Biggie Read Online Free

plastic bat. Almost falling forward, he hits a ground ball to Killer, who scoops it up and throws him out at first.
    Nice. Three fingers is the way to go. Michelle, junior class president and an awesome softball player, comes up to the plate. She stares out and waves the bat at me. Wow, someone is taking Wiffle ball seriously. She squints as rays from the September morning sun burn her brown eyes.
    I stare at the ball and try to remember where I put my fingers last time. Which holes were they? How much pressure did I place with each finger last time?
    I look at Michelle, lift my leg, and fire the ball. Once again, it looks like a strike, but it dips near the plate. Michelle swings and misses. Chuckles fill the air, along with heckles of “Way to hit air” and “Was the sun in your eyes?” Which is actually a dumb one because it is. In gym there is no catcher, so she has to retrieve the ball and throw it back to me. She fires it with a grunt and the ball flutters like a bee stalking a flower.
    I spin the ball again and put on the fingertip pressure points. The ball seems smaller now, softer. At first, it felt hard, tight, with no bend or give. Now, it fits perfectly in my fat fingers. I toss another pitch and, once again, the ball drops. Michelle doesn’t swing, but Coach Phillips calls the pitch a strike. I smile.
    â€œMichelle, quit being nice to Biggie and hit it,” says her boyfriend, Kyle, from first base.
    She isn’t being nice as much as she’s being schooled by the Wiffle ball master. I throw another pitch and Michelle hits a high fly ball to right field where three girls stand and text. Becky, whose dad is my boss, sees the ball coming and drops her iPhone. She flinches, closes her eyes, and uses her forearms to trap the ball up against her flat chest. Her elbows snare the ball like two cob holders securing a hot ear. Becky stands there frozen as Annabelle pulls the ball out from between her arms and throws it back to me.
    Batters come and go, and every one either swings and misses or hits a harmless groundout or fly ball. No one reaches first base. Standing on the sidelines in between innings, I’m feeling my confidence grow and I start to fiddle with an extra ball, changing pressure and release points. During the third inning, I even start throwing the ball sidearm. The more I fiddle with my windup, the more freaking stuff the ball does in the air. After a while, I notice that just moving my bottom finger to the left or to the right will make the ball sink or slice or dart to the left or to the right.
    After he grounds out a second time, Jet says, “Is Biggie throwing a perfect game?”
    I am.
    When the first couple of innings ended and my team came to bat, I sat down. I was hot and tired and still mad at Mom. Now, after the third inning, I’m pacing, impatiently waiting to get back out there. My teammates cheer as Killer and Annabelle smack base hits, but I feel frustrated. Inside, I cheer for outs. I want to get back out there and continue my perfect game. Somehow I am excelling in gym just like I would in history or English or science. Now, I’m on a quest. I have to get everyone out or this whole exercise has been a major waste of time.
    After we score five runs, I’m back on the mound. The pacing was a bad idea. I struggle for breath under the blazing sun. My wrists perspire, and the sweat travels down my palm. The ball is wet. I consider acting like a big leaguer and asking for a dry ball. But I keep quiet, dry the ball on my jeans, control my breaths, and ignore the sweat stinging my eyes and concentrate on the task at hand—throwing a perfect game.
    Michelle steps back in. I remember her swinging and missing at a pitch near her aqua-green tennis shoes. She doesn’t like the ball low. I place the pressure points, pressing down on the plastic at the top, bending the globe-shaped ball ever so slightly, and placing my thumb on the very bottom. I