"Dean, 18, is a baseball player whose glory days are behind him...After his arm gave out, he moved to first base and plunged into a two-year batting slump, losing any hope for a college scholarship...Jack Trant, an affable supporter...finagles Dean a one-semester 'trial' scholarship at a small private college. The young man realistically hesitates to commit himself to possible further humiliation playing the game he loved...Exciting." --Starred/School Library Journal< "Dean, 18, is a baseball player whose glory days are behind him. At 15, he pitched for the world championship Little League team, and as a freshman he hit a game-winning grand slam. But after his arm gave out, he moved to first base and plunged into a two-year batting slump, losing any hope for a college scholarship. Since graduation he's been sliding sideways, wondering what his future holds." --Starred, School Library Journal< Randy Powell is the author of seven novels for young adults, many of which have appeared on the ALA’s Best Books for Young Adults list. Publishers Weekly called his most recent novel, Three Clams and an Oyster, "witty and trenchant." He lives in Seattle, Washington.< "Dean, 18, is a baseball player whose glory days are behind him...After his arm gave out, he moved to first base and plunged into a two-year batting slump, losing any hope for a college scholarship...Jack Trant, an affable supporter...finagles Dean a one-semester 'trial' scholarship at a small private college. The young man realistically hesitates to commit himself to possible further humiliation playing the game he loved...Exciting." --Starred, School Library Journal< Dean DuffyOneMY TEN-YEAR "CAREER" as a baseball player ended in May of my senior year. It was the last game of the season, a home game, eighty-six degrees, dust swirling around the infield. At the bottom of the ninth, we trailed 3-13, which was the same as our win-loss record that season. I was at bat with two outs, nobody on base, and only three spectators left in the stands.The pooped pitcher was throwing me fastballs right down the middle. I kept fouling them off, pitch after pitch. The count stayed I ball and 2 strikes. It was my 77th at-bat of the season. I was 4 for 76 for a batting average of .052, which was why the opposing pitcher was throwing me chest-high fastballs.I knew this was the last at-bat of my life, and I pretty much just wanted to get it over with. But I wasn't quiteready to commit suicide. I still had my hitter's savvy, and it told me the next pitch was going to be a changeup.And sure enough, along comes this big fat lazy moonball. I cocked my bat, waited for the ball to float its way to me, and I swung for all I was worth. And missed. I turned and looked in disbelief at the ump, who nodded and raised his mask and said quietly, "It's over, Dean."And so it was. The end of baseball and the end of a dream I had devoted my life to since I was seven years old. As I walked to the dugout, I held my head up and did not drag my bat.A few days later, another lifelong career ended: school.Our graduation ceremony was held at the Seattle Center Arena, followed by an all-night dance in the Alki Room of the Seattle Center, music provided by a heavy-metal band called Flex. Throughout the night, I said goodbye to my classmates, and the next day my parents, three kid sisters, and I moved from our house in a north Seattle suburb to a dilapidated wreck of a farmhouse on San Juan Island in northern Puget Sound, four hours away from Seattle.It was on a gorgeous piece of greenery, with broad pastures, horses, a sweeping eastward view of the sound, a fresh stream running along the back boundary. My folks had quit their jobs and sunk their life savings into it and planned to renovate the house, turning it into a bed-and-breakfast. For the past twenty-seven years, Dad had been the head maintenance man at the Nimbus Creek Golf and Country Club, and Mom had held variouscleaning jobs. Now they were going to make their living catering to Seattle yuppies who wanted a weekend getaway.I wasn't sure what I'd be doing afterward, but that house was my summer job, and I threw myself into it. My dad and I worked fourteen hours a day seven days a week. My three sisters fed the horses, and my mother fed us.I spent more time on the roof and ladder than on solid ground. Day after day, the sun beat down on me. It was just what I needed: hammering, patching, scraping, painting, sweating. My skin turned brown; my dark hair grew down over my shoulders: I looked like Tarzan or Conan the Barbarian.The work had its own rhythm and pace. It didn't quite compare to shooting strikes past a batter or ripping a base hit into the opp Read Less