He staggered back two steps. Several of the fielders started laughing.
    â€œDon’t hurt yourself, Chester,” shouted their cretinous first baseman.
    David got under the next pitch and popped a fly ball into foul territory beyond third base. The third baseman, shortstop and left fielder all gave chase, but the ball drifted out of play into a row of high bushes.
    â€œOne more strike,” yelled the second baseman as the players returned to their positions. They were pumped, sensing victory.
    â€œWait for your pitch, David,” Benny shouted and looked over at me with a grin. Raising his eyebrows in appreciation, he put his fists together as if he were holding a bat and waggled his wrists.
    I took a deep breath and nodded guardedly. Although the last foul hadn’t been much of a hit, I had noticed—and so had Benny—that David was generating an awful lot of bat speed in his relaxed batting stance. All the whiplike motion and power in his swing was coming from his wrists. If he could time the pitch, he ought to get a hit.
    I exhaled slowly, tensely, as I watched David step back into the batter’s box. He fouled off two more pitches, both to the third base side, each harder than the one before it. The players on the other team were hollering for the kill, apparently oblivious to what David appeared to be doing at the plate. Although I couldn’t tell for sure, it seemed as if he were intentionally fouling off pitches, as if he were taking a strange, high-risk version of batting practice in the bottom of the last inning. I glanced over at Benny on first base. He shrugged. David fouled off another pitch, again to the third base side. I studied him at the plate. As he got back into his batting stance, I noticed that this time he had shifted his feet slightly toward the right.
    This is the one , I said to myself as I got ready to run.
    The pitcher tossed the ball to the plate in a high underhanded arc. David followed it with his eyes, his legs bending slightly as the ball approached, his bat pulling back a little, his entire