Casey KC

By Chris Kreie

Little League ball player Casey Conrad has suddenly made it to the majors. It’s his superhuman eyesight and uncanny ability to predict pitches that have gotten him there. Twelve-year-old Casey can read every lip curl, nose wiggle and eyebrow raise made by the opposing pitcher to know exactly what he’ll be throwing next. Seeing the spin of the baseball the instant it leaves the pitcher’s hand doesn’t hurt either. Casey has never stuck out – ever.

Casey’s dreams come true when he becomes the youngest player in MLB history and earns a spot with his hometown Kansas City Royals. But after the manager directs him to use his talents in ways that violate the unwritten rules of baseball, Casey becomes the most hated player in the majors. Fans around the country consider him a cheater. With pressure from his manager, teammates, rabid reporters and millions of hostile fans, Casey must face his fears, including the biggest one of all – his fear of striking out.

If you enjoy fast-paced, dramatic stories you’ll be sure to love Chris Kreie’s inspiring new novel, Casey KC, the journey of a young rookie thrust into the harsh spotlight of professional baseball. It’s a page-turner even the most reluctant reader will have trouble putting down. Buy Casey KC today and join fellow fans as they stand up and cheer for another in a long line of great American underdogs.

250 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rabbit Lake Books
• Release date: Dec 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519946805

Chris Kreie

Chris Kreie is an elementary teacher and lives in Minnesota with his wife and two children. As a kid, he always loved scary stories.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Casey Conrad was a freak of nature.

Not once in his life had he ever swung at a baseball and missed. Not in T-ball. Not in Little League. Not even as a member of the major league Kansas City Royals.

And as he stood in the batter’s box at Fenway Park in front of thirty seven thousand angry fans, he was determined to make sure it did not happen for the first time.

Casey tried to slow his breathing. He tried to relax. But something wasn’t right. His bat felt heavy. He tried to dig his toes into the red clay around home plate, but his legs were numb. I can’t do this, he thought. I just can’t do this.

Time out! he yelled. He raised his right hand high above his head.

The umpire jumped out of his crouch. Time! he shouted.

The Red Sox fans rained boos down on Casey from every corner of the stadium. They shouted and threw their arms in the air. Some even flung popcorn and beer and hot dog wrappers onto the field.

The Boston pitcher glared at Casey from the mound. A stream of brown tobacco juice sprayed from his mouth. He curled his lip and wiped the juice from his mustache.

Casey took a few steps out of the batter’s box. He needed a moment. He needed to relax, to try to slow down his heart rate. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

Get back in the box, kid. It was the Red Sox catcher. He had been trash-talking Casey ever since he stepped up to the plate. What’s the matter boy? Finally realize you can’t play ball with real men?

Casey looked at the catcher but said nothing. He didn’t feel like talking. He wished he could come up with a response, a quick joke like the ones that always seemed to come to him so easily. But nothing came. No joke. No words of any kind. No nothing. Casey’s entire mind and body were locked in a trance.

A shout from the dugout brought him back. It was Deon, his Royals teammate. He was standing on the top step of the dugout. Let’s go! Casey could hear Deon’s low, booming voice over the shouts of the fans behind him. Let’s go, Casey! You can do it! Deon pumped his fist and gave him a nod of reassurance.

Casey still couldn’t believe he had become best friends with a major league all-star. But Deon had, in fact, been there for him during the toughest of times those past two weeks. And he was there for him now, when he needed him the most.

He nodded back at Deon and took one last deep breath.

Batter, get in the box. The umpire behind home had grown impatient. Your time’s up.

Casey acknowledged the umpire and slowly took two steps forward.

He knew what he had to do. He knew what it was going to take for him to get on base. He had to block out everything. All the distractions. He had to block out the shining lights of the historic ballpark. He had to block out the angry Red Sox fans who were rooting for him to strike out. He had to block out the homesickness he felt being half a world away from his Kansas City neighborhood. But most of all, Casey had to block out the fact that he was a twelve-year-old kid playing in a Major League Baseball game, batting in the ninth inning, with two outs against the first place Boston Red Sox.

It wasn’t easy to ignore those things. In fact, it was the biggest challenge he had ever faced in his life.

But, he did it. Somehow, Casey did it.

His breathing was calmer now. It came in slow waves. In and out. In and out.

He stared straight ahead. His focus was on the pitcher.

The pitcher stared back, with his beady eyes and his long hair and the huge mole on the end of his nose. Man, he’s one ugly dude, Casey thought. He smiled. He was relaxed. He was ready.

The pitcher began his windup. He kicked his leg high into the air. He flung his arm forward.

The ball shot from his hand and streaked toward home plate.

Quickly, Casey reacted. He cocked his bat behind his head. He shifted his weight to his back leg.

Then Casey swung.

With every ounce of strength in his body, Casey swung.

Chapter 2

Two Weeks Earlier

He’s going to throw a fastball. Casey was stretched out on the living room sofa, the TV remote in his hand. His dad was on the recliner. They were watching a game between the Royals and the Texas Rangers. Casey was enjoying one of his favorite hobbies—predicting pitches.

I’m guessing curve, said his dad. Both of them had large bowls of popcorn in their laps. A big empty bottle of orange soda was on the end table. They had downed the entire thing in the three hours since the game began.

Finally, the Royals pitcher reared back, went into his windup, and threw a ninety-five-mile-per-hour screamer down the heart of the plate. The Rangers batter watched the fastball sail past for strike one.

Told you, said Casey.

I don’t know how you do that, said his dad.

It’s easy. Casey chomped on a mouthful of popcorn. This pitcher only has two good pitches. A fastball and a curve. And his pitching delivery is completely different when he throws the curve. I’m surprised you can’t see it.

Well, I can’t, said his dad.

Watch closely, said Casey. If he throws straight over the top of his body it’s a fastball. If he bends slightly at the waist and leans forward, it’s a curve. Okay, here he goes.

The pitcher again went into his windup.

There! said Casey. See. He’s bending.

I can’t see it, said his dad.

The pitcher released the ball, and sure enough, the bottom dropped out. The pitch curved high to low. The batter swung over it for strike two.

It’s so obvious, said Casey. The hitter must be blind.

Me too, said his dad.

Here, I’ll show you. Casey sat up and brushed the straight, blonde hair out of his eyes. He then used the remote to rewind the game.

I think it’s time you get a haircut, said his dad.

I like it like this. Casey stared at the TV. Okay now. This is the fastball. Watch how the pitcher throws straight over his body.

The pitcher threw the same pitch they had just watched moments earlier.

Casey forwarded the action. Now this is the curve. Look at how his body is tilted toward the ground. He then rewound back to the fastball. See, he’s completely straight. He advanced to the curve. And now he’s leaning forward.

His dad shook his head. Sorry. It must be my eyes.

Yeah, your old man eyes.

Whatever, said his dad.

Casey punched the button to get the game back to real time. Just as he did, the Rangers batter swung hard and made perfect contact. The ball shot off his bat deep into the outfield.

The Royals left fielder raced back quickly for the ball while the Rangers hitter put his head down and sprinted to first.

The ball continued to sail, and the outfielder continued to run. Casey leaned in toward the TV. Come on. Get there. Get there.

Finally, the outfielder leaped into the air. He got his glove on the ball. But then, like a scene from a blooper reel, the ball bounced right back out of his glove, up and over the left field wall.

No! screamed Casey.

The crowd groaned.

The outfielder crashed to the ground and hung his head in humiliation. The Rangers batter settled into his home run trot, laughing as he circled the bases.

Unbelievable! said Casey.

How many errors is that now? asked his dad.

Five, said Casey emphatically. Five. I didn’t think it was possible to commit five errors in one game. Most teams don’t do that in a week.

Not to mention the score, said his dad.

Don’t even say it, said Casey.

Eleven to one.

You said it. Casey slumped backwards into the couch.

The game continued as the top of the ninth finally came to a close. Manny Sanchez, the Royals second baseman, squeezed a routine pop fly in his glove for the final out.

Okay, said Casey. We just need ten runs to tie this thing. We can do it.

Yeah right, said his dad.

Stranger things have happened, said Casey.

The camera zoomed in on the next batter for the Royals. It was center fielder, Deon Childs. He stepped slowly to the plate.

Now here’s the man, said Casey. Gold Glove winner. Batting champion. If anybody can turn this game around, it’s Deon.

Casey watched as Deon stood patiently at the plate, then exploded toward the first offering from the pitcher. The instant the ball came off his bat there was no doubt. It was a home run, all the way. Deon jogged around the bases as the ball splashed deep into the right field waterfalls of Kauffman Stadium.

I told you, said Casey. He high-fived his dad. Now nine more just like that.

But Casey’s optimism was quickly quashed. Each of the next three batters struck out swinging. The last one, catcher Bobby Dalton, went down on three pitches.

Just like that, the game was over. The Royals had lost again.

Six losses in a row, said his dad. He had already flipped the channel to the local news.

Casey got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen. I wonder what that feels like?

What? asked his dad. Losing all the time? Finishing in last place every season?

No, said Casey. My team’s lost plenty of times. I’m talking about swinging and missing. I wonder what that’s like. He tossed the soda bottle into the recycling bin and dropped his bowl into the sink.

It’s just a matter of time, said his dad. One day you’ll do it.

Not if I can help it, said Casey. He walked toward his bedroom door. I never want to know what that feels like. And if I never swing at bad pitches, it’s never going to happen.

You’re bound to swing and miss eventually, Casey, said his dad. It’s a fluke that it hasn’t happened yet.

A fluke? Casey said. It’s no fluke. It’s skill. He stood up tall and flexed his biceps. It’s pure talent. That’s what it is.

His dad threw a kernel of popcorn at him. Settle down, all-star.

Casey laughed.

Good night, buddy. His dad smiled. Sleep well.

Good night. Casey turned into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

On his way to bed, he stopped by his bookshelf to rearrange the dozen or so Royals bobblehead dolls that stood like a miniature army. He used the sleeve of his sweat shirt to dust off the glass frames propped up on his desk that contained several autographed Royals baseball cards. And finally, before lying down, he paused to stare at the gigantic mural of Kauffman Stadium, fully lit up under the stars, which covered one entire wall of his bedroom.

One day. Casey looked at the picture. One day I’m going to be a Royal, and that’s where I’m going to play. He climbed under his covers, turned off the lamp next to his bed, and quickly fell asleep.

Chapter 3

Pitch it to me, Coach! yelled Casey. Give me your hard stuff! He was at the plate the next morning taking batting practice. His Little League teammates were in the outfield chasing after his line drives.

The coach lobbed a ball toward him. Casey jumped on it, pulling it to left field.

Reaching into a plastic pail to grab another baseball, the coach set himself on the mound and threw another pitch. Casey drove that one to center.

Another pitch, and a line drive over third base. Another pitch. A blast toward right. One more, and another hard shot to the outfield.

The coach turned to see the ball bang against the wall. You’re some hitter, Casey, he said.

Thanks, Coach.

How about you show it a little more during our games?

What? You don’t like that I get so many walks? Casey wiggled the bat behind his head. But, Coach, I‘m gunning for the Little League record.

Casey, you know as well as I do. That walk record doesn’t even exist.

It will after this season.

The coach grabbed another ball out of the bucket. How many walks do you have this year anyway?

Fifty-seven, said Casey. But who’s counting?

Pretty impressive. The coach threw another pitch. Casey scorched it to center field. But I do wish you weren’t so afraid to swing and miss.

Who says I’m afraid? Casey waited for another pitch, then took a giant hack and drove the ball deep to the outfield. But if they don’t pitch strikes, I don’t swing.

You’re a pitcher’s worst nightmare. The coach laughed and bent over for more balls.

Casey smiled. He then stepped out of the box and looked over his shoulder. He paused at what he saw. Along the fence beyond third base stood two men. Two men dressed in leather jackets and wearing dark sunglasses. Two men who most certainly didn’t belong at a routine Little League practice in a run-of-the-mill Kansas City neighborhood at nine in the morning.

Casey whacked one last pitch directly over the coach’s head, then stepped out of the batter’s box.

Thanks Coach! he yelled. Same time, same place tomorrow?

His coach shook his head. I’ll be here.

Casey walked to the bench and exchanged his batting helmet for a well-worn baseball cap. He grabbed his glove and began jogging toward the outfield.

Hey kid! Casey turned in the direction of the voice. The men in leather jackets he had noticed earlier were still there. A fly ball brought Casey’s attention back to the field. He watched it sail over his head.

Kid, over here! Casey turned again. He studied the men. Something about them seemed familiar. Both were African American. One had gray hair at his temples. The other was taller and much younger. It was the older man who was shouting at him. Yeah, you!

Casey didn’t move.

It’s okay, shouted the man. We just want to talk to you. It’ll only take a second.

Casey looked back at his coach, then reluctantly began walking toward the fence.

Suddenly, he stopped.

He froze dead in his tracks.

His eyes went big. Then it dawned on him why the men looked familiar. He knew them. Both of them.

What the heck? Casey’s jaw dropped. He stared at the younger man. You’re Deon Childs! His eyes went to the other man. And you’re Lou White, Royals first base coach.

That’s right, said Lou. That’s us.

Casey turned toward the outfield. Hey guys! he shouted. It’s Deon . . .

Kid. Deon interrupted him. Quiet down would you?

Yeah, Casey, said Lou. Let’s keep this between us, okay?

Okay. Casey nodded his head. Whatever you say. He took a couple steps closer to the fence. Hey, he said. You know my name.

You’re Casey Conrad, right? asked Lou.

Yeah, said Casey.

You’re the kid who’s never swung and missed, said Lou.

Never in my entire life, said Casey. But how did you know . . .

The one who’s going for the Little League record for walks? asked Lou.

That’s me, said Casey. He stuttered. But . . . you know . . . it’s not a real record.

I watched you play against my grandson, said Lou. He plays Kansas City Little League ball, too. He tells me you’re a bit of a legend. You get on base almost every time you bat.

My on-base percentage is over eight hundred. Casey paused. What, so you guys are here to watch me practice?

No, not exactly, said Lou.

Then what are you doing here? asked Casey.

Lou thinks you’ll do well against big league pitching, said Deon. But I think he’s nuttier than a hot fudge sundae.

I want to bring you in for some batting practice, said Lou. That’s it. I just want to take a look. I want to put you up against one of our pitchers.

Lou told me we were heading out to scout a new player. Deon shook his head. If I had known we were coming to watch a kid, I’d still be home in bed.

You want me to take BP? asked Casey. He was still confused. Why?

A deep fly ball caromed off the left field wall.

Casey, what are you doing out there? His coach was shouting from home plate.

So, what do you say? asked Lou. Want to come to the stadium with us?

You mean now? asked Casey.

Yeah, now, said Deon.

Casey’s face let loose a wry smile. Oh, I get it, he said. This is some kind of prank, isn’t it? One of those TV stunts. You want me to come to Kauffman Stadium with you? Good one. He scanned the field. "Who put