The Second Base Club

by Greg Trine

  “Got it, Coach.” My stomach lurched at the thought of walking out onto the mat—alone. No backup. Just me and my knuckle-dragging opponent.

  We went out to the gym, which was more crowded than I expected. Family members, mostly. I saw my mom and dad sitting together near the top of the bleachers, and right then my butterflies doubled. As far as I knew, my parents didn’t talk at all, and here they were, sitting together. Mom blew me a kiss. Dad gave me the thumbs-up. A few minutes later, Vern walked in with his yellow pad, followed by Tuck, who had on what looked like his Sunday best: boot jeans that were almost creased and a belt buckle so shiny it caught the reflection of the overhead fluorescent lighting.

  Vern walked over and clicked his pen. “So, Elroy, any last words? I mean, any thoughts?”

  “My parents are here,” I said.

  He looked up at the bleachers, located them, gave a nod. “That’s good, right?”

  “I need some air,” I told him. I went outside, and he followed. Two girls walked by and gave a long stare at my green tights, smirking as they continued past.

  “Wrestling team,” Vern said in my defense. Then he turned to me. “What is it? Nerves?”

  “My parents are here,” I said again.

  “You’re their offspring. It happens. Did you think they’d skip your high-school sports debut?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Parents showing up is a good thing.”

  “More pressure, I guess.” But I knew that wasn’t it. Mom and Dad sitting together was something I hadn’t seen in more than a year. I went back to the doorway of the gym and looked inside. My parents were watching Aquinas go through their warmups. I couldn’t read their expressions. Were they simply tolerating an uncomfortable situation for my sake? Or was something deeper going on?

  My stomach made a noise, and Vern heard it. He gestured to my gut with his pen. “Can I quote that?”

  I gave him a hard look.

  “Seriously. I have no idea how to spell it, but what a great quote.”

  I gazed back to my parents, who were now staring my way and waving.

  Vern shoved me from behind back into the gym. “Better get in there, Elroy. Your coach is looking a little peeved. My advice, concentrate on your match. Family worries can wait.”

  “Yeah. Good advice, Vern,” I said as the butterflies hammered against my ribs.

  “But before you go, got a quote for me?”

  “Just watch and report what you see.”

  I headed back toward my team. Tuck jogged over and offered me a mint from his back-pocket Skoal can. I took two.

  The more I thought about it, the more I liked that my parents were sitting together and seeming to get along. I had no idea what it meant, but I liked it. And that’s where I left it. I turned my attention back to the mat.

  After the JVs wrestled, they started the varsity match, beginning with the ninety-eight-pounders and moving up. Aquinas looked tough. Neither our ninety-eight- nor our hundred-and-six-pounder went the distance. But I knew Mike would be a different story. And he did not disappoint. It was nice to see someone else doing involuntary cartwheels for a change. But there was a downside—the match ended quickly.

  Before I knew it, I was on. The butterflies churned in my stomach and started clambering up my throat. Any second, I was going to throw up. I was sure of it.

  I glanced up at the stands, which were more crowded than they’d been a few minutes before. Some guys I’d seen around school sat in the first row. Crap. They’d see my ass-whupping up close and personal.

  Fake an injury, I told myself. It was my only way out.

  “Let’s go, Elroy,” Coach yelled. “Keep it going.”

  Too late—showtime. My heart throbbed as I strapped on my headgear and went out to shake hands with Long-Arms. I could feel the blood draining from my face. And my opponent was smirking, like he knew that I was no varsity wrestler, that this was going to be quick and painless . . . at least for him.

  I looked up at the stands one last time. Mom and Dad were staring right at me. Vern and Tuck were rooting me on. And that’s when it hit me. Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could do more than stay off my back. I looked across the mat at my opponent, who was trying to stare me down. I returned the gaze.

  “You won’t get any cartwheels out of me without my consent,” I mumbled under my breath.

  The ref blew the whistle, and I went after Long-Arms.

  The next day, Vern’s article came out in the Highmont Herald. Turns out, the guy can write.

  HIGHMONT WRESTLERS TAKE ON AQUINAS

  by Vern Zuckman

  Last night the Highmont Raiders wrestling team hosted the returning league champs, the Thomas Aquinas Saints. As expected it was business as usual for the Saints, with three notable exceptions—Mike Thomas, Todd Waylan, and first-year wrestler Elroy Tillman, who, at the request of Coach Bill Grogan, filled the varsity spot minutes before the match began.

  “He pulled off a win against a tough wrestler from a very tough school,” said Grogan. “I was impressed and a little shocked.”

  So were most of those in attendance.

  From the opening whistle, Tillman took the offensive, scoring a takedown in the first few seconds of the match in what seemed to be some sort of forced cartwheel. The Aquinas wrestler soon escaped, and then, just to show that it wasn’t a fluke, or possibly that lightning could indeed strike twice in the same place, Elroy Tillman did it again—he forced his opponent into another involuntary cartwheel. The Highmont wrestlers lining the mat were on their feet, cheering on their new teammate, who then turned it on, scoring near fall after near fall. Tillman won the match 15–10.

  “He was amazing,” said spectator Tuck Mayfield. “I’d hate to meet Elroy in a dark alley. . . .”

  I don’t know what got into me. Maybe knowing that it was my one and only match and that I had nothing to lose took the pressure off. I gave it my all because it was the only time I’d have to. In any case, it was nice of Vern to make me the focus of his debut article.

  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it made no sense to quit. I’d kicked ass in a match. I’d made another human being do cartwheels at my bidding. And if I kept wrestling, my parents would have to sit together for the next three months. How could I take that lightly?

  I couldn’t. True, there were no girls my age at the match, so the romance angle—the original reason for joining the wrestling team—no longer applied. I wouldn’t gain anything in the girl department by continuing to wrestle. But there were too many reasons to keep at it.

  I’d have to find another way to get some girl’s attention.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The girl quest continued. I went out to my oak tree before school and did eleven pull-ups. Then I added a few push-ups and sat on the front steps of the Airstream and waited for Vern. My best friend had a car. Life would never be the same.

  Vern pulled up a few minutes later, and Mom came to the door, thinking a tornado was kicking up and I’d better get inside. If it was a tornado, I certainly didn’t want to find refuge in a trailer. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s just Vern.”

  She stood there in her robe and slippers, looking out through the screen door. “Yes, I can see that,” she said as Vern pulled up. “The Death Trap, right?”

  “Yeah.” The Death Trap now had four fenders. It was still way too loud, had a crappy sound system, and looked like it was going to fall apart any second. But at least it had all its parts.

  I gave a wave. “See you later, Mom.” I got in and we took off.

  “So you know what tonight is?” Vern asked.

  “What’s tonight?”

  “Friday night. Highmont Ridge cruise night.”

  I’d forgotten. Cruise night was something I’d never participated in. With no car, there was no reason to. Now we had the Death Trap.

  “Let’s ask Tuck to join us,” I said.

  Vern nodded. We needed someone with confidence along for the
ride. Tuck wasn’t an in-crowder, but he carried himself as if he was. If we spent enough time with him, maybe some of it would rub off.

  We met up with Tuck in the quad at lunch. “Gentlemen,” he said, “fire up for cruise night.” Obviously, he’d been thinking the same thing. “Vern’s car isn’t pretty, but it will get the job done.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I had an idea. “Job done” sounded like “second base” to me.

  Vern picked me up that evening at seven. For once Mom didn’t rush to the door, thinking a tornado was racing up the canyon. “Hi, Vern,” she said, without looking up from her book. “Don’t stay out too late, Elroy.”

  “I won’t,” I said and was out the door before she could give me a specific time. Late was a vague concept, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  “Where’s Tuck?” I asked Vern as I got in on the passenger side.

  “Wanted to give you first dibs at riding shotgun.”

  “Good boy.”

  Tuck was out in his front yard casting his fly line when we pulled up. He reeled in the line and stowed it in the garage, then walked over. “Templin Highway was a bust, guys.”

  “No shit,” I said.

  “Although it smelled like it,” Vern added, fanning the air.

  Tuck got in behind me, and I shut the door. He said, “What I’m saying is, we haven’t celebrated Vern’s car properly yet.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “The Eastern Sierra during spring break.”

  “I’m in,” I said.

  But spring break was three months away. For now we had cruise night to think about. Vern put the car in gear, and we headed out to Thompson.

  The speed limit along Thompson was thirty-five miles per hour. Way too fast to see anything. And definitely too fast to flirt. Vern kept the speedometer at about fifteen miles per hour, which seemed to be the going pace, and we checked out the sights. The cars that weren’t inching along were parked along the curb. Sidewalks were packed with Highmont’s teenagers. Music blasted from car stereos. Some people (girls) were dancing, some had on Rollerblades—everyone hoping to be noticed.

  I did a quick zit-check in the side mirror. Not a pimple in sight. And the scuff marks from wrestling were hardly visible. I’d been working on ways to get beat up during practice without getting scuffed.

  Vern pulled up to a stoplight. Three girls stood on the corner and were looking our way.

  I turned to Vern and Tuck. “What do I do?”

  “Say something, stupid,” Tuck said.

  “Say something stupid? Wouldn’t it be better to say something intelligent?”

  “Say something, you idiot!”

  The girls were still looking at us. “What do I say?”

  The car behind us honked. Too late. The light was green, and Vern stepped on the gas.

  “Pull over, Vern,” Tuck said. “Elroy, let me out.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “No, I’m sitting shotgun. Gonna show you bozos how it’s done. Watch and learn.”

  Vern found an open spot at the curb and pulled over, but I wasn’t about to give up my seat. “I can do this. You just have to be patient, Tuck.” I turned to Vern. “Circle the block. See if those girls are still there.”

  But the girls were no longer there when we came by a second time.

  Tuck said, “Just be friendly, Elroy. That’s all. If you can’t be witty or charming, just be friendly. Chicks dig that. You’re thinking too much. You’re trying way too hard.”

  Maybe he was right. I could do friendly. When we reached the end of town, Vern turned the car around and we made another pass.

  “There.” Tuck pointed. “Three girls.” It was a different three. “Vern, stop at the light.”

  “What if it’s green?”

  “Stop anyway.”

  I glanced at the speedometer—thirteen miles per hour, then twelve, eleven. Vern kept slowing down. The car behind us honked.

  “Yellow light! Good driving, Vern.”

  He stopped the car at the intersection, which put us right next to the three girls. Tuck slapped my shoulder. “Elroy, you’re on.”

  “Just be friendly?” I whispered.

  “Yes. Friendly. Say something.”

  I cleared my throat. Then, “Good evening!” The girls turned toward me. Two blondes and a brunette. When I hesitated, Tuck slapped my shoulder and whispered, “Good start. Keep going.”

  “Uh . . . how are you this evening?”

  The one with dark hair took a step toward me. Our eyes met.

  “Well, well,” she said, “if it isn’t my favorite co-worker.” It was Juana Maria, but I hardly recognized her. Where was the peasant-girl outfit? She had on jeans and a sweater. She kicked the car tire. “That’s some . . . vehicle you’ve got there.”

  “Grrrrrr.” Vern gave her a dirty look.

  “Hi, Juana Maria. It’s a Volkswagen, 1961.”

  “I’ve seen worse.” She smiled. “Not really. I was just being nice. How’s it going?”

  It was all the conversation we had time for. The light turned green, and Vern hit the gas. I waved. “See ya.”

  “See?” Tuck said from the back seat. “Friendly works.”

  “You know her?” Vern asked.

  “We work together.”

  “She’s hot,” Tuck said.

  “She insulted my car. Those are fighting words.” He might drive a death trap, but it was his death trap.

  Tuck laced his hands behind his head. “Friendly works, gentlemen. Anything you want to know about women, just ask.”

  He really needed to get over himself, and Vern and I spent the rest of the evening telling him so.

  “Young man, there’s a fly on my table.” A customer at Ernesto’s pointed to the insect with her eyes.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said. I waved a hand to get it flying. Then I snatched it out of the air. I turned to the lady and smiled as the fly buzzed in my fist. “Anything else?”

  She just looked at me with her mouth open. It was a lucky grab, but she didn’t need to know that. I walked outside and released it.

  “Are you one of those snatch-the-pebble-from-my-hand types?” Juana Maria asked a little later. Apparently, word had spread quickly about my fly-snatching.

  “Snatch the pebble?”

  “Are you some kind of martial-arts genius or something?”

  I shook my head. “I had an agreement with that fly. The whole thing was staged. It’s all about getting the customer to leave a big tip.”

  “Wow. Amazing. You speak fly?”

  “Fluently.”

  She laughed.

  I liked making her laugh, for some reason. Little dimples appeared when she smiled, which were cute as hell. Not that hell is cute, but you know what I mean.

  “How did you like cruise night?” she asked.

  “Pretty fun. It was my first time.”

  “You really need to get out more. And I recommend a new cruise vehicle.”

  “Not exactly a chick magnet? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Juana Maria shook her head. “Definitely not a chick magnet.” She thought for a moment. “Hey, did you just call me a chick?”

  She grimaced. Even her pissed-off face was attractive.

  “Young lady? Is that better?”

  “Much. Would you like another tip?”

  “Sure. Lay it on me.”

  “When picking up girls, try not to begin with the word ‘uh.’ ”

  “Thanks. I’ll work on my delivery.” I made a mental note, right under “just be friendly.”

  The day after Christmas, Vern, Tuck, and I drove to Pasadena to work on the Rose Parade floats. It was the first road trip we’d been on since the Templin Highway and the Night of Gas. We needed a different memory.

  I sat in the back as we headed south on the 101. Tuck rode shotgun (his turn) and was fiddling with the AM radio, trying to get something besides a talk show.

  “How’
d you hear about this, Vern?” I asked.

  “My sister’s friends have been doing it for years. A lot of the Rose Parade floats are put together by volunteers. They may be designed by the pros, but a lot of the finishing touches are done by volunteers. Should be fun.”

  Tuck finally found a top-forty station and sat back, pleased with himself. “You can thank me later,” he said. It was music mixed with static, but it was better than nothing.

  We got to the airplane-hangar–sized building and signed in. A fat lady covered in flower petals greeted us. “Where are you boys from?”

  “Highmont Ridge,” I said.

  “What school?”

  “Highmont Ridge High School.”

  She looked at her clipboard and said, “Follow me. A few of your classmates are already here. We try to group people who may know each other.”

  There were four or five floats being worked on in the building, each one swarming with workers. Scaffolding to reach the high places. Drills buzzing and sparks flying from arc welders behind a green plastic screen.

  “You’ll be working on Paul and his friend,” the lady said.

  We all exchanged a look. “Paul?” Vern asked.

  We rounded a float, and the lady pointed. “Bunyan.”

  Paul Bunyan was lying down near the front of the float, in the shadow of Babe, which was mostly chicken wire that they were beginning to cover with blue paper. There was no chicken wire visible on Paul, and someone I knew was working on his shoes. Carol Ann, from math class. And I had my opening line ready.

  I walked over. “Got any parallelograms on you?”

  She looked up. “Hey, Elroy.” She shook her head. “Nope, fresh out of parallelograms.”

  I turned to Vern and Tuck. “I’ll work here.”

  Vern and Tuck went to help with the ox, and I turned back to Carol Ann. “So how can I help?”

  She handed me a brown paper bag, and I looked inside. “Peppercorns,” she said. “They need to be glued down one at a time.”

  “Tedious.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She had on jeans and an unzipped hooded sweatshirt. Very simple, very clean.