The Catch Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jack?”
    â€œWithout a doubt, sir. Danny, we’re shooting a new advertisement this series. I think you’ll love it. Great job showing the colors yesterday—just what we need. Here, I brought you something.”
    He reached in his man purse and pulled out a spotted doo-rag with the Ocelot logo on the top.
    â€œI’ve been talking with your father about incentives. We pay a certain amount for you to wear our gear; you know that. But every time our cameras spot the logo in a play situation, there’s a bonus.”
    â€œA bonus?”
    â€œIt’s a great deal, son,” Dad beamed. “Just do what you . . . do.” And he winked and nodded at the doo-rag.
    I turned to Mr. Strauss.
    â€œDid you meet with Pop Mancini?” I asked.
    â€œWhy yes,” Strauss muttered. “It turns out Mr. Mancini is well connected in this area. He’s friends with judges, casino owners, you name it. An outsider like Ocelot would have a difficult, expensive time getting a favorable decision in a lawsuit in Las Vegas.”
    â€œWhat will you do?”
    â€œPay him what he asks, for now.”
    My dad looked concerned. “That payoff isn’t coming out of Danny’s earnings, is it?”
    Strauss put this hand on my dad’s shoulder, “Oh, no, no. We’ll pass the extra cost along to the consumer. We’ll simply raise our prices by eleven percent. It’s cheaper than going to court.”
    â€œWell, that’s reasonable,” my dad commented.
    I heard Coach calling in the players.
    â€œOkay! Team’s calling me. See ya later!”
    â€œGood luck, son!” yelled my dad.
    The renewed confidence we’d felt at dinner was tested in the very first inning. We had gone hitless in the top, and Carson struck out their first two batters. But then Bo “Beast” Bronsky, their first baseman, came to the plate. Six-four, around 240, Beast looks about twenty-five. He was first and foremost a football player—a defensive tackle who was being recruited by colleges like Texas and Nebraska. But he was a good enough athlete to play for most traveling teams, and his power at the plate was legend. The Caps had played an exhibition last season at AT&T Park, where the San Francisco Giants play, and Beast put one in McCovey Cove.
    Carson made him fan on two curveballs and then thought he could slip a fastball by for strike three. Wrong. Beast walloped that pitch over the light poles in right and literally out of sight. When the yelling stopped, you could hear a car alarm going off somewhere in the distance.
    Their cleanup batter tagged one too, toward center, but not as far as I thought at first. I sprinted about five strides, then looked over my shoulder and saw that I could come in a few steps and wait for it to come down. I caught it for the third out. Then I whipped off my cap so folks could see the spotted doo-rag on my run back to the dugout. Ka-ching!
    It turned out the Beast hadn’t scared us for long. In the top of two, our first three batters—Sammy, Trip, and I—singled. Zack popped up. But then Nick, just to prove he was back, went yard on the first pitch. It was 4–1.
    Carson settled down in the bottom of three, getting the side in order. Things were looking good. But in the fourth, the Caps brought in a new pitcher and our bats went quiet. It was just like earlier in the day— ground balls. Meanwhile, the Caps nibbled away—a run each in the fourth, the seventh, and the eighth.
    We came to bat with the score tied in the top of the ninth. Sammy, leading off, was ready for the pitch when suddenly the catcher called time and headed to the mound. He spoke to the pitcher a moment, and then he waved to their dugout. Out popped their coach, who trotted in for a conference on the mound. A minute later a trainer was out there as well.
    It was something with the pitcher’s throwing hand. Probably a blister. Whatever it was, the coach