Home Run: A Novel Read Online Free Page A

baseball, buddy?”
    For a second Cory wondered if the kid knew how to speak English, but then he heard a squeak of a yeah come out of the kid’s mouth. Cory gave him a nod.
    Cory knew the eyes of the crowd were on him, and as always, he didn’t want to let them down. Not out here on this field.
    “What position do you play?” he asked.
    The kid once again gave a high-pitched yeah , which made Cory think perhaps he didn’t understand English either. And Cory’s Spanish wasn’t so great, especially on the days when his head felt like a catcher’s mitt after a doubleheader.
    How do you say “Too much tequila last night” en Español?
    Cory tapped the kid on the back. “What do you say you and I get to work? Huh?”
    He could have said more, but he walked away. He had made some sweet talk with the kid and had given the cameras a nice shot to show on ESPN. Now it was time to get down to business.
    The crowd gave its loudest roar the moment Cory first approached the plate. The noise gave him a surge of energy and hope just like always. He wanted to answer their cheers with a nice long home run.
    The pitcher eyed him, but Cory was used to that. Pitchers had never intimidated him. He knew they were trying to outwit him any way they could. Cory Brand wasn’t just another player they were throwing to. He was one of the batters they needed to get by.
    The first throw was outside. Cory stepped away and felt anxious for some reason. He quickly got back into his stance and waited for the ball.
    He did everything right when he connected with it on the second throw. He had already started to burst toward first base, knowing he’d hit a winner. But for some reason, the ball seemed to pause in midair and then slow down. He could see the outfielder reaching, catching the ball, and the inning was over.
    Cory cursed as he jogged back to the dugout, knowing his slump had continued, knowing these fans were all feeling the same way he did.
    No-scoring games like this one drained the life out of him.
    He didn’t care about Father’s Day and all those daddies with their sons and daughters. He didn’t care about his team’s losing streak and his batting slump that Helene was all over him about. Yeah, sure, he did care that it was a contract year, but that was about it. He didn’t care about his ninety-year-old knee that needed a vacation in Maui to mend.
    As the sun beat down on the field and the crowd grew restless at the lethargic offenses that had come to play on this day, all Cory could think of was finishing the game and getting rid of the pounding in his head. To scratch the itch, the slow-burning itch that got restless when the excitement wasn’t there. Sometimes he found himself thinking this way in a game, already looking past the final pitch and looking forward to that first drink.
    The first drink was usually the best.
    Yeah, but your first drink came at about nine this morning.
    The little Latino kid was still hanging around, handing everybody their bats and offering high fives to every player even though no player deserved one. It had been cute for a while, but by the time Cory stepped up to take the bat in the seventh inning, he’d grown a bit weary of this bundle of joy.
    “Good luck, Cory.”
    He gave the kid a nod, his eyes already off of him, his focus on the subdued fans wilting under the sun. It was a hot day, and he’d give anything to be a fan in the seats, sipping on a beer. But he’d never really been a baseball fan himself. He never had time. He’d been given a bat and forced to hit, and then when it appeared that he was good at it, that’s what he did.
    He hit and kept hitting.
    He’d been hitting so much that the actual game—the history and the love and the adoration and the mystique—was all a bit lost on him.
    Those fickle fans out there didn’t care about him, not really. They cared about CORY BRAND in all caps and all exclamation points. They cared about the autograph and the value of the