CHAPTER ONE
THE AIDA CODE
Without opening his eyes,
Dan ran his hand along the edge of his pillow in search of his baseball glove.
He felt the supple leather, and reached into its pocket to retrieve his
favorite baseball. Rolling on his back, he began to massage the curve of the
baseball with a mesmerizing rhythm, at times suspending it between the tips of
his fingers and at other times nearly hiding it in the palms of his hands.
He never seemed to
tire of the feel of the cool smooth leather and the contrasting ridges of the
stitching. Dan practiced placing his fingers precisely on the stitches as if he
were pitching his fastball, then his curve, and finally his slider. His finger
placement had become automatic. He knew the exact formation of the baseball's
red stitches, even with his eyes shut. He smiled with satisfaction.
Opening his eyes, Dan
began tossing the baseball across his chest from his right hand to his left and
back again. With each toss, his energy grew as he envisioned himself as his
freshman team's starting pitcher at the state tournament. That was his goal,
and he was prepared to work hard to reach it. He could hardly wait to meet
the new assistant coaches that Coach Tisdale said would begin working with the
team today.
He swung his feet over the
edge of the bed. As he did, he caught a glimpse of the carton of chocolate bars
on the floor near his dresser. His emotions dropped with the speed of a roller
coaster. Dan groaned, and rolled back into bed, pulling the sheet over his
head. His thoughts were no longer on the game of baseball.
At today's practice, he
knew he would have to report on the money he had raised for his freshman team
to go the state finals. The season was just starting. Even so, the team had
agreed they were going to end the season by going to the tournament in Des Moines, and they
didn't intend to be spectators.
Dan pulled his knees to
his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and began to rock back and forth. His
chocolate bar sales had been dismal. When he voted to raise the money that way,
it seemed like a good idea. He didn't know then it would be so hard. By this
morning he was supposed to have sold an entire carton of chocolate bars, and he
hadn't even managed to sell a whole box. He had sold only 15 bars, and if the truth
be known, 8 of those he had bought for himself.
The last time he felt like
this was when he had a book report due, and he hadn't read the book. Only this
was worse, much worse. With the book report, he hadn't even tried, but he had
tried to sell the chocolate bars. He had knocked on neighbors' doors, and even
stopped them on the street. He sold a few, but nowhere near enough. He had
failed. Failed the team, failed Coach Tisdale, failed himself.
Dan tried to think of
something that would make him look better when he had to report his failure to
his team members. He considered using his allowance to buy the whole carton,
but then realized that was a dumb decision. The team's game plan called for
each player to sell one carton of chocolate bars each week, for three weeks.
Dan might not be good at
sales, but he was a whiz with math. That was an easy calculation. Three
cartons. Twelve boxes per carton. Twenty-four chocolate bars per box. One
dollar per chocolate bar. No way, he didn't have enough savings.
A sudden blast of music
from his older brother's room interrupted Dan's thoughts. He could feel the
bass vibrate the wall between his and Grant's bedroom. Loud music didn't really
bother Dan, but he knew it bothered his mom, and he figured this was an opportunity
to balance the scorecard between him and Grant.
He clenched his fist and
walloped the wall. To make sure his protest was heard in the kitchen, he
bellowed, "Quiet!" at the top of his lungs. Then he pulled his pillow
to his chest and smirked with satisfaction as he waited for Mom to come
storming up the stairs and issue Grant a "sound-out" for the rest of
the day--maybe two days if he was lucky.
Dan was still mad at his
older brother for teasing him about being better at eating his inventory than
selling it. Just because Grant was in college didn't give him the right to put
his nose where it didn't belong. What business was it of his that Dan was
eating his inventory, anyway? He paid for them after all. In spite of their age
difference, and little bickers like this, the Martin brothers were close and
defended each other against all comers, but they still hassled one another.
They both kept track of slights, and each was constantly working to balance the
scorecard they carried in their heads.
Grant cranked up the
sound. It wasn't the kind of music that Grant usually played. It was probably
some new college thing. Dan banged on the wall again. Where was Mom? Then the
music stopped. "Hey, Sport," Grant called. "Stop the bangin' and
drag your old bod in here."
Dan's first impulse was to
bang louder, but he reconsidered. He was seldom invited into Grant's room, so
he decided to take advantage of the opportunity. It might have something to do
with Grant moving to Omaha
for his summer intern job. He decided to balance his scorecard later.
Grant's bedroom door was
open. Dan glanced at the POSTED, NO TRESPASSING, and PASSPORTS REQUIRED signs
that Grant had glued on his door when he was in junior high.
"Just listen to
this," Grant said. He hit the remote to restart the CD. A big brassy sound
filled the room. Grant waved his arms in the air pretending to conduct a few
bars.
"What's with the
music? It doesn't sound much like you."
Grant eyeballed Dan at
close range. "That is your first lesson in how to sell your chocolate
bars."
"I don't get the
connection. What's music got to do with selling chocolate bars?"
"That, my man, was no
ordinary music. That was the march from Aida."
"You mean Mom's
opera? What's that got to do with selling chocolate bars?"
"Nothing and
everything," Grant whispered mysteriously, rolling his eyes.
Dan found that look both
annoying and exciting. Annoying because he could never guess what Grant was up
to, and exciting because it usually meant something fun. Grant played the march
from Aida again and proclaimed, "That should be the theme song of
every entrepreneur."
"What's an
entrepreneur?"
"That's what you
are."
"I am?"
[To be continued. Order
your copy of Strike Zone now.]
(c) Copyright 2009 S. L. Hudson
All rights reserved
