The Contract (6 page)

Derek wanted to tell Pete how mean he was being, to tell Vijay to pay no attention.

But he didn't say any of that. They had a ball game to play, and he meant to make sure they didn't lose it. “Hey, we haven't lost yet!” he told both Pete and Vijay. “Let's go.”

Ryan got two strikes on the next hitter. On the second strike, the runner took off for third. Isaiah reared back and fired over there.

“Safe!” yelled the umpire as Sims applied the tag a little too late.

“He was out!” Pete practically screamed.

“Play ball!” the umpire warned Pete.

On the next pitch, the batter hit a ground ball to Pete's right. Pete knocked it down, then grabbed it.

“First! First!” Derek yelled, seeing that the runner at third was already close to scoring.

Pete either didn't hear him or didn't listen. He threw home, and the play at the plate was not even close. “SAFE!” the umpire shouted.

And just like that, the ball game was over. They'd lost, 5–4. Their record was 0–1, and at least until the next game, they were tied for
last place in the league
!

Those were the thoughts in Derek's head when he saw, on the other end of the bench, Pete poking Vijay's chest, saying, “Do you realize you cost us this game?”

Derek went right over there. “Hey,” he told Pete. “That's no way to treat a teammate.”

“This kid can't even play,” Pete said, giving Vijay a disgusted look. “Did you see that throw home? Pathetic.”

“First of all, his name's not ‘this kid.' It's Vijay.”

“Whatever,” said Pete as Vijay shot Derek a grateful smile.

“And second of all, it wasn't all his fault. Not nearly. I could name plenty of other kids who messed up.”

“Are you saying
I
messed up?” Pete said, a challenging note in his voice.

“I'm saying a
lot
of us messed up. Including me.” Derek wanted to say something else, something a lot less nice, but he knew it wouldn't help the team win their next game.

“That's right, Jeter. Including you.” Pete walked away, picked up the full duffel bag, and headed off toward his dad's car, where the coach had already popped the trunk.

“Thanks, Derek,” Vijay said. “I hate that kid.”

“Aw, he's just upset,” Derek said. “Don't take it personally. It wasn't your fault we lost.”

“He messed up at least twice himself,” Vijay said, still feeling the sting of Pete's harsh words.

“I know it. He knows it too. He's just going to have to deal with it himself—and not take it out on other kids.”

“Meaning
me
.”

“You, or me, or anybody else,” said Derek, although he knew he would never get into a real fight with Pete. Fighting never solved anything, and it could cost you plenty, not to mention the fact that Pete was way bigger and stronger.

Derek said good-bye to Vijay and went over to meet his family.

“Good game, old man,” said his mom, kissing him on the forehead.

“Yay, Derek!” said Sharlee, hugging him around the waist.

That made Derek smile. He kissed her on top of the head. “Thanks, Sharlee.”

“How's the arm?” asked his dad.

“Fine,” Derek said, noticing for the first time in two hours that it still hurt, plenty.

“You didn't look too bad out there at second,” said his dad. “Pretty good, in fact. Made some nice plays.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

As they got into the car, Derek saw Coach Kozlowski and Pete driving by on their way home. Pete was slamming the dashboard with his mitt, while his father just gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead, tight-jawed, stone-faced.

“Sheesh,” Derek whispered under his breath. He sure would have hated to be Coach Kozlowski at that moment. He actually felt sorry for him, having to put up with Pete. He couldn't understand why Coach didn't just tell his son to quit it.

At the same time, while Derek would never have acted like such a baby, he understood how Pete felt. They both hated the fact that the Tigers had blown the game. Derek too wished he could be on a great team, a team that won almost every game.

And the Tigers did not look like that team.

“‘GATE.' Very good. Let's see, that's double word score . . . double letter on the
A.
. . . Twelve points.” Derek's dad offered him the bag of Scrabble tiles to replace the ones he'd just laid out.

“Your turn,” Derek said. He reached up to massage his left arm, which was still throbbing from the fastball that had hit it that afternoon.

“Did you ice that down?” his dad asked him.

“Nah, I'm all right.”

“You sure? Ice is good for swelling. You might want to try it.”

“Maybe later.”

“Okay . . .” Mr. Jeter studied his rack of tiles, then laid them out one by one in front of the word Derek had just made. “
I-N-V-E-S-T-I-GATE
. ‘Investigate.' Let's see. That's fifty points for using all seven letters . . . plus two double letter scores . . .”

“Dad,”
Derek moaned.

“Hey, it's not my fault I had such good letters,” said Mr. Jeter, raising his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

“Two
I
s and a
V
are not good letters!” Derek pointed out, getting up from the table.

“Hey, where are you going?” his dad called after him as Derek left the living room for the kitchen.

“I'm going to get some ice!”

He made himself an ice pack and wrapped it around his left arm.

Though he had never come within thirty points of his dad, he still believed he could beat him if he just kept at it. Besides, as his father often pointed out, playing Scrabble certainly helped Derek's English grades. He'd been acing vocabulary and spelling tests ever since they'd started playing, back when Derek was in second grade.

He went into the living room and sat back down.

“See?” his dad said, smiling. “I told you ice would make it feel better.”

“I guess.” Derek sighed deeply. “I just don't feel like playing anymore, Dad.”

“What's the matter? Too much losing for one day?”

Derek could tell his dad was just teasing him, and usually Derek took it very well, giving back as good as he got. Today, though, he just wasn't in the mood.

“It's just not fair.”

“Well, hey, I understand you're frustrated. So here's the way to get to where you can win.” He lifted up the thick, heavy dictionary that lay on the nearby end table and handed it to Derek. “Just start with the letter
A
and keep reading.”

“Dad,
it's not about Scrabble
.”

“Okay. You want to talk about it?”

“I hate being on a team where I don't get a chance to play shortstop!”

“Oh, so that's it. I had a feeling.” Mr. Jeter took off his glasses. “You probably
would
make a better fit at shortstop than the coach's son. But that's how things sometimes go down in life. If you're going to make it all the way to the major leagues, you're going to have to accept some things not going your way.”

“But—”

“Derek, I know it's not fair. But you've got to accept that it's the
coach's decision
. You may not like it, but you've got to abide by it, and
respect
it. Even if he's doing it to keep peace at home.”

“Then why aren't
you
the coach?”

Derek could feel a stinging sensation as his eyes welled up with tears. He turned and ran straight upstairs to his room, without waiting for an answer. He threw himself facedown on his bed, feeling horrible.

He knew what came next, too. His dad would be coming up the stairs any minute.

But instead of his dad's footsteps, he heard the front door open downstairs and his mother's cheerful voice. His father's reply was muffled, and Derek couldn't make any of it out, but right away his mom's voice got less cheerful, softer, more concerned.

When Derek finally heard footsteps coming up the stairs, they were his mom's, not his dad's. “You want to tell me about it?” she asked, standing in the doorway.

“Not really,” said Derek, staring at the mattress.

She came into the room and sat down on the side of the bed, patting Derek gently on the shoulder. “It's okay to get frustrated, old man. None of us would ever make big changes in our lives if we didn't get frustrated sometimes. We just have to turn that frustration into determination.”

“But it's so . . .”

“Unfair?”

“Yes! Why can't Dad be the coach?”

“Derek, you know the answer to that question. We've talked about it a hundred times. Your dad wants very much to be your coach. Don't you think he feels bad about all of this?”

“If he were the coach, I'd be the shortstop for sure!”

“If he were the coach, he'd do whatever he thought was best for the team, and of course for you. But he's working very hard right now . . .”

“I know.”

“. . . teaching, and taking courses for his master's degree . . .”

“I know, but—”

“Derek, remember the other night, when we talked about your life's dream?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, your dad has a life's dream too—to help kids and teens get their lives back on track. I know he's grateful and glad that you've got a dream, and that you're following it. He knows you can't go wrong shooting for your dream, as long as it's a good one.”

Derek stayed silent, taking it all in. He felt bad because he knew he'd been acting selfishly. He knew he had probably hurt his dad's feelings by what he'd said about him not being the coach. He wished now that he'd never said that, but he knew it was too late to take it back.

His mom must have been reading his mind, because she said, “It's okay to feel however you feel, Derek. It's what we
say
and
do
that counts. I know, and your dad knows, that you're going to figure all this out in a good way. Just stick to your big dream, and you'll find a way through all the little stuff.”

After kissing him on the forehead, she left the room, to give him time and space to work things out. One thing was for sure—from here on in, he was going to make extra sure he acted in a way to make both his parents proud.

He realized how proud he was of them, and how lucky he and Sharlee were. What was rule number one on the contract? “Family comes first.”

His parents had met in Germany when they were both in the army, and they had fallen in love despite their different backgrounds. His father was raised by a single mother in Alabama, and he was determined to be the kind of father he never knew. Derek's mother grew up in a close-knit New Jersey family, and together she and Derek's father navigated a world that didn't exactly welcome interracial couples.

Derek's problems suddenly didn't seem that big.

• • •

“We beat the Phillies 10–0!” Jeff whispered, loud enough for every kid in the back of the class to hear, but not quite loud enough to attract the attention of Ms. Wagner, who was explaining a math problem while writing on the blackboard.

Jeff had worn his Yankees uniform shirt to school that day—number 13, Derek noticed, green with envy. “They had to call the mercy rule!”

“What's the mercy rule?” Gary asked, clueless.

Derek tried to explain. “It's when one team is beating the other so bad—”

“Ten runs or more,” Jeff interrupted.

“So badly that they call off the rest of the game so the losers don't feel too crushed,” Derek finished.

“Doesn't sound too merciful to me,” Gary decided. “Besides, if you ask me, anyone who wastes their time on sports is already a loser.”

“Aw, what do you know?” Jeff waved him off. “How'd your team do, Derek? Did you win?”

“Nah. We should have, but we blew it. We had a—”

“Derek Jeter!” Ms. Wagner called. “Are you following the lesson, or do you and your friends need a conversation break?”

The whole class laughed—even Jeff and Gary. Just his luck that
he'd
been the one talking when she'd turned around and noticed.

“No, Ms. Wagner. Sorry,” he said.

“All right, then. Let's move forward,” she said, wiping the chalk dust off her hands. “Now, class. Be quiet and pay attention. I have your math tests here.”

She took a pile of papers off her desk and started passing them out. “Most of you did well, a few of you need to hit the books a little harder . . .”

Derek took the paper she handed him, and stared in disbelief at the mark he'd gotten—
84
! He couldn't believe it. He hadn't gotten less than a 90 on a math test all year!

He thought back to that last day of studying, when he hadn't been able to concentrate because his mind had kept wandering back to his problems with his Little League team. How had he let this happen? It might have been an okay grade for somebody else, but to Derek an 84 on a math test—any test—was a disaster!

He knew his parents would feel the same way. That's why focusing on schoolwork was in the contract, and now he had already broken it. They expected the best from him, and he usually delivered. This time he'd fallen way short of what he expected of himself. Forget about beating out Gary. He hadn't come close to his own usual high grades!

Gary came over to brag. “Ninety-seven! Fourth time in a row!” he said, waving his test in Derek's face. “How'd
you
do, Mr. Yankees Shortstop?”

Shaking his head and staring down at his desk, Derek took his hand off the paper to reveal the horrifying truth.

“Eighty-four! Whoa. That stinks, even for you!” Gary said, faking sympathy. “Hey, maybe you should study more, instead of wasting all your time playing sports?”

Derek had no answer for him. But he was seething inside. Somehow, even if he had to study until his eyes crossed, he was going to beat Gary Parnell on their next math test!