Mo'ne Davis Read online

  DEDICATION

  To inner-city kids who need opportunities

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter 1: LUCKY SEVEN

  Chapter 2: ALL EYES ON ME

  Chapter 3: NO EXCUSES, JUST RESULTS

  Chapter 4: THE RIGHT FIT

  Chapter 5: CLASSY AND CLASSIC

  Chapter 6: FAMILY VALUES

  Chapter 7: FUNDAMENTALLY SPEAKING

  Chapter 8: BEING COMMITTED

  Chapter 9: GOING BARNSTORMING

  Chapter 10: LET IT SHINE

  Chapter 11: THE CHANCE TO COMPETE

  Chapter 12: THE ROAD TO WILLIAMSPORT

  Chapter 13: LIVING THE DREAM

  Chapter 14: WE’RE OUT

  Chapter 15: MO-MENTUM

  Chapter 16: A GOOD PATH

  Photo Section

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION

  MY NAME IS MO’NE DAVIS. SOME PEOPLE KNOW ME AS THE first girl to throw a shutout in the Little League Baseball World Series. I am only the fourth American girl and the eighteenth girl from anywhere in the entire world to ever get to participate. Other people know that I was the first Little Leaguer and the youngest athlete to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated magazine. I was named SportsKid of the Year by Sports Illustrated Kids, too. And still others know me as the girl who read ’Twas the Night Before Christmas with the First Lady of the United States.

  My teammates, who I’ve played with since I was seven, know more about me than almost anyone in the world. They know that I always try to make people feel good and cheer them up when they’re mad or upset. They know that I tell a lot of cheesy jokes. And even though I’m a good athlete, sometimes I’m goofy and clumsy. My catcher, Scott, still cracks up about the time that I walked into a pole.

  Opposing batters? Well, they know that I throw a nasty curve, a seventy-miles-per-hour fastball, and that I bring new meaning to the saying “You throw like a girl.”

  The summer of 2014, when I turned thirteen, I played in the Little League World Series and had the best time I’ve ever had in my young life. Me and some of my teammates from my Philadelphia neighborhood baseball team, the Anderson Monarchs, also played on the Taney Dragons, our community’s Little League all-star team. The Dragons first won our district tournament, then the sectionals, then states, then the regional tournament, and then we achieved every Little League player’s dream: we went to the Little League World Series!

  One hot August night that summer, I, Mo’ne—a girl who loves Disney movies, is afraid of the dark, and keeps change in her baseball pants pocket for good luck—stood on the pitcher’s mound in front of 34,950 people and five million people from around the world who were watching on TV.

  Even with all those eyes on our team, I didn’t freak out. I just tuned out the crowd (I couldn’t even hear my mom, who yells super loud!), stared straight into Scott’s eyes, and fired strike after strike into his glove. Pop!

  I gave up two infield hits and threw eight strikeouts against South Nashville that night. The Taney Dragons had shut out the second team in a row.

  The fact that I was so calm under pressure and struck out so many boys amazed a lot of adults. It made people see girls who play sports in a different light, and turned me into a role model overnight. All of a sudden people started to recognize me, want my autograph, and remember my name.

  CHAPTER 1

  LUCKY SEVEN

  “YOU’VE REALLY GOT A NICE ARM THERE,” THE MAN SAID TO ME.

  I was kind of surprised that anyone had been watching me, and I didn’t know the man, so I just said, “Thanks,” and looked away.

  It was late October 2008, and I was playing catch with a football with my cousin Mark and some friends on the outfield at Marian Anderson, the neighborhood recreation center. Mark had just finished playing a baseball game and we were hanging out on the grass.

  “It’s okay, Mo, Coach Steve is my coach,” Mark said. Mark is two years older than me.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said. “That’s your name, Mo?”

  “My name is Mo’ne,” I answered, catching the ball. I aimed at the top of the silver skyscraper pointing into the blue sky over the tops of the trees, and threw the football back to Mark.

  Anderson was just a few blocks from my house, but the field, it was like my backyard. It is this green oasis the size of a city block. A fence, parked cars, and, across the street, three-story redbrick row homes run all around it.

  “Oh, Mo-NAY,” he said, pronouncing my name carefully. “Nice to meet you, I’m Coach Steve.”

  “Hi,” I said. Coach Steve’s dark blue sweats had the word Monarchs in white across the chest. A yellow pencil balanced behind his ear. For a split second I wondered if it ever fell off.

  “How old are you?”

  “Seven.”

  “You’ve got a really strong arm. Most boys your age can’t throw as far as you can,” he said. “I’m starting a Monarchs team for seven-year-olds. It’s a boys’ team, but you can play if you want. Why don’t you think about coming out to basketball practice?”

  “Okay,” I said, looking him in the eye for the first time. He looked kind. Lots of kids played for the Monarchs. And I liked basketball. A lot.

  Then he took the pencil and wrote on a scrap of paper he pulled out of his pocket.

  “Will you give this to your mother and ask her to call me?”

  “Okay.” I smiled at him, and carefully put the paper in my front pocket.

  Later on, after I rode my bike home, I uncrumpled the paper and handed it to my mom.

  “What’s this?” she asked me. She was roasting a chicken, baking macaroni and cheese, and mashing sweet potatoes—my all-time favorite dinner—and the house smelled really good. My little brother, Maurice, who is four years younger than me, was watching cartoons on the couch.

  “This man wants you to call him,” I told her.

  “Who is he? You shouldn’t just be talking to strangers.”

  “He isn’t a stranger, he’s Mark’s baseball coach,” I said. “He wants to invite me to play on a basketball team.”

  “Oh, okay, I’ll call him,” she said as she sprinkled some cinnamon into the sweet potato pot. Yum!

  I hoped my mom would pick up the phone while she cooked. But she didn’t. She didn’t pick it up then, or when she washed the dishes, or when we were watching TV later on that night.

  “Mom, you gotta call that man,” I reminded her the next morning when I put on my uniform for school.

  “Okay, I will.”

  When I got home after school, I asked her again.

  “Did you call that man yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When are you going to call him?”

  “Soon.”

  It turns out that my mom wasn’t exactly thrilled about me playing what she saw as an aggressive sport. When I was a baby, she thought that I would become a girlie girl—the kind who would like dressing up, and getting her hair braided and curled, and playing with dolls. But I wasn’t that girl. My mom says whenever she would buy me a doll, I would just look at her like she was crazy. I’d rather run around with a football or basketball and try to keep up with my brother Qu’ran, who is four years older than me.

  “I was a big Allen Iverson fan,” says Qu’ran. “So I started playing basketball, and she saw me dribbling and found it attractive, and started doing the same thing.”

  People say I look just like Qu’ran. You could say he is the boy version of me.

  The next day, I tried with my mother again.

  “Mom, you gotta call that man.”


  “All right, Mo’ne, I’m gonna call.”

  When I came home from school, she picked up the phone and started dialing Coach Steve.

  “My daughter, Mo’ne, gave me a piece of paper with your name and number on it and said that you wanted me to call you,” she said as she sat in a kitchen chair.

  I leaned up against her so I could listen.

  “Oh, yeah, hi, my name is Steve Bandura. I coach the Anderson Monarchs. I was watching your daughter play football the other day.”

  “Football! Mo’ne’s playing football?” My mother frowned. My mom, she’s the kind of person who sometimes fusses a lot, but even when she’s yelling, you can do something funny and make her laugh.

  “She was just throwing the ball around with her cousin Mark, who I coach on the Monarchs, and some of their friends,” Coach Steve said.

  “Oh, okay.” My mother relaxed.

  “I’ve never seen anyone throw like that at her age—boy or girl—and I’ve been coaching kids for a long time.”

  “I didn’t even know Mo’ne could throw a football,” she said, raising one eyebrow and giving me a side-eye.

  A few weeks before, I had talked to her about football. Qu’ran had taught me how to throw a football.

  My friend Qayyah and I wanted to play for the South Philly Hurricanes at Smith Playground.

  “Her mom said that if my mom let me play, she could play. And my mom said, if her mom let her play, I could play,” Qayyah says. “But then they wouldn’t let us.”

  “Not many kids that age can throw a football, because the ball’s so big and their hands are so small. But Mo’ne was throwing the ball about twenty yards,” Coach Steve told my mom. “I’m starting a Monarchs team of seven-year-olds. It’s all boys, but I invited her to come to basketball practice.”

  “You want Mo’ne to play on a basketball team with all boys?!” My mother started to talk very fast, like she does when she gets worked up.

  “Your daughter’s got something special,” he said.

  “But playing with boys—I don’t want my daughter getting hurt!”

  “They’re just seven. There’s not a lot of physical contact.”

  “Oh, okay.” I could feel my mom calming down. “Thank you very much. I’ll think about it and get back to you,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  “Mo’ne, you wanna go?”

  I broke into a smile.

  “Yes!”

  Even though she didn’t like the idea of me playing with boys, my mom took me to practice the very next day. I didn’t know it then, but when I look back on it now, the year I turned seven was the year that I started having good luck.

  CHAPTER 2

  ALL EYES ON ME

  WHEN MY MOM AND I WALKED INTO THE GYM, THE FIRST thing I thought was that it was hot. The second thing I noticed was the smell of dirty socks.

  Coach Steve and the team were already on the basketball court when my mom and I got there. As we cut across the corner of the court and headed toward the bench, it seemed like the grown-ups in the stands and along the court were staring at us.

  Coach Steve said something to the team, then walked off the court and came over to greet us.

  “Hi, I’m Lakeisha,” my mom said as she reached out her hand. “I guess you already know Mo’ne.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lakeisha. Thanks so much for letting Mo’ne come,” he said, before smiling at me. “Great to see you, Mo’ne. You ready to have some fun?”

  “Yes.” I smiled back at him, feeling excited but shy.

  “I see they’re all boys . . . ,” my mother said. I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was nervous.

  “Yes, we have twelve boys on the team. Most of them have been with us since they were four, so I know them very well,” Coach said. “That one over there, in the navy blue Monarchs T-shirt, is my son, Scott. They’re all very nice kids, and a lot of them have been together since they were three or four—they’re like family to each other. You don’t have to worry; they won’t be mean to Mo’ne or give her any trouble.”

  “Okay, that’s good to know,” my mom said, relaxing.

  “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to get her started with practice,” Coach said.

  “That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll stay for a little while to make sure she’s okay. But I have to go to work. My boyfriend, Mark—we call him Squirt—is gonna pick her up.”

  “Okay, no problem,” Coach said.

  My mom smiled, gave me a hug, and then walked toward the sidelines.

  Coach Steve put his hand on my shoulder and turned me toward the court. He told me the boys were doing something called a three-man weave.

  “You don’t have to do this drill; it’s a little tough. You can wait till the next one,” Coach Steve said, watching me. “But watch for a while, and let me know if you want to try.”

  The boys stood in three lines facing one of the baskets. The boy in the center passed the ball to the boy on his right, then ran on a diagonal line to the right and toward the basket. The boy on the right side passed the ball all the way across the court, to the boy on the left, then ran across to the left and toward the basket. The kid who had been on the left headed toward the middle. He caught the ball, bounced it, and took a shot. The ball bounced off the side of the hoop.

  “Nice job, boys!” Coach Steve yelled.

  Coach kept looking over at me while I watched the boys repeat the drill a couple of times and listened to the sound of their sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor. The three-man weave looked like fun, and it didn’t seem that hard to me.

  “What do you think?” Coach asked.

  “I could try it,” I said.

  “Already!” He seemed surprised. “Are you positive?”

  I nodded.

  Coach walked me onto the court, put his hands on both my shoulders, and guided me into a line.

  “Guys, this is Mo’ne,” he said. “She’s going to be joining us.”

  “Hey,” a few of them said.

  The kid Coach Steve had pointed out as his son said, “I’m Scott. Nice to meet you.”

  “Hey,” I said. I’m kind of shy at first.

  When it was my turn to go, a kid threw me the ball. I threw it across to the kid on the other side, and ran across the court. That kid threw it back across the court and the first kid shot. This time, the ball went in.

  “Nice job, Mo’ne!” Coach Steve yelled, clapping his hands.

  This boy reached out his hand to give me a low five.

  “Nice pass,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  I looked over at my mom, who yelled, “Go Mo’ne!”

  I saw some of the men near her pointing in my direction.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Okay, I’ve gotta go to work,” she said. “Squirt will pick you up when practice is over.” Squirt is now my stepdad, but they weren’t yet married back then. His real name is Mark—I have no idea why everyone calls him Squirt. Then my mom waved and left.

  Coach Steve couldn’t believe how quickly I caught on. Neither could the boys.

  “Wow, you learned that fast,” Scott said, impressed. Later on, Scott told me that his dad had already told him about me.

  “My dad had told me that this girl would be coming to practice and to make her feel welcome and treat her like family,” Scott says. “He told me she would be awesome.”

  Coach set up the next drill. I watched, then joined in.

  It was awesome, just like a fun game.

  After practice ended, I was kind of tired, but really excited. The other kids told me their names. This boy named Jahli told me I did a great job.

  “What did you say your name was again?” one of the boys asked.

  “My name is Mo’ne.”

  “Wait, Monie?”

  “No, Mo’ne.”

  “Sorry, next time I’ll remember.”

  When practice ended, Squirt gave me a big hug.

/>   “I saw the end of practice,” he told me. “You did great!”

  “It was really fun,” I told him. “Can I come back?”

  Before Squirt could answer, Coach Steve came over. “Are you Squirt?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m picking up Mo’ne,” Squirt answered.

  “Okay, I just wanted to make certain,” Coach said. “I’m Steve Bandura, and I’m the Monarchs’ coach.”

  “Great to meet you, Coach!”

  “I just wanna tell you, nobody learns those drills that fast. Mo’ne has really got a gift!”

  “Yeah, she’s something else!” Squirt said. “Thanks for saying that.”

  “I hope you bring her back,” Coach said.

  “You wanna come back, Mo?” Squirt asked.

  “Yes!”

  I was really excited that practice had gone well. I could see myself coming here and playing with these kids again.

  Squirt and I headed downstairs to the lobby. While we were walking, some of the adults said, “You’ve got quite a little player there,” and “Nice practice,” and things like that to us.

  “She’s all right, isn’t she!” Squirt laughed.

  One or two of them said, “You really gonna let her play with the boys?”

  “Well, it looked like she could handle herself,” Squirt told them.

  I stood listening to the adults mix it up for a minute. Then I got bored and started looking around. I noticed this colorful painting across one of the walls. I had been in the rec center a lot, but for some reason I’d never seen this painting before. I walked across the lobby to look at it. It was a painting of a black lady and it stretched down the wall.

  On the left side of the mural, the woman was standing in a long pink dress that looked almost like a wedding gown. I touched her dress, then dragged my fingers along the wall. In another part of the picture she was sitting at a desk, looking like she was daydreaming. The desk said E. M. Stanton. That was the name of the school one of my cousins went to, a block or two away. I wondered if she went there or if she was a teacher. In the middle of the picture there was a big white flower and the words Marian Anderson at the Lincoln Memorial, Sunday, August 9, 1939. Marian Anderson—I realized this was who our rec center was named after. On the right side of the flower, it looked like she was in a big, fancy theater, singing to people. Next to that, she was wearing a purple dress and a blue hat, sitting in the pews at church and singing. On the right end of the painting she was wrapped up in a blue-and-gold coat on top of her pink dress and smiling. In the background, people of all different colors were looking at her.