High Heat (18 page)

By nine the sun was setting and a chill wind had come up—quitting time. I'd avoided Reese during the whole game, running to and from right field with my head down. I intended to get myself home in the same way. But as I was heading off the field, I heard his voice behind me. "Shane Hunter."

I turned around. "Yeah?"

"Remember me? I'm Reese—"

"I know who you are," I interrupted.

He stared at me. "I thought you did."

My throat was so dry I could hardly talk, but I made myself. "What are you doing here, Reese? Shorelake's got a summer team. I went there, remember? You could be traveling up and down the coast, playing top teams and staying in fancy hotels. Why are you playing in a crummy pickup game like this when you could be doing that?"

He looked at the ground. "You want to know?"

"Yeah. I want to know."

"All right. I'm here because I haven't been able to hit since that game. And I'm sick and tired of my teammates and coaches treating me with kid gloves. I need to play in games where I can work on getting my stroke back without feeling like I'm in a fishbowl. But if it's not okay with you that I play here, then—"

"No," I said, embarrassed by his directness. "You can play here. You can play wherever you want. It's a free country. I just didn't understand."

"And now you do?"

"Now I do."

"Okay then."

"Okay."

He turned and started toward the parking lot, which was off the first base line. There was only one car there—a brand-new bright red VW Beetle. "Is that yours?" I called out to him.

"Yeah," he said, turning back. "It's a birthday gift. I've only had it a week."

"You shouldn't park it so close to the field. A ball landed there just last week."

"Thanks for the tip."

***

You can tell yourself a million times that something is no big deal, but you can't trick your body. It lets you know when things aren't right. All through the next day, my stomach was turning over. I did a terrible job refereeing, and Miguel noticed. "Something bothering you?"

"No. Nothing."

"Then blow the whistle."

At around six-thirty that evening I headed to the baseball diamond for the game. The first thing I did when I climbed the stairs to the field was check out the parking lot. Reese's Beetle was parked as far from the field as possible.

I played catch with Miguel and Jose, trying hard to behave normally. But I caught myself laughing too hard at every little joke anybody made. The whole time, I kept sneaking peeks at Reese. He was in the outfield tossing the ball with the older pitcher, Alberto Guerrero. Finally our eyes caught. Reese gave me the smallest of waves, and I gave him the same back.
All right,
I thought, feeling better.
That's done. Now I can play my own game.

Only I couldn't. Because every time Reese stepped to the plate, I watched each pitch as if it were the last inning of the World Series. When he struck out, popped up, or hit a soft grounder to the infield—which was most of the time—I'd feel empty inside. I kept thinking that he'd improve, that he had to improve. But one week went by, and then another, and another, and nothing changed.

Not that he struck out every time. He did okay against the older guys, like Guerrero, who had nothing to prove. But against the hard throwers, Reese opened up his left foot and
shoulder way too soon, making his swing pitiful. Most guys would have thrown a few bats, or at least let loose now and then with a few choice words. I know I would have. But not Reese. He'd strike out with the bases loaded or hit a little comebacker with runners at second and third, and when he returned to the bench, he'd walk with his head up. Most of the time he even managed a word for the next batter. "Get a hit" or "You can do it."

After striking out in a big situation, most players will carry the strikeout with them onto the field. They'll be thinking about their swing, so they get a late jump on fly balls or throw to the wrong base—stupid things they wouldn't do if they were hitting well. But Reese never let his strikeouts affect the rest of his game. He was all over that outfield, tracking down fly balls hit to left center and right center, diving for line drives that he could have easily let bounce for base hits.

During one game in late July, Miguel struck Reese out four times. The next day I saw Guerrero working with Reese, showing him how to keep his shoulder in. Reese listened and nodded. Guerrero meant well, but Reese knew what to do; he just couldn't get himself to do it.

Reese wasn't getting anywhere, but I was. The weightlifting and running were paying off. The scale showed I'd put on five pounds, but I'd probably lost ten pounds of fat and put on fifteen pounds of muscle. I had more stamina than ever. I was playing okay, especially in the field. I caught everything hit my way, and I threw out any runners who tried to take an extra base on me. At the plate I wasn't much, though I did hit a home run. The ball barely cleared the fence down the right field line, and I hit it off Guerrero, but it was a home run.

***

The day after that home run was August 2, my birthday. Mom took the day off, and I skipped the baseball game. We went to Rosita's for dinner and afterward had an ice-cream cake at home. "What did we do for your birthday last year?" Mom asked as we ate.

Marian looked at me.

"I don't think we did anything," I said. "I don't think we did anything for Marian's either, or for yours."

After that, a silence fell over us.

Upstairs in my room, I thought about my dad. When they'd lowered him into the ground, I'd sworn to myself that I'd always remember him, every single day of my life. It had been only sixteen months since his suicide, but already weeks would go by when I wouldn't think of him at all. And now, when I did think of him, I felt mad at him for leaving Mom and me and Marian. If he were alive, I could ask him things, like whether I should play right field or try pitching again, and if there was something I could do for Reese.

In the second half of August we started getting rain showers, and the sun was setting earlier. Still, I figured the baseball games would keep going at least until the World Series ended in late October. But one Monday night toward the end of August, Guerrero brought a soccerball with him. A half dozen guys formed a circle and kicked the ball around; the conversation was all about the national teams of Mexico, Argentina, and Brazil. It was hard to get them to put
the soccerball away and start the baseball game. The next evening there were three soccerballs, and the circle of guys kicking the ball grew to a dozen. Those guys were good, too. It seemed as if every one of them could dribble with both feet, turn on a dime, and pass. The ball might as well have been on a string.

After about fifteen minutes, there was a general discussion, mainly in Spanish, about whether to play baseball or soccer. One of the older guys took charge. "
Fútbol
?" he said, and a whole bunch of voices responded. "Baseball?" he called next. Only Reese voted my way.

With that, the whole pack moved to the adjoining soccer field. "Come on, Shane," Miguel said, motioning for me to follow him.

"No way, Miguel. I'm terrible at soccer."

"It's just for fun. Nobody cares."

I laughed. "I care." I turned and started for home.

That's when I saw Reese. He had his baseball glove in his hand. We both stood there, looking at each other for a minute. "As long as we're here, how about if you and me toss the ball around a little?" he said at last.

He stood at shortstop, and I stood between home and first. He had a good, loose arm, and he fired the ball with just the right velocity. "Do you remember the first time we did this?" Reese said after the ball had gone back and forth about twenty times.

"Yeah, I remember."

"You gave me that old glove and then almost burned a hole in my hand. It was sore for a week." I didn't answer. The ball went back and forth a few more times. "I didn't know
about your father then, about how he died. My parents never told me, even after we moved in. I didn't find out until I got to Shorelake. So if I acted like a jerk that day, it's because I didn't know."

I held the ball for a moment. "You didn't act like a jerk. If anybody acted like a jerk, it was me."

"I just wanted you to know that I didn't know."

"Forget about it. It's over."

I threw the ball to him, he threw it back, and there was no more talk about my dad.

Reese had brought his bat with him, so after a while we took turns hitting grounders and fly balls to one another. It wasn't a real game or even a real practice, but it was baseball. An hour or so must have passed because the soccer game ended, and Miguel, all sweaty, came over. "You should have played. You kick the ball. You run. You kick the ball. Nothing to it. We could have used you."

I shook my head. "It's not my game, Miguel."

Miguel frowned. "You change your mind, you tell me, and I'll get you in the game tomorrow." He looked to Reese. "Both of you." Then he headed off the field.

Reese looked at his watch. "I should go, too." After he'd taken about ten steps toward his car, he turned to me. "How about you and I throw the ball around again tomorrow?"

"Okay by me," I said.

"Here? Regular time?"

"Yeah."

"All right. See you tomorrow."

For the rest of August it was just me and Reese. We'd play
catch, hit fly balls and grounders to each other. One night when we'd finished, he asked me if I wanted to get something at Starbucks. "Sure," I said. After that we'd always get in his car and drive to the Starbucks down on Greenwood. He'd have hot chocolate and I'd have a mocha. We'd talk baseball mainly, Mariners and Giants and Yankees and Athletics, playoffs and World Series. Afterward he'd drop me off on Greenwood and 140th, and I'd walk the final few blocks home.

He always offered to take me to my house, but I never let him. Mom had planted flowers in front, and I kept the lawn mowed and edged and the walkways swept. I didn't care if Grandison or any of the guys from Whitman saw it. Looking at it, no one would ever guess that it was city housing. I just didn't want Reese to see it.

The Saturday of Labor Day weekend the sun stayed hidden behind gray clouds, and a chill wind blew from the north. My summer job had ended, so I hung out in my room, listening to music and thinking about school.

My mother had the lunch shift that day. She came home at four and called Marian and me downstairs. "Let's the three of us go to the movies tonight. There's a Spielberg film at the Majestic Bay. We could get hamburgers or pizza first. What do you say?"

Marian immediately agreed.

"I can't," I said. "I'm playing baseball."

"Shane, you've played every day this summer. You can miss
once. Besides, it looks like it could start raining any minute."

I thought of Reese alone, waiting. "I told them I was going to show, so I've got to show."

Mom frowned. "All right, do what you think is best."

They left before I did. Mom was still angry. While she was getting her purse, Marian whispered, "You could still come."

"I told you. I can't."

Marian pulled back the curtain and looked at the sky, which was darker than ever. "You're going to be the only one there."

Once they were gone, I went to the kitchen and peeked inside the refrigerator. Most of the time Mom would leave something on a plate for me, but there was nothing. I spread peanut butter on some French bread, poured myself a glass of milk, and looked at the clock. As I ate, a light drizzle began to fall.

I felt stupid walking to the diamond. The drizzle was turning to rain. When I reached the field, a cold wind was blowing across the infield. Marian had been right; there was no sign of Reese and no soccer game going. I zipped up my jacket, shoved my glove between my arm and body, stuffed my hands in my pockets, and stood under a tree. Five minutes, I decided.

Five minutes came and went. I decided to wait five more. Still no Reese. Finally I turned and headed for home. I'd gone about a block when I heard the horn. I looked up as his red Beetle pulled across the center line to the curb right next to me. Reese leaned over and rolled down the window. "Sorry I'm late. There was an accident up by the golf course. It took me ten minutes to get through."

"You still want to do this?" I said, glancing up at the sky.

"I'm game, if you are."

I got in his car, and we drove back to the field. By the time we reached the diamond, the rain had let up a little. "I think it's stopping," I said.

We'd been throwing for about ten minutes when the first bolt of lightning split the sky. The thunder came about five seconds later. Reese held the ball, and we both looked at the clouds. "I think it's moving away from us," I said.

"Maybe," he said, but ten seconds later a series of lightning bolts lit up the sky right over us. The clouds opened. Huge sheets of rain drove us off the field and back to his car. It couldn't have been more than fifty yards, but we both got drenched.

When we settled into his car, we looked at each other-hair plastered to our heads, water dripping down our faces—and laughed. It was the first time we'd ever laughed at anything together. "Starbucks?" he said, starting up the car.

I got my mocha, he got his hot chocolate, and we sat down at a table by the fireplace. I sipped the steaming-hot mocha slowly, enjoying the sweet warmth of it.

"When do you go back to school?" he asked.

"Tuesday. How about you?"

"The same." He took a sip of his chocolate. "Hey, is it true that some of the girls at Whitman flip their tops in the halls?"

"Not that I've ever seen. Where'd you hear that?"

"I don't know. Some guy told me."

"Whitman's not that different from Shorelake," I said. "Kids don't run around shooting each other or having sex in the halls."

After that we both stared into the fire. "Can I ask you something?" Reese said at last.

"Sure. Ask away."

"Why didn't you pitch this summer?"

My face went red. "No reason. I just didn't feel like it."