Joey shrugs.
“Because he gets him his drugs, man.”
We drive in silence. Joey has been thrown out of his house a couple times and stays with his old man across town. He stops and parks in front of the old Pitcher’s house. Some family bought the place, and the garage is all the way down. He looks across at our house with the garage up a little way and the light on. When he turns off the car, we can hear the ballgame.
“Shit…he was over there, and now he is your house.”
I nod. “Yeah. Crazy, huh?”
Joey strikes a cigarette and shrugs, slumping down. It’s been a long time since we hung together. It’s like I went one way and he went the other, and in a way it’s kind of sad, but I don’t think about it too much.
“I remember how we used to throw all that shit under the garage. You remember that?”
“Yeah, man. Good times,” I say, nodding.
Joey stares down the street then looks at me.
“So you going to play in the majors or what?”
“I don’t know, man. I quit the team, you know.”
Joey stares at me. “What do you mean?’
“I quit the team, man. Coach started playing this Bailey dude, and I just said screw it.”
Joey shakes his head slowly.
“What are you doing, man? You got it going on. You got something, man. I am doing my shit because I don’t have it going on…but you. Ever since we were kids, you had an arm, and now you can go all the way, man. You can’t quit. You can’t let some dude from Texas knock you off your thing.”
Joey ashes his cigarette out the window.
“You’re going to play, man. Nobody has an arm like you.”
“That Bailey does,” I grumble.
Joey frowns.
“That dude is all roids man. He ain’t the real thing, but you are. You got it, man, and you just gotta suck it up, you know, and go kick his ass.”
I shake my head.
“The MLB doesn’t know that, man. They just see his fastball.”
Joey looks at me in the half-light.
“You are the real thing, man. That dude’s going to flame out.”
I stare at Shortstop, who has just come out of the garage. He is real old now and moves pretty slow.
“I dunno. Lot of guys get called up and then just choke, man. Or they put you in the Minors, man, and you never get called up.”
“Now you’re talking shit.”
“Yeah, well, I got smoked.”
Joey stares at me.
“So what, man? Everybody gets smoked, but you don’t lay down then, man. You fight back! That dude was all lit up on blow and roids. ‘Course he smoked your ass.”
I stare down our street and nod slowly. For the first time I feel like going back.
“Well, it doesn’t make it any easier,” I mutter.
Joey flicked his cigarette into the street.
“Nothing is easy, man. Nothing is easy. Look, man. You just keep playing the way you been for the last three years. They know who is the real thing, and they know who is bullshit. It’s like their job to know the difference, you know.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” I mumble.
“So what up with this stuck-up bitch, man, you dumped Es for?”
I look at Joey. He always liked Esmeralda, and I know it burns him that I dumped her.
“I dunno, man. I just want to see what the other side is like, you know. Doesn’t matter she dumped me.”
Joey shakes his head.
“Damn, rich white chicks are going to dump the Mexican every time. You should know that, bro.”
Joey taps the steering wheel and lights a cigarette. “You shouldn’t ought to do Es that way, man. She really wanted to go to prom, you know.”
“You take her, man.”
He rubs his goatee, then smoothes his shaved head with his palm.
“You know she don’t want nothing to do with me, man. Never has. It is your ass she wants. She always has ever since we were kids. You know that.” Joey’s eyes glimmer in the darkness, and he taps his cigarette toward me.
“You gotta remember where you came from, Ricky, even when you leave, you know.”
“Well, I ain’t going anywhere now,” I say tiredly.
“Yeah. I hear about all these college dudes flying you all over the place.”
“That was before. Besides, I got to graduate first, man.
“Uh-huh. You going to graduate.”
I slump down and can see the Pitcher’s ankles in our garage.
“Maybe not. I got like three classes borderline. Might just end up hanging at McDonald’s.”
“What! Get out of here, man,” Joey says shaking his head. “You just feeling sorry for yourself. You got to graduate. Maria kick your ass all over the place if you don’t.”
I see Mom looking out the window just then.
“Yeah, I better go.”
I get out of the car, and Joey leans over.
“Hear your dad is back, man.”
“Yeah, the asshole is back,” I say nodding.
“What’s he want?”
I shrug.
“Figures I owe him if I go MLB.”
Joey rests his hand on the steering wheel.
“He never did shit but beat your ass.”
“”I know. Tell him that.”
Joey nods slowly, then looks up.
“You want some of my homies to have a word with him?”
I lean on his car and shake my head.
“It’s cool. I’ll handle him.”
“Don’t let him hit you, man.”
“I’ll kick his ass,” I say
Joey looks at me again.
“Don’t let this Bailey dude mess you up, man. You got a talent, man, you got an arm. You can’t let this steroid dude knock you off, you know. You got something people will kill for, man, and you got an old man who can tell you what to do with it, and you got a mom who will do anything so you can get your dream. She is just busting your balls, man. She wants you to do the right thing, you know.”
I hang on the window and nod. Joey stares at me.
“Don’t end up like me, man. This is nothing, bro. But you got it, and you can’t turn your back on your talent. It goes with having it, man. You ain’t no McDonald’s dude without a diploma. You are Ricky Hernandez with a million-dollar arm. You can’t let down your mom or the Pitcher, man. They believe in you, you know. And so do I.”
He leans over and nods, and we bump knuckles.
“You can’t let down yourself, either, bro. “
Joey starts his car.
“Alright, man. I’ll catch up with you,” he says.
“Cool,” I say.
He drives off, and for a moment it feels like old times with just the ballgame and the darkness and Shortstop asleep. I turn and stare at the house the Pitcher lived in. Sometimes, man, you just don’t want the old times to end—even if they were bad.
36
CARL HUBBLE WAS A dominating screwball pitcher. He pitched so many screwballs, his arm was deformed with his palm facing permanently out. I feel like Carl facing my coach, like I am deformed or at least defective. He came over on Sunday night and says he wants to talk. We all sit in the living room. The Pitcher, Mom and me. Coach looks funny in his South High School shirt and big thighs in his shorts. He sits on the edge of the couch with his legs apart. He looks at me.
“I want you back. But I wanted to let you know, Ricky, that I am having trouble getting around the eligibility requirement.”
Basically, he is talking about my grades. The teachers send these reports to the coaches that say how you are doing. And I am not doing so well.
“Ok,” I say.
“Ok,” Mom says
“Ok,” the Pitcher says.
Coach rolls his hands and looks at Mom, then me.
“But I need your word that you will graduate. That you will do the work required and graduate. If I can tell the District that, then you are back on the team.”
Like he is playing this all like I quit because of my grades or something. Maybe it lets us all save face in a way. Maybe Coach jumped the gun, too. Coach is looking at me, and then Mom is looking at me. The Pitcher is looking at me. I am looking at me. Can I do it? Can I graduate? I look at Mom, and her eyes are taking me apart. I nod slowly.
“Yeah. I will graduate,” I say.
“He will graduate,” Mom says.
“He will graduate,” the Pitcher says.
The coach smiles and stands up.
“Alright. I will see you at practice tomorrow then.”
He pauses.
“Bailey will be starting, but that is because you have been gone,” he says in a way that shows he isn’t happy about things either.
I look at Coach Hoskins. He has always been square with me, and I see how my quitting bothered him.
“I get it,” I say.
He looks at me.
“You are still my main guy, Ricky.”
I smile.
“Thanks, Coach.”
Coach leaves happy. Mom turns to me, and her eyes are kind of glassy. The Pitcher looks different, too, and I don’t want to use the word respect, but there is something in his eyes.
“Let’s get to work,” Mom says.
“Yeah, let’s get to work,” the Pitcher says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
37
BABE RUTH WAS TRADED to Boston with the promise he would manage. He never did get the call to manage. His talent was leaving him, and his final homerun, number 714, went out of the park and just kept going. He was forty and finished. But he went out on top. And maybe that is the thing. If you are going to go out, you want to go out on your own terms. And quitting was not my terms, and letting Bailey beat me was not my terms either.
So I am watching Bailey. He’s been getting dressed for practice, and I’m by my locker. He looks up and cocks this big grin like he’s Babe Ruth or something.
“So they are going to let you play even with your crappy grades, Mex?”
“Yeah,” I say, closing my locker and walking over with my cleats on the cement floor.
Baileys flaming helmet is by him, and he’s pulling on his custom gloves.
“Sorry to take your spot, Mex, but with the kind of games I’ve been having, grades aren’t going to save you. No hitters are hard to come by, and you can pour all the Cokes you want all over me, but you ain’t going to put out my fire, Mex.”
He’s wiping his Oakleys and standing up. I nod and say.
“Yeah. You’re right.”
“Even had to take your girl, Mex, but that comes with the territory, don’t it? When you the man, you get all the goodies.”
“Yeah,” I say. “The same territory that comes with a steroids coke head.”
Bailey’s eyes become cool, and his grin is not so cocky all of a sudden. His eyes close down and then he laughs, but it is not real.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Mex.”
I nod slowly and stand close to him.
“Talking about ninety-five mile an hour fastball. What do you pitch without steroids and blow, like seventy five?”
Bailey laughs and shakes head.
“That’s good, man. You are creative, Mex. But just because I wiped you out with my fast ball don’t give you the right to accuse me of taking steroids. But since it’s your first day back, Mex, I’ll overlook it.”
Bailey starts walking toward the field door with his cleats clicking away.
“Coach won’t overlook it,” I call after him.
“Keep talking shit, Mex,” he calls back.
“Raoul Sanchez won’t overlook it either,” I shout.
Bailey stops with his back to me. Just stops dead and turns around. That Texas grin is frozen as he comes back and stands up close. He lowers his voice and looks around like someone is hiding nearby.
“What did you say, Mex?”
“I said Raoul Sanchez is a friend of mine, and we Mex stick together, bro.”
Bailey is sweating. Just pore-popping pearls all over. He moves his head one way and then the other. He would take a punch if he wasn’t so freaked out.
“What are you saying?”
But he has lost his punch. He has lost it all. And unlike Babe Ruth, he doesn’t have one last homer left in him.
“What I am saying is you’re leaving the team and going back to wherever you came from…Tex. Because Raoul is ready to go into the coach’s office and bust your ass, man. And then it’s urine test time, and you ain’t going to be able to drink enough water to get rid of all those ‘roids. They hang around for like two weeks, man, and blow takes like a week.”
Bailey swallows and shakes his head.
“I ain’t leaving the team.”
“Yes, you are, bro. Because if they bust you, then you can’t play anywhere. So it’s either you leave here, or you leave baseball for good…Tex.”
Bailey’s mouth hangs open. His eyes look like they are tearing up. His flaming helmet looks really stupid.
“Hey, you wouldn’t do that to me, man. I mean…”
I nod slowly and grin.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I would, man. I’ll smoke you anyway I can. Besides, we Mexs got no heart, man. It’s from crossing the desert. Only the strong survive, and ain’t no steroids. Just tell Coach you don’t feel good and then just say you don’t want to play, man. Or better, go play somewhere else. And I’ll tell Raoul to be cool, and you can keep stoked on ‘roids and blow.”
I put on my hat and slip on my Oakleys.
“See you later….Tex.
38
BOB FILLER WAS SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD pitcher who struck out seventeen batters in the Majors. Then he went back home to finish high school. Like I went home after every practice to finish high school, and on the third day of practice Coach has an announcement. Bailey Hutchinson has transferred back to East Side School. …Coach says he doesn’t get it either, but he will be pitching for East, and we will face them in the playoffs. Coach says he’s never had anybody just up and leave like that who was doing so well.
But the East coach will play anybody who will help them win, so it didn’t surprise me Bailey was their pitcher. A lot of guys have gone crosstown so they could play for East. Sometimes, it’s guys who didn’t like the coach or guys who had trouble with grades. Or guys who quit because they don’t want anyone to know they’re hopped up on coke and steroids.
“Ricky, you lead off,” he says, locking eyes with me.
“Great, Coach,” I say.
Christine comes to my locker in the hall. She looks like a movie star. You know, all blond and tan with white teeth gnashing her gum.
She smiles and says, “Bailey left school, Ricky.”
“Yeah, I heard,” I say, getting out my books for class.
She is holding her books up by her chest, and I can smell her perfume.
“There goes my prom date.”
“I’m sure he can still take you.”
She frowns.
“You don’t know anything about him leaving like that, do you?”
“Nope,” I say.
Christine nods slowly and looks at me with her blue eyes turned way up. She is standing real close, and I just want to get to class. I can feel my heart, and I turn to her.
“So, are we still going to prom?”
I frown.
“Thought you were going with Bailey.”
“Oh, no. I was just kidding. I was always going with you, Ricky.”
I shut my locker. She goes with the wind, and somehow she knows I beat out Bailey. But that doesn’t cut it anymore, and suddenly like she doesn’t even seem that good looking to me now. So I shake her off and move out from my locker.
“I bet you have a lot of dudes who want to take you, Christine,” I say.
She pouts with her lips pursed up.
“But I want to go with you, Ricky.”
Just then I see Es walking down the hallway.
“Pardon me,” I say and leave Christine and run after Es.
“Hey, Es…”
She is walking with her girls, and she turns.
“Es, can I talk to you?”
Her girls stare at me like I am trash. I get it. She makes a big show of walking over like she doesn’t care and stares at me. Her eyes are suspicious.
“What do you want, Ricky?”
I shuffle my feet and pause.
“Listen, Es. I want to say I’m sorry about what I did to you before. It was wrong, and I apologize.”
Her eyes go cool, and she looks at Christine.
“You mean throwing me over for Mrs. Stuck-up there.”
I nod and breathe deeply.
“Yeah…Es…look….” I breathe heavy again. “I know I blew it, but will you please go to prom with me? I mean, I get it if you don’t want to.”
“What about her?”
I shrug.
“I had my head up my ass, you know. She is just like that Bailey dude who took my spot, lot of smoke and mirrors. I don’t care about her. She doesn’t mean anything to me.”
Es nods slowly and lowers her eyes.
“You want to go with me over her?”
I nod. “Yeah…I do,” I say, meeting her eyes.
Es wipes her eye real quickly, then nods.
“Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”
I nod and then smile.
“Cool. I’ll call you.”
And then Es turns back to her girls, and I watch her walk down the hall. Christine is still by my locker.
“Ricky, I waited for you while you talked to that girl. Doesn’t that show I want to go with you?” she says, kind of red in the face.
“Yeah,” I say, meeting those blue eyes. “Too bad I just asked her to prom, huh,” I say, closing my locker.
And then I walk down the hallway, and I can feel Christine’s mouth just hanging open, man. Feels good. Real good.
39
WHEN THE BLACK PLAYERS went to Cuba, they were lionized. Nobody could understand why they weren’t allowed to play in the Majors in America. They went to Cuba to find the democracy they didn’t have at home. Must be the way Bailey felt when he left our school, because the word is he is the starting Pitcher at East and so he must feel like he went to a different country where they still respected him.
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