Say It Ain't So

by Josh Berk

  “Yes,” I said. “And it wasn’t. It was you. Even though my name was on the telescope!”

  Coach sighed. “It was me. The signs. No idea who murdered Dan Aykroyd. Didn’t even know he was dead.”

  I turned off the microphone. I felt so proud. Again, I expected a round of applause. There wasn’t one. Most everyone in attendance was just confused. I guess it was not what they expected from a middle school baseball game.

  Coach Zo spoke quietly. “I wasn’t trying to frame you, Lenny,” he said. “I just needed a telescope. I bought that one used at that Salvation Army store downtown.”

  “Discardia!” I said through gritted teeth. Still ruining my life. That must have been where Mom donated my stuff. Just a coincidence. Not a massive conspiracy to frame Lenny Norbeck.

  Which meant that I just outed Coach Zo’s secret plan for nothing. Oops.

  Luckily, he took it well. I mean, he didn’t murder me, so that was a good starting point. Hunter, on the other hand? Hunter did not take it well. He stood there on the mound with a look of total disbelief. He started screaming at Coach!

  “Is this correct?” he yelled. “Is this how you treat the Great Imperial Ashwell? Is this how you treat the most amazing pitcher the game has ever known?”

  “That’s it,” Coach hollered back. He left the announcer’s booth and walked onto the field. He was yelling and everyone in the crowd was listening with rapt attention. “I guess you learned nothing! That’s it! You’re sitting today. Hrab, you get in there.”

  Henry Hrab quickly grabbed his glove and ran onto the field.

  “You can’t bench the Great Imperial Ashwell!” Hunter yelled.

  “Oh yes, I can,” Coach said.

  “No, you can’t,” Hunter said. “Because the Great Imperial Ashwell quits.”

  He dropped his glove on the mound and slowly walked off the field, never looking back. Everyone was stunned. No one knew what to do for a second. The crowd became restless.

  “Um, should I still get in there?” Henry said.

  “Yes,” Coach said. “Let’s play some ball.”

  I turned the microphone back on and repeated his words. “Play ball!”

  The game started and, long story short, we got our butts handed to us. Henry kind of got shelled. He wasn’t prepared, wasn’t expecting it, and, let’s face it, wasn’t Hunter Ashwell. So the season ended in a tie. Total sister kiss. That is, if kissing your sister is the worst feeling in the world. At least for me. Because it was all my fault! If Hunter had stayed in there, we could have won. We would have won. They didn’t have a telescope in our park, did they? Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?

  The next few days at school, everyone was talking about what happened at the baseball game. I mean, it was big news. A coach stealing signs from his own team? Kind of a crazy story. Kind of a big deal.

  Still, what was Coach Zo thinking? Well, I’ll just let you read the interview they did with Coach Zo in the Schwenkfelder Intelligencer. (Our newspaper has a weird name.)

  Q: So, Coach Zo, you decided to steal the signs from your own catcher and tip off the opposing team. My first question will seem like an obvious one. Why?

  A: I’ve said it a lot of times and I’ll say it again. It’s my job to win baseball games, yeah, but I like to think that what I’m doing out there is a little more than that. I’m turning these young boys into men. I teach them a lot of positive traits. I teach them to work hard. I teach them to be respectful. And yes, I teach them humility.

  Q: By cheating against your own team?

  A: It’s not cheating. Not really. If you can find something in the rulebook, I’d love to see it. And, yeah, I know it was not exactly a typical move, but it needed to be done. I tried talking to Hunter Ashwell, benching him—I tried everything. It didn’t work. But Hunter needed a lesson in humility. He needed to learn what it was like to come back to earth. He needed to know that no matter how great you are, there’s always someone better. And so I taught him that lesson.

  Maybe I cost my team a ball game or two, but that boy won something bigger. He learned what it’s like to lose. Important lesson.

  And besides, there’s only three teams in the league. We’re still tied for first.

  Q: Didn’t you cost him a chance to be his best in front of a big-time scout? You might have hurt his career. His parents could sue you.

  A: Oh, let them sue. And by the way, there were no scouts coming to that game. I know there was a rumor that Truck Durkin was hiding in the bushes to watch Hunter pitch. How do you think that rumor got started? I started it. I wanted to see how Hunter would handle the pressure. Sometimes coaches do things like that. And you know what? He handled it terribly. Grabbing the microphone before the game and giving that speech. Unbelievable.

  He needed to have his world upended. It was good for him.

  Q: And what do you have to say to Lenny Norbeck, your own team’s announcer, who figured out that it was you who was stealing the signs from your own team?

  A: Ha! Lenny’s a good kid. Am I saying I wish he would have gone about sharing his discovery a different way? Sure, sure. But I’m kind of proud of him, really. Smart boy. He could have a bright future as a baseball coach if his whole career as an announcer/detective doesn’t pan out.

  I was famous!

  It was hard to believe that it was our coach. Our own coach. The legendary Coach Zo—the man with the best winning percentage in school history. He helped us lose a game. He was the one giving signs to the other side.

  On Friday I sat with Mike and Other Mike and Davis at the lunch table. We went over the events again and again.

  “Can you believe it?” Davis said.

  “I can’t believe it,” Mike said.

  “I also can’t believe it,” Other Mike said.

  As you can tell, we could not believe it.

  “Coach Zo, who would have guessed?” I said. “Oh yeah, me! I’m a smart boy!” I was gloating a little.

  Then Hunter walked by, carrying his lunch tray. “I don’t even want to hear that name,” he hissed at me.

  “Come on, Hunter,” Davis said. “You have to forgive him.”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “And you have to think twice about quitting the team.”

  “No, I don’t,” Hunter said. “I don’t even need to think once about it. I’m glad I quit that stupid team. The Great Imperial Ashwell will never again pitch for that Coach What’s His Name.”

  “Coach Zo,” Other Mike said helpfully.

  “I said he should not be named!” Hunter said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Come on, man,” Davis said. “We could really use you in the play-offs.”

  “There is no chance on earth,” Hunter said. “I don’t even want Schwenkfelder to win. I’m going to be cheering for Griffith to crush you.”

  “No way,” Mike said. “That’s not cool.”

  “And you know what?” Hunter said. “Next year, I’m going to make sure Griffith wins.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” Hunter said. “You’ll see. Oh, you’ll see, all right. Yeah, you’ll see.”

  “I guess we’ll see, then,” Other Mike said.

  With that, Hunter walked away.

  “Well, that was weird,” Mike said.

  “We can still beat Griffith in a one-game playoff,” Davis said.

  Because the silver lining to my costing us the chance to clinch first place was that we still finished the regular season tied for first place. This is fairly common in a league with three teams. We split our games against Griffith. Both Schwenkfelder and Griffith swept Highland. That left two teams tied for first. Since there were only three teams in the league, the play-offs were just two rounds, with one team getting a bye. Since there was so often a tie, the ingenious method of a coin toss was developed to see who got to skip the first round.

  As the Fates would have it, the Schwenkfelder Mustangs won that coin toss! We did it! We made it to
the finals! Not that exciting really, considering it was just a coin toss. And also considering that Highland made it to the semifinals having lost every single game. And also considering that playing Highland was pretty much the same as getting a bye. Okay, they weren’t that bad, but I knew Griffith would beat them. Which meant we would in all likelihood face Griffith in the finals.

  “I know we can beat them,” Davis said. “Even without the Great Imperial Dork-Bucket or our coach.”

  “I can’t believe they’re suspending Coach Zo for the rest of the season,” Mike said. “He was right—he didn’t technically break any rules. There’s nothing in the rulebook against giving signs to the other team.”

  “Looks pretty bad, though,” I said. “Plus, his shenanigans got me punched in the eye.”

  “Yeah,” Davis said. “You mentioned …”

  “So Zo is really out the rest of the way?” Other Mike said.

  “Yup,” Davis said.

  “So who will coach the games, then? Coach Moyer?” Other Mike asked.

  “Probably,” Mike said. “It won’t be the same without Zo, but we can still win this thing.”

  “Yeah, we can,” Davis said. They high-fived.

  Then Other Mike raised an interesting point. “Well, if Moyer becomes the head coach, who will be the assistant?”

  “Good question,” Mike said. “I guess we’ll go with just one coach?”

  “Or,” Other Mike said, “you could add a student-coach.”

  “Is that, like, a thing?” Davis asked.

  “Are you volunteering someone?” I asked. “Because I already have a job as announcer. Flattering and all. Really nice of you to suggest. I do have some thoughts about defensive shifts and bullpen management, but—”

  “No,” Other Mike said. “I was volunteering myself.”

  “Yeah?” Davis said. “You’d be great!”

  “I thought you meant me,” I said, kind of sad. I mean, I liked announcing, but being a coach would be more fun. Plus, did Other Mike really know anything about baseball?

  “Oh, I think I have a plan for you, Lenny,” Mike said.

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s a surprise,” he said.

  “I hate surprises,” I said.

  “Too bad,” Mike said. “This is a good one.”

  “Here’s one question I still have,” Other Mike said. “Why were those kids attacking Lenny for snooping around the billboard at Griffith?”

  “Well, just because they weren’t the ones who put the telescope there doesn’t mean they weren’t in on it,” Mike said. “Coach Zo had to have an accomplice. He had to give the signs up to somebody. They had to have someone up in the scoreboard sending signals.” He turned to me. “They saw a guy snooping around and wanted to scare you off. They probably even recognized you as a Schwenkfeldian.”

  “They had to be from the Griffith team,” I said, touching my eye. It had healed, but the memory remained. “Those jerks.”

  “And the way to get back at them,” Mike said, “is to do it on the field.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Beat them good for me.”

  Mike and Davis exchanged a look. “Why don’t you beat them yourself?” Davis said.

  “What do you mean?” I said, chewing on some cheese curls.

  “Lenny,” Mike said. “Fine—that’s the surprise. I told Coach Moyer about your arm.”

  I stopped chewing. “What about it?” I said. I examined my arm. It just looked like an arm.

  “All that time practicing throwing those wild pitches—you got really good.”

  “Yeah, really good at throwing wild pitches,” I said.

  “No, just really good at throwing. It’s pretty unusual, but we could use an extra pitcher now that Hunter quit. Maybe you can make the roster for the play-offs.”

  I almost choked on my cheese curls. Could I really do it?! “I think you can make it through the grueling one-game play-offs without me.” No one laughed. I thought we were just joking around. But they were being serious. They were being serious about me replacing Hunter Ashwell? The best pitcher in the league? The guy who threw a perfect game?

  “Yeah,” Davis said. “And you obviously know baseball. Plus, you’re tough. And not afraid of anything.”

  I had no idea who they were talking about, but I decided just to roll with it.

  Davis continued. “Being wild is not bad sometimes. Scares the hitters off. And next year I’ll be in high school. You guys will have to carry this team. With Mike as your catcher here, you never have to worry about a wild pitch. I’ll switch out to first base when they bring you in to pitch.”

  “He is like a Bench,” Other Mike said. We laughed.

  “Wait, do you mean it?” I said. “You really think Moyer will let me join the team? To pitch for the play-offs?”

  “Yeah,” Davis and Mike both said at the same time.

  “Unbelievable! I’m going to get to pitch? Will I be a starter or a reliever? Should we go over signs? Do you think I’ll get a nickname? Should I be ‘Wild Thing’ or maybe ‘the Fireman’? How about ‘the Heartbreak Kid’ because of, you know, how my parents are cardiologists? Oh man, what number will I get to wear, and should I use eye black or go eye-black-free?” I asked.

  “Um, maybe slow down a little,” Davis said. “Have the tryout first.”

  I could not slow down. My mind was racing. “I’ll take anything, but I have to have a nickname. ‘Firpo’? ‘Salty’? ‘Heinie’ Manush? Those are real baseball names. Never mind. How about ‘Wild Bill’? Wild Bill Donovan was a good pitcher.”

  “Your name is not Bill,” Other Mike pointed out unhelpfully.

  “How about Boots Poffenberger?” I said.

  “Now you’re just making stuff up,” Mike said. I wasn’t. That’s totally a real baseball player. You can look it up.

  “The Lunatic?” I suggested.

  “Getting warmer,” Davis said. “Getting much warmer.”

  So after school that day, I was to join the team for practice. Me! It was the team’s last practice before the big game, which was scheduled for Saturday. They had a lot to go over, what with their new coach. For indeed, Coach Moyer ascended from assistant to head coach. The assistant coach spot was vacant. Could it really be Other Mike? They had signs to go over and strategy to consider. But before that, there was the matter of filling the open roster spot vacated by Hunter Ashwell.

  Coach Moyer instructed the rest of the team to warm up in the outfield while Mike strapped on the catcher’s gear and Lenny “the Lunatic” Norbeck climbed the pitcher’s mound. But I knew the guys weren’t going to take their warm-ups very seriously. They were going to have at least one eye on the mound.

  “Okay, kid,” Coach Moyer said. “Newts said you got a pretty good arm, so let’s see what you can do.”

  He tossed me the ball, and through some small miracle, I caught it. My hand was so sweaty that it was hard to grip the ball. I tried to pretend that I wasn’t about to try out for the team. I tried to pretend I was just out in Mike’s backyard, flinging practice tosses to him. If he believed in me, I could believe in myself.

  I went into my windup and fired one hard and fast, right down the middle of the plate. It smacked Mike’s mitt with a satisfying thud. I considered yelling something about how I was the Great Imperial Lenny! But it didn’t seem like the right time for a joke. I just nodded like it was something I had done a million times. Which, if you thought about it, I had. All those hours practicing with Mike were paying off. But my next pitch wasn’t so good, and Mike had to dive to his left to catch it. And my next one hit a pickup truck in the parking lot. But the next few were right down the middle (more or less), and Coach Moyer had seen enough. My heart was pounding.

  “Well, beggars can’t be choosers,” he said. Man, talk about a ringing endorsement.

  “Does that mean I’m on the team?” I asked.

  “You got it, kid,” he said. “I like a little wildness in my relievers. Keeps the batters
guessing. You’re just lucky that wasn’t my truck. It belongs to Donovan and I hate that guy.”

  Again, not the most enthusiastic endorsement. But still! I was on the team! It was just for one game and it was just because Hunter had quit and it was pretty likely that I was never going to get in. But still! Lenny “the Lunatic” Norbeck, wearing a uniform. Putting on a glove. Smearing on the eye black. (I definitely needed eye black.) Lacing up the cleats. (I would need to buy cleats! My feet have grown about twelve sizes since the last time I played.) And heading to the ballpark.

  “Thanks, Coach,” I said. “You won’t regret it.” I looked over to the bleachers where Other Mike was sitting, cheering me on. “Oh, and if you happen to need an assistant coach for the big game, I know just the guy. My friend over there is an absolute genius and—”

  “Does he have a pulse and the ability to carry a bucket of balls?” Coach Moyer asked.

  “Um, one out of two?” I said.

  “Tell him he’s hired,” Coach Moyer said.

  Team Lenny and the Mikes.

  Play ball.

  Griffith beat Highland in the first round of the play-offs, just as we knew they would. It wasn’t even close. They pounded them, and before you could say “round one,” the run rule went into effect. A total whooping. So this set up a one-game, winner-take-all championship game. Schwenkfelder versus Griffith. Good versus evil. Mustangs versus Griffins. Which totally isn’t fair if you think about it. Griffins are half eagle and half lion. In other words, the coolest animal ever. Mustangs are just horses. And not even big ones. But anyway, in this case, the Mustangs were sure to win. If I didn’t blow it! My first game would be for the trophy. I was trying to not freak out.

  I was failing.

  I was freaking out pretty much around the clock. I didn’t sleep at all. I developed these big pouches under my eyes that made it look like my face was packing for a long trip. Because of the bags, I mean. Never mind. It got worse on the night before the game. I had weird dreams. All the normal nervous dreams everybody has. Like I was trying to run in wet grass but kept falling down. Like I was falling and couldn’t stop. Like all my teeth were falling out into my baseball glove. Okay, that one might not be one that everyone has.