Soar (10 page)

I'M IN CIVILIZATION
class with Mr. Aronson, and doing everything I can to pay attention. The ancient Greeks started the Olympics and were big on sports and competition, so I think they would appreciate that I can't give this my best right now.

I have to save that for baseball!

Mr. Aronson writes
The tragic flaw
on the board. He explains, “This is important to understand. What does
tragic
mean?”

Franny raises her hand. “Something awful and sad.”

“That's right.”

He's got my attention.

“What's a flaw?” he asks us.

No one says anything.

“Class . . . ?” He holds up a glass. “Right here”—he points to the rim—“is a crack. It's hard to see. Eventually
it will get worse and probably cause the glass to break.” He smiles. “So what's a flaw?”

I raise my hand. “It's a defect that makes something weak.”

“That's right. The Greeks understood about defects in the human heart. They wrote stories about people and gods who had great strengths, but their weakness, their flaw, was so great, it caused their downfall.”

On the board, Mr. Aronson writes:

PRIDE

ANGER

LOVE OF MONEY

EXCESSIVE LOYALTY

“These were some of the flaws explored in Greek tragedy. Tonight I want you to read the story of Achilles, the greatest warrior in the ancient world. Then fill out his report card.” He smiles.

We look at one another.
Report card?

The bell rings.

“Go forth,” Mr. Aronson tells us. “Do no harm.”

He always ends class that way. I head for the field.

Hearts sure are complicated.

I'm not sure how the ancient Greeks would feel about what I need to say to the team. I've got exactly forty-five minutes to get them game-ready.

“Guys, I've been thinking.” I'm chewing gum, which I don't usually do, but baseball players chew gum constantly, and their managers chew gum like it's the only thing keeping them from biting somebody. I hand out gum to the team.

“Chew,” I say. “Really hard.” They start chewing. “Wad it up in your cheek. Go for it. You want more?” A couple of guys take another stick.

“What are we doing?” Terrell asks.

I'm not sure they're ready for this. “You're looking like serious ballplayers.”

They chew harder and spit on the ground.

“Yeah!” I say.

More spitting.

“There it is,” I say. “Awesome.”

More chewing.

“I'm not saying skill isn't important in baseball—that takes time to develop, but something you can do in this game could open the door to big things.”

“Spitting?” Logo asks.

I'm going to have to lead them. “It's not just the spitting; it's what the spitting means. It means you're tough.” All of them spit. I back up a little. “And when you feel tough, you look different, you play different. Name me one top ball team that doesn't chew gum and spit.”

They can't do it.

“See?” I say. “We'll work on the game, but this is first.”

I spit.

They spit.

“You guys are kind of scary when you do that.”

They stand a little taller, they nod—a tough nod. A couple of them scratch, too, which is a good thing to add, but I don't want to get too complicated.

The Tornadoes walk onto the field. Mr. Darko, Hillcrest Middle School's soccer coach, runs over. He's our official school-sponsored adult.

Casey asks, “What if they chew and spit?”

“You do it better.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Mr. Darko looks confused. “I think I missed something.”

“We're getting in the zone, sir.”

My guys chew hard and spit like all-stars. Mr. Darko jumps back.

The Tornadoes don't have gum. Too bad.

“Aw right!” I shout. “Let's play ball!”

“I don't know if I can pitch and chew,” Sky mentions.

“You can do it.” I'm clapping to get them to hustle.

“We have mouth guards, Jeremiah.”

“Work it out. You're ballplayers!”

◆ ◆ ◆

We didn't win, but we didn't look that bad losing. And we had four fierce parents to cheer us on.

The final score: 4–1. That's respectable for a first game. On my notepad I write,
MAXIMUM IMPACT.
That's what this team needs to have in a short period of time. It would be nice if we had another game to play.

I'm clapping. “Keep the energy up, keep the focus. Who are we?”

“The Muskrats!” they shout.

Man. Who picked that name?

I raise my fist. “We are baseball in Hillcrest!”

Big cheers.

Then the reality of that sets in.

ACHILLES, LET ME
tell you, had issues.

I give him an A+ on the battlefield, but an F in Taking Advice, Handling Insults, and Being a Team Player. He gets a big “Needs work” on Anger Management, too. My recommendation is that Achilles's parents, Thetis and Peleus, come in immediately for a teacher's conference, although this could be tense because Thetis is a sea nymph and can morph into different shapes. I suspect his mother is a big part of the problem.

A lot of people in Hillcrest get a “Needs work” in Anger Management. Walt says nobody thinks clearly when they're mad. You should lock yourself in a room and not make any decisions until you're calmer.

Everywhere, the news is bad, and hardly anyone is taking it calmly.

STEROID USE RAMPANT AMONG HILLCREST HORNETS, INVESTIGATION SHOWS

6 PLAYERS OUT OF 15 TEST POSITIVE FOR STEROID USE

I show it to Walt. His face gets stiff.

I hold my baseball so tight, my arm hurts.

“The players are under a doctor's care,” says the sheriff.

“We can only hope and pray there will not be permanent damage to these young athletes,” says Pastor Burmeister of Peaceful Lutheran Church.

The Hornets who tested positive for steroids have a lawyer. She says, “My clients, these fine young athletes, didn't know what the coach was giving them. He assured them they were taking vitamins.”

Coach Perkins has two lawyers. One of them says, “We are confident that the truth will come out and that Delmar Perkins's innocence will be upheld.” The other lawyer says, “Coach Perkins loves his players more than he loves himself.”

The lawyer for the high school says, “This is a tragedy at many levels, and Hillcrest High School is addressing it with speed, accountability, and compassion.”

The media loves this story.

“In the little town of Hillcrest, nestled in Ohio's
western hills, there was a dark secret, so dark that a boy with exceptional promise is now dead, and one of the country's most respected high school baseball programs has been suspended, the coach arrested, the town left grappling with a big question: Who are we now?”

Suspended.

Canceled.

Embarrassed.

The town welcome sign about pushing to be the best is taken down. The baseball bat statue on the hill feels like it shouldn't be there.

Shame on you.

That's what one article said. The shame was on us and it stuck, like stepping in dog doo—even if you scrape it off, there's still the smell.

Words have such power.

We're trying to hustle during baseball practice to find the energy, but it's hard to do that when so much around you says you're a fake.

But there's one person who isn't upset by any of this. He can't understand steroids and cheating and losing your reputation. But Benny Lewis thinks our team and our town are great.

He can't wait to see us play. He shouts “Yay!” and “Good catch!” even when it isn't a good one.

For three days, Benny doesn't come to practice because he has to have tests at his doctor's office. And for three days, it isn't the same. Even Benchant misses him.

“The little guy's okay, right?”

“He's coming tomorrow,” Franny tells us. But Benny gets strep throat. He has to stay home.

And it feels to me like the town is getting weaker. I think Hillcrest needs a heart transplant. But before you can put the new heart in, you have to take the old heart out.

I'm thinking about this while Walt wraps a sheet halfway around me and fastens it at the shoulder. I'm playing Aristotle in Think About It Day at my school. One day a month a kid dresses up like a famous dead person and walks around school saying things that are supposed to make everyone think differently. Aristotle is a major ancient Greek who thought hard about everything.

I adjust the fake beard Mr. Aronson gave me to wear. Walt and I look in the mirror together—two guys with beards.

“I still don't look like you, Walt.”

“The sheet doesn't help, Jer.”

Mr. Aronson and I reworked some of Aristotle's sayings so kids could get the general idea and not be bored into oblivion. Jerwal rolls into the room and stops. I raise my right arm, let my voice go deep.

“Excellence is formed in a person who works at being excellent.”

Jerwal beeps.

“I like that.” Walt scoops up SARB, who is stuck in the corner.

I scratch under my beard and head toward the door. It's not easy walking in a sheet.

◆ ◆ ◆

Kids at school don't connect to the sheet right off, and lots of them laugh when I stop in the hall, raise my arm, and say major things.

“Dignity does not come by having honors, but by deserving them.”

“All people are alike when they sleep.”

In the cafeteria, I shout: “Happiness rocks!” That's a very loose translation, but kids totally get the concept.

Benchant pulls my beard. Logo calls out, “Way to
go, Big A!” I nod wisely and try not to trip on my sheet.

Mr. Aronson is beyond happy. “We're shooting energy through this school. Good job, Jeremiah.”

I feel the energy building. Donald Mole shows up to practice with two more players, Handro Corea and Roy Nader.

“Handro should play second base,” Donald tells me.

“But you're on second.”

“He's better.”

Handro runs on the field and starts throwing and catching. He's so much better. Roy picks up a bat and Sky pitches to him. He's got a power swing.

“Okay, Donald, you and Roy are utility players. That means you'll play different positions as we need you.” I slap his shoulder. “It's awesome what you did.”

“I want us to win.”

We've now got twelve guys!

A reporter from out of town comes to watch us practice. He has a little mustache and a lot of snark. “So what do you kids think of baseball now?”

Everyone looks to me. I say, “Was it baseball that did this, sir, or people?”

He has a fake smile. “So will you be playing baseball in school even after all that's happened?”

Terrell steps up. “As you can see, mister, we are playing baseball after all that's happened! And we're going to keep playing it.”

“Why?” the reporter demands.

Terrell points a finger at him. “Because my grandpa always told me, giving up is stupid.”

The reporter sits there.

“You should write down what he said,” I tell the man.

“What's the name of your team?”

“The Muskrats.” Terrell says it strong.

The reporter turns to me. “And you are . . . ?”

“He's our coach,” Donald says.

“Really? Do you Muskrats have a captain?”

We hadn't thought about that. But most of the players look to Terrell, then back at me. “It's Terrell if he'll do it,” I say.

A big cheer goes up. Terrell's smiling. If we ever get new uniforms, maybe we should have
GIVING UP IS STUPID
written on the backs of our jerseys.

There's another message going around town:
HONK IF YOU LOVE BASEBALL
.

I didn't have anything to honk when I first saw it, so I shouted, “Yes!” I expected to hear a lot of honking, but there wasn't much.

I wonder what happened to all the people who loved it? I wonder about the other people—the ones who say:

What's the big deal about steroids?

You think this is only happening in Hillcrest?

So many people want that edge to WIN.

WIN.

WIN.

But in the middle of all this, another voice rises—it's a real one, too. She stands on the high school steps with her husband and her son, Mac Rooney, who was a big Hornets star. Mac Rooney's mother gives motherhood a gold star.

“I don't know how the other parents are feeling,” she begins. “But I'm feeling that we're the lucky ones. We still have our sons. Michael and Dellia Cantwell lost their boy, Hargie. I, for one, want to know the truth about what happened. I want to understand what trust was broken, I want to understand what my son was exposed to, what he knew and didn't know. I want us all to stop running from this ugly thing and look at what's at stake here! If we ever needed truth in this town, we need it now.”

Mac Rooney is standing next to his mother when she says it and applauding louder than anyone.

Then Mr. Aronson gives us the best homework assignment. “What's an example of a tragic flaw in our world today? Write a paragraph about that.”

I haven't finished my paragraph about Coach Perkins, but here's what I've got so far.

His love for winning was his downfall
.
It became more important than being honest and being responsible to his players and to the sport.
I really like this sentence:
Finally, when it comes down to it, a coach is responsible for the health and safety of his players.

I actually call Aunt Charity and read it to her.

“Well done,” she says. “You're getting quite an education in that place.” And she doesn't ask if I've had a bowel movement!

Of course, I get off the phone before she can.

I ask Franny who she wrote about. At first she doesn't want to tell me. Remembering Canada, I let it be. But later in the day, she comes up to me.

“Promise you won't tell.”

“I promise.”

She stands there quietly. “I wrote about my dad.”