The Hitting Zone

Chapter 24 Taking Care of a Wooden Ba

I stared at the papers before me, dumbfounded. I squinted at all the tiny words all over the place, then looked up at Noah, confused at where to begin.

We were sitting in his room back at the house. His mom made the purchases and brought us back, telling us to start looking up wooden bats. What we found was shocking. We really underestimated the task.

Noah used his computer and printer at the desk in his room to print all applicable information. He was looking at the information at hand before decisively pointing at one article. "We’ll start here. This will be rule number one of taking care of a wooden bat. ’Store your bat handle up.’ That’s simple enough." He looked at the bat in my hands, then looked around the room. "We’ve gotta make sure it stays in an upright position and out of the way so it doesn’t get kicked or knocked around." He got up and took the bat away from me and placed it properly between the desk and bed. "There. That’s also a cool place away from humidity." He sat back down.

I looked at my bat, a little sad that I couldn’t hold it all the time.

"Next." Noah read aloud. "Keep your bat clean with alcohol. Alcohol will keep dirt and dust off to ensure a great grip. Okay, we’ll have to ask dad for that when he gets home for dinner."

I nodded even though I didn’t understand what kind of alcohol is used on bats...

"Keep your bat dent-free by using a piece of bone, or another wooden practice bat to rub out any misshapen sides. Uhhhh." He glanced at the shoe box next to me. It held my first broken bat.

I scooter closer to it as if to guard it. I don’t want to use it as a sharpening tool. It’s worth a lot to me.

"Okay, okay. We’ll ask dad about that one too then." Noah rolled his eyes. "The rest is all about storing your bat properly and out of damp places and away from extreme temperatures. Nothing too hard."

I opened my shoe box to examine my broken bat. I was glad Mrs. Atkins understood that I didn’t want to get rid of it. She’s definitely not anything like my mom so far, but that makes me even more upset. Why didn’t I get a mom like her?

"You look like your dog died." Noah laughed. "It’s just a bat. Go put the box on the dresser if you want."

I got up and placed the box on the dresser next to a few of his trophies and awards. Noah wouldn’t understand that this bat felt like my lifeline to baseball. God only knows if I’ll be able to hold a metal bat ever again.

"So we’re going to need alcohol and something for when your bat dents." Noah said thoughtfully. "Hmmm. We also need to get you a bag to hold it. But it can’t get humid in there. Plus it has to be big enough for your glove. And we need to get you a helmet of your own. And maybe batting gloves." His eyes sparkled. "I’ll talk dad into taking us to O’Conners. It’s a huge sports store that will set you up."

I looked away uncomfortably.

"What is it?" Noah got closer to me.

I scrunched up my nose and shifted from foot to foot. "I’ve never actually played before, ya know." It was hard to squeeze out such a long sentence. I felt winded and dizzy at my admittance, afraid Noah will get upset.

"Play?" Noah’s eyebrows pulled together. "Play what?" His eyes widened with realization. "Wait. You’ve never played baseball before?"

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