Fiddlehead

By Steven Porter

All Nate ever wanted was to be a champion.

But stuck in the minor leagues with the lousy players, his most immediate concern was to not be killed by the bad pitching.

Then out of nowhere, he is called up and asked to play for the best team in the majors. The majors? With minimal baseball talent and a humiliating nickname, did he even have a chance to succeed playing with the best athletes in Wapper Falls? But it wouldn’t take long for him to learn that his biggest challenges have nothing to do with how well he can hit a baseball.

Join Fiddlehead and his teammates on this no-holds barred journey through the zany minefield that is the world of youth sports featuring cheating coaches, obsessed parents, corrupt officials, neurotic volunteers, and all the organized chaos a small town can offer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stillwater River Publications
• Release date: Mar 13, 2024

Steven Porter

Steven R. Porter is the author of the critically acclaimed novels, "Confessions of the Meek and the Valiant" and "Manisses" is a writer, marketing consultant and former Director of Advertising and Public Relations for Lauriat's Bookstores, Inc. Steven is also a frequent speaker and lecturer on Internet technologies and emerging publishing techniques.In September 2011, he founded the Association of Rhode Island Authors (www.RIAuthors.org) and currently serves as its first president. He is also a member of the Rhode Island Romance Writers (RIRW), the Independent Publishers of New England (IPNE) and is an author-member of the New England Independent Booksellers Association (NEIBA.)Steven and his wife Dawn are active volunteers in their local community and reside in the village of Harmony, Rhode Island with their two children Thomas and Susannah.Steven is a seasoned and entertaining public speaker, and is available for author readings, lectures, book signings, book groups and other special events.

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Steven R. Porter

Fiddlehead: A Baseball Story

Copyright © 2024 Steven R. Porter

Produced and printed by Stillwater River Publications. All rights reserved. Written and produced in the United States of America. This book may not be reproduced or sold in any form without the expressed, written permission of the author(s) and publisher.

Visit our website at www.StillwaterPress.com for more information.

First Stillwater River Publications Edition

ISBN: 978-1-963296-30-3 (paperback) 978-1-963296-33-4 (hardcover)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024932370

Names: Porter, Steven R., author.

Title: Fiddlehead : a baseball story / Steven R. Porter.

Description: First Stillwater River Publications edition. | West Warwick, RI, USA : Stillwater River Publications, [2024]

Identifiers: ISBN: 978-1-963296-30-3 (paperback) 978-1-963296-33-4 (hardcover) | LCCN: 2024932370

Subjects: LCSH: Youth league baseball--Juvenile fiction. | Baseball players--Juvenile fiction. | Nicknames--Juvenile fiction. | Coaches (Athletics)--Juvenile fiction. | Parents--Juvenile fiction. | Sports--Social aspects--Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Baseball--Fiction. | Baseball players-- Fiction. | Nicknames--Fiction. | Coaches (Athletics)--Fiction. | Parents--Fiction. | Sports-- Social aspects--Fiction. | LCGFT: Sports fiction. | Action and adventure fiction.

Classification: LCC: PZ7.1.P6471 Fi 2024 | DDC: [Fic]--dc23

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Written by Steven R. Porter.

Cover and interior design by Elisha Gillette.

Published by Stillwater River Publications, West Warwick, RI, USA.

The views and opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the publisher.

To all the unsung heroes of youth sports—the coaches, volunteers, officials, parents, and mentors who give their time and resources so selflessly.

Contents

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About the Author

1

You see, I just turned eleven years old, and I have this dream.

I dream I am stepping into the batter’s box to face the fiercest fastball pitcher on the planet. The first ball he throws goes past me in a blinding blaze of smoke and white lightning. Around me, my teammates—all the best players in Wapper Falls—let out a collective gasp, then they chant my name.

I dream the championship is on the line, the game-winning run is on base, and it’s all up to me. Behind me, my mom’s eyes are closed because she can’t bear to watch, and my dad is holding his hat in his hands, squeezing it like he’s wringing out a wet dishrag. The tension at the field is incredible, but it doesn’t bother me one bit. I have been waiting for this moment. I dig in my heels and stare down the pitcher. The kid is huge. He looks ten feet tall.

I dream that he winds and fires the second pitch, sending it sailing toward me at a hundred miles per hour. I swing and… CRAAACK! The ball rises up into the clouds and away, disappearing into the bright summer sky and out of sight.

I dream that I round the bases, fists raised in victory, to the sounds of a cheering and adoring crowd that now numbers in the tens of thousands. I tip my hat to all my fans as I round third. My dad and mom are hugging each other in the bleachers, crying with pride. The prettiest girl in school is standing by the dugout fence winking at me. I stomp on home plate to seal the victory, and my teammates swarm around me to lift me high overhead.

It is all I’ve ever wanted. I am now a champion.

But right now, I am not dreaming. This is the real world. I am now stepping into the batter’s box expecting that my own horrible, painful death is quite likely to happen any second now.

The first pitch that flew from Bruno’s giant, meaty hand zoomed past me so fast I only felt the warmth of its breeze and a few grains of sand stinging against my left cheek. It must have been invisible, I thought. And had it hit me, I would have been done for. Now I was back in the batter’s box staring him down again waiting for the next pitch. And boy, did he look mad.

Bruno still had two years of middle school left to go, but he was bigger and stronger than most of the older kids who played on the high school team. He was a bully, too, and mean, taller than my dad, and had a rear end so wide that he took up three seats on the dugout bench. Coach Griffin said Bruno threw harder than anyone in the county, but because he couldn’t throw a strike, he had to play in the minors with all the lousy players—like me.

Coach Griffin says we are all idiots. He calls us that a lot. I know we have a lot to learn, that’s why we were all put in the minors in the first place. I never understood how playing baseball with a bunch of kids who stink was going to help me get better. But to tell you the truth, at that moment, I just wanted to learn how to live long enough to go back and sit on the bench with the other idiots.

I glanced over to my teammates and they were all staring straight back at me like a bunch of brainless zombies. None of them cared about who won the game, they only wanted to see bloodshed—again. Just the other day, Big Fat Bruno hit Josh Sampson in the face with a fastball and the poor kid bit clear through the flesh under his bottom lip. Twenty-two stitches. It’s like he has two mouths now. It is kind of cool because when he smiles, he smiles twice. Sort of like seeing double. It’s all anyone can talk about at school. If only I can get out of this that lucky.

Come on Fiddlehead, get your butt back in there! Coach Griffin shouted at me from the third base coach’s box about sixty feet away. Get those toes closer to the plate. The sun shimmered off the black sunglasses that he never wore on his face, but always sat ready on the brim of his baseball cap. Get closer to the plate. Easy for him to say.

I nodded then dug my heels into the powdery dust that was ankle deep in the batter’s box. The minor league fields are always a dust bowl. But before I was ready, Bruno’s second pitch sailed over my head and clear over the backstop. It made a funny, hollow bonk sound as it ricocheted off an oak tree, and then it disappeared into a thicket of vines and poison ivy. A bunch of little kids dove in after it because they give free hot dogs to anyone who retrieves the lost baseballs from the woods. Those hot dogs are gross. Bruno growled. My mind raced. I was still alive. My butt and I would live long enough to see, at least, a third pitch.

Woo-hoo! You got this, Fiddlehead, it’s all up to you, kid!

Coach was clapping his hands harder now. Little puffs of dust came off them as his palms whacked together. We realized at practice that Coach Griffin didn’t know a whole lot about baseball, but we did learn that the harder he clapped his hands together, the more desperate our situation must be. And from where I stood, this situation felt really desperate. It was the last inning, there were two outs, the game was tied, and it was me against Bruno. I swear, I could hear the sweat oozing out of his forehead from where I stood, forty-five feet away. It sounded to me like pure evil.

I don’t remember much about that third pitch, but I am still amazed it didn’t hit me. When I opened my eyes, I had dirt in my mouth, a bat across my ankles, and I was lying on my back across home plate. On one side of the field, I could hear Bruno’s mom and her friends snickering and belly-laughing from the grandstands. I guess they found some sort of amusement in my impending death. I felt like one of those gladiators I read about in school. I can imagine her giving me the thumbs down sign like Nero did.

I wished I had paid more attention in school. Did any of those gladiators survive?

On the other side of the field, I could see my dad nibbling on his thumbnail. Everyone likes my dad. He is a super nice guy—everyone says so. He was standing next to Mr. McMahon from the upper division majors team that won the championship last year. My dad always found someone in the crowd he could talk baseball with. But knowing the way I play I am sure he wasn’t talking about me.

I stood up and brushed myself off. Might as well die looking good, I thought. The count was now three balls and no strikes. That’s when I realized there was a way out of this. If the next pitch was a ball, I would walk. A free pass. I could stroll down to first base and hand my duties off to Hines who hit next in the batting order. And Bruno was crazy wild today. Maybe there was a small ray of hope for my survival after all.

I looked down at Coach Griffin standing at third base and he was tapping the brim of his hat. It was our team’s super-secret take sign. I never understood why we had signs since every team’s signs were exactly the same anyway—tap the belt to bunt, tap the chest to steal, and tap hat to take a pitch. But I already knew not to swing. No chance. It was unlikely Bruno would throw me anything to swing at anyway. So, all I could do was pray a little, then set myself steady for the next pitch, ready to accept whatever fate the baseball gods had in store for me.

Time out! Coach Griffin shouted. He was jumping up and down now and waving his arms trying to get the umpire’s attention. Time-out! Time-out! Time-out! He waved me over and whispered into my ear.

You know what to do here, right, Fiddlehead?

Yes, Coach. I saw the sign.

But do you know what that sign means?

Yes. Don’t worry, Coach. I won’t swing.

Good. Great. Yes. Got it. I’ll give you the sign one more time when you get up to the plate, just to remind you. OK?

It’s OK, Coach. I think everyone in Wapper Falls knows I’m not going to swing.

Right… now remember. Don’t swing.

The umpire waved me up to the plate and I looked out at Bruno. Oh, my God, he is UGLY. The uniform the league gave him was way too small, and a roll of pale blubber that had a dark cavernous hole where his belly button was supposed to be hung out over his belt. I swear there was a red stripe down the side of his leg where he would wipe his victim’s blood off the ball before each pitch. Down at third base, Coach Griffin was jumping up and down and tapping the top of his head. He looked like one of the chimps at the Wapper Falls Zoo.

It’s amazing how many thoughts can go through your mind in a tenth of a second, especially when you know you are about to die. I set the bat on my shoulder as Bruno reared back and fired the fourth pitch at me. The ball grew bigger as it approached, and for some mysterious reason, I felt time stop. In what couldn’t have been more than a nanosecond, I thought about Coach Griffin at third base and the bat sat frozen on my shoulder. I thought about how Bruno’s mom would laugh as I inhaled my last breath with her rotten kid’s pitch stuck in my left ear. I thought about how disappointed my dad will be if I died playing the game that he loved more than anything in this