Max Swings for the Fences Read Online Free Page A

Definitely not.” After all, he told himself, she had a point. If Beau Fletcher had in fact been his dad, telling him would be the right thing to do. Definitely.
    And then the usher urged her forward. And as soon as she was in front of Beau, her eyes lit up and a shy smile appeared on her face. “Hi,” Molly breathed to Beau. “You’re, like, my hero.”
    And judging by the expression on her face, Max knew it was true. He was lucky his dad wasn’t some utility infielder.
    Fletcher gave her a smile. “I’m flattered. You are …?”
    â€œMolly,” she said, handing him a baseball. “To Molly.”
    It must be something, Max thought, seeing the excitement flash in Molly’s eyes, to make people feel like this. Like they mattered.
    â€œAny message?” Fletcher asked.
    â€œUm, Strike ’em out?”
    â€œYou play softball, huh?”
    Molly straightened. “No. Baseball.”
    â€œBaseball!” Fletcher laughed, and flashed Molly a smile full of charm. “Do you throw like a girl?”
    Molly blinked and took the baseball back. She stood there for a moment, staring at Fletcher. Something passed over her face. Then she turned to Max. “Batter up,” she said, her expression inert.
    And that was it. There was no waiting anymore. Max stepped forward.
    â€œHello.” Beau Fletcher looked up at him with an automatic smile. He really was a large large man. He could probably crush Max with one arm. But he wouldn’t. Beau was a good guy, Max could see that now. Just because he was the greatest baseball player in the world didn’t automatically make him a jerk. “Um,” Fletcher said, and Max realized he was staring dumbly again. “Do you want me to sign something?”
    Max thrust the baseball in his general direction. Beau Fletcher poised his pen, and in two blinks, the ball was signed in thick black ink. Molly poked Max in the ribs. “Do it,” she hissed.
    â€œUm, Mr. Fletcher,” gasped Max. Beau glanced up at him. “… I, um … I’m your son.”
    Behind him, Molly exhaled. Beau Fletcher sat slowly back in his chair.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œI’m your son. Um. You don’t know about me, but—my mom—um …”
    Fletcher drew back and eyed Max for a moment. His eyes narrowed. “Look, kid,” he said, leaning in, “I’m pretty sure that’s not true.” He articulated each word carefully.
    Max tried to speak the truth with his eyes. I know. I know. But play along, okay? Please? Beau Fletcher was a good man, the kind of man who inspired people, who made them feel like they mattered. This sort of thing happened with kids and professional baseball players all the time. They had a connection. The baseball player looked the kid in the eye and saw the wish in his heart—hit a home run for me, come visit me in the hospital, pretend to be my dad….
    Beau Fletcher did look Max in the eye. And he leaned in. And Max leaned in, too, because he could do nothing else.
    Beau said something to Max in a low voice, and it took Max a minute to process the words, because Beau was not playing along. Beau said something baseball players are never, ever supposed to say to kids.
    Max stared. Tears burned his eyes. And then Molly pushed next to him. “What did you just say to him?” she spat.
    â€œAre you in on this, too?” Fletcher said.
    â€œI used to look up to you,” Molly said. “You were my hero.”
    Fletcher stood up a little. “I don’t know who put you kids up to this.” Behind them, people began to murmur. And Max, Max could not move at all.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?” Molly continued. “You’re on commercials for milk ! And you’re nothing but a jerk!” She pounded on the table.
    â€œHey”—Fletcher looked around—“keep it down.”
    Yeah , Max thought. Keep