Lost Boy (20 page)

“I'm sorry, sir.” The guard's voice was soft but firm. “I'd lose my job. They sent a text around to everyone. Even if you got past me, they'd throw you out.”

“I have a
ticket
!”

“I can call my supervisor. I'm sorry. That's all I can do.”

“I thought you
were
a supervisor.” Mr. Starr's voice lost its shrill edge; in fact, it had a begging quality to it that seemed to surprise the guard as much as Ryder. “Can't you help me?”

“I wish I could.” The security man's eyes misted. “My
mother is in a wheelchair. I understand how you feel.”

Mr. Starr just stared. Ryder thought of
Star Wars
and some mind-control trick, but the guard didn't budge.

“Then let the boy in.” Mr. Starr's voice was hypnotic, neither weak nor obnoxious, just strong and certain.

The guard shook his head. “
I
can't do that.”

“But someone else can?” Mr. Starr asked.

The guard looked around and lowered his voice even more. He kept his hand down at his waist and held out one of the tickets they'd given. “If he happened to go to another gate and you weren't there . . . well. I guess it might be hard to know he was even with you.”

Mr. Starr looked at Ryder and nodded. “Take it,” he whispered urgently, forcing the ticket into Ryder's hand.

Ryder looked around before pinching the ticket in his fingers and slipping it into his pants pocket.

Slowly, the guard let himself back inside the gate, eyeing Mr. Starr warily until it clanked shut.

Mr. Starr used the control to rotate the chair until he faced Ryder. “Get going.”

“Alone?”

“Of course. You know what to do.”

“I don't know . . . you'll be okay?” Ryder didn't feel comfortable at all going in alone.

“I'll meet you back at the hotel.” Mr. Starr started to rumble off, cruising through the crowd, people parting for him right and left.

Ryder hurried to catch up. “That gate?”

Mr. Starr stopped his chair and flicked his eyes in the
direction Ryder pointed. “Yes. That gate will work fine. Don't worry. You can do this. Think of your mom.”

Ryder choked on the idea of her lying there with those beeping machines. He swallowed and straightened his back. “Okay. I'll see you at the hotel.”

“Don't forget me,” Mr. Starr said, “if he decides to take you home for dinner or something.”

Ryder flashed a smile back and he saw the smile in Mr. Starr's eyes if not his face. The idea lifted his spirits and he bounced on his toes as he waited in line at the next gate over. He began to worry about someone asking where his parent was, but they ran their wand over him and took his ticket without a word besides “enjoy the game.” Ryder marched through the arch and up some stairs before he emerged inside the stadium. He blinked back the sun and shielded his eyes with a hand, locating the Braves' dugout.

Ryder worked his way through the stands and finally made it to the crowded area around the dugout where people pushed and wormed their way for position on the rail. Ryder felt some elbows, but he was determined to get close. When he finally broke through two older men and got to the rail, Justin Upton, the Braves' left fielder, was signing a couple gloves kids had brought before he held up his hands and disappeared into the dugout.

“Where's Thomas Trent?” Ryder cried out to no one in particular, the signed ball clutched tight in his hand.

Freddie Freeman, the Braves' first baseman, looked up as he hit the dugout steps, and chuckled. “Hey, kid, you won't get Trenty. He never comes out of the bull pen during warm-ups,
but Tim Hudson will sometimes sign something.”

Freeman disappeared and a string of other players filed into the dugout as the ushers began to shoo people away from the field toward their seats. Ryder clung to the rail with his free hand.

“Let's see your ticket, kid.” A balding gray-haired usher put a thick hand on Ryder's shoulder.

Ryder held his breath, not knowing if he was going to be kicked out. He reached in his pocket and held out his ticket.

“This is for 502 out in left field, kid
,
in the upper deck.”

“Is it near the bull pen?”

“Nowhere near it. You can't get autographs in the bull pen anyway, kid. Sorry. Get going, now.” The usher didn't sound mean.

“Can you tell me how I can get Thomas Trent's autograph, mister?” Ryder held up his ball to show he was for real.

The usher's face practically lit up. “Sure, kid. That's easy.”

“It is?” Ryder's blood raced. “How?”

“Autograph Day.”

“Autograph Day?”

“They have it every spring.” The usher was still beaming, but Ryder had a bad feeling.

“Like, it's coming up?” Ryder asked.

The usher scowled. “Well, no, it was three weeks ago, but there's always next year, kid.”

“But I need it
now
,” Ryder said.

“Well,” the usher said, brightening again, “just wait after the game by the players' parking lot. Hold it through the fence and they sometimes will sign things. Depends on the day, how they played, that kind of thing, but . . .” He looked down at the ball Ryder was holding. “Hey, it looks like that thing already got signed.”

The usher eyed him suspiciously now.

“Yeah. I . . . wanted to get it again. I mean, another one.” Ryder knew waiting after the game by the players' parking lot wasn't an option.

“Okay, well, get to your seat, kid. This is the last time.”

Ryder hurried away, and he did go to his seat. He stayed and watched the game for a few innings. But Thomas Trent was a faceless figure whose number Ryder could barely make out in the bull pen. He watched Trent hit a double in the top of the sixth, driving in the only run so far in the game and lighting up the crowd. When the people around Ryder began to sit back down, he decided to leave. As he left the ballpark and crossed the street, he heard the roar of the crowd again and knew something big must have happened, maybe a home run. He tried to let the sound lift his spirits, but it didn't, and as he walked through the front entrance to the hotel, tears blurred the faces of the two women at the front desk.

Part of Ryder was afraid to face Mr. Starr, because after all this, he had failed to get the job done. He felt certain he must have missed something obvious, something Mr. Starr would have figured out. It was unfair that Mr. Starr couldn't get in when he had a ticket. It was unfair that his mother had been struck by a car. It was unfair that his father left them alone over twelve years ago and now he drove a Maserati.

Ryder opened the hotel room door with his key and saw Mr. Starr sitting near the window. “I'm back,” he said, his voice glum.

“So?” Mr. Starr replied in anticipation.

Ryder sat on the edge of the bed and explained what had happened.

“What will we do?” Ryder asked after silence settled in on the room.

“I don't know, Ryder. I need to think. Set that iPad up on the stand here at the desk. Maybe I'll play Candy Crush.”

“You're not giving up?”

“I don't
give up.
” Mr. Starr's voice was so bitter that Ryder stood up and looked out the window, where he could make out the green steel beams and brick of the stadium through the treetops. Mr. Starr sat, muttering to himself about police brutality and corporations sucking the life out of sports. Ryder opened the window, and through it heard the cheers spilling out of the stadium again so that he knew someone must have made another big play. He sighed and wondered what was next, even though he was afraid to ask.

It made him crazy to just sit there, not talking, and watching Mr. Starr struggle with the iPad.

“Can't I help?” Ryder asked.

“Nope.” Mr. Starr's voice was a flat line, his limbs bent and jerky like a spider off of its web.

Ryder smelled the breeze and took in the sunshine. A truck rumbled past leaving behind a gray cloud of exhaust.

“Aha!” Mr. Starr exploded. “Aha! This is what we need. It's what we needed all along! I had such a feeling. You see, when things look their very worst, those who keep going are rewarded. I've seen it all the time.”

“What reward?” Ryder turned and peered over Mr. Starr's shoulder. He had opened the
Atlanta Journal and Constitution
website.

“That's what happens when you
google.
You don't just google
‘Braves.' You google ‘meet the players' and google ‘autographs' and regoogle ‘Braves players' and google ‘contest' and ‘autographs' some more and then . . . then it
happens.
Just look!” Mr. Starr gave the machine a little shake with his crooked hand.

Ryder studied the screen. “It's a preview for the Dodgers game today. I don't get how that's a reward. Is there something about Thomas Trent in the article?”

“Not the article. The
ad
!” Mr. Starr shook it again. “On the banner there. Read it.”

“The one for Baseball World?” Ryder knew about Baseball World. Back in New York, he'd heard his teammates talking about how their fathers took them to the one in Fort Lee, New Jersey, just over the George Washington Bridge.

“Yes.” Mr. Starr was quickly losing patience. “
Read
it.”

Ryder read aloud. “Batter Up, Braves Batboy
Contest
. It's tomorrow.”

“Look at the
prize.
”

“Be batboy for the Braves when they take on the St. Louis Cardinals in a doubleheader on Saturday, April 26th. Hey, that's the day after tomorrow.” Ryder tried to read Mr. Starr's eyes. “So, I'm going to try and win this batting contest? Won't there be hundreds of kids, thousands?”

“So? Why can't you win it? I thought you were a good baseball player? I thought your mom always said you got that from your dad. He's batting .313 this season. If you're his son, you can win this.”

“What do you mean
if
, Mr. Starr?” Ryder grew hot. “Why would you even say that?”

“Just what I said. We don't
know.
”

“We came all this way.”

“I know—”

“What will they even do at this contest?”

“Have you hit, what else? It's a batting cage place, so you'll bat in the cages.”

Ryder's palms began to sweat. “I don't even have a bat.”

“Well, we'll have to get you one.”

“Maybe I should practice a little.”

“We'll go there now and see what we can do.”

“How can you even do that?”

“They have buses and trains. We'll get the bat at the mall and Baseball World is right on Peachtree so it can't be too far from a bus stop. Don't worry about that. It's our chance. I
know
it is.”

While thousands of fans spent the afternoon at the Braves game, Ryder and Mr. Starr rode around on buses, got him a baseball bat and batting glove at Sports Authority in the mall, and found the closest stop to Baseball World. Signs for the contest were everywhere. It was for twelve-year-olds only and whoever could hit the biggest number of one hundred pitches from the machine would win. If there was a tie, they'd up the speed from seventy miles an hour to eighty-five and do a single-elimination contest. Kids could sign up online, or at the front desk. Ryder and Mr. Starr signed up at the desk. There was a thirty-nine-dollar entry fee. When they finished, they bought tokens for one hundred balls and found an empty cage in order to practice up for the contest.