"Why don't you go around and introduce yourselves?" Coach Ski asked. "Be sure to tell us your nicknames. Let's start with you, Scotty."

"I'm Scotty Jackson," my best friend said with a smile. "But everybody calls me Sleepy."

Next to him sat a thin-framed boy with jet-black hair, milky skin, and periwinkle eyes. "I'm John Meyers," the boy said. "Everybody calls me Fishbone or just Fish."

We went around the circle from Nick and Ryan Samanski to Victor and Luke.

When it was Cowboy's turn, he simply said, "I'm Cowboy. Just Cowboy."

The team burst out laughing at Cowboy. Then he broke into a smile himself.

Just as the laughter subsided, I said softly, "I'm Rosie Jones."

"Speak up, young lady!" Coach Ski shot back.

My face burned in embarrassment. "I'm Rosie," I repeated.

"I didn't hear you," he said again.

The weight of everyone's stare fell upon me. I glared at my coach and refused to repeat myself again.

"If you plan on being heard, you've got to speak up," Coach Ski said firmly. Then he moved on to the next person beside me.

I shot him a dirty look that he didn't see. He didn't have to say I wasn't loud enough. He didn't have to call me a young lady. Everybody knew I was a girl. And I would have been willing to bet that everyone in the league knew my name for that very same reason.

When we finished our introductions, Coach Ski called us up on our feet to stretch. "Cowboy you lead and then everyone take two laps around the field."

We spread out and then formed four straight lines along the left side of the diamond. Cowboy stood proudly in front of our stretching lines and took command.

"All right, City Sluggers!" he called out our team name. "Let's stretch out those muscles. We all know we're not getting any younger."

Doc Meyers smiled, but Coach Ski frowned. "Let's go, Cowboy," he said.

Cowboy called out the counts as if he were a military sergeant. He even had us clapping when we reached ten.

"Hey, Sleepy," Cowboy hollered. "No snoozing on me!"

"I can't hear you, Fish!" he yelled at Fishbone. "Let me hear ya, partner."

Fish piped up as did the rest of the group. I looked over at Scotty and we both giggled at how much fun Cowboy was. I looked around, and everyone was smiling. Except the twins. They looked so serious, like they were stuck in a bad mood. I looked hard at them, trying to find some way to distinguish between the two. I couldn't see any differences.

"How do we tell you apart?" Fish finally asked one of them.

"That's Nick," Ryan said firmly. "He wears a batting glove all the time.

I never wear one. After a while, you'll be able to tell us apart. It's easy."

"Hey!" Coach Ski snapped. "Enough chatting. We've got a lot work to do."

He looked right at me when he yelled. I looked away in disgust. How could I be the one talking when he just screamed at me for not being loud enough? I knew right then that I was in for a long night.

We fired line drives and some grounders at each other to test our agility and hand-eye coordination. Half of us then split up to throw around the heavy ball as the others practiced receiving hits in the field and making the throw to first base.

"Second group, come on over!" Coach Ski hollered. We shuffled over to the infield as the other group passed us. Cowboy knocked Sleepy's hat down below his eyes, and then laughed as Sleepy tried to chase him down.

Cowboy turned to me and asked, "Hey, Rosie, do you talk?" I looked at him and didn't say a word. He grinned. "I'll have you talking soon enough.

You'll be causing all kinds of problems."

"Let's go!" Coach Ski yelled from home plate. "No more horsing around, Cowboy. Sleepy take third, Vic take short, Fish on second, and Nick at first."

I stood behind Sleepy and Vic at third and short, and Luke backed up Nick at second. Coach Ski cracked hits to the infield, and rotated them around so each player had a shot at playing every position. Luke and I just watched. After about five minutes, I looked over at Luke for an explanation. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Luke take Vic's spot," Coach Ski yelled. He said nothing to me, and just kept hitting. I stood up straight and folded my arms across my chest, knowing I had already been forgotten – or ignored.

Five minutes later, Doc whispered something to Coach Ski. Coach Ski grudgingly stopped and turned his attention to the infield.

"Rosie, take John's spot at short," he hollered.

My heart skipped a beat, and I hustled over to take the Fishbone's position. Coach Ski hit the ball around the infield again. The first hit to me was a soft dribbler. The second was an easy pop fly. The third was a line drive right at me.

"Bring it in," he yelled to both groups, and he waved us in his direction.

What? I glared at my short, pudgy coach. How can I show you anything on three lousy hits?

As I jogged in with my teammates, Coach Ski called out, "Nice job, guys."

Then he split up for batting practice. Each person got up to bat five times before we rotated around the field and in to hit. Coach Ski was the pitcher. Sleepy got up and cracked three out of his five pitches. Cowboy followed him, and nailed four nice ones. When he whiffed completely on his fifth, he said, "Didn't want you to lose your confidence, Coach."

Nick stepped up to bat with a serious scowl. His father increased the speed of his pitches, and Nick swung hard. He hit the ball to shortstop.

"Come on, Nick," Coach Ski scolded him. "Get it out of the infield."

Nick's face turned red and he gritted his teeth. On the next two pitches, he slapped clean shots to the outfield.

"That's a little better," Coach Ski said. Nick dropped his bat down off his shoulder, and walked back to the bench frowning. Ryan stepped up to the plate, and crushed all five balls deep in the outfield. He smiled on every one.

I was up next. I hurried in to strap on my batting glove, and rushed up to the plate. He lobbed the first pitch and I sent it over the second baseman's head. He lofted another one. I grounded it to short. Come on! I needed some heat. When the third pitch was lobbed, I was furious.What is going on?

But I knew the answer to that already. I just didn't want to believe that my own coach wouldn't even give me a chance. I wasn't a real player in his mind. I looked at his fat belly and stumpy legs and thought rotten things about him. Then I drilled my last pitch right back at him. He flinched, but managed to catch it anyway. Then he yelled, "Next batter up!"

"Good job, Rosie," Doc said to me as I set my bat in the dugout. The sympathetic look in his brown eyes wasn't enough to make my anger and humiliation go away.

"You got it, Rosie," he added softly. I refused to look at him. As far as I could see, Doc was no better than Coach Ski. If he was, he would have said something. But he didn't. I wondered if we were all playing for the same team or if I was out there all by myself.

My father pulled up in his car just as practice ended. He opened the door and slammed it shut. As he approached the field, I crossed my fingers and hoped that he wouldn't say anything. I just wanted to go home.

"Let's hit a couple," Sleepy said as he saw my dad beginning to chat with the coaches. Nick was pitching to Ryan. Luke and Victor were out in the field. I ran into the dugout to get one last gulp of water.

"Hurry up," Sleepy yelled.

I jogged out and bent over to pick up my glove off the grass. Just as I stood up, I saw this black blur flying at my face. Then I felt a hard, crushing blow to my head. Ryan's foul ball had jumped off his bat, ricocheted off the ground and caught me square in the right eye. I felt the bump of swelling grow larger by the second. I covered it up with my glove, and bent over to the ground. I clenched my teeth together and refused to cry. I couldn't. Not in front of my new team. Not in front of Coach Ski.

"Are you okay, honey?" I heard my dad say. I took my glove off my face and opened my eyes. I nodded my head.

"You got a nice one," my dad added as he held me closer to him. "You're lucky you didn't get knocked out cold."

Coach Ski handed my father a cold pack. "You gotta be careful, Rosie" Coach Ski said. "You've always got to be aware of what's going on."

My father took one long look at him and shook his head as he punched the plastic pack. He gently pressed it against my eye and held it there as we walked to the car. I didn't want to look like a wimp, so I reached up to hold the ice pack myself.

"I got it, Dad," I said and I pushed his hand away.

"All right, fine," he said. "I was just trying to help."

"She should probably take it easy," Coach Ski yelled out to us.

"She'll be fine," my dad called out in a frustrated tone. "She'll be back on Thursday." It sounded like my father was getting the same bad feeling I was from Coach Ski.

"You sure you're okay, Rosie?" Sleepy asked as we got in the car. "He hit you pretty hard. I saw it."

"I'm fine," I mumbled.

Later that night, I rested my head on my mother's shoulder as we sat in the living room watching television. I watched her as she struggled to hold her head up. Only a few seconds passed before her neck muscles gave in and her chin dropped to her chest. Then her eyes popped open and she lifted her head up again.

"Ma," I whispered, "I don't think I can read my books this week or go to the library."

"Really?" she replied with her eyes closed. "That means you won't be able to go to practice if your sight is that bad."

My mother opened her eyes and grinned. She wasn't as dazed and confused as I had hoped. I smiled too, but it soon faded and I looked away. I thought about all the things Coach Ski said to me that night at practice. He made me feel like dirt.

An hour later, I felt a hand gently lift my chin up. I opened my eyes. It was Rico.

"Shhh," he said quietly. "Take it easy, kid. You got a nice one there. You okay?"

"Uh-huh," I answered groggily.

"Did you win?" I asked.

"Yep," he said.

"Did you hit a homer for me?" I asked.

"Yep," he said.

I smiled a funny-looking one-eyed smile, and Rico grinned. His soft brown eyes, which looked like they had been there and seen it all, told me not to worry. I hugged my brother, and held all of my tears inside me. He picked me up and carried me to my bedroom. After he left, I finally began to cry. I hated to cry. It wasn't crying because of my eye. That was nothing compared to what really hurt.

No one would ever understand why I didn't want to go back to practice.