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proved that he still didn’t get it.
    And what was the surprise?

CHAPTER 12
    W hen I arrived at practice, Dad was in the parking lot with a youngish guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a
GQ
article on “How to Dress for Watching the Game.” Blue-and-white-striped silk shirt, chinos, Italian loafers, and a very expensive watch—
Patek
something. He had thick black hair cut short and a genuine tan. He also had Ray-Bans in his shirt pocket.
    Dad waved me over. He was beaming. “Brian,” he said to the guy, “this is my son Trip. Trip, this is my good friend Brian Muller.” We shook hands.
    â€œBrian wants to watch you practice,” Dad said. “He represents the New York Yankees organization, and he’ll be at the game tomorrow as well.”
    What? The Yankees? Dad had gone nuts. Maybe this would have excited some guys. But to me it looked like a trap. Like being forced to date someone you didn’t like just to please a parent. Except this was more than a date my dad was trying to arrange. It was my life. I felt like throwing up.
    Another guy came over. He was younger than Brian, but he looked like he was taking his fashion lessons from the boss. I learned that he would be helping Brian “observe” the practice.
    I didn’t want to embarrass Dad. So I said, “Great,” to the Yankees’ guys. “Thanks!”
    Right then I made a decision. I still can’t be positive it was the right thing to do. But I was angry at Dad’s manipulation. I was going to convince the scouts that I was no one they would be interested in.
    Â 
    . . .
    I dogged it on the workouts. I let a lot of balls get by me. In the batting cage I tried to look clueless.
    When I came out of the cage I just about collided with Dad. “What in God’s world do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.
    â€œDad, you still don’t understand, do you? I don’t want to give my life to baseball. Right now, I don’t even want to play.”
    Dad’s voice got cold. “You will play tomorrow. Your coach has agreed. You let me down today, but I know you will not let down your team.”
    After practice I found Coach.
    â€œDad said you’ll play me tomorrow.”
    â€œThose are my orders, from all the backers,” Coach said. “They want to cooperate with your dad, and he has said they’ll have more time to negotiate if you play in the meantime.”
    â€œYou do whatever they say?”
    â€œTrip, I have to think about the whole team. Without your dad’s support, our season might end. That’s twenty kids, some of them with nothing in their life except baseball, who would be left with no season. And what was that from you today? Was that on purpose?”
    â€œI wanted to chase Dad’s scouts.”
    â€œTrip, I completely understand. If I was your dad, I’d tell you to take a break. But I’m not. I think honesty is the best policy. I’ll do what I can; you do what you can.”
    Â 
    . . .
    In less than twenty-four hours the Runners would be meeting the South Denver Miners. We usually beat them, but word was they had a new pitcher—a knuckleballer. Following the majors, it’s easy to think of a knuckleball as something a pitcher develops because he’s getting older or just doesn’t quite have the stuff of the competition.
    Of course the rare knucklers that exist in the majors are, well, the best. But a few amateurs do work on that pitch, and word was that Dewey Wilkins, the new guy for the Miners, had one of the best at our level.
    The fact that I was even thinking about this now proved that Dad had me pegged. I didn’t want to let down the team. So I would play. And I made up my mind to play as well and as hard as I could, because I’d decided this would be my last game.

CHAPTER 13
    O n the day of the game, Wash gave us a little talk on how to hit a knuckleball. None of us had ever