Chapter 1. Introducing the Firebolts

Another pitch. I swung, and missed.

Again.

Five pitches. Five swings. Five misses.

The coach marked something on his card. "Okay, good try...." He looked down at the card again. "...Reece."

"Sorry," I shrugged.

"Have you ever played before?"

I was sure it was a loaded question. Would they let new players on the team? On the other hand, if I'd played before and this was the best I could do, who'd want me?

I couldn't think of anything creative, so I settled on the truth. "No," I mumbled.

"That's okay. You'll learn. We'll call you next week when we've drafted the teams."

I slumped out of the gym, barely noticing the other girls who were throwing and catching and hitting at half a dozen stations in the room, performing for the coaches who'd pick the teams. The coach testing me was tall, with blond hair tucked under a navy Seattle Mariners cap. I didn't even know his name, and I figured, based on my tryout, that I'd never learn it; he'd do his best to put me on another team, any team other than his.

My dad was waiting with a few other parents outside the gym doors. His face was pressed against the glass not so much in an attempt to watch but rather to avoid the persistent March drizzle, rumored to be distinguishable in Seattle from the colder February drizzle and the we-promised-spring-but-we-lied April drizzle. "How'd it go," he said.

I wasn't sure if it was a question or an offer of sympathy.

"You saw it." I stared at him.

"Not really." He gestured at the glass.

I took a look. Right in front of me, on the other side of the glass, ten feet away my friend Sarah Levins was playing catch with another coach. She was catching everything, whether high or low or to the side, and throwing it back crisply. I'd dropped at least half of the balls. I imagined the coach was still wondering if I were seeing ghosts, which would at least have given me an excuse for some throws that certainly couldn't have been aimed at him.

"Sarah's a year older." I heard my father's voice over my shoulder. "She played last year, I think."

I kept staring into the gym. I really wanted to play softball with the other girls. I knew I could do better than I'd done at the tryouts. I looked for the coaches who'd been testing me, but they were all on the far side of the gym, screened in part by the girls trying out closer to the doors. Maybe my father really hadn't seen me mess up.

"Nine and ten, Reece. You're not even nine-and-a-half, not quite. I'll help you, and you'll get there."

"You never have time to help," I blurted out. That's me, always ready with the wrong thing to say.

"You know that my work -" He stopped. Then he said, "You're right. And I'm not sure how much help I'd be anyway, since I'm a lefty. But this is a promise -- I'll be there at every game I possibly can be." He paused again. "When I'm in town. I.... I'll be there."

"It doesn't matter, Dad. I won't even make the team. I stunk in there."

"You'll get better. You just need to work at it. Besides, you'll make one of the teams."

"How do you know?"

"I have faith in you. Okay, truth? Everyone makes one of the teams. Where you play, how much you play -- that's where your ability comes in."

"What ability?"

"Don't feel sorry for yourself. You're better than that." Then he hugged me, his beard bristles rubbing at my head through my thin blond hair.

Queen Anne is one of the many hills that make up Seattle. It's an area of nice single-family homes just north of downtown. "Nice" is probably the Seattle watchword -- nice homes, nice rain, nice and gray both. We walked out in the gray rain, under gray skies, from our gray -- but nice -- school to our gray -- and nice -- house partway down the hill. Only the Olympic Mountains showed color.

"How come they're almost blue?" I pointed to where the mountains stood visible between the houses, glowing an odd blue in the fading March daylight. "Everything else is gray."

As soon as I said it, I knew where my father would go.

He didn't disappoint. "Speaking of blue and gray, how's your Civil War project going?"

"As well as the tryouts today."

"That good?" He smiled, but I wasn't in the mood. Trouble in school yesterday, trouble in the gym today. "What did Mrs. Paige say yesterday?"

"Quote? 'I expect more these days in fourth grade, Reece.' And unquote."

After the holiday break, Mrs. Paige had assigned the class a detailed project for the spring on some aspect of American history -- ten minute oral presentation, 2000 word report, even a piece of art. Yesterday the outline and project plan had been due.

"I wish I hadn't chosen the Civil War," I mused aloud.

"Why not?"

"It's hard."

"So's softball. So are a lot of things. It's how you get stronger, and smarter."

"What if I don't want to be smarter?" I knew he hated that argument.

But he wasn't to be diverted this afternoon. "It doesn't matter what you chose. You'd have to do the same amount of work for any project. And it wouldn't be more interesting, either, if you approached it with the same attitude. Are you going to practice your softball?"

"That's an odd change of subject, Dad. Are you losing it?"

"Probably. But answer my question anyway. Humor me. Are you going to practice?"

"Of course. I really want to make the team. Maybe I can play second base."

"But practice is boring."

"No it isn't. It can be fun."

"Because it's something you want to do, right?"

"Of course I want to do it."

"If you want to do the Civil War project, it'll be fun too. Or at least not boring."

We were passing one of the small espresso shops that are as common as rain in Seattle. "How about a hot chocolate," I asked.

"How about focusing on your project," he countered. "I'll get you a hot chocolate if you'll solve a logic problem for me."

Over a hot chocolate -- whipped cream, vanilla flakes -- and a latte -- extra hot, low-fat -- he posed it for me. "So. Softball is hard. You're not good at it. You've never really tried it. You're going to have to work at it to succeed. It's a project that will take all spring. The Civil War project is hard. You're not doing well at it. You've never tried to do a huge project like this. You're going to have to work at it to succeed. It will take all spring. You're excited by one but not the other. Why?"

"Because one is fun. The other is work. That's obvious."

"Is it?" He waited.

I thought about it. "How's the Civil War fun? People died."

"Maybe 'fun' isn't the right word. Interesting. Engaging. Challenging."

"Boring. Annoying. Dumb-ing."

"No, smarten-ing. And growing, growing up. You'll get stronger playing softball, and smarter solving tough problems."

"Why can't I solve tough softball problems?"

He laughed. "There aren't any."

But there were. I even solved a few of them. And I grew up a bit that spring.

---

Tuesday brought a rare break in the morning clouds along with an EMail to my parents saying I'd been assigned to the Jorie Dill Realtor team, one of two teams on Queen Anne hill. There was a schedule for a dozen practices followed by about 15 games, taking us into early June. Tuesday was also the day Mrs. Paige gave out deadlines for our big project -- art due in a month, the written report at the end of April, and the presentation in June. And there was still homework four nights a week, and lots of reading to do.

Saturday morning was the first team meeting. All of the Queen Anne teams got together on the grass outside the Community Center to get their uniforms, eat donuts, pose for photos, and meet teammates and coaches. For once it wasn't raining, but it was cold for a March morning. I envied the coffee my father got to go with the donuts for sale. I don't know what coffee tastes like, but it looked warm!

There were tables set up with the name of each team on a piece of cardboard taped to them. I found my way to the Jorie Dill table. The first person I saw there was Sarah, who'd tried out right after me in the gym the week before. We screamed and hugged. "I can't believe I'm on your team," I gushed.

"This is going to be fun," she said. "I'm trying out for first base. What about you?"

"We're still trying out? I thought we were on the team." This could quickly become a disaster.

"I think we have to figure out who plays where," she replied. "We're all on the team, though. I think."

My friends Caren Smith and Jenny Pandera were there, and I knew many of the other girls. I also saw some of my friends forming up with the other Queen Anne team; I guessed we'd be playing against them at some point.

"Hi," said a male voice behind me. I turned around, and saw the man who'd been testing my swings at the tryouts.

Some of the other girls were greeting him. A couple yelled, "Hi, Peter." Another added, "Are you our coach this year?"

"Sure am," he said.

"Where am I playing?" asked one.

"Hold on," he said. We'll figure out positions at our practices." He looked around at us. "Everyone will get a chance to play. There are only twelve girls on the roster, so most of you will play a lot. We're going to have a great time!"

He turned to a shorter man walking up to the table with two big shopping bags. "Hi, Marty."

"I'm Marty," the man said as he dropped the bags on the table. He was a bit shorter than Peter, with a no-longer-full head of wiry brown hair. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt as if unaware of the brisk March weather. "I've got uniforms -- shirts, pants, and one-size-fits-all caps. Come get them and then go inside and change." He pointed to the Community Center doors. "This team's going to look good, for starters!"

We milled about, scrabbling in the bags for pants and shirts somewhere near our size. I found a size-small shirt easily enough, but by the time I got to the pants only two M's and an L were left. Grumpily I picked up an M pair and held them against my waist. I complained, "There's more of the leg on the ground than there is against my leg."

Marty looked down and said, "Maybe you'll grow." Then he smiled and said, "Put them on for the picture. Either you can swap with another girl later or someone can hem them."

In the Girls Room we were chattering excitedly about our fashionable new garb. I put on my clown pants and said, "Has anyone seen my stilts?"

"Wow, did you steal those from your mom?" asked one of the girls. Another said, "If you're not big enough for the pants, you're not big enough to play!"

"Anyone want to trade?" I asked. "I'll throw in two gum wrappers and a knock-knock joke."

Jenny asked, "Good knock-knock joke?"

"You know there's no such thing."

"Well... no deal, then!"

As I looked around, I realized that everyone's pants were long -- no Capris or flood pants here. Well, maybe they'd shrink. I rolled them up, pulled the Velcro on my cap to its smallest setting, and marched out the door with the rest of the team.

Coaches Peter and Marty shepherded us toward the photographer. She was finishing up a boys team from another league, and it took awhile to get us into an orderly group, two rows, shorter kids in front. Someday I'm going to be in the second row of a group photograph!

Peter looked us over, then pointed to me and said, "We've got to do something about those pants. Let me see what I can do after the photos."

Just then a woman stormed up to Peter and said, "My daughter's on the team. Jacqui, get in the picture." The mother was tall, and athletic, elegant, and regal at the same time. The girl standing at her shoulder was a younger version of her mother.

Marty pulled out his clipboard to check her off. I expected Peter and Marty to be mad Jacqui was late, but they seemed to take everything in stride.

"Put on a team shirt over your own," said Peter, reaching into one of Marty's bags and grabbing the last remaining shirt. Some of the taller girls moved aside so Jacqui could squeeze into the back row, and the photographer rearranged a few of us in front to conceal her blue jeans.

The photographer spent some time trying to coax real smiles out of a dozen nine and ten year old girls as we alternated between silly and sullen. But he took his pictures anyway as we grew increasingly restless.

"When do we get to play?" I asked when the photographer was done.

"First practice is Wednesday," Peter said. He looked at the legs of my pants, curled about my calves like the skin of a Shar-Pei puppy. "Hey, Avi!" he called out to another coach trying to get a team of nine-year-old boys lined up for photographs.

"Peter! Good to see you coaching this year," Avi responded.

"You, too. Hey, do you have any spare Small pants?" He pointed to my legs.

Avi, bless his heart, didn't laugh. Instead he pointed to one of his players who was showing a touch of skin between his white baseball pants and his socks. "Why don't you two trade?" The boy nodded enthusiastically, and five minutes later I had a pair of pants that, after a wash or two, would probably fit me fine. Maybe I'd never be a hitter, but I could at least look the part.

"Much better," Marty said to me when I emerged from the girls room in the Community Center. "You're Reece, right?" I nodded. "What position are you trying out for?"

"Second base, I guess."

"You guess? Be positive! I'm going to play second base!"

"You are? I thought it was a girls team."

He stared at me for a second before he broke out laughing. He had a big laugh, one that could warm a room, or a heart. "A troublemaker, eh?"

"Every chance I get," I replied. Self-mocking and honest both, that's me.

"There's going to be competition for second base," Marty smiled.

"Really, I just want the chance to play."

"No! I'm going to play second base," he repeated.

I wasn't sure what he wanted.

"I'm going to play second base," he said, slowly and more forcefully this time, gesturing to me.

I got it. "I'm going to play second base," I said. It came out more tentative than I'd wished.

"I'm going to play second base," came a voice from behind me. I turned around and saw Jacqui, her mom behind her with a protective hand on her shoulder.

"She's been practicing," her mother proudly informed Marty. "She's good."

"I'm going to practice too," I chimed in, even though I had a feeling I wouldn't get nearly as much chance to practice at home as Jacqui.

"Everyone will get a chance to compete for positions," said Marty, "and everyone will get plenty of playing time." He knelt down to Jacqui's eye level, which was noticeably above mine. "What's your name?"

"Jacqui," said her mother.

Marty stood up and offered his hand to the mother. "Good to meet you, Jacqui." I was pretty sure he'd misunderstood intentionally. Her mother was trying to correct him, but he quickly knelt in front of Jacqui, ignoring the blustering woman. He paused, and Jacqui realized he was waiting for her to say something.

She looked quickly back at her mother. Marty prompted, "What's your name?"

"I'm Jacqui," she whispered.

He smiled and shook her hand. "Welcome to the Jorie Dill Realtor team, Jacqui. I'm Marty, and I'm the assistant coach."

He stood up and put one hand on Jacqui's shoulder, the other on mine. “We’re going to have a great team, and you guys are both part of it. Together.” He reached into his bag and pulled out one last cap and a long pair of pants that would surely fit Jacqui better than me. Then he turned and headed off to talk to some of the other players.

Jacqui looked down at her shirt. “What’s a Jorie Dill Realtor?” she asked her mother?

“It’s your team, dear.” A most unhelpful response, although an accurate one.

I added, “He sells houses on Queen Anne.” Jacqui’s mom scowled at me; after a second, Jacqui glared also, so I added with a sly smile, “Come on, you want me to introduce you?”

I had no idea who Jorie Dill really was, what he -- or she -- looked like, or even if such a person existed, but I figured Jacqui wasn’t going to call me on it. I just did it to tweak her for scowling.

“Yeah, right,” said Jacqui, but her tone was unsure.

Her mother jumped in. “Time to go. We’re done here.” Jacqui turned quickly and followed her mom toward the street, team pants and cap flapping in her large hands as she marched away.

I decided I’d better find out who -- or what -- a Jorie Dill was.

---

By practice Wednesday I’d confirmed that Jorie Dill was a who, and a she. According to her website she sold houses all over the city, not just on Queen Anne, and she was sufficiently web-savvy to have posted our team photo just a few days after it was taken. I looked like a dork in my long-long johns, though you had to look closely to see them bunched at my calves -- but I was looking closely, and I hated it.

About half the girls had played before, and it wasn’t long before there were those girls lined up for the “hard” positions, and the rest of us. Sarah quickly settled in at first base as we tried out for the infield; she could catch almost anything we threw, and knew how to do it keeping one foot on the base while stretching out to meet the throw. My friends Caren and Jenny both could throw really well, and they gravitated toward shortstop and third base, the positions that required the longest, toughest throws.

Peter was hitting grounders to the girls trying out for the infield, and Marty was working with the outfield candidates on their throws. Marty had explained that at this age few of us would hit fly balls to the outfield, but that it was important that the outfielders grab anything that got by the infield and throw it back in quickly. None of the outfielders were doing either -- fielding or throwing -- very well, and I had a feeling that I’d be joining them. Still, I really wanted to play second base, and I was trying out for it. So were Jacqui and two other girls.

Marty called out, “Here, Jenny, catch this!” Jenny turned toward the outfield just as Peter hit one toward her. A confused Jenny watched Marty throw the ball to a thin girl with close-cropped blond hair, and Peter’s soft ground ball bounced up and hit Jenny on her bottom.

Jenny yelped, and both Peter and Marty trotted toward her. She got up quickly and waved them away, saying “I’m fine, I’m fine!” To Marty she said, “Sorry, but I thought you called me.”

“I called for Jenny,” he said, pointing to the blond girl in the outfield, who nodded vigorously in return.

“My name’s Jenny,” Jenny said.

The outfielder replied, “So am I. I’m Jenny Kuh-vall-chuck.” I later learned she spelled it Kowalczech.

Jenny-the-third-baseman said, “I’m Jenny Pandera. I guess you could just call me Pandera,” she added a bit glumly.

Peter said, “How about Jenny P and Jenny C?”

The short-haired Jenny stuck up her hand. “Yes?” said Peter. “You can just speak, Jenny; this isn’t school.”

“Could I be Jenny K? I spell my last name with a K.”

Peter laughed. “Sorry about that. Jenny K it is. Team, meet Jenny K!” We all applauded. “And may I introduce you fine ladies to Jenny P?” He pointed to Jenny Pandera, and then bowed to both of them. We laughed and applauded again.

When we got back to infield practice, Peter started hitting grounders to the four of us lined up at the second base position. First was a tall, solidly built girl with a round face surrounded by curly, dark hair. “I’m Amy,” she said.

Peter hit a ball toward her. She caught it fluidly, and in an easy motion flipped it to Sarah at first.

Sarah threw the ball back in toward Peter, but weakly and off target. Peter let it bounce into the batting backstop as he picked up another ball from the dozen or so on the ground near home plate.

He hit five more balls toward Amy. She fielded four of the well and missed only the one that was off to the side and almost out of her reach anyway. Her throws to Sarah were all accurate.

It was quickly apparent to me that I had no chance at second if she was the competition. However, after two more grounders, Peter said, “You played last year, right?”

“Right, I was shortstop on the pre-league team.”

“Do you want to try out for shortstop?”

She pointed to Caren, standing between second and third base. “I’m not as good as her,” she said matter-of-factly. “Don’t sell yourself short. Who knows how good you could be if you really practice and work at it? Besides, Caren might also pitch some games. Why don’t you go over by her and take some balls there, and at third?”

I was next. “I’m Reece,” I announced. I got set, Peter hit a grounder, and it rolled through my legs.

Everyone was looking at me. “Here’s another,” Peter called out. I thought about everyone watching me, and this one bounced off my glove. I retrieved it quickly. “Throw it to first,” Peter called. I heard a laugh behind me, and turned around to see Jacqui smirking.

“Here,” called Sarah. I finally threw it to her, and somehow managed to get the 30-foot throw to her on only one bounce. She caught it as easily as if it had been a perfect throw.

I took half a dozen more balls, but I only fielded a few of them cleanly. Jacqui continued to giggle quietly behind me, which only distracted me further. By the time Peter said, “Okay, thanks, Reece -- who’s next?” I was angry.

“Wait, I can do better,” I said, begging for another chance.

“I’m sure you’ll do a lot better with practice. That was good for a first time.” I wasn’t mollified, but he gestured to Jacqui to step up into position.

“Okay, Miss Giggles, your turn,” I whispered to Jacqui as I went back to the edge of the outfield. She pretended she hadn’t heard.

She missed some too, but I have to admit she maybe did a bit better than I had. Her throws weren’t any better, but she didn’t have any grounders actually go through her legs.

After six or seven ground balls, Peter thanked her and pointed to the last of the four of us. “And you’re…”

“Leslie Anne,” she said. “You can call me L.A. if that’s easier.” She pronounced her initials “Ell Lay.”

“Do you want me to call you L.A.?” asked Peter?

“Everyone but my parents does.”

“Yes, but do you like it?”

She thought for a minute; perhaps no one had asked her before. Slowly she nodded.

“Okay,” Peter said, “L.A. it is.”

L.A. was pretty good -- not like Caren or Jenny P, but maybe as good as Amy had been. She wasn’t any taller than I was, but she had a powerful body that still flowed easily to the ball. Her curly blond hair bounced under her cap as she ran to one ball hit to her right.

The next grounder took a funny bounce on the dirt in front of her and hopped up above her hands, hitting her hard in the chest. She didn’t shout or say anything, but waited for the ball to drop back to the ground in front of her, where she picked it up and threw it on to Sarah at first base.

Peter studied her for a minute and then said, “Why don’t you come in here and catch.” L.A. looked a bit surprised, but she trotted toward the plate and stood near Peter.

“Sarah, after you get the ball, throw it to L.A. here. Amy, why don’t you go over next to Caren and take turns at short. Reece, you and Jacqui take turns at second.” He hit balls to the infield for the next 10 or 15 minutes. I caught about half of the ones hit to me. Jacqui didn’t catch more than I did, but when Peter called, “Let’s try some hitting,” Jacqui “accidentally” bumped me on the way toward the plate. Clearly not at all reticent once freed from the clutches of her mother, she whispered, “I’m going to play second, Squirt.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, and said nothing. At any rate, I said nothing aloud.

I couldn’t hit, either.

Jacqui could.

So could Jenny P, Caren, Sarah, and L.A..

---

At the next practice, Peter and Marty had me take balls with the outfielders. None of us were very good -- okay, we were all terrible -- but we tried hard. Marty praised us and the way we were improving, even though I thought any such improvement would have been invisible to the unaided eye.

When it came time to hit, Marty brought out some new aluminum bats. Caren, first in line, grabbed a bright red one that glistened even under the gray March sky.

“That looks like a Firebolt,” I said, referring to a broom in the Harry Potter books. “Are you going to play Quidditch?”

“I want to be Seeker,” laughed Caren, as she mounted the bat the way Harry and his teammates mounted brooms.

“Here’s a bludger,” I said, throwing a softball past her feet. Most of the kids were laughing and joining in. Even Marty was grinning as he headed out to the pitcher’s rubber. Only Jacqui stood alone, silent.

I saw Jenny P turn toward her. “You know, like in Harry Potter.”

“I haven’t… I don’t read those.”

“Why not? Everyone’s reading them.”

Jacqui stared back but didn’t say anything further.

Caren was laughing, “I’m the striker,” as she took her place in the batter’s box, waving the bright red bat. True to her word, she hit Marty’s first pitch hard, almost reaching the edge of the outfield grass before it bounced. “These Firebolts have power in them!”

“Firebolt magic!” I added, “Just like us.”

Other girls chimed in. “Firebolt power!” “Go, Firebolt!” “Firebolts rule!”

I looked at the red bat and our red team shirts and exclaimed, “We’re the Jorie Dill Firebolts!”

“Firebolts, Firebolts,” girls called. “Can we, Coach?” “Please?”

Marty said, “Firebolts? Hey, Peter!” He waved Peter over from where he was coaching L.A. on how to play catcher. “The guys want to nickname themselves The Firebolts. What do you think?”

“No reason we can’t have nicknames. Okay, girls, who’s in favor of Firebolts as the team nickname?” All of us but Jacqui raised our hands. Jacqui, standing next to me, just looked away. Most of the girls were standing between her and Peter, and I don’t know if he saw her. He said, “Firebolts we are! Let’s go Firebolts!”

“Let’s go Firebolts. Let’s go Firebolts!” we chanted.

“Come on, Jacqui,” I whispered.

She stepped away from me, but I saw her at least mouth the word “Firebolts” just as Peter broke up the cheer with a crisp, “So let’s see these Firebolts put some magic on the ball!”

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