The Pitcher

by William Hazelgrove

  “How’s Ricky?”

  “He’s playing baseball,” Mom answers, looking at me.

  “And he is pitching the ball?”

  “Yeah, but I need to get him some coaching for the high school tryouts,” Mom says, leaning close to the television.

  “And how will you do that?”

  “There is a man across the street who might help us.”

  “He is a coach?”

  “A pitcher.”

  Grandma switches to Spanish and I go to get a glass of milk. On the refrigerator Mom has this quote she cut out and taped up: A coach not only has to teach the fundamentals, but he must also instruct the young player on the philosophy of the pitcher. In this way he teaches the pitcher a way to be. I turn with my milk and polish off some chocolate cake on the kitchen table. I stare at the light beneath the Pitcher’s garage and think about “a way to be.” I always liked the last part of that quote.

  I finish my milk and go back where Mom still has the phone to her ear. I sit down on our couch that is real saggy and great for sacking out on after hours of ESPN. I love the way those dudes yell at each other over who’s the MVP for a game or whether a guy may be suspended because he blew off practice. Their shouting drives Mom crazy and she’s always telling me to turn it down. But to me, man, it’s like music.

  “How is your health, Maria?”

  “Fine, Mom. I’m fine.”

  “Are you still smoking?’

  “I quit, Mom,” she says, picking up her Marlboros.

  They switch back to Spanish and then she hangs up and lights her cigarette. It’s funny. I lie to Mom about my homework and she lies to her Mom about smoking. I guess when you get down to it, everyone lies to their parents. She clicks away the television and tells me to go to bed. I brush my teeth and throw on my Zambrano jersey. Then I go out to the living room and Mom’s out on the porch having her before-bed smoke. I walk up and stand behind the screen.

  I can hear the crickets and the airy sound of the Pitcher’s ballgame. Mom is staring across the street. She slowly puts the cigarette to her lips, keeping her eyes on his garage.

  7

  MOM CHECKS OUT A BUNCH of books from the library and sits at our kitchen table making notes. Nolan Ryan’s Pitcher’s Bible, The Picture Perfect Pitcher, The Art of Pitching. We go out to the field behind Roland School. Mom tells me how to hold the ball and set myself while she catches with all the gear. I ring the backstop, firing the ball right over her head. I just don’t have control and most times we go home more discouraged than when we began. The tryouts are getting closer and I think Mom really knows pitching can’t be taught from a book. I think that’s why she signed me up for the camp.

  It’s this one-day camp at the high school run by the coaches and the word is they are using it to weed kids out. It cost two hundred bucks for one day. We never did the camps because we just couldn’t afford them. But everybody who’s trying out for the high school team has signed up.

  Mom drives me over in the morning and in the parking lot are all these Escalades and Land Rovers and a few Hummers. A lot of people in Jacksonville are loaded. Mom stubs her cigarette, staring toward the field.

  “Ready?”

  I stare at the blond-haired boys milling around with new bats, gloves, and bright new bat bags. It looks like a convention of rich white boys to me. I’m thinking about our rusted-out minivan with the hubcaps missing. I breathe heavily, fingering my bat bag with the broken zipper. I look up and see Eric and his dad talking to two men with SOUTH HIGH SCHOOL on their red shirts.

  “It’s only camp. It’s not the tryouts,” Mom says, staring at the coaches.

  “They’ll remember who’s good,” I murmur.

  “That’s why you are going to show them what Ricky Hernandez can do!”

  I turn to Mom, who looks really Mexican with her curly black hair pulled back in her cap. She’s wearing her Marauders jersey and I wish she hadn’t. I wish she was wearing the shorts or the cool sunglasses like other moms wear. Instead she has on her Oakleys that make her look kind of weird.

  “Other boys throw fast too.”

  Mom pulls down her sunglasses and leans in.

  “That’s why you are here—to learn, right?”

  “I’m here to get my butt kicked,” I mutter, opening the door.

  We get out and I have my uniform on. Word is you should wear your uniform to show you are on a team, but nobody has a uniform on. Mom goes over to find out if we need to check in. Then I see Eric walking toward me with a bat over his shoulder, looking like an MLB pitcher.

  “Hey, beano, you don’t usually come to these camps,” he says like we are best friends.

  I hate that word. Beano.

  “Yeah … so!”

  Eric lowers his bat and gnashes on his gum, then takes off his hat and smooths back his blond crew. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Look dude, if I were you, I would stress your catching abilities,” he says like he’s doing me this big favor. “Then you might at least have a chance. I mean you are a little screwy in the head to pitch, right?”

  I think he’s talking about when I pulled the knife on him. The word was that I was like a psycho dude, which I’m not. But that’s the press release Eric put out there and it was all just to make sure he’s the pitcher.

  I open my bat bag and pull out my mitt.

  “I’m a pitcher,” I tell him.

  Eric snorts and laughs and makes all these weird faces. He claps me on the shoulder again like we are best friends. “Dude, you may have an arm, but the competition is really stiff. I mean you can’t even get it over the plate half the time! You don’t have a curve or a sinker and you don’t have a change-up.”

  “And you can’t throw a fastball over fifty,” I reply, shrugging.

  Then I see Mrs. Payne marching toward us like a general. She glares at me like I’m infecting her son or something.

  “Eric! Get over here!”

  He rolls the gum between his teeth and spits in the grass.

  “Well, gotta go meet my future coach, dude,” he says, putting his bat on his shoulder. “But look, just try and do well in the batting practice. I mean you have all that experience, man, swatting piñatas … right?”

  Now we’re under the hot sun where two coaches in red Polo shirts stand outside the dugout. Coach Hoskins is big and bald and announces, “This is high school baseball, boys, and nothing you will do will ever be more important than right now. This is the first opportunity to get noticed.” I like Coach Hoskins. He seems like an old-time coach with a big gut and a smile. I’m hoping he’s going to be the freshman coach.

  “Alright. I want to introduce you to our new freshman coach, Coach Poppers.” He steps back and this younger guy with a Marine haircut steps up. He’s got this flattop buzz like something you see in the movies. We all listen because he is the dude, the freshman coach. He starts talking about how making the freshman team will set you up for playing on the varsity and all, and then he starts talking about pitching.

  “Baseball has changed. It is about performance and that requires a rigorous attention to mechanics. This is for you pitchers. I can slow down someone’s motion in my laptop and tell them exactly what they are doing wrong. If they follow my instructions, then they will improve, but if you want to be a rebel or be some old-time wildman …” he pauses, his blue eyes landing on each of us, “I have no use for you. Pitching is not an art, it is a science.”

  I groan inwardly, because science is my worst subject. And I can tell this dude is not going to be down with a Mexican pitcher. He is like “all Eric.” I mean they even look alike! Mom says the color of your skin doesn’t matter. She says you just hold your head up and look everyone in the eye. I don’t know about that with Coach Poppers.

  “Now, I want you all to line up for cup inspection,” he announces. We form a line while Coach Poppers walks with a bat. He stops and squints down the line like a cop. “Everyone is wearing a cup, right?”

  And then he sw
ings his bat into Lance’s crotch and you hear the tink of his cup. I’m sweating because I forgot my cup. Alright, I didn’t forget it, I lost it. It was always popping up in the laundry or under my bed. One time it ended up in the front yard. Don’t ask me how. Coach Poppers is walking down the line and tapping every kid in the crotch. Sometimes the bat goes tink and sometimes the kid just bends over and turns white.

  “Let this be a lesson to you boys who forgot your cup. You never know when I’m going to have cup inspection,” he shouts after knocking half of the kids in the nuts. “Alright, let’s break up into pitchers and fielders.”

  I breathe in relief. Eric looks at me and frowns.

  “What, you forget your cup?”

  I shrug and he scoffs.

  “Cups are for fags, beano,” he says. “So you better get yours.”

  I stare at him. I mean, what can you say to a dude like that?

  They divide us between pitchers and outfielders and the two coaches go off to the dugout. I don’t have a good feeling about this Don Poppers dude with his iPhone and super-white socks. He doesn’t look like he digs kids with bat bags that don’t zip who drive up in rusted-out minivans.

  These college guys called counselors all wear wraparound Oakleys, sport small goatees, and chew gum. Some have tobacco in their lips and spit all over the place. They wear shiny red-and-white jerseys with their old numbers. Already whispers of That’s Connor Albright man; he pitches for Duke have started. I line up with the pitchers as Connor flips over a bucket and sits down behind home plate. No gear, nothing. He pounds his worn glove, making dust clouds.

  “Bring it to me. Give me your best!”

  The word is the counselors tell the coaches who the standouts are. Eric is already talking to Connor, who is a blond-haired dude too. I’m the only Mexican I can see so far.

  “Just give me three of your best,” Connor yells again from his white bucket.

  My heart is banging away in my chest. The first three pitchers throw wild, sending balls high and into the dirt. This makes me feel better. If I screw up I will at least have some company. Connor gets off his bucket and pulls us into a huddle. He spits into the dust, then speaks in a low baseball voice.

  “Alright, listen,” he begins, going down to one knee. “I don’t want you guys to be all freaked out. This is a camp and yes there is some evaluating going on, but this is just a camp. So calm down and just bring it to me. OK?” Connor goes back to his bucket and adjusts his Oakleys, smacking his glove again.

  “Alright, let’s go!”

  The next pitcher throws in three fastballs. The following pitchers bring in decent curves, fastballs, and sinkers. Connor nods for some boys while others he just calls out, “ Next!” I close my eyes and say a prayer, but I can’t really stay focused. When I get stressed my mind goes off like a rocket. Like right now I’m thinking about Pete Rose and wondering if he will ever get in the Hall of Fame. I mean, who would think about that right before they pitch?

  Eric throws a fastball, a curve, and a beautiful cutter. Connor nods to him and yells, “Nice pitching, Eric!” I shut my eyes. The dude knows his name already! It’s my turn and Eric flips the ball to me with this little grin.

  “It’s not too late to go try out with the catchers,” he snickers. I take the ball that feels heavy in my hand. Connor pounds out dust from his mitt.

  “C’mon … bring it here!”

  My hands are sweaty and I can’t keep them dry enough to grip the ball. I look down from the pitcher’s mound with my heart pounding this rhythm of, Right now, right now, right now. I close my eyes and feel Mom watching from the stands. I’m so nervous, I’m not even breathing right. Connor hits his glove again.

  “Bring it on. C’mon, bring it to me here!”

  I shut my eyes and figure I have one chance to bring the heat. I open my eyes and position a three-finger grip, set myself, take my breath, then kick into my windup. I put everything I have into that pitch, but I know right away my release is wrong. Connor sees the wild pitch and scoops low as the ball hammers his ankle. I’ve never seen someone jump straight off a bucket and scream like that. He curses, hobbling around like a man in a one-legged race. My face is burning as the other pitchers stare at me. I had just nailed the counselor in the ankle with a fastball.

  Connor limps back and sets his bucket back up. I have two more pitches, but he picks up his mitt and glares at me. He shakes his head and shouts, “NEXT!”

  8

  MOM NEVER GIVES UP. SHE never gave up when my third grade teacher said I was behind in reading. She bought Hooked on Phonics and we listened to it every night. Or when it came to math ... she made up flash cards and taught me multiplication on the stairs of our porch. Same with pitching. Mom read every book in the world on pitching. I saw her trying to master the three-finger and two-finger grip in her bedroom. Sometimes she would burst into tears because she just couldn’t get it. So it doesn’t surprise me when she walks out with the plate of fajitas.

  “Come on,” she says, walking down the porch steps.

  I follow her as she holds the fajitas like a waiter.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she explains as we walk up his drive.

  Mom has put on lipstick, heels, and a tight blue dress. She walks with that purpose that makes her jiggle all over, her hoop earrings swinging. I can smell perfume mixing with the sautéed onions and green peppers. She stops outside the garage and breathes deeply, then raps on the door with her knuckles.

  “Mr. Langford!”

  I hear the ballgame. Someone gets a hit and the crowd roars. Mom stands there with the napkin-covered plate. The onions smell great. She wipes the corner of her mouth, dabbing the lipstick on the back of her dress. Shortstop looks out from under the garage, sniffing the air.

  “Maybe he already ate, Mom,” I mutter.

  “Then he can eat again. Mr. Langford! I brought you some dinner!”

  The ballgame turns down like someone had thrown a blanket over it. I hear those halting steps again, then I smell his cigarette. Mom shifts her weight and tosses back her curly hair. She looks at me with the blue dress making her eyes sparkle. Then there is no sound at all and I don’t hear his shoes anymore.

  “I don’t think he’s coming, Mom,” I whisper.

  “Mr. Langford. I am going to put these fajitas under the door,” Mom calls loudly. “I hope your dog doesn’t get them!”

  She pauses and I hope he will at least say something. Mom went to a lot of trouble to get dressed up and bring him food. She looks at me as if to say, well what else can I do? She rolls her shoulders, then puts the plate down and slides it inside. Shortstop follows the fajitas closely. I know they’re going to end up in his stomach. We start down the drive and that’s when the garage starts clanking.

  From his pictures I’m thinking a Roger Clemens dude. On YouTube he looks really tall. In real life, I stare at this meaty guy with a barrel chest, large nose, and lined grey eyes. His grey hair is greased straight back. The Pitcher’s eyes remind me of a hawk, the way he watches us. He continues smoking with the cigarette behind his hand.

  Mom picks up the plate that Shortstop is sniffing.

  “Do you like fajitas, Mr. Langford?”

  The Pitcher pauses, then drops his cigarette and stubs it with his old loafer. He has on baggy shorts and a golf shirt with a pack of Pall Malls in his top pocket. Mom pulls back the napkin and he picks up one of the fajitas.

  “Mr. Langford,” she says, handing him a napkin, “my son needs a pitching coach. He has the arm, but he needs someone who can take him to the next level.” Mom pauses, pulling back her hair. “I will pay you to coach my son and get him ready for the high school tryouts.”

  He takes another bite of the fajita, his bloodshot eyes on Mom.

  “I told you,” he mutters, swallowing, “I ain’t no coach, lady.”

  Mom whips up a roll of twenties from her dress like a dealer.

>   “I have a hundred dollars here for his first lesson,” she says, holding out the slim tube. I know how hard it was for Mom to scrape that up. It may only be a hundred bucks to him, but to us it is like a thousand. The Pitcher doesn’t say anything and Mom just stands there with the money, wind blowing her hair over one eye, her lip still swollen from Fernando.

  “Thanks for the food,” he says, putting back the fajita. “But I ain’t coaching your kid. I don’t coach nobody.”

  Then he steps back and pulls out his garage remote. The garage starts clanking down and that’s when Mom stuffs the hundred dollars in his shirt pocket.

  “That’s for his first lesson!” she shouts as the door swallows him up.

  Then Mom turns and clacks down the drive in her heels. She’s almost running as we beat it back to our house. We go inside and she turns around and looks through the window. Mom lights a cigarette and lifts the curtain again, staring at the garage. She breathes heavily and looks at me with her spiked heels up on the couch.

  “Do you think I freaked him out?”

  “Oh yeah,” I reply. But really, Mom freaks out just about everybody.

  9

  I HEAR MOM ON THE phone with some lady from the bank. I don’t eat another bite of my mac and cheese. It’s some sort of program from President Obama. The president’s plan doesn’t look like it’s going to help us now, because Mom presses her head against the fridge. A lot of people in our neighborhood have lost their homes. You can tell because their grass gets real long and trash ends up in the front yard. Usually the For Sale sign is stolen and a couple windows are broken. So I know Mom is thinking we’re going to end up with trash in our yard and our windows cracked.

  We get these calls for Mom’s medical bills. They flash up on our television and we just sit there and wait for the calls to stop. Then we keep watching like it never happened. But she always has the bills out on the kitchen table. I know since she lost her health insurance, she quit going to the doctors. I mean it’s like thousands and I don’t know how she’s ever going to pay that. But she always says where there is a will there is a way.