Pay Attention, Carter Jones

by Gary D. Schmidt

  We couldn’t hear the rest of the announcement because everyone in the stands was cheering.

  Team India was going to bat.

  And no one in the stands left to go to the snack bar—​not even for free coffee.

  · 26 ·

  Run Out

  If the striker should hit the ball in front of him, he will decide whether he and the non-striker will try for a run. If the ball should be batted behind the striker, then the non-striker will decide. This calls for each to judge the skills and speed of the fielders and the possibility of each reaching the opposing popping crease before the ball is thrown back and the batsman “run out.”

  The eighth-grade varsity cricket team gathered around the Butler, and I said, “How did you do that?”

  He was a little out of breath. Portly.

  “Young Master Carter,” he breathed, “as I have before observed, one uses one’s connections appropriately and judiciously. Now, Team Britannia has the opportunity to complete its overs—​assuming that the good Vice Principal DelBanco can be persuaded to hold himself from instructing his players to storm the field of Longfellow Middle School. So can Team India marshal a creditable attempt at making forty-seven runs to win?”

  “Nope,” said Singh.

  The Butler looked at Krebs.

  Krebs looked back. “My father is the new A.D.?” he said.

  The Butler nodded. “As has just been announced.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “The game is afoot, Master Krebs. Are you prepared to captain?”

  “I can’t believe you did that,” said Krebs.

  “Call your side,” said the Butler.

  Krebs grinned and nodded. “Chall and Hettinga, you’re openers,” he said. Then for the first time I’d seen him while he was holding a cricket bat, Krebs looked like he was somewhere else, and wherever that somewhere else was, it was a pretty happy place.

  But everyone in the stands looked like they were right there. The two old guys in white sweaters were pretty excited. They were leaning halfway over the fence and one of the guys was waving this wooden cane and calling something I couldn’t hear. And Emily and Charlie and Annie were pretty excited. They were screaming their heads off. And maybe even my mother was pretty excited. She was standing and clapping with the blanket still around her shoulders.

  The little kid was asleep in his father’s arms.

  But you know the Butler was excited too. He looked like Christmas morning.

  “August?” I said.

  “A noble name, descending in my family from my grandfather’s grandfather.”

  “It’s kind of a stupid name. I mean, it’s sort of like being named ‘September.’”

  “Of course, it is nothing like being named ‘September.’ It is, however, something like being named after a noble Roman emperor.”

  “Weren’t they all assassinated?”

  “Young Master Carter, the historians Will and Ariel Durant have written a wonderful if lengthy set of books—​The Story of Civilization—​that stretches to multiple volumes. They are in your proximate future. Now, shall we play?”

  “You didn’t tell me Krebs’s father was the new A.D.”

  “The right moment had not appeared.”

  “So how—​”

  “There are times, many times, young Master Carter, when we find ourselves in a position of great purpose. It may be that the apt word, spoken at the apt moment, leads to great good in the world—​and most often, that is a word of kindness and encouragement. And now, I believe your immediate role is to offer encouragement to Masters Chall and Hettinga, who are batting for your team.” He turned to the eighth-grade varsity cricket team. “Team India in,” he called. “Team Britannia on the field—​with dispatch. Master Krebs, your batsmen require bats. Masters Singh and Jenkins, you’re our bowlers, correct?”

  Krebs handed Chall his bat, and I ran the other out to Hettinga—​you know, Krebs looked like Christmas too—​and Singh stood on the wicket, ready to bowl, and Team Britannia stood out in the field, leaning forward, ready to catch, and the stands were cheering—​especially the old guys in their white sweaters—​and the cold wind was blowing—​you can’t believe how good it would have been right then to have a cup of hot tea with milk and sugar—​and Vice Principal DelBanco was scowling, and Singh was trying to rough up the ball a little bit until the Butler called that illegal and took that ball out of play, and Coach Krosoczka was standing on the track clapping his hands, and Chall was swinging some practice swings, and we had six overs, thirty-six balls, to score forty-six runs—​no, forty-seven runs—​and you know what? It was just about perfect.

  It was so perfect that when Singh delivered his first ball and Chall swung high—​probably because he didn’t keep his arm straight—​and the ball skipped past him and hit the stumps square and knocked the bails six feet away, I was still okay. Even Krebs was still okay—​because, you may remember, his father was the new A.D., and Krebs was looking like Christmas too.

  Because not all the bails get knocked down.

  I looked over at my mother. I wonder if she knew that not all the bails get knocked down.

  I looked over at my sisters.

  Not all the bails get knocked down.

  They don’t.

  * * *

  But even though he was looking like Christmas, Krebs was still captain of Team India. And you remember that when you’re playing cricket, you pay attention. So Krebs stood not far behind the wicket, scribbling on a pad, and I knew what he was figuring out. We needed forty-seven runs and we’d already lost our first batsman.

  That is, if all of us got to bat before the Longfellow Minutemen took back their field.

  Krebs looked a little less like Christmas.

  Hettinga scored eleven off fifteen, and then Briggs scored six off four—​until he was caught out. He batted for eighteen minutes, because Jenkins didn’t hurry with his bowling.

  Minutemen sprinting up and down the sidelines, sort of growling.

  Yang came in next, and he struck balls like he’d been born to it. He scored twelve easily off six balls, and might have scored a lot more except he thought a spin was coming inside but it was going outside, and he slapped it off the end of his bat and was caught out.

  He batted for fourteen minutes.

  Vice Principal DelBanco stalking up and down the sidelines, sort of growling.

  Krebs scribbling on his pad. Looking less and less like Christmas.

  The Longfellow Minutemen and the Seton Badgers throwing passes along the sidelines.

  We had twenty-nine runs.

  The Minutemen and Badgers gathering in packs in the end zones.

  Eleven balls to score another eighteen runs.

  And then Krebs handed the bat to me.

  “You’re the next batsman,” he said.

  I looked at him. “I’m a sixth grader,” I said.

  “Obviously,” he said.

  I looked at the stands. I looked at Team India, huddling together against the wind and the score.

  “Shouldn’t it be . . .”

  “Pay attention, Carter,” said Krebs. “You started this. So pay attention.”

  The sound of high birds screeching—​but you know what? Maybe they weren’t screeching. Not anymore. Maybe they were calling to each other. Maybe each one was trying to tell another one where he was.

  They were calling.

  Dang, they were calling.

  And I turned to defend my wicket to the death.

  You remember the name on my hoodie?

  Virender Sehwag.

  You know about Virender Sehwag, right? You know he scored 130 against New Zealand—​which would win us the game on the Longfellow Middle School football field. He scored 250 against Sri Lanka, and 319 against South Africa. No kidding: 319. And he did it fast. He got his first century with just sixty balls.

  That’s the guy whose name was on my hoodie, in case you forgot.

&nbs
p; Virender Sehwag.

  The crowd in the stands was on their feet.

  The two old guys in white sweaters were probably ready to have a stroke.

  Annie and Charlie and Emily screaming.

  My mother standing with the blanket around her shoulders.

  Coach Krosoczka still clapping his hands—​probably to keep them warm.

  Virender Sehwag.

  Me.

  · 27 ·

  The DrIve

  The drive is a stroke by a batsman who is aiming to attack the ball. Usually this begins by waiting for the ball, then setting the forward foot close to the pitch, well forward.

  Okay, so it wasn’t the most glorious moment in cricket history. Still, it wasn’t so bad, either.

  Singh stood with the ball in his hand—​not roughing it up, but sort of smiling. I think he could feel vengeance surging in his blood.

  He shook his arms, eyeing me.

  He shook them again, still smiling.

  He took his stance—​and quacked.

  Yup—​he quacked.

  But you know what? I was in the Blue Mountains once. I had stood where dinosaurs hunt and snakes slither and crocodiles scramble.

  I was not going for a duck.

  Singh bowled the first ball, and I struck it wide.

  I shouted “No” to Hettinga, and he stayed at his wicket. Hopewell already had fielded the ball, and there was no way we would make a run.

  But Hettinga shook his head.

  The next ball I blocked wide of my wicket.

  The next ball I struck well right back at the bowler, and it might have gone a long way. But Singh tipped it up, and Jenkins almost caught it.

  Still no runs—and only eight balls left.

  Hettinga shook his head again. He probably didn’t think a stupid sixth grader should be batting.

  He wasn’t looking like Christmas.

  Singh was sort of grinning this whole time, and every so often he gave his little quack, even though Krebs told him to cut it out.

  Then Singh, still grinning, bowled the next ball, and I have to say, it felt like I was getting my eye in, because it seemed to come at me in slow motion, and I knew exactly how it would bounce, and exactly when I should swing.

  And I did swing exactly when I should.

  The ball took off toward the covers, and I hollered “Yes” to Hettinga and he took off toward me, and I took off toward him, and when we reached the crease, Hettinga hollered “Yes” and we took off again, and there I was back at the crease, two runs scored.

  Two runs!

  And maybe I was a little excited. Because when the next ball was bowled, I watched it come at me in slow motion again, and I knew exactly how it would bounce, and exactly when I should swing.

  Except the ball came higher than I expected, and the ball hit the top edge of the bat and flew behind me with not much on it.

  “Yes,” shouted Hettinga, and he took off toward me.

  And I took off toward his wicket like there were hunting dinosaurs and slithering snakes and scrambling crocodiles behind me.

  Talk about slow motion. You can’t believe how long it takes to run twenty-two yards. It takes about a hundred years, even though when Hettinga ran past, he was screaming “Go go go go!”

  And you can’t believe how it feels to put your bat down into the popping crease.

  And then to turn to look at Singh, expecting run number three.

  And then to look at Hettinga, who was standing with his hands clasped on the top of his head.

  And then to look at a grinning de la Pena, who was standing beside him with the ball.

  And then to look at Krebs, who was kneeling on the ground.

  And then to hear the Butler: “Young Master Hettinga is run out. Team India, you are down to your last over.”

  Krebs stood. He laid his pad on the ground. We all knew the score: sixteen runs needed off six balls. He took the bat from Hettinga. He punched Hettinga lightly on the arm. He swung the bat low—​once, twice, three times. He walked up to the crease.

  Then he looked at me.

  I know. It’s just a cricket match on a middle school football field on the last Saturday in October. It’s not even a full match. Hardly anyone in the stands even got the rules. The Longfellow Minutemen were ready to storm the field, because they didn’t care who lost or who won. Maybe none of it made any difference.

  But watching Krebs stand with his bat, looking at me, I saw way, way behind him, a kid gathering wet sticks, then building a fire and getting it going all right, and then having it all swept away into the high wet grass. And I wished Captain Jackson Jonathan Jones hadn’t done that.

  I wished more than anything he hadn’t done that.

  “Are you—”

  “Don’t let the bails come down,” I said.

  Krebs smiled. He laughed out loud. Then he hollered, “Pay attention, Carter,” and Singh handed Jenkins the ball, and Krebs took two more practice swings, and Jenkins got ready to bowl, and so began our last over.

  * * *

  Krebs didn’t screw up.

  Krebs paid attention.

  And it was so beautiful.

  The crowd watched from the stands, the two old guys in white sweaters standing the whole time. Vice Principal DelBanco watched. The Longfellow Minutemen watched. The Seton Badgers watched. The guys from WZZN watched and filmed. You know, even the wind that had been blowing pretty hard—​not like an Australian tropical thunderstorm, but pretty hard—​even the wind calmed down, like it was watching too.

  Mr. Lionel Krebs, our new district athletic director, watched.

  Everyone watched Krebs, who that day had the sweetest swing any cricketer could ever want.

  Who looked like he could do anything anyone could ever hope to do with a cricket bat.

  He hit past de la Pena, who was playing cover.

  He hit over Hopewell, who was at mid-off.

  He hit over Jenkins at mid-on.

  It was so beautiful. Coach Krosoczka stopped clapping his hands and just watched. Sometimes, even Team Britannia applauded. It was that beautiful: his eye on the bounce of the ball, the way he followed it into his bat, his extended arm, the smack of the ball against the bat, the blur of him in his whites, running across the wicket like he was gliding.

  And I was gliding too.

  He’d hit, and yell “Yes,” and I wouldn’t even watch the ball. I’d just watch him, and run when he told me to. We passed each other again and again, and I made dang sure I ran fast enough to get to his wicket and then back to my own so he could keep facing the bowler. Only once he slapped it behind him, and you know what? He looked at me and watched, until I hollered “Yes,” and we ran and ran. And when the last ball was bowled to him, he took it on the upward bounce and drove it, drove it, drove it and bounced it across the boundary, and the Butler cried, “Well done, Master Krebs—​four runs!” and Team India went wild and I think you probably know why. And so were the people in the stands, and the Longfellow Minutemen and the Seton Badgers. And Coach Krosoczka was clapping his hands again. And the new A.D.

  And the Butler stood at midfield and watched us, holding his arms around his portly self, and when Vice Principal DelBanco came over to shake hands, he did, and right after that, Team India and Team Britannia ran over to the Butler, and I think we would have raised him on our shoulders except, you know, he was portly. And then the Minutemen and the Badgers were all around us, and at the same time the wind released from its hush, spilled from the low clouds, and piled a chilling cold all over us. But even that didn’t matter. The eighth-grade varsity cricket team picked up Krebs—​he was a lot lighter than the Butler—​and you know who else they picked up? And they carried us both off the field, and we were laughing and waving our bats around, and when we got to the track we had to walk through the crowd and they were cheering and making cricket jokes even though they didn’t know any real ones, and someone gave Krebs a flag and it was the wrong one—​a British flag, b
ut he didn’t care—​and he handed me one corner and held the other and it flew in the cold wind, and Krebs said, “Hey, Carter,” and I looked at him, and he said, “We kept the bails up!” and the two eighth-grade announcers from the booth above us asked everyone to clear the track so the football game could begin, and it took a long time but we finally did, and so we came to the end of our match.

  With the bails up.

  With the bails up.

  With the bails up!

  And the next day, the Butler was gone.

  · 28 ·

  Milestones

  For both batsmen and bowlers, milestones should be acknowledged with polite, if subdued, clapping. For bowlers, a milestone might mean a striking of five or more wickets. For the batsman, it might mean fifty runs, or a hundred—​or sixteen. Accomplishment of all stripes, in cricket as in life, is worthy of honor.

  When my father and I were in the Blue Mountains, we hiked, him in front, me right behind him—​always right behind him. We watched the Australian tropical thunderstorms belly in, we watched the skies clear, we watched the air turn that hazy eucalyptus blue. It was always wet enough and hot enough to kill lesser mortals. And except for the hunting and the slithering and the scrambling and the sounds of water dripping or gushing—​and the calling of the high white birds—​we heard only each other’s voices.

  Down in the valley of the Blue Mountains, when my father saw something he wanted me to see, he’d say, “Carter,” and he’d point. That’s all. Just “Carter.” And he’d point to some plant or flower like it meant a whole lot, and usually I didn’t even know what I was supposed to look at. But he was saying it like he was saying, “I’m glad you’re here with me to see this.”

  I think that’s what he was trying to say.

  Even if . . . Well, I think that’s what he was trying to say.