WHAT THE HELL

Kevin Brennan Writes About What It's Like

Step up to the plate!

Pre-orders are open for my new novel, The Prospect, at the launch price of just 99 cents. Get ‘em while they’re hot!

I’m still seeking early reviewers, so if you have a little spare time and would be willing and able to write a brief review for Amazon, hit me with your email address and I’ll send you an advance copy in the format of your choice. Bear in mind, these Amazon reviews can be short and sweet. I’m just hoping to launch with a few of them ready to rock.

To whet your appy-tight, here’s a little excerpt from the book:

 

In the morning, I was there at what I thought was the early hour of eight thirty, but when I rolled into the parking lot I spotted Joe’s wagon already there. Same spot it had been in the day before, as if he thought it might bring good luck. He wasn’t in the driver’s seat.

I got out of my old blue Trooper and headed toward the office, but the door was locked because it was so frickin’ early on a Sunday morning. I made my way to the field gate, and there was Joe Carpenter running wind sprints through the outfield.

His gear bag was sitting next to home plate. I could tell he was wearing the same generic uniform as the day before because the grass stains from his hip-slide were still there.

“Hey!”

He stopped running and shaded his eyes as he looked in toward me. A hale wave, and he started trotting in.

What I hadn’t told him was that there would be no other players there. Rollie was coming. That was it. There’d be a gear man to open up the storage room for us to grab some balls and bats, but what I was after today was a look at the kid’s instincts. See how he bunted and fielded bunts, for example. Time him from home to first. See if he had the moves to steal a base.

Oh, and Rollie was intent on finding out if he had a good slider.

“Guess I’m the first one here,” he said, catching his breath from the hard running he’d been up to. “Hope it was okay I hopped the fence. Nobody was here yet, so I figured …”

“You hopped an eight-foot chain-link fence?”

“Sure. I hopped a lot taller things than that in the army.”

“Wait,” I said. “You’re just out of high school—or still in it, for all I know—and you’ve been in the army?”

He laughed, rolling his blue eyes again in that same irrepressible way. “I saw high school a long time ago, sir. Sorry if I gave you the wrong idea.”

“Well, how old are you?”

Joe seemed to understand this was a loaded question. I didn’t expect he’d lie to me, since it’d be easy enough to get the truth at some point. He looked right at me and said, “Twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six?” I was stunned, frankly. And suddenly deflated.

“Yes sir. I mean, is that—is that a problem?” Then, before I could say anything, he added, “I saw it was an open tryout, and the thing I read didn’t say there was an age limit.”

“No. No, I guess the office didn’t think that was important.”

Now the poor kid hung his head and got a slumpy arc to his shoulders, making him look even smaller than he was. I’m five-nine, and there was no way he was a full inch taller than me.

He started heading toward the gate I’d left open. “I won’t waste your time,” he said. “Sorry.”

Reserve your copy of The Prospect today. It’s Spring. Baseball season is almost here.

 

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This entry was posted on March 22, 2022 by in Publishing and tagged , , , , , , , , .
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