At 3:15 sharp, Doug and the rest of the baseball team assembled on the field. Coach Gavin paced back and forth in front of his team.
"All right, listen up," he said. "As most of you should already know, our next game, Saturday's game, is against Central. An' I don't want you guys to just beat 'em; I want you to send 'em cryin' home, tails tucked between their legs!"
Most of the team whistled or cheered at this. Doug surmised that Central was their biggest rival.
"Saturday is also Senior Night an' we're short four," Coach Gavin went on, causing the players to fall silent. "It ain't right that they won't be honored. You younger guys really gotta step up to the plate if you want one o' those four starting spots. 'Cause what I've seen outta you ain't even worthy of JV. In fact, my kid plays better in Little League." He blew his whistle. "You know the drill! Ten laps around the field!"
Doug purposely fell into the back of the line, barely moving at a trot. His plan was to perform terribly at practice without making it too obvious that he wasn't really trying, get angry when the coach chewed him out, and then see who crawled out of the woodwork offering help in the form of injectable chemicals. After laps, Coach Gavin started fielding drills, rotating every player through every position. He shook his head in disgust as a couple of Doug's throws came up short. The next item on Coach Gavin's agenda was batting practice.
Doug gave his teammates a cocky grin. "Watch this," he said.
He stepped into the batter's box and assumed his batting stance. The skinny kid who was pitching threw a slowball, which Doug almost knocked out of the park.
"Not bad," grunted Coach Gavin. "But that shoulda been a homer."
A few at-bats later, Doug figured it was time to underperform. He didn't shift his whole body weight forward as he stepped into the fastball thrown by the star pitcher. The ball sailed low over the pitcher's head and was fumbled by the shortstop; had this been a real game, Doug's best-case scenario would've been getting a single. Coach Gavin looked disgustedly at him, tossed his baseball cap into the dirt, and ran his fingers through his hair. Doug hoped batting practice would be over soon because he didn't think he could swing like that again; it went against everything he'd ever been taught about playing baseball.
Practice ended that day with another ten laps around the field. Again, Doug was bringing up the rear of the back.
"Move your fat ass, Rose!" spat Coach Gavin as Doug neared him.
Doug saw red and not just for the sake of maintaining his cover either. "What the hell was that you said?" he shouted. Doug took a step closer to the coach. "Say that again!" he said as loudly as possible.
The rest of the team heard the yelling and stopped dead in their tracks to see what was happening. Some moved forward for a better view.
"You are a fat-ass, Rose," said Coach Gavin calmly.
Doug lunged at the coach, but was halted by his teammates. Javier, the catcher who came up to about Doug's armpit, caught Doug across the chest with his catcher's mitt; his other hand grabbed a fistful of Doug's jersey at rib level. Rudy, the tallest pitcher on the team, held onto Doug's collar.
Coach Gavin let out a breath through his nose. "I should tell you to get the hell off my team," he said to Doug. "But you know what? I'm feeling generous today. You all get to run five more laps. And, Rose, if you pull another stunt like that again, you're finished. No more baseball and a seat outside the principal's office."
Every muscle in Doug's body was aching as he dragged himself back to the locker room. He was still incensed by what Coach Gavin had called him and decided to make a show of it. He walked to his locker, which was close to Javier's.
"Fat-ass," Doug muttered darkly as he unbuttoned his sweaty jersey. "I'll show that guy. My fat ass could snap him right in half. Freakin' coach from hell."
He tossed his jersey into the locker and slammed the door shut.
"Hey, man, don't take it so hard," said Javier. "Coach is a little crazy, but he knows his stuff. We won the state title two years ago 'cause of him."
"A little crazy? He's freakin' nuts."
Doug walked off in the direction of the showers. When he emerged clean and dressed, somebody was waiting for him. It was Tim, the extremely muscular starting shortstop. Doug knew he was one of the two seniors who hadn't been kicked off the team for using steroids.
"Still worked up about what Coach said?" asked Tim.
"No, not at all," Doug said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He sighed and added sadly, "Sixteen years old and I'm already losin' my edge. I was the best player on the team back at Roosevelt. Now I suck. What am I gonna do if I play like this next year when the college scouts start comin' around?"
Tim put a friendly arm around Doug's shoulders. "I think you got real potential, Doug. You just need a little..." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. "A little somethin' extra."
Doug snorted. "Like more batting practice? You sound like my old man."
"Relax, Doug, I'm trying to help you," said Tim. He dropped his voice. "And I don't mean you need practice either. Just somethin' to put the edge back. Now I can't get it to you today 'cause I gotta go take my girlfriend to the movies. But meet me here at 3:00 tomorrow and I'll get you taken care of."
"3:00 tomorrow. Gotcha." said Doug.
Doug concealed his excitement as he grabbed his backpack and left the school. He hadn't expected the case to break this quickly. He grinned to himself, proud of his undercover expertise. The next afternoon, Doug would have that creep right where he wanted him: handcuffed in the backseat of a black-and-white.