Stealing Home (3 page)

“‘Yeah, right,’ Alston says. ‘We’ll see.’ Before Chop can retort, the Evans twins, God bless ’em, they drag him out of the pool before his mouth ends the truce.”

“I am so relieved, Hart. I was praying that no blood would get spilled in the pool.”

“I guess Chop’s guardian angels were working overtime. Hey, Code, what is it about you guys and your man-egos, anyway?”

“I have no idea. I’m fresh outta answers on that one.”

“Well, try this question, then. I have to know—how did you find the strength to walk away? It must have been so hard not to stick around and see what would happen, especially with your best friend involved.”

Cody laughed sadly. “Yeah, it was. But, on the other hand, I was so disgusted about the whole thing. And I didn’t want to see Chop get hurt. I’m not saying Alston could take him, but he is older than the rest of us. And he gets in lots of fights. Chop almost never does. He doesn’t have to. He just flexes those biceps, puffs out his chest, and that’s enough to strike terror in most people’s hearts.”

Cody heard a click on the line. “Uh,” Robyn said, a hint of apology in her voice, “that’s the other line, and I better take it. My mom’s supposed to be calling.”

“That’s cool, Hart. I’ll see you around. And thanks again for what you did today.”

“You did the hard part. Till whenever, then—”

C
ody called the Porter house five more times over the weekend, leaving messages for Pork Chop each time.

On Monday afternoon Pork Chop’s brother dropped him off for practice, and Cody walked purposefully to his friend.

“Hey, Code,” Chop said with a forced laugh. “How you livin’?”

“I
don’t know, Chop. How’s your answering machine—still working?”

“Look, dawg, I’m sorry, okay? I know you called me a bunch, and I shoulda hit you back. I just had a lot of thinking to do this weekend.”

Cody leveled his eyes on Chop. “You get anything sorted out?”

“I’m not sure. I’m trying to figure out who to be mad at—who needs to get rocked.”

Cody sighed. “Maybe nobody does. Maybe we all just need to focus on the sport at hand. Maybe some of us could focus on being teammates instead of enemies.”

Pork Chop gave a noncommittal nod. “Maybe. We do have the Plainsmen coming up this weekend. Those guys are tough.”

Cody watched Alston and Chop carefully through the week’s practices. They didn’t speak much, but that was okay, because that meant no trash-talking. He felt nervousness buzzing in his stomach during Wednesday’s practice, when Alston and Chop found themselves throwing to each other.

The tosses got progressively harder, as each tried to force a yelp of pain—or at least a wince or grimace—out of the other. But both remained stone-faced, even though their throws were hitting the respective mitts with the angriest smacks and pops Cody had ever heard—at least since the Rockies faced Madison the previous season.

The Plainsmen were a collection of players from a handful of tiny towns, like Grant, that dotted
Colorado’s eastern plains. They were always one of the toughest teams in the USBL, and they usually won their share of trophies at various independent tournaments. Not surprisingly, the Plainsmen came to the Grant baseball and softball complex riding a five-game winning streak, including a first-place finish at a big three-day tournament in Kansas.

After five innings, it appeared the streak was due to be snapped. Grant held a 3–1 lead, and Bart Evans hadn’t allowed a base hit since the first inning. Meanwhile, Alston had two doubles, and Pork Chop had launched his second homer of the season, a towering shot to right field. Cody was the first person out of the dugout to congratulate him as he trotted home and jumped on the plate with both feet.

Cody led off the bottom of the sixth, still hoping for his first base hit of the young season
. Coach Lathrop’s going to pull me from the leadoff spot if I go hitless this game,
he scolded himself as he assumed his stance.

Harris, the Plainsmen hurler, was lanky and had a herky-jerky delivery that made it hard for Cody to time his pitches. He had struck out swinging on his first two trips to the plate—then hit a high pop-up that the Plainsmen catcher barely had to move to catch.

Come on, Harris,
Cody thought,
just give me one pitch I can hit, since my dad’s here to watch me.

Harris’s first offering was an ankle-high fastball that Cody nearly swung at. He was way out in front of the second pitch, swinging so hard that he felt he might corkscrew himself into the ground.

He saw Harris smirk as he snagged the throw from his catcher. Cody wanted to charge the mound and force-feed the baseball to the pitcher.
Oh, Harris,
he thought,
I’d love to see you try that smirk with a mouthful of horsehide.

Harris’s third pitch was a fastball right down the middle of the plate. Cody was so enthralled with the image of mashing a baseball into Harris’s mouth that he didn’t even have time to think about swinging.

Harris shook his head, as if amused by the whole situation.

Cody took a deep breath as he stepped out of the batter’s box to collect himself.

Dear God,
he prayed silently,
help me to get a grip on my temper. I know that self-control is part of the fruit of the Spirit. Apparently, for me, that part of the fruit isn’t ripe yet.

“He’s got a little hitch in his delivery. Don’t get fooled by that,” Cody heard a voice say. “You wait for your pitch. Be patient, dude!”

Whose voice is that?
Cody wondered as he stepped back into the batter’s box. Then it hit him. The voice belonged to Beth.
Great,
he thought,
now my dad’s girlfriend is giving me hitting advice.

He watched Harris go into his windup. He tightened his grip on his bat. Harris began to bring his soda-straw right arm forward. Then, as if posing for a quick photo opportunity, he stopped his motion for just a moment.

Well, how about that,
Cody thought as he studied the fastball coming toward him, belt high.
He does have a hitch in his delivery.

Cody felt the loud metallic click when the sweet spot of his bat met Harris’s pitch. The Plainsmen center fielder was playing Cody too shallow, and he had no chance to field the bullet line drive that caromed off the fence in straightaway center field—275 feet from home plate.

Cody made a wide turn at first, then hustled back to the bag when the Plainsmen’s second baseman cut off the throw from the outfield. He risked a glance to the bleachers behind home plate and saw Beth pumping her fist in the air and nodding approvingly, like a black-haired bobble-head doll.

Cody allowed himself a small smile as he took his lead from first.

Okay, Lord,
he prayed,
I just got my first hit of the season, thanks to advice from a girl. I guess the Bible wasn’t kidding when it says you work in mysterious ways.

Alston followed Cody with a strong at bat. With the count at 3–2, he fouled off four straight fastballs before a frustrated Harris missed with a slider, giving the Rockies base runners on first and second.

Brett Evans swung on his first pitch, an inside fastball just above his hands. Harris fielded the resulting weak come-backer to the mound, then turned and threw to second in time to put out a hard-sliding Alston. And the second baseman, leaping to avoid Alston’s cleats, fired a frozen rope to first to nail Evans by half a step.

Cody made it to third on the play, but he knew his team had missed a chance to blow the game wide open.

Harris, realizing his team had dodged a bullet, carefully painted the inside corners of the strike zone throughout Pork Chop’s at bat. With the count at 2– 2, Chop tried to muscle a pitch over the fence in right, but the Plainsmen fielder snared it on the warning track, giving the visitors a chance for a final-inning victory.

Bart Evans struck out the first batter he faced, but then issued two walks. Harris helped his own cause
with a double to the gap in left center, tying the score at 3–3. Harris then stole third on an Evans changeup to the Plainsmen catcher.

Bart bore down and struck out the catcher, bringing up the shortstop.

This should be an easy out,
Cody thought.
Their shortstop looks like he’s about twelve. I don’t think he’s gotten the bat off his shoulder all afternoon.

“Come on, Milo,” Cody heard the Plainsmen coach bellow. “Be a big stick out there, boy!”

“I’d much prefer it if you’d be a little stick, Milo,” Cody whispered. “How about a carrot stick? Or a matchstick? Come on, Milo. We need another win. How ’bout throwing us a bone, okay?”

Milo stood statue-like as two Bart Evans curveballs looped in for called strikes.

“That’s it, Bart,” Cody muttered. “Throw this stiff one more hook, and we’re in business.”

Evans did go to his curve again, but Milo was ready. He chopped down at the ball, like a little child swatting a bee. The ball nose-dived to the infield grass and then began rolling, as if in slow motion, toward the left of the pitcher’s mound.

Bart’s momentum had taken him away from the direction of the hit, but he quickly gathered himself and veered toward the ball. Murphy, however, was
charging in from short. “Mine!” he yelled. Bart obediently stopped.

Murphy sprinted toward the ball. Cody could tell he was going to bare-hand it and fire it to Chop.

Milo was dashing to first base, but it looked like Murphy would make the play.

Until, that is, he overran the ball and came up with nothing but a handful of air—and a few blades of grass. Harris loped in to score.

The Rockies got the next batter out but were unable to overcome the visitors’ momentum in the bottom of the inning. Harris registered three straight strikeouts to clinch the win, then ran to Milo, hoisting him high in the air.

Cody found Murphy huddled in a corner of one of the softball dugouts, as far away from the baseball dugouts as one could get and still be within the complex. His chin drooped to his chest and he was muttering something. At first Cody thought he was praying. But after hearing a bit of the language the third baseman was using, he knew this was no prayer.

“Hey, Murph,” he said. “That was a tough play you tried to make. Those slow rollers are killers. You okay?”

Murphy didn’t look up. “Yeah, I guess so. I’m so stupid. Coach is probably going to bench me next game. I’m sorry I lost us the game.”

Cody sat next to his teammate. “You didn’t lose it. I mean, look at me, going one-for-four. I’m not even hitting my weight so far this season.”

Murphy smacked his hand on the bench. “At least you didn’t make an error. You know, last season I didn’t make a single error. And the year before that I had only two. Now this. My concentration is lousy lately. It’s just—”

Cody cocked his head. “Just what?”

Murphy looked at him briefly and then turned away. “You lost your mom a while ago. To cancer, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, my mom has it, too. It started as breast cancer but now it’s everywhere. Her bones, her brain. Everywhere.”

Cody exhaled slowly.
Please, God,
he prayed.
Help me help Murph. Help me be strong. Help me to focus on him, not my own sadness, which feels like it might swallow me again.

He studied Murphy’s sullen face for a few moments and then said slowly, “I know what you mean. It was the same thing with my mom. It’s hard
to play carrying that kind of weight around inside. It’s hard to focus. You try to get away from it, but it just keeps creeping back on you.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Does Coach know about your situation?”

“No. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Have my dad write a note that says, ‘Please excuse AJ if he occasionally plays like a stiff. His mom is dying’? Besides, I don’t get the impression that Coach Lathrop would care. He’s one cold dude.”

“Well, maybe I can say something to him, if that’s okay with you.”

“I guess so. I do wish he knew that I wouldn’t make an error like that, not under normal circumstances.”

Cody stood to go. He felt a flood of words pressing to escape from his mouth. But which ones could he release, and which ones needed to be held back? He remembered all the well-intentioned but stinging clichés people peppered him with in the weeks after his mother’s death—“At least she’s not suffering anymore.” “She’s gone to a better place.” “It was God’s will, and you must not question his sovereign will, young man.” “Cody, you must be grateful for the time you did have with her—some children grow up without a mother.” Or his least favorite—“Your dad is young and quite handsome—he’ll find a new wife soon. Just you wait and see!”

The only guy who always seemed to know the right words to say was Blake.

Blake. Cody smiled as the name flashed in his mind. “Hey, Murph,” he began tentatively, “I don’t want to go giving you advice, because you’re probably getting a lot of that, but can I suggest something?”

“I guess so. I mean, you’re probably the only person in the whole town who knows what this is like.”

“Well, there’s this guy, Blake Randall. He’s cool, and he really helped me when my mom died. He’s still helping me, in fact. He’s the youth director at Crossroads Community, my church, and—”

“Church?”

Cody didn’t like the way the word sounded, coming from Murphy’s mouth. “Uh, yeah.”

Murphy wagged his head slowly. “Look, I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but I don’t need God, man. I need my mom to be well again. I need my mom back.”

Cody nodded. “I understand what you’re saying. When I had to watch my mom die slowly, there were times I didn’t want anything to do with God. Other times I was mad at him. But I found out that when it all went down, I needed him more than ever. So think about talking to Blake. He comes to all our games. He’s the skinny guy with the Yankees
baseball cap and the ugly gray shorts. Maybe I can at least introduce you to him?”

“I
guess so. But I’m not joining any church or anything.”

“Nobody’s asking you to. I just want you to know that there are people who care. Blake’s one of them. So am I.”

“Thanks, Cody. Now, if you don’t mind—”

Cody headed up the dugout steps. “You need some time alone. I understand.”

The Rockies earned their first win of the season against a team from Maranatha Christian School’s summer program. Brett Evans scattered five hits—all singles—over seven innings in a 7–1 victory. Pork Chop launched his third homer in as many games, and Cody smacked his first extra-base hit of the season, a line drive over the shortstop’s head that led to a stand-up double.