Say It Ain't So

by Josh Berk

  There were also lots of old-school tips on “getting tough.” This was apparently a big part of being a catcher. You were supposed to spend a lot of time punching your catching hand with your other hand. I guess the idea was that it would numb the nerves or build up calluses or something. I tried it, but felt silly. It looked like I was itching to start a fight with someone.

  Finally Mike came back into the garage. I knew he was wearing a cup but I tried not to look down there. This was getting weird.

  “Um, ready?” I asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” he said. “If I’m going to make the team, I’m going to have to get used to this. You know, Davis Gannett has no fear of the fastball.”

  “Davis Gannett has no fear of anything,” I said. Davis was an eighth grader and the current starting catcher on the Schwenkfelder Middle School baseball team. He was as big as a high school senior and it wouldn’t have surprised me to find out that he was actually twenty-five. The kind of kid who might have flunked a few grades—say, ten or fifteen. He had a little mustache and a shaved head. Most of the kids at Schwenkfelder had this blow-dried side-combed haircut like a certain pop star made popular. Not Davis Gannett. He had a head shaved so close it must have been done with a straight razor. What hair he did have was very light, blond to the point of being almost white. It made him look like an old man. It made him look like a serial killer.

  Mike took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and said, “Let ’er rip.”

  I brought back my right foot and did as I was told. I kicked Mike in the crotch. Hard.

  He didn’t even blink. “Is that all you got?” he said. He yawned and cracked his knuckles.

  “Just warming up,” I said. I took a step back and really let him have it. Again, not even a blink. It was then that I knew he was going to make the team. He was going to be a star. It was also then that Mike’s little sister, Arianna, walked into the garage. She had grown a lot in the past year. She was, much to my annoyance, like, almost as tall as me. She was terrifying as a tiny person, so now she was, well, whatever is beyond terrifying. She always hated me for some reason, and the feeling was beginning to be mutual.

  “My turn! My turn!” she said.

  “No way,” Mike said. “Get out of here. I don’t want you anywhere near me, Arianna.”

  “I don’t want to kick you,” she said. “I want to kick Lenny.”

  “I’m not even wearing a cup!” I said.

  “I know,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “That’s my point.”

  Mike and I looked at each other. He started to laugh. I did not.

  “Uh, can we go do something else?” I asked.

  “You go ahead inside,” he said. “I have a few more drills I need to practice. You can check out my new toys.” Then he paused for a second and hastily added, “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize to me,” I said. “You didn’t invent Discardia.”

  “Oooh,” he said. “Actually, I did. I’m also behind National Mustard Day. And Have a Bad Day Day.”

  I should have laughed. It was a pretty good one. But I was feeling so glum. It wasn’t just the toys. It wasn’t just that Mike was obviously going to make the team while I sat on the sidelines. It was more than that. He had this … this thing he was so excited to do. Little League is big around here, yeah, but the middle school baseball team is what’s really huge. Mainly because the high school baseball team is always great. It’s a pretty small school, but they had an amazing history of success.

  Schwenkfelder High’s baseball team (Fighting Quakers!) wins the division pretty much every year. They won the state championship in 1982 and I think that was the biggest thing to ever happen to Schwenkfelder. I don’t just mean the high school—I mean the whole town. There is still a giant blue and white banner hanging over the front door of the high school: SCHWENKFELDER HIGH SCHOOL—PENNSYLVANIA STATE BASEBALL CHAMPIONS 1982. The only other banner is the one that says ADEQUATE YEARLY ACADEMIC SCORES! You can tell that they’re way more excited about the baseball. Actually, it’s really funny that they even made a banner celebrating being adequate. Maybe someone complained that they should celebrate academic stuff as much as sports, but the best thing they could say about the school’s academics was “adequate.” That exclamation point isn’t fooling anyone.

  The guys who played on that 1982 team are still kind of legends around town. The current head coach was one of those guys—one of the pitchers from that ’82 team. His name is Gary Hinzo and everyone calls him “Coach Zo.” Short for “Hinzo,” I guess. The assistant coach—Ray Moyer—was on that team too.

  Another local legend was Pete Benderson, who everyone calls “Bendy.” Baseball nicknames aren’t really that inventive a lot of the time. I mean, yeah, sometimes there’s “Old Tomato Face” (Gabby Hartnett) or “Puddin’ Head” (Willie Jones). Usually it’s like, “Hey, let’s call Willie McCovey just ‘Mac.’ Christy Mathewson? Let’s call him ‘Matty.’ Mike Lieberthal? ‘Lieby.’ ” Basically, you just take the first syllable of their last name and maybe add a y. … I guess I’d be “Norb”? Or maybe “Norby”? Doesn’t sound that cool. Maybe I’d get a good one. I would do anything for a great nickname. Wouldn’t really want to be “Old Tomato Face,” though. Possibly I could be like Garry Maddox: “the Secretary of Defense.” Do you think people really called him that, though? Like out at dinner? “Hey, the Secretary of Defense, could you pass the pepper?” Probably they just called him “Garry.”

  Anyway, Bendy was the star center fielder of 1982 and supposedly got a tryout with the Phils. He didn’t make it, but he was still a big shot and the most popular barber in town despite giving truly awful haircuts. Dads just wanted to take their kids there to hear his baseball stories of years ago.

  My point is, any kid on the high school team pretty much had it made. So the excitement started young. T-ball could get intense. Making the middle school team was like getting signed to the minors—the first step on a journey to the big time. You could have ugly clothes and your haircut could be the old Benderson special—long in front and short in random spots—but if you were on the baseball team, you’d be a golden child.

  So Mike had this ahead of him. State championships. Trophies. His name on a plaque. Everybody looking up to him. A half-decent career as a barber. What did I have to look forward to? Last year was pretty cool—winning that contest and solving the mystery of Blaze O’Farrell. But what was next? Had I already had my one and only moment in the sun? Were the clouds already gathering on the life of Lenny Norbeck?

  “Ah, I’m just gonna head home,” I said. “I’m not feeling so great.” It wasn’t the truth but it wasn’t exactly a lie.

  “Oh, okay,” Mike said with a shrug. “I guess I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sure thing.”

  Before I even finished the short sentence, Mike was back with his nose in Hey, You! Be a Better Ballplayer! Become a Star Catcher! He was muttering under his breath, “The positioning of a catcher’s feet is of utmost importance.” Practicing his footwork, I guess. I heard his sneakers squeaking on the garage floor as I turned to ride home.

  Back at school on a cold Monday morning, the talk through the halls was all of gifts received.

  “You got the new first-person shooter game War-Face 5: Faces of War-Face?! Yeah, me too!”

  “You got a bike? Awesome!”

  “Yeah, but it’s too cold to ride it.”

  “So what? Bike’s always a great gift.”

  I just listened. I had nothing to add. You know what’s not a great gift? Giving away all your stuff. So, yeah, I kept my head down and my mouth shut. At lunch it was pretty much the same.

  I tried to be friendly as the Mikes discussed their haul. Other Mike was going on and on about the new Warlock Wallop boxed set he got. Twenty-two books.

  “Don’t you already own all twenty-two?” Mike asked.

  “Sure,” Other Mike said, talking louder than necessary. It was noisy in the cafeter
ia, but he was, like, yelling. “But this set includes newly drawn maps and character bio sheets and the box itself! Oh man, it’s made out of real dragon leather. Well, okay, not real dragon leather, but it feels just like it!”

  I wanted to ask Other Mike how he (or anyone) knows what real dragon leather feels like. And also how you could even make leather out of dragons anyway. Weren’t they covered in scales? But I wasn’t feeling nearly chipper enough for this sort of conversation. I just nodded my head up a little as if to say “Oh yeah,” and went back to eating my turkey sandwich. It tasted kind of gross and I chewed without enjoyment.

  Mike listened patiently and then proceeded to tell Other Mike about his Christmas gifts. It was of course all catching gear. Catcher’s mask, chest protector, shin guards, training DVDs, and whatever else. Probably a diamond-encrusted cup. Other Mike didn’t know all that much about baseball, but he did know that Mike used to be a pitcher and quit after his injury. Specifically, Mike had said: “If I can’t pitch, I don’t play. It’s the most important part of the game and the only part I want to do.”

  When Other Mike quoted this back at Mike now, Mike launched into a speech. It almost sounded like he’d been practicing it.

  “You know—I’ve been thinking about it. Catchers get no credit. It’s not fair. They’re actually the most important player on the team.”

  Other Mike only shrugged as if to agree. But I couldn’t let this go. I simply couldn’t. It was Mike himself who always said the pitcher was most important. And now, just because catching was his new kick, he thought it was the most important thing in the world? Just because a catcher saw him tackle a guy in a shopping mall meant that Mike was the best catcher ever?

  “Well, I don’t know if I’d say most important,” I said, swallowing the slimy mass of turkey.

  “What, pitcher?” Mike asked.

  “Well, kind of. The catcher wouldn’t have a lot to do without a pitcher. He’d just be a guy squatting in the dirt looking like he’s trying to take a poop on the side of the road.”

  Other Mike laughed and coughed on his milk. I smiled a little. Mike did not smile. He chomped angrily on a potato chip.

  “The catcher makes the pitcher,” he said. “A good catcher can make a bad pitcher good and a good pitcher great. It’s our job to instill confidence. To call a good game.”

  “If you say so,” I said. I wiped my mouth. I was trying to stay calm but I could feel my heart start to beat faster.

  “What?” Mike said.

  “I said, ‘If you say so.’ What?”

  “You’re disagreeing with me.”

  “I am not,” I said. Though, yeah, I kind of was. I felt myself getting angrier.

  “Are too!”

  “Now you’re disagreeing with me about whether or not I’m disagreeing with you.”

  Other Mike laughed again, but this time it was a nervous sort of laugh. Kind of like a hiccup. Like a huh-whuh more than a ha-ha.

  “Is something bothering you, Lenny?” Mike asked, his voice getting louder. “You’ve been acting weird for a long time.”

  “Oh, I’ve been acting weird? You spend all your time punching yourself and asking people to kick you in the crotch, and I’m acting weird?”

  “Let it out, Lenny. Let it all out. You’re jealous of me and you know it.”

  “I am not! I’m happy for you. Or at least I was. Until you got so freaking high and mighty on your horse. Catchers aren’t the most important thing in the world. They just catch the ball. Just because you are one now. Funny how that works. How whatever you are happens to be the most important thing in the world.”

  I guess my voice must have been getting really loud at this point because all the tables around us got a little quiet. I felt a bunch of eyeballs staring at me. I felt my ears burn hot and my blood run cold. Then I heard a voice.

  “Hey, what are you dork-buckets arguing about?” the voice asked us. “Trying to figure out which one of you is a bigger dork-bucket? I got the answer for you: it’s a three-way tie for first place. All three of you are coholders of the world’s largest dork-bucket trophy. There, I solved the mystery for you. Now please stop yelling so I can go back to enjoying my three lunches.”

  The voice belonged to Davis Gannett, just about the worst person a voice could belong to. As I mentioned before, he was a mean-looking eighth grader who towered over everyone with his shaved head and fierce gaze. Other things to know about Davis Gannett: He liked to call everyone dork-buckets (obviously) and thought he was hilarious. Also, he was the catcher on the Schwenkfelder Middle School baseball team. Everyone knew this. Everyone except Other Mike.

  Other Mike also did not know when it was a good time to keep your mouth shut. Times like, say, when a mean teacher is serious about giving the class detention for one more peep. Times like, say, when a bad guy with a gun is telling you to be quiet. Times like when Davis Gannett was standing at your lunch table calling you a dork-bucket.

  “No,” Other Mike said, blissfully ignorant. “We were actually arguing about which is a more important position in baseball—pitcher or catcher. I have no opinion on the matter personally, but Lenny here is defending the pitcher, while Other Mike is all about being a catcher.”

  “Is that right, dork-bucket?” Davis said, addressing Mike directly. He spoke in a low, quiet voice. It was almost a growl. He sounded like a grizzly bear. A grizzly bear who has been smoking a few hundred cigarettes every day for a few decades. “You’re all about being a catcher? As in you just want to join my fan club? Tell me it’s not that you want my job on the team?”

  “Oh, Davis, are you a catcher too?” Other Mike said.

  “What do you mean too?” Davis snarled.

  “Um, as in ‘also’?” Other Mike offered, not very helpfully. “I know it’s confusing because it can also mean the preposition to or the number two.” As always, the point when a normal person would stop talking sailed right past and Other Mike continued to yammer. “Ha-ha,” he said. “Number two. That’s confusing because it can mean you’re counting or it can also mean poop. Which reminds me of a funny thing Lenny just said earlier, which is that a catcher actually looks like he’s taking a poop. What was it, Lenny? A catcher looks like someone squatting on the side of the road to take a poop?”

  Davis just stood there, blinking, not quite able to believe any of this. I couldn’t believe it either. What was Other Mike doing? Davis just kept blinking, staring, rubbing one of his huge hands over his sheared scalp.

  “How about I take a poop in your milk, Lenny?” he said to me finally. He stared at me, not blinking. I guess he was actually waiting for an answer.

  “No, well, I wouldn’t like that really,” I said. Honesty is the best policy! I sort of wanted to change the subject. To get it off of how I was making fun of catchers and to get it back to how Mike was trying to take Davis’s spot on the team. But even though I was mad at Mike, I didn’t exactly want to get him killed. Then Mike spoke up. He also stood up. His chair squeaked on the floor and somehow the cafeteria got even quieter. A chair squeaked in anger was a clear sign to shush. Was there really going to be a fight?

  “Yeah, Davis,” Mike said, his voice only shaking a little bit. “I’m a catcher too. I’m going to practice all winter long and come springtime I’ll see you behind the plate. May the best man win, and please leave my friends alone.” He thrust out his hand for Davis to shake it. Davis stared at it for a long moment, then slapped it away.

  “Ha,” he spat. “A dork-bucket like you taking my spot on the team? You think you know baseball now? Playing the game is a lot different than watching it on the couch—believe me.” His voice climbed from a growl to a yell. “You dork-buckets think you’re so great because you solved some mystery? Well, the only mystery you’ll be solving is the case of the disappearing dork-buckets. And you know where they’ll find you? Buried in a hole in the ground behind the dugout! Bring it, DiNuzzio. You’re going down.”

  He grabbed the milk off my tray. For a
brief, disturbing second I thought he was going to take a poop in it. Instead, he just chugged it in one big gulp, then threw the carton onto the ground.

  Mr. Donovan, the hefty social studies teacher, came jogging (more like waddling, AM I RIGHT??) over, presumably to see what the fuss was about. Or maybe to tell Davis to pick up the milk carton. Davis ignored him, and made a rude gesture with his hand and stormed toward the exit. Mr. Donovan looked shocked. He slowly bent over to pick up the milk himself and followed Davis toward the door. Mr. Donovan moved so slowly Davis would probably be in Ohio by the time he caught up to him. The rest of us sat in silence.

  I expected Other Mike to say something stupid, like how it would be sort of impossible for us to solve the mystery of the disappearing dork-buckets if we ourselves were the ones dead and buried. Which actually wouldn’t have been a stupid thing to say, but rather a valid point. Anyway, Other Mike thankfully let it go. The bell rang. Lunch was over. Davis was off somewhere, probably pooping in milk cartons and/or getting detention again.

  “Thanks, Mike,” I said in a whisper. And I meant it.

  From that day forward, I knew what I had to do. I knew I had to help Mike make the team. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t at least do that? Soon the ground began to thaw and the birds started to return to their springtime squawking. Phils preseason games were visible on TV, shooting up like sprouts in the cold ground.

  And then Mike’s dad did something awesome: he built a pitcher’s mound and backstop in the backyard. He got some dirt from wherever you buy dirt from. (Note: My fallback career from baseball announcer could be dirt salesman. Seems pretty easy. Dirt is everywhere. You just walk around picking it up in the woods and then put it in a bag to sell to people in the suburbs. Genius.)

  Mr. Mike was pretty great at that kind of thing. One time when we were little he built an ice-skating rink in the front yard. And of course he invented the lawn couch. Heck of a guy. But he really outdid himself with the pitcher’s mound. There was even a backstop and a real home plate fifty feet away. It was everything a budding catcher needed to learn to ply his trade. The only thing missing was someone to pitch to him.