Center Field Read online

  “Get him an instant green card,” said Andy. “Special dispensation.”

  “For what?” said Ryan. They were standing at the new batting cage, waiting to hit.

  “He has a skill in demand,” said Andy. “He can get us to state.”

  “A little early for that,” said Mike. “Just one game.”

  “Andy’s right, he can play,” said Ryan.

  “What I’m saying is that the system is corrupt,” said Andy. “I bet Oscar’s twenty if he’s a day, probably spent a few years in the rice and beans league back home. He’s a pro, ineligible to play high school ball. Bet he has an agent. You notice the brand-new Nike gear he wears?”

  “Coach Cody wouldn’t allow that,” said Mike.

  “Wake up and smell the burritos,” said Andy. “Cody brought him in to make us winners.”

  It was Mike’s turn to hit, and he was glad. Got to concentrate. Get my swing back. Nice and easy, just make contact.

  One of the assistants, Coach Sherman, just a few years out of college, was pitching batting practice, grooving fastballs. After Mike slapped the first two pitches back to the screen in front of him, Sherman yelled, “You’re hitting on top of the ball, Mike. Watch the bat make contact.”

  He finally managed a solid hit, a rope to left center, on his last swing. As he ran to first, Coach Sherman yelled, “Attaboy, Mike,” which made him feel worse. Getting praise for something he usually did all the time was a warning signal.

  You losing it, Mike?

  He didn’t see Coach Cody or Oscar in school on Friday and Tori didn’t have any more information. She and Lori were sitting with him and Ryan at one of the varsity tables. Andy had stopped to talk to some girls on the debate team. Girls who liked jocks usually didn’t go for him.

  “You think Oscar could be twenty?” Ryan asked.

  “Who said that?” said Lori.

  “Andy.”

  Tori snorted. “Like he knows.”

  “I thought you can’t play if you’re over nineteen,” said Lori. “Don’t they have our birth dates on file?”

  “Those files are in Coach Cody’s office,” said Tori.

  “So Coach would know,” said Mike. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Billy Budd?” said Lori. She was trying to be nice, Mike thought. “The book was summer reading last year. It was so sad when Billy died at the end.”

  “Another parable about good and evil,” said Andy, arriving with his tray. “Evil always wins in Melville. Check Moby-Dick.”

  “Billy Budd’s such a great name for a baseball hero,” said Lori.

  She’s trying too hard, thought Mike. She’s starting to annoy me. He’d make some excuse not to see her tonight. Saturday night the twins were having a party at their house, parents away, no way to avoid that without breaking up, which was too much trouble.

  Andy was shoveling French fries into his mouth as Kat strolled past, her video cam in one hand. She stopped and said, sharply, “The point you don’t seem to get is that undocumented workers only take jobs Americans don’t want.”

  Andy said, “They work so cheap Americans can’t compete for those jobs.”

  Kat curled a lip at his fries and cheeseburger. “No wonder your mind’s clogged.”

  Ryan said, “You never outgrow your need for trans fats and toxic chems.”

  Everybody laughed except Kat, who gave Ryan a nasty look. She was in a bad mood, thought Mike.

  Andy said, “You love your government control so much, how about regulating organic farming. It’s all agribusiness now anyway.”

  She frowned and nodded. “You might be right. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.” As she walked away, Mike noticed that she had a swing to her butt. Maybe it’s her rehabbed knee.

  Ryan said, “Tigerbitch wants to jump your bones, Andy.”

  “That’ll be the day.” Andy made a snorting noise, but Mike thought he looked interested. He felt a twinge of jealousy. Kat had never even looked at him.

  He was alternately sorry and glad Friday’s game was rained out. He wanted to get back out there, redeem himself, but he had a nagging fear that something was wrong, that he was in a slump that could cost him center field. Coach Sherman reminded them that next Saturday morning, a week from tomorrow, they would be attending a hitting clinic at the Meadowlands. Team bus will be leaving at eight A.M. High school teams from all over the metro area will be instructed by major league players and coaches. Maybe some Yankees. Mike wondered if Billy Budd would be there.

  He lost himself in the Buddsite that night. He watched an hour of the sweetest swing in baseball, short and whippy. Shoulders relaxed, eyes tracking the ball from the pitcher’s hand to the surface of the bat. Billy never stopped to admire his hit, just peeled off for first base, running hard unless it was out of the park. If it was a homer, he would slow to a jog, head down, never hotdogging, never smacking on the pitcher, just acting lucky to be here. Not acting, Mike thought. Billy was for real. Lucky Billy.

  A chat room message popped up from EmoBaller, a high school outfielder from Connecticut. How opening game? Mike wrote back, We won I sucked. In a slump. EmoBaller wrote Hit the Buddline. Catchergrrl, a Long Island softball player wrote, Like Billy knows about slumps? They exchanged LOLs on that but Mike wasn’t in the mood to chat, especially when Catchergrrl and EmoBaller started trashing Billy’s girlfriend, the model. They agreed she looked cold and plastic. Mike wasn’t interested in criticizing Billy’s taste in women.

  After a while he logged onto the Buddline. A picture of Billy popped up. He was leaning back in the dugout, elbows hooked on the back of the bench, smiling. “How can I help you, young baller?” he said.

  A space opened up and the words Please type your question for Billy here.

  Mike wrote: I’m in a slump at the plate and in the field. What should I do?

  It took a while to bring himself to click on the HIT IT bar. My first question ever. Am I that desperate?

  He hit it.

  The Billy poster on his wall nodded. You did the right thing, young baller.

  Probably be a day or two at least before there would be any answer, he thought. If ever. Next game is Tuesday. Hope I hear something before then.

  He wandered downstairs. Friday night was a big night at the old store. Mom and Dad would be there, one or both of them rushing back and forth to the new store as problems cropped up. Their opening day was coming soon. He knew they would like him to get involved in the business. That pressure was only going to get worse, he thought. Scotty was serious about graduate school and a career in music, no way he was going to let them drag him into the business. And Tiffany had always had enough trouble taking care of herself. With a kid now…

  The cell was beeping. Texts from Lori and Ryan. He ignored them. See ya tomorrow, leave me alone.

  He thought about Vicodin and Captain Morgan, maybe just a beer, but ended up with milk and a chunk of the chocolate cake Mom had left with his dinner. Tomorrow was an early call. In some weird way he was looking forward to the Cyber Club. Kat.

  He climbed back upstairs, careful on the ankle, barely avoiding the cat crouched on a step hoping to trip him. He was tired and would have settled for a CSI he had only seen two or three times, even an NCIS, which was too jokey, but the Billyblog was blinking and beeping with an alert. MESSAGE FROM BILLY!

  And there it was. I don’t believe in slumps, Mike, and neither should you. We all have good days and bad days. The trouble is, when you get down on yourself during a bad day, it doesn’t go away. Start thinking about the good days you’ve had, days when the baseball looked big as a beach ball coming out of the pitcher’s hand and you were all over it. Think about days when you wanted every ball hit to you and you sucked them up like a vacuum cleaner. Visualize those days and they will come back. Good luck, Billy.

  He felt short of breath. Sounded just like Billy, positive and constructive. He could imagine Billy’s voice, deep and friendly, giving him the advice. He imagined
Billy sitting in front of his locker, typing on a laptop balanced on his knees. That was silly. Billy’s game was rained out, too—he wouldn’t even be at the stadium. At home, maybe, with the model.

  FIFTEEN

  Zack and Kat were already inside the basement room, unhooking computers, when he walked in. She was wearing a varsity track warm-up suit in the blue and gold Ridgedale colors, but the letters spelling out Rangers across the front seemed to have been torn off. Weird, thought Mike.

  “Didn’t think you’d show,” said Zack. He looked sorry to see Mike.

  “We had a bet,” said Kat. She looked glad. “I won.”

  “Why’d you bet on me?”

  He was surprised to see her blush. The question had knocked her back. What happened to cool Kat? It took the Tigerbitch a moment to get her claws out. “I figured you’d do anything not to play baseball, the way you’re hitting.”

  Somehow the dig pleased him. He’d gotten to her and she needed to snap back.

  “Let’s get to work,” said Zack.

  When the shapeless old woman in the backward Yankees cap lurched into the senior center behind her walker, she yelled, “Where’s my dumb jock bodyguard?”

  An old man whispered to Mike, “She’s been talking about you all week.”

  “I heard that,” she said. “I like big bad boys. C’mere.”

  Kat was trying not to laugh. Mike walked over. The old lady looked like one of the mythical beasts they’d read about in Freshman English. Harpies? Gargoyles?

  “What’s your name, hunk?”

  “Mike Semak.”

  “What’s your sport?”

  “Baseball.”

  Her eyes opened wide, a surprisingly sweet blue in that pleated, painted face. “Let me guess. You’re an outfielder.”

  “Center field.”

  “My favorite position,” she said. “Okay, here’s the deal-break question. Who was the greatest center fielder of all time?”

  She was so over the top that Mike felt relaxed with her. He rubbed his chin and pretended to be thinking deeply. “Well, my dad would say Mickey Mantle and I think you would say Willie Mays but I say Billy Budd.”

  Her shriek stunned the room. Trembling old people froze. “I’m taking this boy home with me. I love him!” She threw one big soft arm around Mike’s neck and hugged him. “Brains and brawn, you can’t beat it.”

  She let go and lurched off to the coffee and bagel table. Mike felt a smile crack his face. He liked the way everyone was looking at him. He searched for Kat. She was pretending to be busy with her camera, but she was laughing.

  “Real character,” said the skinny Goth kid who had looked familiar last week. “She used to be an actress.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Nick.”

  Mike suddenly recognized Nick Brodsky, a senior. He was much thinner and more Gothed out than he’d been during football season. Eyebrow rings, which the coaches would never have allowed, black eyeliner, spiky black dyed hair, and a web tattoo crawling up his neck. He’d been a good wide receiver, fast and smart; he could read the defense and beat the corners. Mike liked to practice against him. It lifted his game. He was sorry when Nick quit the team. Something about drugs, maybe even dealing. Tori had heard he was working off his sentence buying cigarettes in local stores so the cops could bust them for selling to underage customers. How had he not recognized Nick last time? Pay attention, Coach had said. Stay in the now.

  “Didn’t get a chance to talk last week,” said Nick. “I wasn’t dissing you.”

  “No offense.”

  “No defense.” They laughed. It was an old football joke. Mike was glad there was another jock in the room. “I heard about you and Zack. He can be intense.”

  “I should’ve stayed cool.”

  “Then you wouldn’t get to be here.” Nick’s whole body rippled when he laughed.

  Kat was walking backward, shooting video. When she passed them, she snapped, “Bond on your own time, boys, we got to set up.” Still in a bad mood.

  Nick whispered, “Tigerbitch!”

  “She’s okay.” Why’d I say that, thought Mike.

  Nick rolled his eyes. “You kidding?”

  Mike finished setting up the chairs and got himself a bagel and orange juice. At least they had the regular stuff here, no pulp. I should remind Mom, but she’s so busy these days.

  He watched the old folks. It looked like high school, pushy people grabbing seats at the computers, shy ones hanging back, gossipers in the corners. The old Yankees lady was reapplying her makeup. He wondered if she was really interested in computers or just lonely. Why am I thinking about her?

  After a while, when one of the computers was free, he amazed himself by walking over to her and saying, “I’m no brainiac, but I can help you get online and surf around.”

  “Now that would be grand,” she said. She extended a hand. “I’m Regina Marie. What’s your name again?”

  “Mike.”

  “An excellent name, simple and to the point.”

  He helped her settle into the chair in front of a desktop. “Is there somebody you’d like to send an email to?”

  “All dead, honey. What do you look at when you, uh, surf?”

  “Billy Budd’s got a website. Would you like to look at that?”

  “Not exactly Willie Mays, but what the hoo.” She laughed deep in her throat.

  Mike logged onto the website and showed Regina Marie how to click onto links. She laughed when Billy appeared and said, “How can I help you, young baller?”

  “You know, I was one once,” she said.

  “A young baller?”

  “Actually, that meant something else in my time, but never mind.” She rolled her eyes. “You know, I played short center field for the Kismet team in the Broadway Show League in Central Park. You ever hear of the musical Kismet?” When Mike shook his head, she said, “I was a harem girl. Almost sixty years ago.” She clicked the mouse. Billy invited her to check out his blog. She read it chuckling. “That girlfriend of his. What do you think?”

  “Okay so long as he keeps his eye on the ball.”

  She laughed until she started choking. He patted her back, not too hard. She liked that. He tensed up when he noticed that Kat was shooting them with her video cam, but Kat noticed his discomfort and turned the camera away.

  The blinking alert popped up for the A Day With Billy contest.

  “You should enter that,” said Regina Marie.

  “You need to do a video.” Mike shrugged. “What would I say?”

  “Talk about center field. I was on the Today show once and Dave Garroway, bet you never heard of him, asked me to close my eyes and describe what it was like to sing and dance on a Broadway stage. Close your eyes.”

  This is too weird, he thought, but he closed his eyes.

  “Not so scrunchy,” she said. “Better. Okay, Mike, so what’s it like being in center field?”

  He visualized himself alone on a carpet of dark green late-summer grass, under a ceiling of blue sky, gliding toward a falling fly ball. He heard himself talking. “Center field’s part of the spine of the team. Catcher, pitcher, shortstop, center fielder. Can’t win without a strong spine.”

  When he stopped and opened his eyes, the old lady said, “Is it hard to play?”

  “It’s not as hard to play as shortstop or catcher, all the things they have to keep in their minds. Center field’s simpler that way but if you mess up it’s going to be an extra-base hit. You have to zone in on the ball, track it right into your glove, and then know what to do with it.

  “People always say Billy Budd’s a natural, like he was born a center fielder, like it’s all muscle memory and hand-eye coordination, but I know how much work went into it, thinking all the time, all the possible situations, how many on, how many outs, which base would you throw to. It’s like a math problem, there’s a right answer and a wrong one, but you have to figure it out. You can’t fake it.”

  Why am I blabbing like this? He
stopped again.

  “What else do you like, Mike? Close your eyes.”

  He closed his eyes again. He was back in center field, the green grass under his feet, the blue sky above.

  “It’s like being on top of the world. Seeing everything spread out in front of you. Coming at you. It’s all up to you, you’re the last chance and you’ve got all this green room to run down the ball. It’s open and clean, no foul lines or crazy angles or base runners, just you and the ball.”

  His eyes snapped open. He had drawn a crowd. He saw Zack with his mouth open, silent for once, Nick grinning and nodding. Kat had the camera aimed at him. People stood behind her. They clapped. His face felt hot.

  “Pure poetry,” said Regina Marie. “You’re ready for prime time.”

  “Sorry, I…” He shook his head. “I’ll show you how to move around the Buddsite.”

  It seemed like only a few minutes later that one of the old men was thanking the Cyber Club. As he reached over to log out, Regina Marie hugged him. It felt like being smothered by one of Mom’s down comforters. It didn’t feel too bad.

  On the way out Nick high-fived him. “Awesome.”

  Back at school he thought they unloaded and rehooked more slowly than last week, as if they weren’t in such a hurry to split up.

  Zack said, “That was a good connection with that woman, Mike.” It sounded like praise from an English teacher. “It’s the first step. The personal comes before the political.”

  “It was just nice,” said Kat. She sounded impatient. “Does everything have to be political?”

  “Everything is political,” said Zack, “whether you know it or not.”

  “Whether I know it or not?” said Kat. Tigerbitch had her claws out.

  “It’s an expression,” said Zack.

  “Mike was reaching out,” said Kat. “He wasn’t sucking up to her for votes or for some ulterior purpose.”

  “His motivation is irrelevant,” said Zack.