High Heat (16 page)

"Nothing wrong with him," I said out loud.

Standing nearby was a man watching his son do bike tricks. "Were you talking to me?" he asked.

"No," I said.

Embarrassed, I walked closer to the field, both to get away from the man and to see Reese hit. I had a feeling something big was going to happen, and I was glad I was there.

In the bottom of the first, Shorelake got a leadoff single, followed by another single, and then a walk. The bases were loaded—the perfect setup for Reese's return. The Shorelake fans rose and cheered as he slowly walked to the batter's box, and they stayed on their feet when the Bellevue pitcher fired his first pitch.

It was a ball, way outside. The second pitch was right down the middle, only Reese took it. "Strike one!" the umpire yelled. The next pitch was yet another belt-high fastball. This time Reese swung, but his left side opened up, and his left foot lurched toward third base. He missed the ball by a foot. "Strike two!" the umpire hollered.

A sick feeling came over me. The Bellevue pitcher, suddenly confident, fired a fastball on the inside corner—his best pitch of the game. Reese jumped back as if the ball were close to hitting him. "Strike three!" the umpire yelled. The Shorelake fans booed the ump momentarily but stood and cheered Reese as he walked back to the bench. The next batter grounded into a double play to end the inning.

Reese didn't bat again until the fourth. Again the cheering was loud, but cheering can't make a guy hit. On the first pitch, he swung weakly and missed. "Hang in there, Reese," I whispered. He took a ball, then a second strike, then waved at a mediocre fastball out over the plate for strike three. When he ran out to center field at the end of the inning, his head was down.

The game stayed scoreless until the top of the fifth. Then Bellevue got to Parino, pushing across five runs on a couple of hits, a couple of walks, and a home run. I thought about leaving, but I couldn't go until Reese had had his final at bat. It came in the sixth inning. He struck out on three pitches, the last one a fastball right down the middle.

Before he was back on the bench, I was on my bike and headed for home. When I opened the door, Marian was sitting on the sofa reading
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
for what had to have been the fifth time.

"You should be in bed," I said.

"As soon as I finish. I've only got two pages to go. Where'd you go, anyway?" Her eyes were on her book, and she was still reading. She could do that—read and talk at the same time.

"A baseball game," I said, suddenly feeling a need to tell someone.

"Who won?"

"Bellevue."

"Is that who you wanted to win?"

"I didn't really care."

"Then why'd you go?"

"You know I hit a guy, don't you?"

She flipped a page. "Sure. Mom told me she thinks you feel really bad about it, though you won't admit it."

"He played tonight. It was his first game since I hit him."

"How'd he do?"

"Not too well."

She closed her book with a loud bang. "Done," she said, and she looked at me for the first time. "But he must be okay if he's playing, right?"

"Right," I said.

She stood up. "I'm glad he's all better. I'm going to bed now. See you in the morning."

"Yeah," I said, "see you in the morning."

Nobody said a word, but I could feel my teammates watching me as I trotted out to right field at the next practice. I shagged fly balls until Grandison called me in for batting practice. I managed to hit the ball hard a couple of times, but I missed more than I hit. When my turn in the batting cage was over, Miguel Alvarez came over to me. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't worry about me, Miguel. Just pitch."

"You're better than me."

I laughed. "I'm terrible."

Grandison's voice boomed across the field. "Miguel, come here."

"You'll make it back," Alvarez said before jogging off.

He was taking my position from me, but I still liked him. In another time and place, he could have been a friend.

We had a game Wednesday afternoon against Edmonds. I sat at the end of the bench next to Alvarez, as usual. Only he was the one fighting to keep his nervous energy under control, and I was the guy just watching.

Edmonds broke on top with three runs in the second inning on an error, two walks, and a bases-clearing double down the line. But we fought back, scratching out single runs in the third and fourth innings, before breaking through for
three runs in the top of the sixth. When Hank Fowler got the third out in Edmonds' half of the sixth, Grandison called down the bench. "Get loose, Miguel. You're pitching the seventh." We didn't score in the top of the seventh, so our lead was 5–3 as Alvarez made his way to the mound to pitch the bottom of the seventh.

Alvarez hadn't done anything, but by his third warm-up pitch sweat was pouring down his forehead. Usually he had a smile on his face, but he was all business. And he was on. He fired strike after strike. His arm was loose and free—the way mine used to be. He struck out the first Edmonds hitter on three pitches, got the next batter on a grounder to third. The final hitter lifted an easy fly ball out toward Jim Wilson in right field. Wilson settled under it and squeezed it for the third out.

The guys surrounded Alvarez at the mound, pounding him on the back. His grin went from one side of his face to the other. I joined them. "Way to go, Miguel," I said.

"Thanks, Shane. Thanks a lot."

That night I dreamed I was riding my bicycle in the international district, and my dad was driving along in the car next to me. I had my old dirt bike, and I did a wheelie along the sidewalk, a great wheelie, only I smashed into this old Chinese lady's table. The table was made of thin little boards, and they all splintered from the impact.

"I'm sorry," I said, but she didn't seem to hear.

"My table, my table," she said over and over. Then she
started picking up the splintered pieces and trying to piece them together again.

My dad jumped out of his car and came running over. Immediately he pulled out his wallet and gave her one hundred dollars. "Here. Take it. It's more than the table is worth."

The woman didn't stop wailing. "My table, my table, my table."

"Take the money," my dad said angrily. I looked at him, afraid he might hit the old woman. It wasn't his normal face that I saw. Instead, it was that ridiculous, grinning face that had stared down at motorists from the billboard above his dealership on Aurora Avenue. I woke up, my heart racing, my forehead covered in sweat.

I lay there until my heartbeat settled, then went downstairs and made some hot chocolate. As I drank it, I looked out the window. The streetlight must have been out, because everything was incredibly dark. I stared into the darkness and thought about Alvarez and Grandison and pitching. There was nothing to be mad about. Everything ends sometime.

I finished the hot chocolate, but instead of returning to my room, I sat thinking of my dad, wondering what it would be like to be dead. Always before, I'd thought that I didn't want to die, not ever, no matter how old or how sick I was. But that night death seemed peaceful and not scary. It would be like being lost in the darkness, where no one could ever find you.

I spent the next practices running down fly balls in right field. I was okay; I knew how to hit the cutoff man and all that. Grandison gave me a double shift during batting practice,
and I managed a few decent hits. But I didn't hit as well as Jim Wilson, and I didn't field as well as he did either. At the end of practice on Friday, Grandison called me over. "I thought you might dog it on me, Shane, but you're working hard, and I'm impressed. Since you've been straight with me, I'll be straight with you. Miguel is going to close out our games for the rest of the year. I'll try to get you an inning or two in right field if I can, but I don't guarantee anything. You may not play again this year."

After that, the season seemed to leak away. Alvarez was okay as a closer but not great. He could bust the ball right by weak hitters, but his fastball was too straight, and the really good hitters drilled him. We lost three of our last six games, two of them in the last inning. I didn't play at all.

I followed Shorelake's season in the newspaper and on the Internet. They finished more poorly than we did, dropping five of their last six. Reese managed a hit now and then, but not too many. It seemed unbelievable that a team once ranked number one in the state could fail to make the playoffs, yet that's what happened.

Coach Grandison gave me a ride home after our last game. "I know this season went sour on you, but I still want you to turn out again next year," he said as I stepped out of the van.

"Why?" I said, surprised he cared. "You've got enough outfielders without me."

"I know I've got outfielders; I still want you to turn out."

I shook my head. "I don't know."

"Think about it, okay?"

I shrugged. "Sure, I'll think about it."

As I watched his van disappear around a corner, I knew that I'd played my last game. For a moment I felt guilty. My dad wouldn't have wanted me to quit. He would have told me to work hard and come back strong to show everybody what I was really made of. I could almost hear him say it.

I was in the kitchen on a Saturday morning eating breakfast. The school year had ended. Mom was at the sink washing dishes. "Have you thought about what you're going to do this summer?" she asked. It was at least the tenth time she'd asked that question in the last week.

"I told you. I'll get a job or something," I said.

"I talked to the manager at Pasta Bella. I can get you work at the restaurant, washing dishes or maybe being a busboy."

"I don't want to work in a restaurant."

"I don't want you to work in a restaurant either. But you're not going to sit around for two and a half months."

"Marian doesn't have anything to do. You're not on her all the time."

"Marian's signed up for a bunch of different camps at the community center. Besides, Marian's different."

That made me mad. "Why? Because I was arrested and she wasn't?"

"I wouldn't have put it that way, but yes."

"I'm done with that. I've told you. You don't have to worry."

She turned and faced me. "Great. I'm glad I don't. But I still want you to have something to do this summer. So if you don't get a job on your own, you're going to work at Pasta Bella." She paused. "You know, Shane, we're not rich. If you earned some money, it would help."

That afternoon I took the bus to Northgate Mall. At store after store I filled out application forms. The managers would take the forms and stick them in a file. "We're not hiring now, but if somebody quits or doesn't work out, we'll give you a call."

For a couple of days I sulked around the house, feeling guilty but still dreading the day when I'd have to start washing dishes. Mom kept looking at me, and I knew I couldn't hold out much longer. I was just about to give up when I got the phone call.

It wasn't from any store manager at Northgate; it was from Coach Grandison. I was surprised to hear his voice and even more surprised to hear his offer. "I've got a summer basketball league starting, and I need referees. You interested? It pays twelve dollars a game, and you'd do three games a day."

"I sure am," I said. "Where?"

"At Bitter Lake Community Center. The program goes all summer. You start tomorrow. A man named Matthew Falk is my partner. He'll train you."

"Tomorrow?" I said.

"Yeah. Tomorrow. Noon. Why? You doing something else?"

"No. It's just that..."

"What?"

"Nothing. I'll be there."

When I hung up, I felt excited and then confused. Why had Grandison called me? How did he know I was looking for a job?

Just then Mom came into the room.

"Did you ask Coach Grandison to get me a job?" I said.

For a moment she didn't reply. When she finally spoke, her voice was clipped. "As a matter of fact, I did."

That made me mad. "You should have asked me before you did that."

"Why?"

"Because I would have told you not to."

"Oh, Shane, don't be such a child. There's nothing wrong with asking for help. You don't want to work at Pasta Bella, and I don't want you working there. If Coach Grandison can get you something better, take it."

"You don't understand," I said. "I'm not going out for the baseball team next year. Grandison wouldn't give me this job if he knew that. He'd give it to somebody who is coming back."

"How do you know that?"

"It's obvious."

She considered for a moment. "Okay, say you're right. Then let me ask you this. How do you know you won't turn out for baseball next year?"

"I'm not turning out again. There's no way."

"Do me a favor, Shane. Look where we are today, and think where we were a year ago. Then, if you're still certain
you know what you'll be doing next year, call Coach Grandison and tell him you don't want the job and I'll get you the dishwashing job. Right now I'm going to the grocery store. You need anything?"

Once she'd left, I let my eyes wander over the front room: the little sofa, the small television, the bookcases, the coffee table. It was so much my home that it was hard for me to remember the Sound Ridge house. And when I did picture that house, it seemed comically big and showy. Had it been only a year since I'd lived there?

That night I got out the bus schedule. I'd have to transfer once, and of course the times didn't work out at all. The thought of standing at a bus stop every morning and every afternoon was depressing. I already felt sluggish and out of shape.

Then an idea came to me. I could jog the two miles to the community center and then jog home at the end of the day. If I got to the center a little early, I could pump iron in the weight room. I could turn the job into a way to make money
and
get in shape.

After breakfast the next morning, I laced up my shoes and headed off for Bitter Lake. For most of the way, I ran along Second Avenue, a quiet street without the traffic of Greenwood. I was right about my conditioning; by the time I reached Bitter Lake I was dragging.