Southpaw (5 page)

Ramiro just shrugged. “Yeah, but at least we’re on the team.”

“True.” But Jimmy had been hoping to make an impact today, to have good news to bring to his mother. He’d seen her only once in the past six weeks. Tonight he’d be leaving to spend the weekend with her.

Dad was waiting in the car when the team’s bus pulled into the middle-school parking lot, and they drove up through Weehawken and onto Route 3, making their way past motels and fast-food places and warehouses and Giants Stadium. They were nearly to Route 80 before Jimmy realized how hungry he was.

“Can we get some hamburgers or something?”

“Sure,” Dad said. “I just wanted to get a good head start. I’m driving all the way back tonight.”

“I know.”

They grabbed some food at a Wendy’s drive-through and ate their dinner on the way. Dad had been mostly quiet since they left Hudson City. He crumpled up a hamburger wrapper and asked, “Did your coach even realize that you didn’t play?”

“I don’t know. What difference does it make?”

“Well, I think everybody should play, no matter what the score is. Don’t you?”

Jimmy didn’t answer. That sounded like a little-kids rule to him. When he played YMCA soccer or Little League ball, there were rules to make sure everyone played. But this was different. This was the real deal.

Dad cleared his throat and switched to the fast lane to get around a truck. “You should’ve spoke up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell him you needed to play. Tell him you were ready to pitch or play the outfield or pinch-hit or
something.”

This was bad advice and Jimmy knew it. The last thing a coach needed to hear in the midst of a tight game was that some scrub wanted to play. That was sure to keep him right there on the bench for the rest of the game and probably the next one.

“Come on, Dad. You played sports. You know that sort of thing just makes you look like a baby.”

Dad kept his eyes on the road for a few seconds, then turned and peered over his glasses at his son. “Maybe I should talk to him.”

“No
way,
Dad! It was one game. He’ll use me when he needs me.”

“If he remembers that you’re sitting there.”

“Dad, just keep out of it. Miguel pitched a good game. Why should Coach have pulled him?”

“All I know is I would have got you in there.... Heck, if I was calling the shots you’d be starting.”

Jimmy held his tongue and looked out the window. The terrain was starting to look more familiar, more like Pennsylvania. Lots of wooded hills and even some small farms. They were getting close to the Delaware River.

All he needed was for his Dad to interfere. Coach would be all right about it, but he’d never hear the end of it from guys like Spencer and Miguel. That’d be a ticket to disgrace.

“Just stay out of it,” Jimmy said. “Please don’t turn into one of those dads.”

 

They didn’t say much the rest of the way to Sturbridge, winding their way up dark, forested Route 402 past Marshall’s Creek and Bushkill and Lake Wallenpaupack. Dad didn’t even get out of the car when he left Jimmy off, he just pulled into the driveway, beeped the horn, and said, “See you Sunday night. Have a good time. I love you.”

Mom met Jimmy at the door and hugged him tight. He could smell cookies baking—that was a rarity—and classical music was playing softly. She asked him about school and baseball and said he looked great. She told him he needed a haircut; maybe he could get one tomorrow at Mick’s. He could walk downtown, get lunch at the diner, stop in to see Marty at the sporting-goods store—all those things he missed doing in a town he’d known all his life.

He said he was tired, but they stayed up late and watched a movie—she’d rented three of them at Blockbuster because she wasn’t sure what he’d already seen.

Later she made herself a cup of tea and brought him some orange juice.

“Dad’s been driving me nuts,” he finally said.

“How?”

Jimmy stared at the TV—an ancient rerun of
The Honeymooners
—and sighed. “He thinks I’m a baseball star. Or at least that I should be. I’m just glad to be on the team.”

“He knows you love baseball.”

“Yeah, but it’s not my whole life. He’s constantly giving me advice or thinking I should be in the starting lineup. It’s like it’s his whole life.”

Mom rolled her eyes and took a sip of tea. “He always did go a little overboard about you and sports.... Some unfinished business from his own ‘career.’ ”

“Yeah. He never quite made it, huh?”

“Not quite.”

On TV, Norton was teaching Ralph to do “The Hucklebuck” dance so he could make up with Alice. Jimmy laughed.

Mom asked if he’d made any friends in Hudson City. He thought for a moment and said, “Sort of.” It made him wonder how she was doing. She’d always had friends, but how did she feel about living by herself?

“You get lonely?” he asked.

She gave a tight smile and looked at him fondly. “I miss you. A lot. But you know I keep busy. I was always too busy for you, wasn’t I?”

“It was okay. I was busy, too.”

It was strange a while later to walk up the stairs to his bedroom. This had been home for so long—forever, as far as he was concerned—but now it felt like revisiting a memory. The walls of his room were filled with items from his not-so-distant past: a mounted trout that he’d caught in the Lackawaxen River, an honor-roll certificate from last year, a class photo from fourth grade, a plaque from a Little League championship.

This wasn’t quite home anymore, and Hudson City wasn’t quite yet. Would it ever be?

He sat on the bed. Dad had been the coach of that Little League team, the one that finished third in the regular season but raced through the playoffs and came out on top. Jimmy was the star pitcher, the cleanup hitter, the captain. Only two years ago.

Dad the coach. The cook at home. The guy who was always there. Mom worked all day, rode her horse in the late afternoon, went to meetings of the arts council or the Democrats or the library board at night. She was a good person. She just wasn’t there much.

Home was with Dad, wherever that turned out to be.

But home was also back here. How could he have it both ways?

T
op of the seventh. Game tied. David had walked two batters in a row and Coach decided that he’d had enough.

“Let’s go,” he said to Jimmy, signaling to the umpire for time and leading the way onto the field.

Jared, Miguel, Spencer—they were all gathered around the mound, looking concerned. Hudson City had built a 3—0 lead early, but David yielded a game-tying homer the inning before and seemed to have lost his rhythm. He handed the ball to Jimmy with a quick nod and walked toward the dugout.

There was one out. Jimmy threw a half-dozen warm-up pitches and waved to the umpire that he was ready.

“Shut ’em down!” Spencer said. “We’ll win this thing in our next ups.”

The fielders went back to their positions and Memorial’s big catcher stepped up to the plate. Jimmy looked over toward Dad, leaning forward in a middle row of the bleachers.

His first pitch was a strike, moving quickly and nicking the outside corner. Just like that, he thought. So he threw the same pitch, a little lower but well within the zone. The batter watched it go by for strike two.

“That’s the boy!” yelled Miguel. “Flem brought his ‘A’ game today.”

Yeah,
Jimmy thought.
I’m on.

Now he’d bring the real heat. The big delivery. The pitch felt great as it left his hand, ripping toward the plate. But the batter swung smoothly and connected, lining the ball toward right-center. It skipped once and bounced off the fence, sending Willie and Ryan scrambling.

The runner from second made it all the way home, and the one from first slid safely into third.

Still only one out, the lead gone, and two men in scoring position. Jimmy exhaled hard and looked up at the sky.

He avoided looking at his father as he waited for the ball.

“No problem,” said Spencer, but the enthusiasm was missing.

The next batter hit a long fly ball to center. Willie got under it and easily made the catch, but the runner from third tagged up and scored.

Two batters faced, two runs in. Jimmy felt sick. His hands were trembling.

And now he couldn’t find the plate. His next three pitches were high and away. Jared called time and trotted to the mound.

“What’s going on?” Jared asked.

“Nothing.”

“Gotta get your head together, Flem.”

“I stink today.”

“Just throw a strike. This guy won’t swing at a 3—0 pitch.”

Jimmy blinked hard and nodded. “Probably.”

He got the next one over the plate, but then walked the batter with a fastball that nearly nicked him in the shin.

A first-pitch single loaded the bases. Coach Wimmer came out to the mound.

“Hit a little rough spot, huh?” he asked.

“I guess.”

“Had enough?”

Jimmy kicked gently at the mound with his toe and looked down. “I messed up,” he said under his breath.

Coach pointed toward Ramiro in the dugout and waved him onto the field. “Gotta stop the fire,” he said to Jimmy. “Just one of those days.”

Jimmy bit his lip as he walked off. He got to the dugout and huddled in the corner, pulling his cap down and staring at his mitt. He couldn’t believe how bad he’d pitched. Four batters: a double, a run-scoring fly-out, a walk, and a single. Couldn’t have been much worse.

Ramiro pitched a clutch strikeout to end the inning, but the damage was done. Three Hornet batters went down in order in the bottom of the seventh and Memorial had a big comeback win. Hudson City was 0-3.

“We just ain’t that good, are we?” Miguel said as they all sat in the dugout, waiting for the coach to return.

“I’m not hearing that noise,” Spencer said. “We’ve been close in every game. So close. Don’t go telling me we’re awful.”

Coach sat on the step facing the players on the bench. He rubbed his chin and smiled. “We must be the best 0-3 team in the state,” he said. “A couple of runs here or there and we’d be 3-0. But that’s baseball.”

Dad was waiting when he left the dugout. Jimmy was angry, mostly at himself, but he knew he’d probably start crying if he spoke. His contributions to the team so far had been miserable.

“What happened out there?” Dad asked.

Jimmy looked away. “I don’t know,” he said softly.

“That was some opportunity,” Dad said.

“Yeah. And I blew it, right?”

“Well ...”

Jimmy started walking. “You think I need you to tell me that?” he said sharply as Dad caught up. “You think I don’t know?”

“Hold on,” Dad said. “I wasn’t criticizing you.”

“Oh, no?”

“I was going to try to help.”

They reached the street and turned toward the Boulevard. Jimmy didn’t respond.

Dad cleared his throat. “Maybe we can figure out what happened.”

“I
know
what happened, Dad. They pounded me.”

“I mean
why
it happened.”

“Why I choked, you mean?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“Put it any way you want. That’s what went down.”

“Listen,” Dad said, but Jimmy cut him off.

“Drop it, all right? I don’t
want
to talk about it and I don’t
need
to talk about it. I just need to think for a while. Okay?”

“Whatever you say.”

Jimmy stopped walking. “I’m going back,” he said.

“To the field?”

“Yeah. I just want to be alone. Get it?”

Dad frowned, but he didn’t fight back. “Fine. Be home by dark and I’ll have supper ready.”

Jimmy walked back toward the field and entered the chain-link fence. A few players were still milling around and Coach Wimmer was looking at the scorebook. Jimmy leaned against the fence and stared out at the diamond.

He’d never fit in here. So much traffic, so much noise. Kids his age who seemed two years older. No room to unwind, to walk out of town and see deer and rabbits and smell cows in the fields. Too much pressure from his father.

He’d thrown some good pitches after taking the mound. But that first hit had really rattled him. He’d been afraid to give up another run. But that had happened anyway.

“You all right, Flem?” Coach asked as he spotted him.

“I guess.”

“Don’t sweat it. You just lost your nerve for a few minutes.... I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”

Jimmy gave a halfhearted laugh. “It better be.”

“We’ll get you back on the horse. There’s another game in two days.”

“Thanks.”

He went back to the Boulevard and turned left, walking quickly past their building and heading downtown. The after-work traffic was heavy and pedestrians were going in and out of stores and cafés. He was thirsty but not ready to go home.

After six blocks or so he heard his name, and turned to see Ramiro and Willie coming out of a grocery store with bottles of juice. Like Jimmy, they were still in their uniforms and carrying their mitts.

“What are you doing down this end of town, Flem?” Ramiro asked.

“Just walking.”

“Are you lost?” Willie said with a smirk.

Willie and Ramiro were two of the shortest guys on the team, but both were good athletes. Jimmy responded to Willie’s remark. “Wish I was,” he said.

“What’s up?” Ramiro asked. “Your dad tell you not to come home or something?”

“No. I just didn’t want to go there. I don’t feel like hearing him tell me how I messed up.”

“So you’re a fugitive?” Willie said, still having fun.

Jimmy laughed. “Nah. Just taking a breather.”