by Tim Green
The machine whirred and clunked.
The ball screamed across the plate.
CRACK.
The net jumped, so did RJ Leonardo.
The crowd cheered.
The sound might as well have been Ryder’s spirit breaking. He was destroyed. Tears sprang up into his eyes and a sob wrenched free from his gut. He looked back at Mr. Starr, who still held the ball against the fence and whose cheeks each bore the glittering tracks of tears. RJ Leonardo burst out of the cage, slapping high fives with his stepdad and little sister and the perfect strangers who clapped his back.
Ryder slipped out too and tugged Mr. Starr through the parting crowd without a word.
Mr. Starr made a choking noise. “I should have had you hold it.”
“That wasn’t it, Mr. Starr.” Ryder tried hard to keep his voice from quavering.
“What was it, then?” Mr. Starr sounded so bitter. “Tell me?”
“I got something in my eye . . . I . . .”
“That’s luck! Bad luck, a speck in the air gets in your eye at just the wrong moment.” Mr. Starr laughed bitterly. “I knew better.”
Ryder thought about the moment when he pulled away from his mother on the sidewalk, something as tiny as a speck. He had luck all right, and all of it was bad.
Now that they were away from the crowd, Ryder felt alone and exhausted. He wheeled Mr. Starr into the parking lot, headed for the bus stop just down the road. They were halfway across the lot when someone shouted his name.
“Hey! Ryder Strong!”
Ryder turned.
“Who’s that?” Mr. Starr struggled in his seat, unable to turn.
“It’s . . . it’s RJ Leonardo and his stepdad.”
“Wait up!” the stepdad called as they hurried toward Ryder and Mr. Starr, weaving through the parked cars.
The little girl bounced up and down on the stepdad’s shoulders. Her blond hair glinted in the sunshine and her giggling filled the air.
“Let’s just go,” Mr. Starr grouched. “What could he possibly have to say to you?”
Ryder didn’t move. It wouldn’t be polite, and his mother had taught him better.
RJ and his stepdad came to a stop in front of them.
“Hey, name’s Rick Bernard, RJ’s stepdad,” the stepdad said. “That was some hitting. You were great.”
“RJ was better. Congratulations. I . . . we just . . . had to get going.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Rick Bernard waved a hand through the air. “Look, I saw how upset you are and we don’t need that gift certificate. You’re welcome to it. You deserve it. I mean, really, it was a tie. Right, RJ?”
RJ grinned and nodded and held out a Sports Authority gift certificate for five hundred dollars. Ryder looked at Mr. Starr.
“You think this boy is crying over money?” Mr. Starr sounded mean. “You think he’s some spoiled brat who cares about a new pair of shoes?”
“Mr. Starr, please don’t.” Ryder couldn’t help the scolding sound in his voice.
“Please.” Mr. Bernard never stopped smiling. “We didn’t mean anything bad. We’re just happy to—”
“Charity? Since you’re so rich?” Mr. Starr seemed madder still at the sight of Mr. Bernard’s smiling face.
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Bernard lowered his voice and Ryder felt like the man must be some kind of an angel not to get mad right back. “Is there anything we can do? I just sensed something bigger is going on here . . . just from Ryder’s face. He didn’t look like he lost a contest. He looked like . . . well, like someone died or something.”
Ryder felt fresh tears in his eyes. “I just . . . we need to go. Thanks anyway.” Ryder turned to leave.
“I’m sorry. I’m right, aren’t I? Something is very wrong. Come on, how can we help you?”
“You really want to help?” Mr. Starr raised his voice.
“Yes,” Mr. Bernard said. “We really do.”
“Let Ryder be the batboy for the Braves. That’d help.”
Ryder could tell by the look on RJ’s face that it was the last thing he expected . . . and the last thing he wanted to do.
Mr. Bernard’s smiling face fell, and his eyes hardened.
“Well, that’s kind of why RJ did this whole thing.” Mr. Bernard struggled to regain his smile.
“Of course,” Mr. Starr said.
“I understand why you’re bitter, sir,” Mr. Bernard said.
“You understand nothing.” Mr. Starr’s eyes burned.
“We have box seats right behind home plate,” Mr. Bernard said. “You could be our guests if you’d like.”
“Ryder needs to be the batboy,” Mr. Starr said. “That’s the problem with people like you. You want to go through life, regifting the ugly sweaters or neckties someone gives you at Christmas and expecting people to think you’re a saint. You’re not a saint. You’re just like everyone else, so you can stop smiling and holding the door for people, thank you.”
Mr. Bernard huffed. He glanced at his son and shook his head. “I can’t believe this.”
“Ryder’s mother is dying. It’s a long and incredible story, but if he’s the batboy, it could save her life,” Mr. Starr said.
Mr. Bernard laughed in disbelief. “I don’t think so,” he mumbled.
“That’s right. It’s crazy,” Mr. Starr said, “but it’s true. I won’t bore you with the details. That way when you say your prayers tonight, you can ask God to watch over the crazy guy in the wheelchair with that kid who you tried to help by giving a five-hundred-dollar gift certificate. That’ll be a good prayer for you. Come on, Ryder, get me out of here.”
Ryder took hold of the chair. His face burned with embarrassment and he couldn’t look either RJ or his stepdad in the eye as he started to push away.
“Wait.” Mr. Bernard put a hand on Ryder’s shoulder and gently turned him around. “Is this really true?”
Tears streamed down Ryder’s face and he bit hard into his lower lip to keep quiet as he looked at Mr. Bernard and nodded his head. “I think Thomas Trent is related to me. My mom needs an operation, like, right now. I think if I can talk to him, he’ll help. That’s why being batboy is so important. It’s a way for me to get close to him.”
Mr. Bernard read Ryder’s face, and his own face softened, just like his voice. “Well, then. You can tell your friend that he’s very wrong about me and my son.”
“Dad? What are—” RJ cried.
Mr. Bernard turned to RJ. “I have an idea,” he said, taking the envelope from RJ’s hand.
“What is it?” Ryder asked.
“It’s the paperwork for being batboy,” RJ’s dad said. “You got to fill it out and bring it with you. There’s a PR guy you’re supposed to call in the morning, Ethan Kupec. The instructions are here on where you have to go and everything. Now, it’s a doubleheader, so I’m going to propose that we meet at the PR offices after the first game. This way, RJ can be the batboy for the night game. Would that work?”
Ryder grinned so hard he couldn’t speak, but only nod his head.
“All right,” Mr. Bernard said. “I’ll take care of all the details with the Baseball World people and the team so they’ll be expecting you tomorrow instead of RJ. Good luck, Ryder. I hope this helps your mom.”
“Me too,” RJ said. “See you after the first game.”
Ryder took the envelope and spoke in a whisper. “Thank you so much.”
Mr. Bernard mussed his stepson’s hair and grinned at Ryder and they turned and walked back across the lot, accepting congratulations from random people headed for their cars.
Mr. Starr sighed. “I told you it was meant to be.”
“Mr. Starr . . . you didn’t say thank you.”
“Don’t worry.” Mr. Starr’s voice was quiet and calm. “He knows.”
“What should we do?” Ryder asked.
“Do?” Mr. Starr harrumphed. “Get me back to the hotel. We’ll get some barbeque at the Bull Pen and plan our attack. Then we
’ll get some sleep so you’re ready for tomorrow. You’re gonna be the Braves’ batboy, and you’re gonna meet your father.”
When Ryder woke the next morning, sunlight was already punching through the cracks in the curtains. He sprang up and looked over at Mr. Starr, who lay wide-eyed on the other bed.
“Figured I’d let you get caught up on your sleep, but we should get some breakfast.”
Ryder helped Mr. Starr out of bed and into his chair.
“Hopefully we can wrap this up today,” Mr. Starr said with a grunt as he sat down in his wheelchair.
“Do you think?” Ryder’s frame already trembled at the thought of meeting his father and—if things went as planned—saving his mother.
“When you show him that ball and he realizes you’re his son,” Mr. Starr said, “I think he’ll be happy to help. He’ll want to keep this thing quiet, they always do, and we’ll be on our way back to New York with a big check . . . or the promise of one, anyway.”
Ryder frowned. “Why do they always want to keep it quiet?”
“I told you before. He’s got his life, you’ve got yours. He’s probably going to want to keep it that way.”
“But . . . you never had kids, Mr. Starr. Maybe he’ll want to stay in touch.”
“Maybe.” Mr. Starr’s eyes looked dead, but then they brightened. “Let’s get you cleaned up and dressed and call that Braves PR person, what’s his name?”
“Ethan Kupec.”
“Right. Shower, breakfast, then Ethan Kupec to confirm where to go.”
Ryder got cleaned up. He put on fresh jeans and a clean blue T-shirt and wheeled Mr. Starr to breakfast. Ryder helped Mr. Starr eat his eggs, then scarfed down a plate of eggs and bacon. They returned to the room so Mr. Starr could make the call.
“Hello? Ethan Kupec?” Mr. Starr flicked a crooked hand at Ryder, telling him to raise the phone up higher. “Rick Bernard got in touch with you yesterday. Ryder Strong and RJ Leonardo won the Baseball World batboy contest, and they are going to share the opportunity. I wanted to follow up and make sure he’s all set to be batboy for the first game, and RJ will come in for the second game. It says here he just goes to the media gate at noon.”
Mr. Starr listened and Ryder could hear the buzz of the man’s voice.
“Yes, he’s got all the release paperwork signed by his parents,” Mr. Starr said. “You’ll see him at noon right there. Thank you. His name is Ryder, Ryder Strong . . .
“Yes, it is an unusual name, and he’s an unusual young man, as you’ll see. He’s very excited. Yes. Thank you.”
Ryder took the phone away and hung it up on the table between the beds. “I don’t have anything signed.”
“I can sign that if you put the pen in my hand. Adults don’t read signatures. And you’ll be going into the park yourself. I can’t. Not after two days ago.”
Ryder nodded. He hadn’t ever considered that he’d have to do this thing all by himself, but of course he would. Mr. Starr would stand out like a flashing light and they’d be apt to get bounced right out again, contest or no contest.
“Oh, don’t look like that,” Mr. Starr said. “You can handle this. You’ll be fine.”
“For some reason me and baseball stadiums don’t seem to mix.” Ryder thought of being caught in Yankee Stadium. It seemed so long ago that he had to really think about it to make it seem real.
“All that changes in about an hour, right?”
“Yes,” Ryder said. “You’re right. Maybe we should call Doyle? I’d like to talk to him, not email.”
“You want to check on your mom?” Mr. Starr backed his chair up and buzzed over toward the window that looked out over the city of Atlanta with its golden-domed capitol building. “I think that’s a good idea. Get yourself focused on what this is all about. Go ahead.”
Ryder dialed Doyle, who answered on the first ring.
“Hey, partner. Your ears must’ve been ringing.” Doyle was out of breath. “Did you talk to your dad?”
“Not yet,” Ryder said.
“Well,” Doyle said, “I just got some great news.”
“About my mom?” Ryder’s heart soared.
“Well,” Doyle said, still excited, “it’s kind of about her. I mean, there’s been no change, but it’s about FDNY. I got it, buddy! I got the logo! I can start fund-raising with it. Isn’t that awesome?”
“Yeah.” Ryder was a bit confused. “I mean, does this mean I don’t have to ask my dad for the money?”
“Well, no.” Doyle cleared his throat. “I think you still should. It’s just that, I don’t know . . . I can help, you know.”
“Oh. Sure.” Part of Ryder was disappointed, but another part was relieved because he wanted to meet his father. He wanted Thomas Trent to know he was alive. “Well, that’s great, Doyle. I appreciate that.”
“Happy to help. You know that.” Doyle’s smile was easy to imagine through the phone. “So, you didn’t meet him? When I read your email about it being a big day and I didn’t hear from you, I thought maybe . . .”
“No, but hopefully later. Um, how’s my mom? Is she talking?” Ryder asked.
“She’s still pretty foggy because of all of the pain medication, buddy, but she looks good. Strong, like you. Positive thoughts, remember?”
“Honestly, I don’t feel so strong.” Ryder flicked his eyes at Mr. Starr, but of course Mr. Starr didn’t move or give any indication that he’d even heard.
“Well, you are. Look at you, down in Atlanta and you think you’re going to meet your dad?”
Ryder looked at the clock and his heart began galloping again. “In about a half hour, maybe.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“They had this batting contest at a place called Baseball World,” Ryder explained. “The winner got to be an honorary batboy for the Braves today. I guess it’s a big deal because batboys are supposed to be fourteen, but they made an exception for this contest so there were tons of kids.”
“And you won? That a boy! See what positive thinking does?”
“That’s the funny thing. I didn’t win. This kid, RJ Leonardo was his name. He won, beat me in a playoff, but there’s a doubleheader game today, so we’re splitting the prize.”
“That’s an awesome story, buddy.” Doyle chuckled. “Seems like luck is on your side.”
Ryder picked the signed baseball up off the table between the beds. “Yeah, seems like it.”
Mr. Starr’s wheelchair began to hum as he backed away from the window. “Do you really have to give him all the details? I thought you didn’t have a lot of minutes on that thing.”
Ryder nodded. “Okay, Doyle. I gotta go.”
“I heard that old grump grouching at you,” Doyle said. “Tell him I said to put a sock in it.”
Ryder smiled. “Okay, I’ll tell him. Gotta go. Kiss my mom for me. Bye.”
Ryder hung up and could tell by the look of Mr. Starr’s eyes that he was disgusted.
Mr. Starr gave a snort. “Do you realize you just told that buffoon to kiss your mother?”
“I said, you know, from me.”
Mr. Starr huffed. “All right. Let’s get you going. You ready?”
“I’ll be early,” Ryder said.
“Early bird gets the worm. Don’t they teach you kids anything anymore? It’ll take you time to get there, and if the media gate is half as incompetent as the security crew, they’ll need extra time to figure out who and what you are.”
“I’ve got this pass, though, and Mr. Kupec’s waiting for me.” Ryder took the special media pass from the envelope RJ had given him. “You’ve got to sign this, though.”
Ryder set the ball down. He helped Mr. Starr fit a pen into his right hand and placed the liability waiver on the desk where he scrawled out a squiggle that Ryder supposed could pass as a signature.
“You going to wait right here?” Ryder asked.
“Better that they don’t see me, you know that.”
Ryder took a deep b
reath and looked around. There was nothing more to be done. He turned and put his hand on the doorknob.
“Ryder!” Mr. Starr’s bark startled him.
“What?”
Mr. Starr snorted at him. “The ball. You forgot the lucky ball.”
“Oh.” Ryder felt his face heat up. “Thanks.”
“Can you imagine going in there without it? ‘Hi, I’m Ryder, remember Ruby?’ Come on. Be sharp.” Mr. Starr glared. “He needs to see that ball.”
Ryder retrieved the ball and left the hotel room in a daze. He stumbled through the lobby and out the automatic doors into the sunlight. The smells of game day hit him—hot dogs, beer, and bus exhaust—turning his stomach. He crossed the nearly empty street and headed down through the gallery of whispering trees. Fans were few and far between and only a few police officers talked over paper cups of coffee in the shade.
Ryder saw the media gate and walked right up to the black metal bars. It was locked. He turned to go when he saw a man with a laptop computer case wearing shorts and a flouncy polo shirt swing open a small door cut into the bars in the far corner of the big gate. Ryder started toward him and the man stopped and held the door for him.
Ryder lifted his media pass in the air and the man nodded as he let him through. “Sports Illustrated for Kids or something?”
“Batboy for the day,” Ryder said. “I won a contest.”
“Another contest. I wish we could hit as well as we run contests,” the man said. “If we did, we’d sweep the pennant this year. Come on. You probably need to see Ethan Kupec, right?”
“Yes,” Ryder said.
“You can follow me.” The man stopped and looked at Ryder’s hand. “Wait. What’s that?”
“Just . . .” Ryder gripped the ball tight. “A baseball.”
“To get signed?” the man asked.
“Yes.” Ryder’s voice was a whisper.
The man shook his head, scowling. “No way. They’ll never let you in with that thing. You’re a batboy, not some autograph hound. The rules are very strict. Here, you can give it to me and I’ll hang on to it for you.”