Author's note: This is not in my ongoing continuity; fairlyoddfan2010, a baseball enthusiast, suggested the idea for this one and is helping with all the baseball details. What if Dipper had not gone out for track, but baseball? So this story is an AU to, uh, my own AU. Hope you like it!

Dipper Steps Up

(Piedmont, California, 2013)

Chapter 1

High school wasn't going to be as much fun as middle school had. That's what Mabel had decided on September 4, the Tuesday that she and Dipper first reported to Piedmont High School.

To begin with, they didn't have the same schedules, as they had in middle school. Oh, sure, they had Miss Othmayer for Home Room at the same time every morning, and then they went on to Mr. Rebozo's English 1 class, and they also had Algebra 1 together, along with American History, and they even ate lunch together at 12:20. After lunch, though, Dipper went on to his classes, Mabel went to hers, and they wouldn't see each other again until the bell rang at 3:30 to end the school day.

Normally that would send them to find their bus home, but on the first day of classes, Mom had said she'd come by to pick them up around 3:45 or so. Mabel and Dipper had agreed to meet at the picnic tables overlooking the baseball diamond, and now she sat there kicking her heels—her art class had ended a little early, and she'd checked out.

Down on the field, kids were gathering and tossing a ball around, and Mabel had her eye on a tall, handsome blond kid. Of course, she didn't know him—heck, she hardly knew anyone at the new school, because it was so much bigger than her middle school that the students she had known the year before were all scattered through the population there, and she didn't have classes with many of them.

Mabel decided that Dipper would see her when he came out—he was probably packing up stuff from his locker—so she walked down the hill and stood outside the chain-link fence, where a few other guys and girls were watching the practice.

"Hi," another girl, dark-haired and smiling, said to her. "You a freshman?"

"Yup," Mabel said. "Mabel Pines. You?"

"Me, too," the girl said. "Rashanda Gilloway. My brother's going out for baseball, so I'm watching."

"Who's the tall guy pitching?" Mabel asked.

Rashanda glanced at the field. "Him? His name's Chuck Taylor. He's a sophomore. This is the JV team try-outs, you know."

"The what with the which now?"

Rashanda laughed. "Junior varsity. Just freshmen and sophomores. Coach Waylund is the coach. Chuck will be the team captain, I'm pretty sure."

An adult—Coach Waylund, Mabel presumed—blew a whistle and yelled, "Settle down, settle down! We'll start in five minutes! Everyone here's wanting to try out for the JV, right?"

The boys sent up a mixed chorus of "Yeah!" "Woohoo!" and "Right." Just then Mabel saw Dipper up at the top of the rise, near the picnic tables. She pulled out her phone and dialed—not Dipper, but Mom.

She answered on the first ring: "Yes, Mabel, I'm about to drive to the school."

"No, no!" Mabel said. "Listen, Mom, the most exciting news in history! Dipper's gonna try out for the baseball team! We'll call when tryouts are over. Love you, bye!" With Mom it was always better to cut phone conversations short before any questions could begin.

Mabel put her phone away and waved. "Hey, Dipper! Come on! Hurry!"

Dipper caught sight of her, hurried down the concrete steps, and approached with a quizzical expression. "Mabel, what are you doing down here? Mom will miss us—"

"Hey Coach!" Mabel yelled, waving both arms. "Here's your new quarterback!"

"Wait, what?" Dipper asked as the guys on the diamond started laughing. Mabel shoved him to the gate in the chain-link fence and pushed him through. "You gotta try out!" she said. "Do it for me!" And she did that big-eye thing that nearly always got him in trouble.

The coach, a tall, muscular guy with a deep tan and a broad chin, said, "Well, get over here! Settle, settle! Listen up! Here's how we're going to do this!"

Dipper gave Mabel a despairing look, but he sat on the grass like the others as Coach Waylund introduced himself and briefly spoke of his hopes and plans—"We were pretty lousy last year, guys! Anyone remember our record? Taylor?"

"Fourteen for twenty-four," the boy said. He was taller than Dipper—taller than anyone but Waylund—blond, and athletic.

"Won fourteen, lost ten," Waylund said. "I am not happy with that record. So this year we're gonna better it! Here's the drill for this afternoon."

He went on to detail the tryouts: First a few minutes of introductions, then timed base-running. Next, infielding practice—each guy would take a turn as a baseman or shortstop, and Waylund would hit five balls to each one's territory, a mixture of flies and grounders. They'd rotate positions to let four other guys try out. Then they'd do the same for the outfield positions. Next would come batting—some guys would play the field, while the rest took turns in the batter's box, while Taylor pitched to them as they practiced hitting, bunting, and game-play. Finally would come pitching and catching practice, with each guy pitching seven balls and catching at least three.

Dipper tried to shrink, hoping to be overlooked, but no such luck. He milled around with the others, muttering that his name was Dipper and that he had no experience as a baseball player. When he introduced himself to Chuck Taylor, Mabel screamed from the sidelines: "That's my brother! He's gonna be a star!"

Taylor chuckled. "Is she your twin?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dipper said.

"Cool!" Taylor told him. "So what's your position?"

"Uh—vertical," Dipper said. When Taylor laughed, he added, "Seriously, I've never played ball. Just catch with Dad. I don't know what I'm doing here, except Mabel pushed me into it."

When the actual tryouts began, Waylund went alphabetically, giving Dipper a brief reprieve from going on the field and making a fool of himself. As he sat with the other guys waiting their turn, though, he noticed something: Some of the prospective players were really terrible. They missed easy fly balls, they stumbled over their own feet—I won't be the worst one, anyhow, he thought.

He went to second base for the infield tryouts. Waylund was an expert at placing the ball just where he wanted it. Though each infielder had a chance at five hits, you couldn't predict which one would be the target for any one of them. The first hit to second was really easy, a gentle pop-up that Dipper caught in his borrowed glove with a plop. He tossed it back to Taylor on the pitcher's mound, and Taylor gave him a grin and a thumbs-up.

All in all, not too shabby: Dipper caught two out of three fly balls—better than some of the others—and scooped up both grounders. Waylund even said encouragingly, "Good hustle, Pines!" after the second one.

The outfield—well, it was more challenging, and he had less success. The high flies made him apprehensive, and the impact, even with the glove, stung his hand. However, though he missed as many as he caught, he did have a certain speed that got him into position more often than some of the other guys could manage.

And, as it turned out, he was one of the fastest base runners, both in running singles, doubles, and triples and in the total time. "Where'd you get that speed, Pines?" Waylund asked him after he'd done the totals.

"I spent most of the summer running from monsters," Dipper said, and the other guys hooted, thinking he'd made a smart-ass joke—but Waylund seemed to like the supposed humor, and he chuckled, too.

Batting was Dipper's worst performance. He successfully bunted a couple of times—but another kid told him, "You're telegraphing that you're gonna bunt. Watch the others for how to hide that."

But he was a lousy judge of ball position, swinging too early, getting foul tip-offs or whiffing the air. He got not one good solid hit the whole time. However, he wasn't alone on that—some kids actually did worse than he did, one of them even failing to make a bunt for two times running.

Afterward, Waylund said, "Good effort, guys. Now, not all of you are gonna make the cut. That's not saying you're no good—it might just be that baseball's not your sport. Some of the ones who do are gonna spend a lot of time on the bench this season—but every player is a member of my team, and I'll play you all at least some of the time. That's it for this afternoon. Those who made the cut, I'll post the list tomorrow in the gym. I'll want you for practice beginning Thursday, same time, same place. Dismissed!"

The group broke up into chattering bunches of three or four, and Dipper started to plod off the diamond. Chuck Taylor slapped his back. "You didn't do so bad, Dipper. I think you'll be on the team."

"I doubt it," Dipper said.

"Hi, brobro!" Mabel said, smiling so that her braces flashed in the afternoon sun. "Won't you introduce me to your handsome friend?"

Dipper sighed. He'd suspected something like that. "Mabel, this is Chuck Taylor, the pitcher. Chuck, this is my twin sister Mabel."

"Hi," Chuck said. "I think Dipper made the team! Glad to meet you."

"Ooh!" Mabel said. "It's hot out here on the athletic field, or is that just you? I'm gonna come to every game to cheer you on!"

"We need spectators," Chuck said, laughing. "Last year a lot of the time we played to nearly empty bleachers."

"I'll round up a posse!" Mabel promised.

"Gotta run," Chuck said. "My dad's picking me up."

"Speaking of which," Dipper said.

"Already called Mom," Mabel told him.

"Mabel, this was a bad idea," Dipper said as they trudged up the steps to the school. "I'm not an athlete. I humiliated myself out there."

"No, you didn't!" Mabel punched his arm. "You were better than some and not as good as others. So what! Everything needs a middle! What's a hamburger without the beef? A tomato sandwich! Yuck!"

"I'm not sure what you're driving at," Dipper said. They went around to the front, and he saw their mom just turning into the loading area.

"Isn't it obvious?" Mabel asked. She ran to the family car and threw open the front door. "Hey, Mom!" she yelled. "Dipper an' me want to stop for hamburgers!"