Baseball Great (8 page)

“BOBBY PERKINS,” ROCKY SAID.
“Sorry, Perkins. You tried your best.”

Perkins inhaled so quick it became a sob. He hid his face in the crook of his arm, stood up, and walked off the field, his shoulders shuddering so hard that Josh felt bad for the kid. A sudden burst of elation buried his pity, and Josh had to fight to keep his mouth from pulling into a monster smile. He bit down on the inside of his lower lip to keep his composure, but nothing could prevent his eyes from stretching wide with joy.

The sour looks he got from his new teammates dampened his spirits, but they could do nothing more than what a brief rain shower does to an active volcano. Josh searched for his father up in the small set of concrete stands overlooking the field. In the gloomy light
underneath the bubble's soiled canvas, his father sat alone with his back straight and his arms crossed in front of his massive frame, like a man defying a snowstorm.

Josh glanced around, then snuck a thumbs-up to his dad.

His dad broke out in a gleaming grin and returned the thumbs-up.

“I don't care if you don't like it,” Rocky was saying to the team. “You've got a new teammate. If you don't want to be replaced yourself, you'll treat Josh like he belongs. I don't care about his age. That's not a factor now. He's one of us, and he earned it.”

Rocky's three assistants began to applaud, and the kids around Josh joined in unenthusiastically. Rocky seemed not to notice. He winked at Josh and called the team together for their chant of “Do it to it.” Josh secretly thought the saying was stupid, but this time he said it with gusto, then jogged off the field to hug his father.

When the two of them separated, Josh's dad said he thought they should celebrate with hot dogs from Heid's. Josh said he'd hurry and made his way into the locker room. Perkins sat in front of his emptied locker with his face buried in his hands. A couple guys tried to talk to Perkins, but he shrugged them away. No one would even look at Josh.

Out in the car, Josh asked his dad, “Did you know
all along?”

His father shook his head and said, “I didn't even want to ask. But while you were in the locker room, I talked to Rocky. He said you had it made after the first week, but the way you worked today made the decision even easier.”

“What'll happen to Perkins?” Josh asked.

His father shrugged. “That's life, buddy. He can try to find another team or go back and play high school ball next year. Everybody you play with is going to drop out of this sooner or later. The key is for you to stay in, and from what I've seen, that's gonna happen.”

“Thanks,” Josh said, warm all over even though the rain outside had brought with it a spring chill that seeped into the car.

When they arrived at the hot-dog place, Josh and his dad ordered up four each, dousing them with mustard and relish and mixing big paper cups full of white and chocolate milk together. They sat down in a booth by the window and dug in, talking between bites about the tournament on Long Island and the players his dad had recruited for the two new Titans teams.

After a pause, Josh wiped a glob of mustard from his cheek and asked, “What do you think I should do about the rest of the guys?”

“Meaning what?” his dad asked.

“I mean, Rocky told everyone that I'm part of the
team and they should treat me the same as everyone else,” Josh said, “but I don't know.”

“Don't know if they'll accept you anyway?” his dad asked.

“Yeah.”

His dad finished the last bite of his last dog and drank his milk through a straw until slurping sounds filled the air and he set down the cup. He wiped his mouth on a yellow paper napkin and said, “You just ignore it. Pretend like everything's fine.”

“Even if it isn't?”

“A team's a funny thing,” his dad said. “You can't force your way in; you have to let it happen. The biggest thing you can do is play well. You just keep your mouth shut and do it to it at the tournament this weekend. You'll see. Everything will change. Everybody loves a winner, Josh. Everybody.”

THE TITANS GOT ON
a bus at 2:30 the next day after school. The ride to Long Island took about seven hours, but that included a stop for dinner on the way. Josh sat in a window seat in the back reading, and occasionally gazing out at the rolling green Catskill Mountains. After they crossed the George Washington Bridge, Rocky got on the intercom and announced that in a couple minutes they'd be passing the new Yankee Stadium on the left. The bus fell quiet.

Josh cupped his hands and put his face to the window. The sun had dipped behind the clouds, but the stadium glowed with white light, as though a giant treasure lay sparkling within its walls. In fact, it was a treasure, the only true treasure for Josh and his teammates. The heart of Major League Baseball. One of only a handful
of places anyone who ever loved the game dreamed they would someday play in.

The bus stayed quiet until they crossed the Triborough Bridge and the towering glitter of Manhattan loomed alongside the dark East River. Chatter about the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, and the jets gliding their way through the night as they piled into La Guardia gave the rest of the ride a festive air. The prospect of the morning's competition made them giddy, and as they stepped off the bus and walked into the hotel, laughter rang across the Marriott's lobby.

Rocky handed out the keys, and teammates raced up the side stairs or pestered the elevator button to be first to their rooms for the bed by the window. Josh got his key last and took his time, not caring which bed he slept in because he didn't really expect to sleep. By the time he got to the bank of elevators, he was able to ride his own car up to the second floor. The door to the room stood ajar. Josh peered in, then stepped slowly, wondering who his roommate for the next two nights would be.

The answer couldn't have been worse.

“I'M TAKING THE WINDOW.”
Jones was already laid out on the bed with his shoes still on, staring at the ceiling. He scrunched his pale eyebrows, and the freckles on his cheeks and nose danced in a red soup of anger. In one hand he spun a baseball around and around with the flick of his fingers and wrist.

Josh put his bag on the other bed. He took out a paperback copy of
The Count of Monte Cristo
, fluffed up the pillows, and sat down to read. After a couple minutes, Jones jumped up and walked out, spinning the ball in one hand.

“And don't touch my stuff,” Jones said on his way, slamming the door.

Josh stared at the closed door for a moment, sighed, and returned to his book. At ten, a knock on the door
preceded Moose, who stuck his head into the room and asked where Jones was. Josh shrugged. Moose looked at him blankly for a moment, then disappeared. Several minutes later the door flew open and Jones stormed into the room, throwing himself down on the bed. Moose shook his head and told them to turn out the lights before saying good-night.

Josh looked at his older teammate, waiting to see what he'd do. Jones yanked two pillows free from under the bedspread, sandwiched his head between them, and turned to face the window.

“You heard him,” Jones said, still facing the window. “Turn the lights off.”

Josh sighed again and went to use the bathroom and brush his teeth. By the time he got out, Jones had begun to snore.

Josh kept the light on and lost himself in his book, finally falling asleep sometime after Edmond Dantès escaped from prison and had a knife fight with pirates on the Isle of Monte Cristo. He woke to the sound of Jones banging around in the bathroom. The book lay open on his chest. Jones emerged from the bathroom in full uniform. He pulled his cap on tight, picked up his glove, and walked out of the room without a word.

Josh got ready, too, and made his way downstairs to the dining room, where most of the team had already sat down to a breakfast buffet. Josh put a scoop of
scrambled eggs on a plate along with some cantaloupe and a Danish. He filled a glass with juice, then took a seat in a booth by himself. From the corner of his eye, he watched his teammates, all of them apparently as nervous as he was. Rocky sat as silent as a block of marble in a corner booth surrounded by his coaches.

When the coaches rose from their table, the rest of the team followed without speaking, and they streamed out through the lobby and onto the waiting bus. As they rode toward the Garden City Town Park, the sun poked its nose above the rooftops, blinding Josh with its early rays. He looked away, blinking. They turned a corner, and there lay the green fields, spread far and wide across more than a dozen acres of flatland amid the buildings and houses of the small city.

Two other buses were already in the parking lot, and the Titans' bus pulled up alongside them. Waiting in the back of the bus while the others unloaded, Josh spotted a silver Taurus pull into the parking lot, pass their bus, and come to rest in a spot near the concession stand. The warmth of familiarity filled his chest before his father emerged from the old Taurus. Even three hundred miles from home he'd sensed—rather than actually seen—the dent in the rear bumper and the white scrape of paint where his mother had nicked the garage. Still, his smile didn't break loose until he saw his father's face under the shadow of his thick black
hair and eyebrows, darkened even more by stubble from a nightlong drive.

By the time Josh stepped out onto the pavement, his father stood close enough to shake his hand, which he did.

“How'd you get here?” Josh asked, knowing Rocky had assigned him to a business dinner with the athletic director of a Syracuse-area college the night before.

His father rubbed at the stubble on his chin and grinned in an apologetic way—a way Josh wasn't used to—and said, “I wasn't going to miss your debut when the only thing between us was a couple extra-large coffees.”

Josh hugged his father, burying his nose in the comforting smell of his denim shirt.

Josh jumped at the sound of Rocky's whistle and hustled off toward the field, where the team had already begun to warm up. Josh nearly forgot about his father when their first opponent, the Hempstead Eagles, arrived. He gawked at the sight of their players. They had a pitcher taller than Jones and a catcher with muscles as big as Tucker's. While Josh had grown used to the size and muscles of his teammates, it seemed almost frightening to see the same thing in kids he didn't know.

The other thing Josh couldn't stop marveling at was the distance of the outfield fence. Because the Titans
practiced inside, Josh hadn't yet played on a regulation field. He'd been an occasional batboy for the Syracuse Chiefs and always thought the distance of the outfield fence was something only a grown man such as his father wouldn't find intimidating. All the home runs Josh had hit in his life up till now had been in parks where the fence stood about two hundred feet from home plate. The field on which they were getting ready to play looked twice as big.

When it came his turn to warm up his bat on some ball tosses hit into the backstop, Josh asked Moose how far it was to the fence.

Moose tugged on the bill of his cap, looked down the first-base line, and said, “Looks like three twenty. Why?”

“No reason,” Josh said, swallowing and turning his attention to the drill.

When Rocky called the team together, his voice rasped as if he'd been up shouting all night.

“I didn't tell you this until now, but our scouting report says this team we're about to play is going to be the best competition we'll face,” Rocky said. “We got a bad draw, but if we can beat these guys, this tournament will be ours. Trust me, it's a big step in getting to our goal of the Junior Olympics. So, all we do today is do it to it. That's what we do, we do it to it and we're on our way.”

Rocky's small, dark eyes glittered like black beetle wings.

“So, I want every single one of you to dig deep,” Rocky said, gritting his teeth and letting his eyes come to rest on Josh. “We worked too hard to lose this thing, and we're too good. But we can't be soft. We can't make excuses about why we didn't play our best. You
have
to play your best. You have to
be
the best. If you can't go out there in a game like this and perform, then you'll never be great. And if you can't be great, then you're wasting your time, and mine. Let's go.”

BEFORE HE KNEW IT,
Josh found himself on the baseline with his hat over his heart listening to “The Star Spangled Banner” scratched out by a small cluster of speakers on a pole behind the backstop. The flag hung limp in the center of all four baseball fields, and after the anthem, an announcer welcomed everyone to the twenty-third Garden City U14 Baseball Tournament.

Both teams put their hats back on. The Titans took the field first. Josh stood rigid at shortstop and threw off target during warm-ups, but no one—except his father, who stood in the back row of the bleachers clutching a Titans cap—seemed to notice him. Thankfully, Kyle Watson, their starting pitcher, put down the first three batters and Josh jogged with everyone else, cheering, into the dugout.

Josh saw the lineup chart hanging on the fence. He batted sixth, one in front of Jones. While the Titans' first man up struck out, the next two got on base. Then Tucker, their cleanup batter, struck out—swinging big to try to bring in some runs but struggling against the pitcher's wicked curveball. Josh tugged on his left-hand batting glove, found a helmet and his favorite bat, and walked to the on-deck circle. Watson stepped up to the plate. Mostly, Josh wanted Watson to get a hit so they could score and win, but a small, cowardly part of him knew that if Watson struck out, then Josh wouldn't have to bat.

Josh swung his bat idly, trying to let his body absorb its weight, but he was distracted by the odd throwing motion of the Eagles' left-handed pitcher and the sight of his father, who had moved from the bleachers to the backstop and hung on the chain-link fence with his fingers hooked through the steel mesh. With a 3–2 count, Watson swung at a curveball and hit it foul. Josh's hand felt hot inside the glove, and his sweat made it sticky. On the next pitch, Watson swung at another curveball and dribbled it just outside the third-base line. He was still alive.

Two more times Watson protected the plate before he let a high fastball go and the umpire called ball four. Watson dumped his bat at Josh's feet on his way to first. The other batters advanced, loading up the bases with two outs.

Rocky stepped out of the dugout and put a hand on Josh's shoulder. One of the veins in Rocky's neck throbbed, and Josh nearly choked on the heavy smell of the coach's cologne mixed with the chewing tobacco on his breath.

“You gonna bat lefty?” Rocky asked.

Josh looked at the glove on his left hand and said, “You want me to, right?”

“You don't need to knock it out,” Rocky said, tightening his grip and drawing Josh's eyes into his own. “Just get me a hit and an RBI. One run at a time. With their bats and the way we play defense, we could beat this team one–nothing, so don't swing big. Just get me a run.”

Josh nodded, and Rocky let go. As he approached the batter's box, Josh heard his father's urgent words coming to him through the backstop.

“Swing big on the fastball, Josh,” his father said. “That'll be his first pitch. He's not gonna like seeing you on the left side of the plate. His magic curveball is nothing against a lefty. You can do it!”

Josh's legs seemed numb, and his arms felt heavier than they should have. He nodded at his father, acknowledging that he'd heard the words of advice, even though they contradicted his coach's. The eggs and half of the Danish he'd eaten rolled around on the inside of his gut. Part of it made a dash for his throat, but he gulped it down and stepped up to the plate with a wary eye on
the pitcher.

The pitcher smiled at him and went into his jerky motion. Josh saw the ball and knew it was all heat, right down the pipe. He knew he should swing big—like his father said—and drive it out of the park, but Rocky's words jumped into his mind. He swung down on the ball, but late, and missed. The Eagles infield erupted with cheers. Silence sat heavy in the Titans dugout. The second pitch, a changeup, dropped real low—a ball—which was a good thing since Josh stood frozen in place, too flustered to concentrate.

“Swing big!” his father yelled.

“Loosen up!” Moose shouted at him.

Another changeup came at him. He saw it leave the pitcher's hand with a forward spin. He swung down on it, trying for the hole between first and second, knowing that his father would want him to follow his coach's direction before all else. He connected, but too soon, and the ball went foul way outside the third-base line.

Josh stepped out of the box. With a 1–2 count, he knew what would come before he even heard his father's voice.

“Fastball. Fastball,” his father said.

Josh could see the smirk on the pitcher's horse-shaped face, and he knew his father was right. More than anything, he wanted to swing big. He looked out at the fence. It seemed a mile away. But with all his lifting
and training, why couldn't he reach it? His instincts told him to do it, and he remembered something his father had said to him about instincts and—

“Let's go,” the umpire said to Josh.

Josh nodded and stepped up to the plate. He glanced at the loaded bases, then at the two outs up on the scoreboard. The pitcher reared back and jerked sideways. His arm whipped around and came Josh's way. Most people would see it like they'd see a snake flick its tongue, but Josh saw more. The ball left the pitcher's hand with a perfect spin, a fastball to the outside edge of the plate.

Josh swung big, and connected with a crack.

The ball took off.