The Contract (2 page)

“Huh?” Vijay and Derek both said at once.

“
Little League?
Hello, didn't you guys get your notices in the mail?”

“Yeah,” Vijay said. “I'm on the Tigers. That's good, huh? India? Bengal Tigers? Get it?”

Derek laughed, thinking what a great friend Vijay was. Somehow he'd helped Derek go from feeling lousy to laughing in about thirty seconds. And along the way, he'd stood up for Derek the way Derek had stood up for him.

“How 'bout you?” Jeff asked Derek. “What team are you on?”

Now it was Derek's turn to shrug. “I didn't get anything in the mail today. . . .”

“Uh-oh,” Jeff said. “Sure hope they didn't forget all about you, dude. That would really stink, not being able to play.” Seeing that Derek looked worried, he quickly added, “No, just kidding. You were one of the best kids at the tryouts. I'm sure the letter'll be in your mailbox tomorrow.”

“I sure hope so.”

“It
will
be!” Vijay proclaimed. “For sure, for sure! I hope you're on the Tigers too, Derek. That would be so cool!”

“Uh . . . yeah!” Derek said, still worried about not getting his notice in the mail. “Yeah, really cool. Hey, let's play some ball before it gets dark, huh?”

He started running up the hill, his heart racing and his gut churning. He couldn't wait for Jeff to hit him a ball so he could get his mind off all the troubling thoughts that were swirling in his brain.

At dinner Derek was still feeling troubled. He kept pretty quiet at the table, which wasn't like him at all. Everybody in the Jeter house always had lots to say.

Tonight though, it was little Sharlee who was doing most of the talking, while Derek was left to his own thoughts. “. . . and Miss Deena says I do the best pliés in the whole class!”

“She
did
?” asked Derek's mom. Her eyes widened so much, they were practically bugging out. “That's wonderful, Sharlee! You worked really, really hard on those, didn't you?”

“Uh-huh. I sure did!” Sharlee grinned. Even Derek, lost in his thoughts as he was, had to smile. Sharlee's joy and pride were infectious.

“And I told Miss Deena my brother's coming to the recital tomorrow,” she said, nodding her head for emphasis and crossing her arms in front of her.

That got Derek's attention. “Me?”

Sharlee's four-year-old brow wrinkled, and her lower lip quivered. “You
are
coming . . . aren't you, Derek?”

“Um . . . sure I am!” He quickly covered up his surprise. “You think I wouldn't show up for my favorite little sister?”

Sharlee brightened instantly. “I'm your
only
little sister!”

“So what? You're still my favorite!”

To be honest, he'd forgotten all about the recital for Sharlee's ballet class. All those little kids had been working on their dances since the start of the new year, and Sharlee, the youngest ballerina of them all, had a solo!

There was no way Derek wasn't going to go. Of course, he
had
been looking forward to playing ball with the guys. . . .

“Of course he's coming!” Mr. Jeter said, patting his daughter's shoulder. “We're
all
coming. Our little girl's going to do us proud, aren't you, Sharlee?”

“Uh-huh!” she said, cracking them all up with her happy, confident attitude.

Derek wiped his mouth with his napkin and put it down. “May I be excused?”

“You may,” said his mom. “You're awfully quiet tonight, old man. Everything okay?”

“I'm fine,” Derek told her. “I've just . . . I've got some things to think about.”

“Oh?” his dad said. “Care to talk about it?”

“Not right now, thanks,” said Derek. “Maybe later.”

Derek pushed back his chair, grabbed his plate and silverware, and took them to the sink. He gave them a quick rinse before going up to his room.

• • •

His parents gave him plenty of privacy all evening, sensing that something was on his mind and trusting that he'd tell them about it when he was good and ready.

Derek appreciated that about them. He knew kids whose parents wouldn't let them alone until they told them
everything
that was going on. Derek thought that often had a way of making things worse, not better.

That night he tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. Should he get up and tear up his essay? Write a new one about how he hoped one day to be a doctor?

It wouldn't be a
total
lie. On the few occasions when he ever thought about being anything other than a big-league ballplayer, “doctor” was often the job he came up with.

Doctors helped people; they saved lives; people depended on them. Derek liked that. He wanted to be someone people could depend on, one way or another.

He got up, switched his desk light on, and tried writing a few lines about being a doctor. But his heart wasn't in it.

The alarm clock told him it was past eleven. The house was dead quiet. Derek wondered if his parents were still awake.

He opened his bedroom door and glanced down the hallway. Their bedroom door was closed, but Derek could see light underneath it, so he figured it wasn't too late to bother them.

He padded down the hallway, staying superquiet so as not to wake Sharlee. She was a light sleeper and would wail if you startled her out of her dreams.

Derek knocked softly on his parents' door. Inside he heard stirring, so he turned the doorknob and let himself in. “Mom? Dad?”

His mother lay propped up in bed in her pajamas, a book on her lap. “Derek, honey, are you all right?”

Derek went over to her as she put down her book, forgetting to mark her place as she reached for him and hugged him. “Tell me what's bothering you,” she said. Then, gently nudging her husband, she said, “Jeter! Wake up.”

Mr. Jeter's eyes flickered open, and he raised his head off the pillow, squinting. “Oh. Hi, Derek. Something wrong?” In a moment he had gone from fast asleep to wide awake, and he was paying full attention.

“I have a problem,” Derek said. “See, there's this essay . . .” And he began to tell them the whole story, from the elation he felt when the assignment had been given all the way up to the doubt he was feeling just that very minute.

At first he was afraid his parents would tell him to go back to sleep. But Mr. and Mrs. Jeter listened patiently, not interrupting as Derek poured out his dream of being the starting shortstop for the New York Yankees.

He told them how Jeff had reacted to it, and how Vijay had stuck up for him. He told them that he was thinking of changing his essay and writing about being a doctor. “Now I don't know what to do,” he finished. “I guess I'll just . . . I don't know. . . .” He sighed, looking down at his folded hands as he sat on the edge of the bed.

By this time, his mom was sitting on his left and his dad had come around to sandwich him on his right. Each of them had an arm around him, and his mom nuzzled his wavy hair with her cheek.

“Derek,” his mom said, “it's never a mistake to dream. Without dreams none of us would ever amount to much.”

“I agree,” said his dad. “It's up to you if you want to change your essay—but only if you're
really
going to change your
dream
.”

“I'm not!” Derek said. “I want to be the Yankees' shortstop! More than anything!”

“All right, then,” Mr. Jeter said. “Let me ask you, old man—how hard are you willing to work to achieve your dream?”

“Really, really, REALLY hard!” Derek said. “I play ball every day, Dad! I'd play more if I could.”

Mrs. Jeter chimed in. “The reason your father's asking is because there's a big difference between dreams that are just fantasies and dreams you really plan to make come true.”

“That's right, Derek,” said his dad. “When your friend Jeff said you have to be realistic, he was right.”

“He was?” Derek felt crushed for a moment, until he realized his dad wasn't finished talking.

“Yes, he was. Look, you're going to be starting Little League again soon. You know that most of those kids want to be major-league ballplayers. I know not all of them are writing their essays about it, but you have to understand, there are millions of kids out there right now, in every corner of the United States, who want to be big leaguers. I wanted to be one myself; you know that. If it hadn't been for my—”

“Jeter, Derek knows all about your college days,” Mrs. Jeter said.

Indeed, Mr. Jeter liked to show his son the newspaper clipping he'd saved about the home run he hit while playing shortstop for Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee. It was the only homer he hit in college, but he talked about it so often that Mrs. Jeter kidded him about breaking Roger Maris's single-season home run record of sixty-one.

Mr. Jeter cleared his throat. “Yes. That's right, Dot, I guess he does. In any case, you've got lots of competition, and plenty of those boys are great athletes. If you're going to beat them out for the job of your dreams, you're going to have to
outwork
them, right from the start. Understand?”

This was music to Derek's ears. He could scarcely believe his dad was taking his dream so seriously!

“Derek, you can do anything you want in life, if you work hard enough and stick with it,” his mom added. “Right now you have to keep getting better at the game, every day—without neglecting your studies, your chores, your friends, or your family, of course.”

“I know!” Derek said. “That's what I want to do!”

“Remember, later on it won't just be kids from Kalamazoo you're competing against,” his dad said. “The closer you get to the ultimate goal, the tougher the competition's going to get. It'll be downright ferocious.” He looked Derek square in the eyes. “Are you up for that kind of battle?”

Derek shot to his feet. “You bet I am, Dad!”

“In that case,” his father said, “I think I can speak for both your mother and myself in saying we're right behind you, all the way.”

“It's going to be tough,” his mother added. “Really tough. But if you work harder than everyone else, and stick to it even when things get hard, we believe you can make it happen.”

“Yesss!” Derek exulted, both fists in the air. Then he stopped himself. “So . . . you guys think I should hand my essay in as it is?”

“Why not?” his mom asked. “It's the truth, isn't it?”

“Now,” said Mr. Jeter, “sit back down here. We're not done yet. Before you go back to bed, we need to plan out your first steps. Every dream needs a plan to make it come true. And every plan needs a first step or two to get things going.”

“So what might your first steps be, Derek?” his mom asked.

“Well, there's Little League, I guess,” he replied.

“There you go!” said his father. “So what's your goal for this season?”

“To be the best shortstop in the whole league!” Derek answered automatically. “And to win the championship, of course.”

“That's good,” said his dad. “But remember, the team comes first. If it's just about you, you might as well play tennis or golf.”

“So be the best shortstop you can be, and try to lead your team to a championship,” Mrs. Jeter said.

Derek sat there on the bed, but he might as well have been sitting on a cloud. A half hour later, when all the questions he could think of had been answered, his parents finally chased him out of their room.

Derek floated back to his bed and got under the covers. His heart was full of love for his mom and dad, who hadn't ridiculed his fragile hopes and had even sworn to stand with him and help him achieve his goal.

And his head was full of stars, as he imagined himself being introduced in Yankee Stadium before the start of the World Series. . . .
“Starting at shortstop and batting second, number thirteen, Derek Jeter, number thirteen.”
Yeah, that number hadn't been retired yet.

When he opened his eyes again, after a night full of beautiful dreams, it was morning, and the sun in a clear blue sky was shining directly on him.

“Can you believe this?” Derek shook his head as he stared at the image on the TV screen. “A
snow
delay?” He was wearing his Winfield shirt and Yankees hat, while his dad sat on the couch in a well-worn Tigers sweatshirt.

His dad looked up from the term paper he was writing and chuckled. “Hey, Detroit in April, you never know about the weather.” Mr. Jeter was in graduate school, studying for a master's degree in social work so he could achieve his own dream—helping troubled teenagers cope with their problems.

The visiting Yankees were sitting in their dugout—that is, the few who hadn't gone into the clubhouse to get warm. One of the players who'd remained stood out—tall, muscular, with a huge smile spread over his face. He was stretching from side to side to keep himself loose. “Look at Dave Winfield,” Derek said. “He's not inside staying warm. He's out there working, no matter what.”

“That's the way to be,” Mr. Jeter said without looking up from his work.

“He's a great person, too, Dad. Did you know he started his own charitable foundation to help kids?”

Mr. Jeter looked up again, interested—and proud that his son was using such lofty words. “A charitable foundation, huh?”

“Yup. He's the first active player to ever do that. When I'm the Yankees' shortstop, I'm going to be the second player to start a foundation to help kids.”

“Okay. . . . I think that's a fine idea,” his father said, smiling.

“Unless someone else does it in between,” Derek said thoughtfully. “Then I might be the third . . . or the fourth.”

“I see you're still serious about what we discussed last night,” said his dad. “That's good. After you left our room, your mom and I jotted down some guidelines for you to follow. If you're going to be the Yankees' shortstop, you might as well get used to having a contract. Do you want to see what we wrote down?”

Derek nodded his head, then gulped as his father turned off the game and went upstairs.
What is this all about?
he thought. When his father came back downstairs, Mrs. Jeter was with him, and he had in his hand a sheet of yellow legal paper, which he placed on the table in front of Derek. Mr. and Mrs. Jeter sat down together with Derek. “No negotiating,” his father said with a smile.

At the top of the paper, in capital letters, were the words
CONTRACT FOR DEREK JETER
. And below that was a list, which Mr. Jeter proceeded to read out loud:

1. Family Comes First. Attend our nightly dinner.

2. Be a Role Model for Sharlee. (She looks to you to model good behavior.)

3. Do Your Schoolwork and Maintain Good Grades (As or Bs).

4. Bedtime. Lights out at nine p.m. on school nights.

5. Do Your Chores. Take out the garbage, clean your room on weekends, and help with the dishes.

6. Respect Others. Be a good friend, classmate, and teammate. Listen to your teachers, coaches, and other adults.

7. Respect Yourself. Take good care of your body and your mind. Avoid alcohol and drugs. Surround yourself with positive friends with strong values.

8. Work Hard. You owe it to yourself and those around you to give your all. Do your best in everything that you do.

And below the list was this paragraph:

Failure to comply will result in the loss of playing sports and hanging out with friends. Extra-special rewards include attending a major-league baseball game, choosing a location for dinner, and selecting another event of your choice.

“Do you have any questions?” his father said.

Derek didn't know what to say at first. He thought he could live up to all the rules, but it was the reward at the end that really caught his attention. Maybe he would get to see the New York Yankees in person, and in the sunshine, instead of watching them on TV in the snow. “I think I can do this,” he told his father.

With that, Mr. Jeter pointed to a section at the bottom of the contract that read, “I Agree.”

“If you are ready commit to this, then sign here,” he said.

Derek took a deep breath, picked up a pen, and signed his name with a flourish.

“We're both really proud of you, Derek,” Mrs. Jeter said with a smile.

With that important discussion completed, Mr. Jeter reached back over to turn on the TV.

“Hey, look. The Yankees are ready to play!” Derek said.

“I don't know why you can't forget about the Yankees and become a Tigers fan like everyone else in this town,” said his father.

“I'm a Yankees fan, like Grandma!” Derek said proudly. “Just because we moved here from New Jersey doesn't mean I'm going to switch teams. That would make me a traitor!”

“Well, I was never a Yankees fan even when we lived in New Jersey! Growing up, I liked the National League teams because back then they had more African-American players.”

“Uh-uh-uh!” Mrs. Jeter said, and grabbed a gigantic bowl of popcorn from the other room. “No fighting in this house. Everybody gets to root for his or her own team.”

Everyone laughed, and she sat down next to her husband on the couch.

“Derek, I'm happy to see you read and sign the contract. But remember, signing it is one thing. Living up to it is a different story.”

Derek's attention, though, was on the TV screen. “Why'd we have to move to a place where baseball season is so short?” Derek complained. “If we lived in Florida, Little League probably would have started in February.”

“Derek, you know we moved here for Dad's school,” his mom said, taking his words more seriously than he'd meant them.

Derek's dad had been accepted by Western Michigan University as a master's student, so the whole family had moved to Kalamazoo from New Jersey.

They'd already lived here awhile, so Derek was used to playing ball in the wind and the cold. And when it got too cold, he liked to practice his swing in the garage. But that didn't keep him from wishing they were someplace warmer, maybe in a neighborhood with a real field.

Sharlee came into the living room, wearing her tutu. A tiara was perched on top of her long, curly hair, securely pinned but leaning a little to the left. She had a smile on her face that made the rest of them laugh.

“Look! I'm a princess ballerina!” she crowed, spreading her arms wide and spinning around so they could get a good look at her. “Is it time yet?”

“Not yet, baby,” said Mrs. Jeter. “Soon, though.”

“Time for what?” Derek said, acting like he didn't know.

“Derek!” Sharlee cried. “My recital!”

“Oh! Yeah. I remember now.” Derek laughed. “Just kidding, Sharlee. I didn't forget. And if I did, something tells me you'd remind me.”

“But you're coming, aren't you?”

“Sure I am!”

By the end of the third inning, with the game still scoreless, it was time for them to go.

Derek had been checking out the window every few minutes all morning, to see if he could spot the mailman coming with his letter from Little League. Now he checked the mailbox on their way out, only to find that the box was still empty. Maybe they
had
forgotten him.

They all piled into the family car. Derek sure hoped the letter was there by the time they came home—because practice started tomorrow, and if he didn't get a team assignment, what was he going to do?

• • •

The school gym was packed, with folding chairs from wall to wall filled with parents and other family members applauding the pint-size dancers on the stage.

Derek saw some of his friends there, in the role of older brother, watching their little sisters perform. Two of them, Jason Bradley and Harry Hicks, told him they were on the Yankees. They were really good players. With them and Jeff, the Yankees sure had the makings of a good team. Derek hoped he would be on the Yankees too, and not just because it was the name of his favorite team.

All the Jeters stood up and started applauding the minute Sharlee came onstage. At the end of her solo, Derek shouted, “Go, Sharlee!” which prompted giggles, and a “Shhh!” from his mother. But her eyes sparkled as she said it.

When the recital was over, Sharlee came out the stage door, where the families were waiting to greet the performers. She saw Derek, ran to him, and leapt into his arms.

He spun her around and said, “Bravo, Sis!”

“How was I?” she asked him point-blank. “Was I the best one?”

“You were fantastic!” Derek said.

“She was, wasn't she?” said Mr. Jeter, giving Sharlee a kiss on the head that knocked her tiara loose.

She squirmed out of Derek's arms, bent down and grabbed it, and stuck it back on her head.

“You were awesome!” said Mrs. Jeter, clapping her hands. “Yay, Sharlee!”

“Derek,” said Sharlee, putting her little hand in his as they walked to the car, “do you think I can be a ballerina someday?”

“Of course you can, Sharlee!” Derek thought back to what his parents had told him the night before. “You can do anything you dream of, if you're willing to work hard enough for it.”

“Work? Hard?” Sharlee repeated, scrunching up her face. “That doesn't sound like much fun.”

“It
can
be,” Derek assured her. “Hey, don't you have fun when you're dancing?”

“Yes!”

“And it's the same with me and baseball. I don't mind working hard at that.”

“But you work hard in school, too,” she pointed out. “Don't you mind that?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” he said, thinking back to the contract he'd just signed. “But I've still got to do it if I want to succeed.” Then he gave her a look. “Hey,” he said, “you're pretty smart for a four-year-old, you know that?”

“I know,” said Sharlee, and that cracked them all up again.

Soon they were pulling into the parking spot outside their apartment. Derek raced over to the mailbox and opened it—and there was his letter! He tore it open and read:

Congratulations! You have been accepted into Westwood Little League for this season. You have been assigned to the Tigers with Coach Hank Kozlowski. Please be at Westwood Fields at 1 p.m. Sunday, April 20, for your first practice.

Derek's heart sank. He'd been hoping to play for the Yankees. And while he was glad that at least he'd gotten his team assignment, and that Vijay was on the team with him, he wondered whether he was going to be on another weak team.