Plunking Reggie Jackson Read Online Free PDF

leagues for guys like Mickey Morandini or Joe McEwing.”
    â€œYeah, yeah.”
    â€œI mean it. It’s not just power that wins games. You just keep doin’ the things you’re good at—fielding, moving runners along, hitting the ball to all fields. Gettin’ on base as often as you do. There’s plenty of coaches smart enough to figure that out.”
    â€œIf you say so.” His friend was breaking open another candy bar.
    â€œYou can even get full rides in junior college now.”
    â€œYou can?”
    â€œYou bet. And that can lead to Division One scholarships and even pro contracts. Chill out on this thing.”
    â€œYou sure know a lot about this shit,” said Rico, taking a bite.
    â€œI ought to. I’ve lived with Patrick and my old man my whole life. It’s just too bad there’s no academic credit for it. I might actually get an A in something. Know what I’m sayin’?”
    Coley could hear Coach Mason hollering at them from farther down the beach. It was time to leave. The coach was going to hold a team meeting back at the hotel immediately after supper.
    Coley pitched the first game of their opening doubleheader at 1 P.M. the following afternoon. The careless liberation he felt on the mound, under the warm Tampa sun but out from under the vigilant scrutiny of his father, turned out to be a curse as well as a blessing.
    Loose and free, and with a comforting sweat drenching his uniform shirt, he consistently overpowered the hitters from Tampa’s Hamilton High. He was not at all what the players from the host school had anticipated, although they had probably been warned to expect a pitcher with a major-league arm as well as a major-league future. What Florida schools expected from the occasional northern visitor was a team of wannabes on vacation, a sitting duck whose development lagged far behind their own.
    But what Hamilton High got, in this first game at any rate, was Coley Burke. On his good days Coley could throw his fastball at 92 to 94 mph. On his better days he could throw it at that velocity and spot it in the strike zone. He could throw it up and in, just off the plate, or down and away, four to six inches out of the strike zone. Under these conditions there were very few high school batters who could deal with him.
    On his best days he had all of the above, plus control of his slider, which he threw at about 86 mph. The slider, which had a nasty bite, usually snaked out of the strike zone at the knees.
    This was one of his best days, even though the northern climate he had left behind had limited him to inside-the-gym throwing. Most of the Hamilton batters, when they swung at his slider at all, managed only a feeble wave of the bat, which amounted to little more than an indecisive lunge. An excuse-me effort. It was a devastating strikeout pitch, although when Coley had control of the fastball, he usually didn’t need an additional strikeout pitch. And on this day he had full command of the number one.
    Before the game Coach Mason had warned him not to push himself, since it was the first time he’d pitched under game conditions. So Coley was content to stay with the fastball, keeping it down in the strike zone, or if he threw it up, to keep it at least as high as the letters. It was a great sucker pitch, a fastball with some pop that was up high in the strike zone.
    The only hit Hamilton High could manage came in the fourth inning when their shortstop, a guy named Olivares, hit a chopper—a swinging bunt—that stayed fair down the third-base line, then beat it out. Then Coley forgot to pitch from the stretch; as soon as he started his windup, Olivares stole second base easily. When the next batter hit a chopper to third, Kershaw, who was playing deep, had to charge it; his low throw short-hopped the first baseman. Not only was the runner safe, but Olivares advanced to third. Coley watched from the mound as the first baseman,