You Wish

Imagine you are granted three wishes, and the second wish is captured by a television news crew
and broadcast across the globe. Now the whole world knows you can wish for absolutely anything
and it will come true. Now imagine you're fourteen years old.

Chapter 1

An icy tingle slithered down Jake Parker’s spine. He checked the dilapidated scoreboard behind right field: the Santa Necia High freshmen were down three runs with two innings to go. And Coach Michaels made sure everyone got into the game. If Jake had been good enough for JV or varsity, he wouldn’t be sitting here. Thing was, even in this pile of rejects Jake was near the bottom. Pretty much where he fit in the social order at school. And in life. A freakin’ nobody.

A quick glance told him his mom, Jill, had made the game. He gave her a subtle wave. Jake knew taking time off work to come to his ballgames sometimes meant trouble for her with her boss, but she’d never missed a game—not even back in T-ball. Jake’s brother, Kevin, was sitting in the rickety stands next to Kev’s two buddies, Max and Brian, both bent over their cell phones thumbing out texts, probably to each other. It would take some kind of miracle for his dad to show up—he never had—but Jake checked anyway. Now that his parents were separated, he didn’t know why he still hoped for his dad’s support. He just did.

A couple of his bench-mates were checking out the freshman girls sitting on the well-worn risers behind home plate. Jake recognized the girls, but he doubted they knew he existed. Lester Woo nudged Jake and tilted his head down the bench toward another scrub who looked like he’d fallen asleep. Lester was Jake’s best friend and the only other guy on the team as short as he was—both were stuck at five foot three. And in a few months, Jake would be fifteen. It sucked to be a late bloomer.
Santa Necia’s right fielder raced after a fly ball. It took some impressive acrobatics to avoid tripping over the chuckholes in the outfield, and Jake would likely be the one dodging those hazards next inning. The right fielder ran down the ball just before it rolled through one of the holes in the outfield fence, which leaned inward in several places. With so many boards missing, the faded green fence looked like a gap-toothed monster about to devour the outfield. The broken-down sign atop the scoreboard in right read “Sa ta Nec Littl eague,” as if it had the hiccups. The freshman team had to play on this piece-a-shit field because the varsity and JV teams got the good one. Jake figured it all would seem freakin’ hilarious to someone who didn’t have to play here.

Jake was fast and a pretty good fielder, but he couldn’t hit for crap. He’d always loved baseball, and he’d figured it might be his best shot at success. Guess not. He didn’t expect stardom, but he’d settle for not looking like a total dweeb at the plate. He really needed somebody to work with him on the finer points of hitting, but he wasn’t getting any help at all.  Michaels was okay as a biology teacher, but he didn’t know dick about coaching baseball. And his dad? Well, he wasn’t that kind of father, even before he walked out on them. Jake squeezed his eyes shut and eased a pent up breath between clenched teeth.

When he opened them, Lester was staring back at him, biting his lip. Jake recognized that look. Les wanted to do something to get him out of his funk.

“Dude, I was thinkin’,” Lester said. “What if you could like change yourself into anything you want? To, you know, maybe become a six-foot-tall chick magnet or somethin’?”

Jake stifled a smile. “It’s lame to want stuff that’ll never happen?”

“Yeah, I know,” Lester said. “But it’d be so cool if you had like a magic wand or somethin’ and you could just—”

“Jesus, what are you? Ten years old?”

“I’m just sayin’ ….”

When Jake noticed Coach Michaels glancing down the bench, he pulled his green baseball cap down tight in an attempt to look like a real ballplayer; it also helped keep his unruly mass of brown shoulder-length hair in check. He turned to Lester and affected his best sports announcer voice: “Well, sports fans, it looks like Michaels is about to make a move. The Terriers are down three, and they’re runnin’ outta innings.”

Lester adjusted his glasses, assumed a game face.

The first scheduled batter this inning, Petey Barnum, donned a batting helmet and began his elaborate, well-rehearsed warm-up routine. Jake rolled his eyes. By consensus, Barnum was the team’s best player and biggest asshole.

Petey’s father, Big Pete, clutched the wire screen in front of the risers. “All right, slugger, show this pathetic bunch of clowns how it’s done.”

“Jake! Grab a bat,” Michaels said. “You’re hitting for Petey.”

Jake donned a batting helmet. Show time.

“You gotta be kidding, Michaels!” Big Pete bellowed. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“Can it, Pete. You know everybody gets to play on this team. Petey’s had more at-bats than anyone this season.”

Petey gave Jake a shoulder on the way past. Jake regained his balance, but didn’t bother to react. He was used to guys like Barnum.

Petey flung his batting helmet against the dugout wall. “This totally blows! Parker hasn’t hit a ball out of the goddamn infield all season!”    
       
“Pick up that helmet, Petey,” Michaels said. “And watch your language.”

Petey smirked at Jake. “Hey, Parker, if you’re lucky he’ll walk you. It’s the only freakin’ chance you got, you pathetic dweeb.”

Jake and Michaels ignored Big Pete’s belly laugh.

“Don’t listen to them, Jake,” Michaels said. “Just go up there and … and do the best you can, okay?” He pointed to Lester. “Lester, you’re up after Jake. Bat for Kyle.”

Grabbing a bat with a flourish, Jake marched to the plate. He wiggled his bat and glared out toward the mound, to try to strike fear in the heart of the pitcher. The asshole just laughed.

Jake swung as hard as he could at the first pitch and missed. Yes, he knew the batter’s mantra, “just meet the ball,” but he couldn’t hold back. What he really wanted to do was break the freakin’ ball in half. He missed badly again, and the pitcher smirked as if Jake were no more than an irritating bug. Jake wanted to wipe the smug look off his ugly face. A line drive to the forehead would do it. Jake managed to make contact with the next pitch, sending a one-hop grounder right back to the pitcher. At least he got the location right. He didn't have to look to know the pitcher was mocking him when the dickweed fired the ball to first just in time to get Jake by a step.

He strode past Lester on his way back to the bench and tilted his head toward the mound. “Dude, this guy’s got nothin’.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

When Jake passed the bleachers, Big Pete sneered. “Way to go, loser.”

Jake grabbed his helmet by the bill and waved it to the spectators as if he’d just single-handedly led his team to a World Series crown.

“You shoulda stuck to dissecting frogs, Michaels.” Big Pete plopped down hard on the weathered riser. As if it, too, had had enough of Barnum, the split plank gave way, sending him to the ground with a thud.

Jake chuckled when his mom stood up and started a round of slow clapping.