Center Field (6 page)

Craig Wiebusch was sharp in the top of the first. Three up and three down, a strikeout and two infield grounders.

From the dugout Mike began studying the Southwood pitcher, a tall, gangly junior Mike remembered from football, a backup quarterback. He was fast and wild, which kept most batters from digging in close to the plate. Scouting reports said he depended on the burner, but could fool you with an inconsistently nasty slider and a good changeup. Mike tried to see if he gave his pitches away. Some pitchers hunched over a little more before throwing a curve, straightened up before a fastball.

Coach Cody was coaching at third, flashing hand signals that didn't mean anything. Ranger psych tactics, he called them. He said it distracted the opposition, frustrated them into making bad decisions. He said it was worth a run a game. Hector, leading off, didn't need any instructions. His job was to get on any way he could.

Hector's specialty was driving pitchers crazy, stepping in and out of the box, fouling off pitches. He worked the pitcher for a walk, then kept taking leads off first and scrambling back while Todd waited for a pitch he could bunt. Everyone knew he was going to bunt, but if the pitcher didn't throw a strike, Todd would walk, too. Finally he threw one low that would have clipped the outside corner if Todd hadn't reached over and tapped a beauty down the first base line. The catcher threw him out but Hector was dancing on second base when Mike came to bat.

Coach Cody touched the bill of his cap, pulled his left earlobe, and rubbed the letters on his chest. Ignore everything until he shouted, “Let's go, Mike,” and clapped twice. The signal after that was the one. Coach leaned over with his hands on his knees. Hit away. No kidding. This early in the game it was all about piling up some runs, giving Craig a lead.

The pitcher hadn't tipped off his pitches so Mike set himself for a fastball. Always easier to adjust for a curve than try to catch up to heat. The first pitch was high and inside enough to make Mike lean back. Hard to tell if that was on purpose. Mike fouled off the second pitch, a curve. Now he'll come in with heat, Mike thought, try to overpower me. Coach Cody was rubbing his left elbow. Meant nothing.

“Curve,” said Oscar from the on-deck circle.

Like he would know, thought Mike. His first game in this conference, hasn't even had his first at bat and he's an expert. He felt that little bubble of anger in his gut, the same one he had felt before he shoved Zack. The thought was distracting. Gotta get rid of it. He stepped out of the batter's box, took a deep breath, thought
BillyBuddBillyBuddBillyBudd
, and stepped back in before the umpire could warn him about delaying the game. He set himself for the fastball. If it was a strike he'd try to drive it into right field, score Hector. There was a big hole between the first and second basemen.

The pitcher grooved it, down the middle. Thanks, pal. Mike took it late and opened up to hammer it into right. But the ball slowed, broke inside, and dropped. Frantically he still tried to make contact. He punched a hopper past the pitcher. The shortstop scooped it up, bluffed Hector back to second, and fired the ball to first. Mike was out by two steps.

He avoided looking at Oscar as he trotted back to the dugout, head down.

Ryan slapped his back. “Wicked curve, Mak.” He was on his way to the on-deck circle.

Mike shook his head. I blew it, he thought. And Oscar knows it.

They watched Oscar take his stance. Hector took a lead,
yapping at the pitcher. The second baseman stayed close to the bag. Coach Cody was yelling, “Two out, two out.”

Oscar was cool at the plate. He let two fastballs go by, both of them outside. The umpire called the second one a strike. Coach Cody yelled something, took off his cap and slapped his shaven skull, gleaming in the afternoon sun. That meant, You're a numbskull, ump. Coach Cody was a master of sly little insults but he knew how far he could go without getting warned or thrown out of the game. He said you had to keep pressure on the umps so they didn't think you were a wimp who would roll over for them. Ranger psych. Worth a run a game.

A curve broke inside and Oscar checked his swing. The ump called that one a strike, too. Mike figured that meant, Shut up, Coach, don't try to make me look bad.

Oscar's expression never changed. He was in the hole now, one ball, two strikes. The pitcher is mixing his pitches pretty well, thought Mike. See if Oscar can figure them out.

Another curve that broke close to Oscar's hands. He fouled it off.

The pitcher took his time now. He glared at Oscar. No question now, he was going to challenge him. Heat. He reared back and blazed one in.

Oscar hardly seemed to move his body, just flicking his wrists. Contact sounded more like
pong
than the
ping
. The
ball flew on a straight line between first and second and landed deep in right field. Hector scored easily and Oscar was on second before the relay throw came in.

Coach Cody was clapping and cheering as Ryan got up to bat. He nailed the first pitch and sent a long drive to deep left. Oscar was rounding third as the left fielder pulled it down. Inning over. But the Rangers led, 1–0.

In center field Mike avoided looking at Oscar, even though as captain of the outfield he should be checking the positions of the other outfielders. He thought, Just try to stay inside yourself today. Too many distracting thoughts.

Craig was on fire all afternoon. He rarely fell behind in the count, and even when he did, he challenged them to hit his fastball or chase his changeup. Southwood didn't get a man into scoring position until the sixth, and then Oscar made a fine running catch along the left-field foul line, whirled, and threw a bullet to DeVon at third when the runner at second tagged up. He was out by two steps to end the inning.

Craig waited on the mound until Oscar trotted past and bumped fists with him. Craig had forgiven Oscar for making him look bad the other day. At least for now, thought Mike. Good for the team even if I'm not having much of a day. That's the way Billy Budd would think. Mike bobbled a routine fly in right center, although he held on to it. His ankle
ached and he was a step behind a long drive to left-center that hit the fence. Oscar was backing him up and fired in to Todd to keep the batter at second.

It was worse at bat. Mike was lunging at the ball, never making solid contact. He was overeager and knew it and couldn't do anything about it. He hit into a double play and popped up to the catcher.

But the one-run lead held into the seventh when Oscar blasted a homer with Todd on base. The final score was 3–0.

Oscar was the man in the noisy Ridgedale locker room. He looked happy but humble, slapping palms, bumping fists. Mike thought it would be easier to dislike him if he were cocky instead of just confident. Why should I dislike him? Why shouldn't he be confident? He can play.

Craig followed Oscar around, holding up his boom box. Chief Loki was screaming,
“We own da season.”
Oscar looked embarrassed.

Mike dressed and got out as quick as he could. Didn't have a chance to ask Oscar how he knew it was going to be a curve. Baseball instincts or had he spotted the pitcher's giveaway motion? Maybe I don't want to know, Mike thought.

Coach Cody and Oscar didn't show up for Thursday's practice. According to Ryan, who heard it from Tori who volunteered in the school office, they were going to see an immigration lawyer.

“Get him an instant green card,” said Andy. “Special dispensation.”

“For what?” said Ryan. They were standing at the new batting cage, waiting to hit.

“He has a skill in demand,” said Andy. “He can get us to state.”

“A little early for that,” said Mike. “Just one game.”

“Andy's right, he can play,” said Ryan.

“What I'm saying is that the system is corrupt,” said Andy. “I bet Oscar's twenty if he's a day, probably spent a few years in the rice and beans league back home. He's a pro, ineligible to play high school ball. Bet he has an agent.
You notice the brand-new Nike gear he wears?”

“Coach Cody wouldn't allow that,” said Mike.

“Wake up and smell the burritos,” said Andy. “Cody brought him in to make us winners.”

It was Mike's turn to hit, and he was glad. Got to concentrate. Get my swing back. Nice and easy, just make contact.

One of the assistants, Coach Sherman, just a few years out of college, was pitching batting practice, grooving fastballs. After Mike slapped the first two pitches back to the screen in front of him, Sherman yelled, “You're hitting on top of the ball, Mike. Watch the bat make contact.”

He finally managed a solid hit, a rope to left center, on his last swing. As he ran to first, Coach Sherman yelled, “Attaboy, Mike,” which made him feel worse. Getting praise for something he usually did all the time was a warning signal.

You losing it, Mike?

 

He didn't see Coach Cody or Oscar in school on Friday and Tori didn't have any more information. She and Lori were sitting with him and Ryan at one of the varsity tables. Andy had stopped to talk to some girls on the debate team. Girls who liked jocks usually didn't go for him.

“You think Oscar could be twenty?” Ryan asked.

“Who said that?” said Lori.

“Andy.”

Tori snorted. “Like he knows.”

“I thought you can't play if you're over nineteen,” said Lori. “Don't they have our birth dates on file?”

“Those files are in Coach Cody's office,” said Tori.

“So Coach would know,” said Mike. “Can we talk about something else?”

“
Billy Budd
?” said Lori. She was trying to be nice, Mike thought. “The book was summer reading last year. It was so sad when Billy died at the end.”

“Another parable about good and evil,” said Andy, arriving with his tray. “Evil always wins in Melville. Check
Moby-Dick
.”

“Billy Budd's such a great name for a baseball hero,” said Lori.

She's trying too hard, thought Mike. She's starting to annoy me. He'd make some excuse not to see her tonight. Saturday night the twins were having a party at their house, parents away, no way to avoid that without breaking up, which was too much trouble.

Andy was shoveling French fries into his mouth as Kat strolled past, her video cam in one hand. She stopped and said, sharply, “The point you don't seem to get is that
undocumented workers only take jobs Americans don't want.”

Andy said, “They work so cheap Americans can't compete for those jobs.”

Kat curled a lip at his fries and cheeseburger. “No wonder your mind's clogged.”

Ryan said, “You never outgrow your need for trans fats and toxic chems.”

Everybody laughed except Kat, who gave Ryan a nasty look. She was in a bad mood, thought Mike.

Andy said, “You love your government control so much, how about regulating organic farming. It's all agribusiness now anyway.”

She frowned and nodded. “You might be right. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.” As she walked away, Mike noticed that she had a swing to her butt. Maybe it's her rehabbed knee.

Ryan said, “Tigerbitch wants to jump your bones, Andy.”

“That'll be the day.” Andy made a snorting noise, but Mike thought he looked interested. He felt a twinge of jealousy. Kat had never even looked at him.

 

He was alternately sorry and glad Friday's game was rained out. He wanted to get back out there, redeem himself, but he had a nagging fear that something was wrong, that he was
in a slump that could cost him center field. Coach Sherman reminded them that next Saturday morning, a week from tomorrow, they would be attending a hitting clinic at the Meadowlands. Team bus will be leaving at eight
A.M
. High school teams from all over the metro area will be instructed by major league players and coaches. Maybe some Yankees. Mike wondered if Billy Budd would be there.

 

He lost himself in the Buddsite that night. He watched an hour of the sweetest swing in baseball, short and whippy. Shoulders relaxed, eyes tracking the ball from the pitcher's hand to the surface of the bat. Billy never stopped to admire his hit, just peeled off for first base, running hard unless it was out of the park. If it was a homer, he would slow to a jog, head down, never hotdogging, never smacking on the pitcher, just acting lucky to be here. Not acting, Mike thought. Billy was for real. Lucky Billy.

A chat room message popped up from EmoBaller, a high school outfielder from Connecticut.
How opening game?
Mike wrote back,
We won I sucked. In a slump.
EmoBaller wrote
Hit the Buddline.
Catchergrrl, a Long Island softball player wrote,
Like Billy knows about slumps?
They exchanged LOLs on that but Mike wasn't in the mood to chat, especially when Catchergrrl and EmoBaller started trashing Billy's girlfriend, the model. They agreed she looked cold
and plastic. Mike wasn't interested in criticizing Billy's taste in women.

After a while he logged onto the Buddline. A picture of Billy popped up. He was leaning back in the dugout, elbows hooked on the back of the bench, smiling. “How can I help you, young baller?” he said.

A space opened up and the words
Please type your question for Billy here.

Mike wrote:
I'm in a slump at the plate and in the field. What should I do?

It took a while to bring himself to click on the
HIT IT
bar. My first question ever. Am I that desperate?

He hit it.

The Billy poster on his wall nodded.
You did the right thing, young baller.

Probably be a day or two at least before there would be any answer, he thought. If ever. Next game is Tuesday. Hope I hear something before then.

He wandered downstairs. Friday night was a big night at the old store. Mom and Dad would be there, one or both of them rushing back and forth to the new store as problems cropped up. Their opening day was coming soon. He knew they would like him to get involved in the business. That pressure was only going to get worse, he thought. Scotty was serious about graduate school and a career in music, no
way he was going to let them drag him into the business. And Tiffany had always had enough trouble taking care of herself. With a kid now…

The cell was beeping. Texts from Lori and Ryan. He ignored them. See ya tomorrow, leave me alone.

He thought about Vicodin and Captain Morgan, maybe just a beer, but ended up with milk and a chunk of the chocolate cake Mom had left with his dinner. Tomorrow was an early call. In some weird way he was looking forward to the Cyber Club. Kat.

He climbed back upstairs, careful on the ankle, barely avoiding the cat crouched on a step hoping to trip him. He was tired and would have settled for a
CSI
he had only seen two or three times, even an
NCIS
, which was too jokey, but the Billyblog was blinking and beeping with an alert.
MESSAGE FROM BILLY
!

And there it was.
I don't believe in slumps, Mike, and neither should you. We all have good days and bad days. The trouble is, when you get down on yourself during a bad day, it doesn't go away. Start thinking about the good days you've had, days when the baseball looked big as a beach ball coming out of the pitcher's hand and you were all over it. Think about days when you wanted every ball hit to you and you sucked them up like a vacuum cleaner. Visualize those days and they will come back. Good luck, Billy.

He felt short of breath. Sounded just like Billy, positive and constructive. He could imagine Billy's voice, deep and friendly, giving him the advice. He imagined Billy sitting in front of his locker, typing on a laptop balanced on his knees. That was silly. Billy's game was rained out, too—he wouldn't even be at the stadium. At home, maybe, with the model.