Plunked (12 page)

Afterward, everyone is like, “You should fight him! You should fight him!”

I think even he's expecting it, because he's hanging with Wayne and his one other friend on the team. We're all sitting on, hanging off, or standing around the bleachers, waiting for our marching orders for the game.

I'm standing with my usual group, off to one side. My ribs hurt, but I can tell they're not broken. I can tell because I can breathe without stabbing myself in the sides.

“Just go over there and punch him out!” Jackson is saying. “We got your back.”

I look over at him and he means it. Even Chester is making fists with both hands, his glove on the ground in front of him. And the thing is, it's tempting. It really is. I'm hurting right now, and I don't mean my ribs. I mean
I'm embarrassed and beat down, and pounding on Malfoy doesn't sound so bad right now. But I'm not going to do it.

“Nah,” I say, but they're waiting for more.

“Sometimes you squash the bug,” I add. It's a saying we have and almost, like, a philosophy. The coaches are always telling us to “squash the bug” when we bat. It means to grind your weight down into the ground on that back foot as you swing, like there's a bug under it. So sometimes you squash the bug, and sometimes the bug squashes you. That's the rest of it. The bug can be the ball, the pitcher, the weather, your swing, whatever. It's a baseball explanation that can excuse a lot. Today, the bug won.

“OK,” Chester says, still processing it. “After practice then?”

“Yeah!” says Tim. “After practice!”

“Yeah, yeah!” says Jackson.

And all of a sudden, it's like I agreed to it. The coaches are still walking slowly across the field from where they're huddled up, making their final decisions. In a few seconds, before they can get here, my friends will start telling other kids there's going to be a fight. Then there will be no going back.

That's how fights happen: just sheer momentum. It just snowballs all around you until it's like you've got no choice. But it's not what I want, and it's not going to make one bit of difference.

I look over at Andy, and I guess he was waiting for that, for confirmation one way or the other.

“No, no, no,” he says. “He's not gonna fight after practice. Give him a break, he just got drilled in the ribs.”

Everyone turns and looks at my ribs.

“Don't do it, man,” Andy says, as if he's talking me out of it.

“All right,” I say, fake-punching my fist into my glove.

Jackson makes the final decision. “Yeah,” he says, disappointed. “Now is not the time.”

And then the coaches arrive, turning the corner of the chain-link fence that separates the bleachers from the field. The first thing Coach Wainwright does is call out my name.

“Yeah,” I say, but what I'm thinking is: What now?

The second thing he does is call Malfoy's.

“Yes, Coach,” he says.

Coach makes a V with his first two fingers and points to both of us, on either side of the bleachers. It's like that gesture you make before you point at your own two eyes and then back out, meaning: I'm watching you.

“I don't know what it is with you two, but you better get it sorted,” he says.

“What it is with
me
?” I want to say. I just got drilled in the ribs for no reason. And last time he knocked me down. That's what it is with me. But I don't say any of that. I just look at Coach when he looks at me.

He looks over at Malfoy, and that look lasts a little longer. Then he looks back at Coach Meacham, who doesn't say anything. Even
he
can't claim I was crowding the plate this time.

There's no official lineup, like last time, no calling out one through nine. Coach just makes a few replacements. I'm the first.

“How're the ribs, Mogens?” he starts.

“Fine,” I say.

He squints at me and then looks at my side, as if injuries came with labels.

“How about the coconut?”

“Fine,” I say.

I can feel a tear starting to form in the corner of my right eye. Not because of my ribs or my “coconut,” but because I know what's coming next. I want to reach up and wipe it away, but everyone is looking at me and that would just call more attention to it. I just have to hope Coach gets this over with before the darn thing rolls down my cheek.

He sees it and does what he has to.

“Yeah, well, it's been a pretty rough stretch for you,” he says quickly, rattling it off. “Better catch a breather. Kass…”

“Yeah, Coach,” Geoff says from the middle of the bleachers.

“You got the start in left.”

Everyone is looking at him now, and I reach up and wipe my glove across my face.

On the way home, I ask Dad whether we can go to McDonald's.

A lot of times he would just say no to that. Or not a lot of times because, truth is, I almost never ask anymore. Not like when I was younger and asked all the time. On the few times I've asked since majors, it's been about fifty-fifty.

Tonight, he takes one look over at me and says, “Sure, sport.”

He doesn't ask why I want to go or why I'm being such a mopey lump or any of that. Open to mopin' … no kidding. He just makes the next right.

Once we get there, I order the fattiest fat food I can find. You know they have those “healthy” options, and I usually go for at least one of those. Like I'll get the apple wedges instead of fries and not even use the dipping sauce, or just a little, maybe.

Not tonight: I get the Big Mac meal and supersize it. I look up at my dad, because I sort of expect him to veto it, but he doesn't.

“What the heck,” he says when it's his turn to order. “Number one, supersize.”

He never does that. And I smile, just a little, as they start to fill up our trays. I carry my tray to a table by the window because we're eating here. “Destroying the
evidence,” Dad calls it, meaning Mom doesn't have to know.

We start to eat. We have the same thing, and I'm half his size, but I finish first. I pig out, like I've seen other kids do here for years, kids who aren't athletes. I look at my reflection in the window, two fries hanging out of my half-open mouth. What do I care?

I stay up in my room and watch
Major League
. I don't know what's going on downstairs. I don't know if Dad is telling Mom we went to McDonald's and pigged out. She can probably smell it, anyway. The Big Mac is sitting in my stomach like a bowling ball.

Anyway, it's a funny movie, but I've seen it so many times that I don't really laugh at the jokes anymore. It's more like, I don't know, comforting? It's like I know all of the words, and I know when the boring parts are coming, with the broken-down old catcher trying to date the frizzy-haired lady. I can just follow along or read or go online or whatever. And it is funny, even if you don't laugh anymore, like when the catcher is reading the comic book of
Moby-Dick
. Plus, it's the TV version, so all the bad language is dubbed over in funny ways.

So I'm sort of watching it and sort of not, and suddenly it's that scene with Cerrano. You know, where he's hitting bombs out of the park, and the manager says: “This guy hits a ton. How come nobody else picked up on him?”

Then the other guy goes: “That's enough fastballs; throw him some breaking balls.” And Cerrano misses those by two feet.

And that goes on the whole movie. Like he tries to use voodoo to fix it because he's supposed to be from some country with voodoo. I don't know where that is, but I know he's supposed to not be Christian. He says, “Jesus, I like him very much, but he no help with curveball,” which isn't something you'd really say if you were Christian.

Anyway, the other teams figure it out, and they show him striking out again and again on curveballs. I never thought too much about it before. It just seemed funny. I mean, curveballs are hard to hit, but he's supposed to be a major leaguer.

But now I'm thinking about it a lot and paying attention every time he's at the plate. Because it's so basic: They've got him figured out. It could be curveballs or anything else. It could be inside pitches.

So I'm watching Cerrano swing two feet over the top of a slow hanging curve and thinking: That's me. That's me right there on the screen. When he says, “Bats, they are sick,” I hear “Jack, he is sick.” When he says,
“Curveball, bats are afraid,” I hear “Inside pitch, Jack is afraid.”

And it might as well be on TV, too. It might as well be in a movie that everyone on the team has seen. It might as well be because everyone who doesn't know already will know pretty soon: Jack can't hit inside pitches. Like I said, everybody watches everybody. If they pitch, you're an opponent, and if they don't, you're competition.

Everyone will know. Which means that's all I'll see. By Saturday, there's a good chance the Rockies will know, too. It's the same school, and people talk. And people watch. It's like with Dustin. No matter who we play, the first pitch he gets is always outside. I try to imagine that for a second.

The movie is just rolling along. It's one of the best parts, but I feel weak and panicky. Every at-bat would be like the last one. Everything would be hard and inside, locking me up. I'd just be standing there feeling scared and lame.

I get up and walk over to my window. There's a scuffed-up old baseball on the sill. I got a big hit with it in minors. I pick it up. It's heavy. You forget that. I can feel the hide where it's sort of torn up.

I toss it up in the air, and it smacks back down into my palm. It's heavy and hard and rough. It's like a big round rock.

It's so ridiculous. I just completely washed out at practice, but here I am holding a baseball. I look at the walls, covered with baseball posters, and the shelves, full of bobbleheads and baseball books.

I throw it up again, higher, almost to the ceiling. It smacks back down into my palm again, hard enough to sting. It's like a weapon.

Weapons are for wars, and I lost this one. Not just to Malfoy. He was only part of it. That's why it didn't make any sense to fight him. It wouldn't have made any difference. I lost to baseball, to the whole sport. To that big pitcher Saturday, who didn't even mean it. To Coach, who didn't, either. And to my good old buddy Meach, who did.

I don't know what I'll do without baseball. But I guess I'm going to find out. Here's the thing: That last at-bat was torture, straight up, and I just don't think I can do that again.

On TV, the Indians are about to win the big game, like they always do: Give him the heater, Ricky! I feel like throwing this baseball right through the screen.

I have that nightmare again: faceless pitcher, feet stuck in cement…. I don't even get back to sleep, but at least that gives me plenty of time to think. Friday morning, I come downstairs wearing an ACE bandage on my left wrist.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” says Dad.

“What did you do?” says Mom. “Are you all right?”

They're both busy getting ready for work, but the sight of my lame one-handed wrap job has changed everything. They're like two birds sitting on their perch one second and flapping all around their cage the next.

Except you don't have to lie to birds.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound upset. Upset but brave, which is the ridiculous part. “Yeah, you know, in practice yesterday.”

The less I say the better, not just because it means the
less I can forget and get wrong later, but because I feel awful saying it.

“No, sport, we don't know,” Dad says, looking at Mom.

“Yeah, yesterday, I just…”

They're still watching, waiting.

“…in the field,” I offer.

Still watching.

I exhale. “Yeah, I dove for a liner. Total dying duck … shouldn't have done it … glove kind of turned over on me…”

By the time I reach that last one they're coming out almost as questions: Glove kind of turned over on me?

“OK,” says Dad, meaning either I've said enough or I've said too much, and he knows I'm lying.

How can he think I'm lying, I think, trying to muster some outrage. Can't he see the bandage? I'm just trying to think like I would if this was real. Which I really, really wish it was.

“Do we?” my mom begins, and then she seems to make up her mind. “We're going to the hospital.”

Dad looks over at her. “Really?” he says, but his expression says: I'll barely make it to work on time as it is.

“I don't care, Stephen,” she says. “Our son is hurt.”

And it isn't an answer as much as a minefield. First of all, Mom only uses Dad's real name when she's serious. Like, seriously serious. Usually it's honey or something like that. And if she does use his name, it's usually Stevie.
But he got the full Stephen this time. And then the way she said
our son
, like he might have forgotten…

“It's nothing,” I start, trying to back things down. “I mean it's not nothing, but…”

I trip over the double negative and stop, trying to figure out what I just said.

“Seemed to be handling that Big Mac pretty good last night,” Dad says, looking at me. Is it getting hot in here?

“I'm right-handed?” I offer lamely.

Dad frowns.

“It stiffened up overnight!” I blurt out, speaking as fast as I think. Maybe faster.

His expression turns more neutral. That does happen.

I push the elastic bandage out toward him, like Nax extending a hurt paw.

“It does look a little swollen,” says Mom.

That would be the sweatband I put under there.

“What does Coach say?” Dad says finally.

“Well, Coach Meacham says I probably just need a few days.”

This is my big move, my checkmate-I-win move. Because Coach Meacham is on the volunteer fire department, so he has first-aid training. I think he's even “certified” or something. Anyway, it seems to work.

“So, no doctor?” Mom says.

I shake my head no, as firmly as possible. Can you imagine, Dr. Redick, standing there with his long white
coat on? Unwrapping the bandage, ready to add yet another injury to my long list of bruises, cuts, and sprains, and finding a slightly swollen … wristband? I wouldn't be the first person to die at that hospital, just the first person to die of embarrassment.

“A few days?” Dad says.

There's a long pause. Everyone is thinking it.

“The game's on Saturday.”

“Yeah,” I say, exhaling loudly. “Just supposed to see how it feels tomorrow morning.”

“Well, let me get some ice for it,” Mom says.

Just like that, they're back to their morning routine. I take my ice pack and a pack of Pop-Tarts in my “good” hand and head for the TV room. I can hear them still talking about it as I walk away.

“Guess that's why he was so upset last night,” Dad is saying.

“You took him to McDonald's?”

I know it's horrible, but it's something I have to do. Because as bad as it felt to stand there at the plate yesterday, freaking out, basically peeing myself — and then getting drilled for my trouble. Well, that's how good it feels knowing that I won't have to do that again, in front of half the town, tomorrow.

And then there's the nightmare. I've had it twice already. I don't want to have it a third time — or a tenth.

And you might be thinking, well, why not just quit, then. And, whatever, give me a break. I've been playing for half my life. It's not the kind of thing you can do in one quick step. It's not like ripping off a Band-Aid, OK?

Nax comes up and nuzzles my leg. He's wiping his cruddy eye on my pants again but also hoping for some Pop-Tart. He tips his snout up and licks the bandage on my left hand.

“Ow,” I say. “Careful, boy.”

Great, I just lied to my dog.