Basketball
He dug in again, sinking his cleats into the soft clay of the batter's box and getting set for the next pitch. He was determined to hang in there this time and not back away, no matter what happened. White went into his long, deliberate windup. It seemed like forever, but in fact it was only a couple of seconds before the older boy uncoiled and sent the ball again in a flash toward the plate.
This time, Matt stayed in the box, swinging at the spot where he anticipated the baseball would cross. But this pitch was slightly inside. It nicked him on the index finger of his right hand and ricocheted off his cheekbone. The pain shot through his finger and the left side of his face at the same time, but Matt stayed on his feet.
Matt was momentarily stunned, but he bounced up quickly, wiping the trickle of blood from the side of his mouth.
One look at the hard-nosed, sneering Grant Jackson standing above him told Matt no apology was forthcoming. "Just remember, rook," Grant hissed quietly. "I'm the starting point guard on this team."
