Center Field Page 8

  One of the brainiacs asked if they should assume the bulldozers were traveling at a constant speed, and should they disregard turnaround time. Dr. Ching said, Yes, yes, and also ignore the drivers pausing to text message and shuffle their iPods. Dr. Ching was the NCIS of math teachers.

  He ditched last period study hall for jocks and went to the basement. It took him a while to find the Cyber Club in the back of the building. Zack and Kat weren’t there, but half a dozen kids he recognized from the last two Saturdays were hanging and tapping away. It looked like the varsity lounge without Exercycles or video games. Or muscles. An Asian girl waved at him. Nick Brodsky, the Goth kid, sauntered over in his super-cool rolling walk.

  “Hey.”

  “What’s happening?” said Mike.

  “Not much,” said Nick. “Trying to decide if we hack into the school or the Pentagon today.”

  Mike thought, Is this guy onto me and mocking me? He said, “School. There’s a B in English I’d like changed to an A.”

  Nick laughed. “Get in line. How much longer you got to help out here?”

  Mike shrugged. “Coach keeps extending my sentence.”

  “That’s Cody. Likes to mess with people’s heads, keep them off balance.” He lowered his voice. “That’s why he sent you here to spy on us.”

  His mouth was dry. Was Nick playing with him or was he suspicious? “That’s what you guys think?” He wondered if Kat thought that.

  “Sure. If he didn’t hate Zack so much he would have buried you. Zero tolerance, remember?”

  “Why does he hate him?” He noticed that the web tattooed on Nick’s neck wove around one ear.

  “He hates anything that challenges his control of the school.”

  “You sound like Andy.”

  “At least they agree on something. But Andy only talks the talk. Zack walks the walk.”

  “How?”

  Nick grinned. Mike could see the stud in his tongue. “You interrogating me for Cody?” He shifted his shoulders the way he did just before he bumped the defensive back and ran around him.

  Stay cool. “You got it. Next comes torture. Water-boarding.”

  “You think that’s funny?” Nick took a step closer.

  Does he want me to hit him? Mike swallowed the anger bubbling up. BillyBuddBillyBuddBillyBudd. “I do.”

  “Me, too.” Nick laughed. “Just busting your chops. Zack has some great ideas.”

  “Kat seems to think so.” He thought it was cool the way he got her name in.

  “She’s drinking the Kool-Aid all right. Some piece of work, Tigerbitch, huh?” He locked eyes. What’s Nick fishing for, Mike wondered.

  “Helluva miler,” said Mike. “I was surprised to see her here.”

  “I’m here, you’re here,” said Nick. “Jock heaven.”

  He’s not going to tell me anything, Mike thought. His cell beeped. Text from Lori. ?RU. He’d forgotten he promised to meet her before practice. She just wasn’t on his radar. “Gotta jump. Where is Zack?”

  “He had a student government meeting.”

  “Could you tell them I’ll be coming on Saturday?”

  “Cool.”

  NINETEEN

  Tuesday’s game against Glen Hills was a laugher. Everybody hit. Oscar drove in five runs with a triple and two singles. Ryan unloaded a monster three-run homer over the centerfield fence into the Glen Mall. Swinging late, Mike managed to slap a single into right field and then get thrown out trying to stretch it into a double. He felt stupid but no one seemed to notice as Ridgedale piled up runs. He had two easy chances in center. He felt unsure about them both until he squeezed the ball. He realized he wasn’t silently daring batters to hit to him. He wasn’t playing as shallow as usual. He didn’t want the ball. The one shot deep to left center that might have given him trouble, Oscar took on a dead run.

  Craig had a one-hit shutout going into the bottom of the ninth. His pitch count was high and his fastball seemed to be losing steam, but he told Coach he had to finish. He wanted that shutout. Be the second one in a row, his eighth as a varsity starter. He was going for the Ridgedale career shutout record. Coach nodded. He liked that kind of fire.

  Craig walked the first batter and hit the second. Two on, nobody out.

  Mike waved Ryan and Oscar farther out. Catch the long flies, go for the big outs, even if a run scores. Craig shook his head and waved them in. Go for the play at the plate. He wanted that shutout. Then he walked the third batter to load the bases.

  Two relief pitchers warmed up behind the fence as Coach Cody and the catcher, Jimmy Russo, walked out to the mound. Coach took the ball from Craig and signaled Todd and Mike to join them. He was the only coach in the conference who brought the center fielder in for conferences at the mound. The spine of the team.

  By the time Mike reached the mound, Craig was red-faced, kicking at the dirt with his heel. “I can get out of this,” he said.

  Coach nodded at Jimmy, Todd, and Mike. “Deal or no deal?” He was also the only coach who listened to what players said. But he still made the final decisions.

  Jimmy didn’t look at Craig. “He’s getting tired.”

  “He’s got eleven runs,” said Todd. “Give him a chance.”

  Coach rubbed the ball. He said, “We need a tiebreaker. Mike?”

  Mike felt Craig’s eyes boring into him. “You said this is about finding out what’s inside us, Coach, what we’re capable of.”

  “Well said.” Coach flipped the ball back to Craig. “You’ve got a good defense behind you, let them work.” He turned and headed back to the dugout. Todd and Mike patted Craig and jogged back to their positions.

  The fourth batter blooped a hanging curve over DeVon’s head into short left. Oscar came racing in. He looked like he was going to catch it. The runners ran back to their bases. Mike, backing up Oscar, was close enough to see how he quickly checked the runners, pretended to catch the ball close to the ground, then let it drop in front of his glove.

  Oscar scooped up the ball and fired it to DeVon, who stepped on third for the force-out and threw to Hector at second for the second out. Hector threw to first. They almost had a triple play.

  Mike caught his breath. I could never have pulled that off. If Oscar isn’t a pro he should be. What a play.

  “Way to go, Oscar,” bellowed Coach, clapping. The Ridgedale players were cheering.

  Oscar grinned and shrugged. Playing humble, thought Mike. C’mon, man, give him a break. Maybe he is humble. Helluva play.

  Craig was the only one who wasn’t cheering. He stood silently, glaring at Oscar, his shutout ruined. But he had two outs now, only a runner on first, and an 11–1 game. Wasn’t winning more important than individual stats?

  Craig lost it then, a wild pitch that sent the runner to second and another walk. He didn’t wait for the relief pitcher, just dropped the ball and stomped off the field. Kevin Park, the closer, got the final out, an unassisted groundout to Mark Rapp at first.

  Craig was sullen on the bus back to Ridgedale. He sat in the rear with Eric Nola and stared out the window. He refused to talk to Jimmy Russo, shaking off the chunky catcher as if he were refusing a signal.

  Up front, Coach was talking to Oscar, who grinned and nodded. Mike, trying not to stare, had a sinking feeling about what they were talking about.

  Andy said, “That was some play. I didn’t know it was legal to purposely let the ball drop like that.”

  “You can’t do it in the infield with bases loaded and no outs,” said Ryan. “No rule about the outfield, though. Cool trick.”

  “Should have saved it for the play-offs,” said Mike. “Word gets around.” Why do I have to put Oscar down?

  “This is better,” said Ryan. “They’ll never know what he’ll do. Keep ’em off balance.”

  “Off balance,” said Andy. “Welcome to Ridgedale High.”

  Todd started singing the Ridgedale school song and as the guys picked it up, the sound ricocheted around the bus. Ryan bello
wed the words off-key. Andy leaned over the back of Mike’s bus seat and whispered in his ear, “How many high school kids can pull off a play like that? Get your geek peeps to check those files.”

  He wasn’t surprised when Oscar started Thursday’s game in center field, but he still felt a little stab of pain when Coach read the lineup. Mike was in left field. He’d been dropped to seventh place in the batting order.

  “Lineups are not written in stone,” said Coach, standing in the middle of the locker room. His gaze seemed to linger on Mike. “Every job is open for competition.”

  The twins cheered as Mike and Ryan ran out on the field, side by side as usual, then fell silent as they separated, Mike to left, Ryan to right. Mike didn’t look at Lori. He didn’t want to see the sympathy on her face that he knew would be there. She was sensitive, she would feel for him. Even though he could tell that she was beginning to sense he was just going through the motions with her.

  He felt wrong, out of place, in left field. He remembered waking up in a motel bedroom on a family trip once with the panicky feeling, Where am I? He should be in the middle of the field, teammates on either side, the game directly in front of him. There was nobody on his right and the game was slanted off to his left. It looked different. He couldn’t see the pitches clearly.

  Suck it up, he thought, you’re making too big a deal of this. It’s not so hard, it’s not like shifting to left field in some big league ballpark with strange angles and shadows and grandstands looming over you. Most of the ballparks in the conference have standard high school outfields. This isn’t like shifting to the infield, not even as radical as moving from linebacker to safety like you did last season.

  But I’m a center fielder.

  You’re a baseball player.

  He looked over at Oscar, relaxed and loose, playing shallow, even shallower than Mike did. Maybe he’s just better, he thought. He pushed that thought way. I just need to step up. Show Coach what I’m capable of.

  Willie Lockett, the number-two pitcher, struggled for the first five innings but managed to give up only two runs. In the bottom of the fifth, Oscar led off with a double, stole third, and scored on Ryan’s sacrifice fly. Mark Rapp singled.

  At bat, Mike visualized the homer that would put them ahead, win the game. He relaxed his body the way Billy did, waggled his bat to drain the tension, then froze. He let the first pitch go by, a fastball the ump called a strike, and swung too eagerly at a slider, punching it foul. He took a ball, then watched a changeup curve outside. The ump called it strike three. He was on deck two innings later, the score still 2–1, two on and two out, when Mark flied out to end the game.

  He felt numb as he walked to the grandstand to wish Lori good luck. The twins were going to Boston for a weekend twirling competition. Nearby, Oscar was talking to two dark-skinned men in work clothes. One of them looked like the new installer in the second store, the one so grateful to Dad for the job. Ferdy. The one who’s got a kid going to my high school.

  That’s Oscar’s father, Mike realized. When he walked the twins to their car, he saw Oscar getting into an old white van with New York plates. They lived out of the state, out of the school district. Oscar shouldn’t be in Ridgedale High, certainly not eligible to play sports, nowhere near center field.

  TWENTY

  Coach Cody beckoned him out of jock study hall on Friday and silently steered him toward the school psychologist’s office. He’d forgotten he was supposed to see the shrink. He was surprised when Coach Cody unlocked the door and followed him inside. He locked the door behind them. Mike had never been in this office before. It was just big enough for a swivel chair, a desk, and a shabby old two-seat couch. No windows.

  Coach pointed Mike to the couch, then dropped into the swivel chair. It squeaked.

  Coach looked at him for a long time. Mike started to feel uncomfortable. He wanted to shift his position on the couch, sit up higher, but he felt the weight of Coach’s stare pressing him down.

  Finally Coach nodded and said, “I’m a certified guidance counselor, you know that?” When Mike shook his head, Coach Cody smiled and said, “There are lots of things people don’t know about me. Don’t need to know. I’ve seen things I hope you never see. I don’t expect you to understand why I do some of the things I do in this school, but you better believe it’s all about making sure you never have to go through what I went through.”

  He leaned back in the chair. It squeaked louder. He closed his eyes and sighed. His shaven bowling ball head seemed to sink into his shoulders.

  “I’m waiving your session with the school psychologist for now because I don’t want you to have anything on your record that could damage your shot at a college scholarship.”

  He let that sink in. Mike remembered that Dad had said the visit with the shrink wouldn’t go on his record if nothing else happened. Dad would have made sure of something like that. Was Coach playing him?

  “You’ve got good grades. You’re a good kid. But…” His eyes snapped open “…unless I’m convinced you’ve worked through this issue to my satisfaction, you will have to see the shrink.”

  “How do I work through this issue?” What issue? he thought. My slump?

  “Show me you understand why Zack Berger and the Cyber Club are a clear and present danger to the well-being of Ridgedale High School.”

  He almost expected Coach to break out in a big grin. It was a joke, right? An Andy Baughman riff. Clear and present danger. Andy had brought over a DVD of that movie. Harrison Ford was the CIA agent hero. They’d watched it on the eighty-four-inch pull-down screen.

  “How many fights you been in at Ridgedale?” said Coach.

  “None.”

  “Right,” said Cody. “But this little smart-ass punk pushes your button. Gets you to hit him, make himself a martyr, draw attention to his cause. Classic.” Cody’s lips peeled back from his big white teeth. Mike could see where his gums were receding. “Meanwhile, your game goes into the tank. You lose focus because you’re thinking about all this extraneous stuff. Your concentration’s gone. Zack Berger’s the reason you’re in left field.”

  “What about Oscar?”

  “He can play, no doubt,” said Coach. “Might even have pro potential. But he’s not a team leader. You’re a team leader. You belong in center field, in the spine. And I want you back there.”

  Mike felt dizzy. He hadn’t slept well, thinking about the third strike he took yesterday. He imagined himself in the middle of a math problem, only there was no answer. No clear and present answer. What is coach driving at?

  “Semak? You still with me?”

  “Yes, sir. I guess I just don’t get it about Zack.”

  “Good guys always have a problem understanding just how insidious the bad guys are,” said Coach. He swiveled and squeaked. “Zack’s got an agenda. He hates authority, order, justice. You know, there are basically two kinds of guys in the world, jocks and pukes. We’re jocks. We want to live by the rules, win fairly, work hard, and be rewarded for it. The pukes want to rebel and disrupt so they can slide through the chaos. Are you tracking me?”

  Mike nodded.

  “There are also different kinds of jocks. Your pal Ryan, steady, dependable, not much fire. You’ll never get much more than you see. He’s afraid to open up, let loose, go for the gold. He deflects everything with humor. He’ll never rise high.”

  Coach was smiling, but he seemed to be smiling to himself, Mike thought, enjoying the sound of his voice. “Craig, lots of heat, but inconsistent emotionally, not dependable. Sure he can be terrific, but he can also be a disaster.

  “And you. People might think you’re like Ryan, always on an even keel, in control. But I know there’s a fire in your belly, Mike, you can explode when you need to. Do what needs to be done. I like that. But I want to be sure you’re exploding for the right reasons. Still tracking?”

  Mike nodded again, but he wasn’t sure any of it made sense.

  “I know that ankle hurts l
ike hell. I saw how you sucked it up in football. That tells me a lot. You remind me of a kid I knew when I was a Little League coach in Colorado. I’ve never told this story in this school, but I know it will be meaningful to you. This kid was steady and cool on the outside, you’d think he was a blank. But inside, that boy burned to do well, to compete, to win. Like you. Kid’s name was William Budzinksi. Wonder what ever happened to him.”

  Mike’s breath caught. “You coached Billy Budd?”

  “Coached against him. Walked him a lot, let me tell you. This was just before his dad changed the family name. I don’t even know if he actually read the Melville book. Billy Budd dies at the end. But Dad must have figured Billy Budd would sell a lot more of those batting gloves and wristbands you wear than William Budzinski.”

  Coach leaned back, shook his head at the ceiling. “Some world. We were on the same field and now he’s in Yankee Stadium, one of the biggest superstars in the game, and I’m here at—” He stopped himself and looked at his watch. “You better get to practice.”

  Oscar worked out at shortstop with Coach Sherman while the rest of the team ran wind sprints and took extra batting practice to prepare for tomorrow’s clinic. Mike found himself watching Oscar scooping up grounders. Billy Budd worked out at shortstop during spring training. Good for your footwork. A lot of similarities between shortstop and center field. Mickey Mantle started out a shortstop.

  After practice he went into the new weight room with Ryan. They spotted each other. They’d been lifting together since middle school, when Ryan’s dad set up a bench and barbells in his garage.

  “I think Coach’s playing with me,” said Mike.

  “I’m trying to get Ms. Marsot to play with me,” said Ryan. “You believe these mopes who rat out their teachers after they have sex?”

  “I’m serious. He wants me to spy on the Cyber Club to get back to center field.”

  “Cruise with it. Tell him everything.” Ryan settled under the bar. “Just don’t tell him about us on Brokeback Mountain.”