Establish residence? What did that mean? He named the only team from their district that had given them trouble last season. “Like Millerville High?”
The coach snorted. “Think Millerville’s in any better shape than us? Same thing could happen there, if not this month then next, or next year. No, where you gotta go is someplace more prosperous, the kind of town that’ll have baseball no matter what, even in a crappy economy.”
Wyatt tried to think of towns like that. He hadn’t traveled much, had been out of state only once, last year when the four of them-he, Cammy, Linda, Rusty-had taken a trip to Disneyland. He’d seen prosperity on that trip-they’d spent an hour or so driving around Beverly Hills-but the coach couldn’t be meaning somewhere like that. Was there even a high school in Beverly Hills? That would be like transferring to the moon.
“I’m thinkin’ Silver City,” the coach said.
“Silver City?” It was at the other end of the state, four hundred miles away.
“Know any folks down that way?”
“No.”
“Not an issue-I got some contacts at Bridger High. I’ll make some calls-just say the word.”
“So, I’d be, like, living in Silver City?”
“Exactly. Living there. Residing. Can’t just parachute in and suit up. That’s only in The Show.” Coach Bouchard laughed.
Wyatt didn’t get the joke. “But, uh, Coach, living with who?”
“Some family that likes baseball. Boosters, kind of thing. Coach down there’s Bobby Avril-should be able to set you up, no problem. Bobby sent a kid to Tulane last year, full ride, and another one to Arizona State.”
Full ride: sounded like words to make a magic spell. This was all so much. Wyatt tried to line it up in his mind the way the English teacher did on the blackboard, using-what were those marks called? Bullet points? Yeah, that was it. Wyatt lined up the most obvious bullet points, like living in a new place, a booster family, Bobby Avril, and leaving home.
“Well?” said the coach.
Wyatt took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“Smart man,” said the coach. “All you got to do is keep doin’ what you’re doin’. Play hard, stay relaxed.”
Wyatt nodded. Yes, he could do that. He was going to miss things, his mom, of course, and Dub and the team, and other kids at East Canton High, but: yeah. And Cammy. He was going to miss her, too. Wyatt held out his hand. “Thanks, Coach, thanks a lot.”
“Don’t thank me,” the coach said. They shook hands. The coach’s hand was hard and rough, the big fingers twisted. Wyatt turned to go. He was almost at the door when the coach called him back. “One more thing,” he said. Wyatt walked back into the room. The coach opened a filing cabinet under the window, searched through the bottom drawer. “Here you go,” he said. “Might as well have this. Everything’s just gonna end up in boxes in my garage, moldering away.” He gave Wyatt a photograph, six by nine or so.
“What’s this?” Wyatt said. A black-and-white photo and obviously kind of old, the edges yellowish and turning up, it showed two guys in baseball uniforms with East Canton on the chests, although the lettering was different from the lettering on the uniforms now. One of the guys, the unsmiling, older one, had a salt-and-pepper mustache. The other was a kid, maybe about Wyatt’s age, a good-looking kid with a big white smile on his face. Wyatt didn’t recognize either of them. “Who are these guys?”
Coach Bouchard jabbed his finger at the older one. “That’s me, for Christ’s sake.”
“Oh,” said Wyatt. “Sorry.” The mustache had fooled him, plus how young the coach looked; his face-now deeply grooved-had hardly any lines at all. But those cold eyes were the same; he should have seen that. “Who’s the other one?”
“Take a guess.”
Wyatt had no idea. “The team captain, maybe?”
“Woulda been, if he’d stuck around for another season.”
“Uh-huh,” Wyatt said. Why did the coach want him to have this picture?
“No idea who that is?” Coach Bouchard asked.
“Nope.”
“Look closely.”
Wyatt looked closely, shook his head.
The coach gave him a long stare. “Maybe this ain’t such a good idea,” he said. He reached for the photo, got a corner of it between his fingertips, but Wyatt didn’t let go.
“Why not?” he said. “Who is this guy?”
Coach Bouchard sighed. “Ah, Christ,” he said. “It’s a slick-fielding shortstop I had way back when. Name of Sonny Racine.”
The photo trembled slightly in Wyatt’s hand. “My father?” he said. “My real father?”
The coach sighed again. “Biological, I guess they say these days, ’stead of real.”
3
Wyatt held the photo in both hands, kept it steady. He’d never seen a picture of his father before; they’d been separated, if that was the way to put it, prior to Wyatt’s birth. First had come six or seven years of ignorance, then his mom-it was just the two of them then, pre-Rusty-had sat him down and told him the story. After that came a year or two of intermittent questions, and since then he’d pretty much stopped having any thoughts at all about his-how had Coach Bouchard put it? — his biological father. Had he ever asked to see a picture? Maybe, long ago, because he had a faint memory of his mom telling him there were no pictures. Now, with this photo in his hands, one thing was clear: the son looked a lot like the father, at least the father as a young man.
Wyatt glanced up. The coach was watching him, eyes narrowed. “How come you never told me about this?” Wyatt said. “I never even knew he…he played ball.”
“You never asked,” the coach said. “And it was all a long time ago. Maybe a mistake, like I said. Give it back. I’ll put the damn thing in a box. End of story.” He reached out.
Wyatt drew the photo away. “I want to keep it.”
The coach raised his hands, palms up. “Okay. It’s all yours. And as far as I’m concerned, might as well tell you I had no problem with him. Never in trouble that I knew of, fine fielder, fast, like you, but nowhere near the hitter. Didn’t have your pop. Don’t know whether that’s information you want or not.”
“I–I don’t have much information at all,” Wyatt said. “About him.”
The coach nodded. “Prob’ly best. But I figured at least you knew he went here, East Canton High.”
“I guess I should have realized,” Wyatt said. “But I never really thought about it.”
“That’s prob’ly best, too.”
Wyatt took another look at the picture. That flashing white smile: this kid-wearing number eleven, Wyatt noticed, his own number, an observation that gave him a sudden strange feeling in his gut-seemed pretty happy. “How come he stopped playing?”
Coach Bouchard shrugged. “Stopped lovin’ the game, maybe? Lots do, no idea why. Don’t recall the details in this case, not like he was the star of the squad or nothin’. Mighta dropped out of school. Lots more did that back then. Now, drop outta high school and you haven’t got a chance.”
“How come?”
“How come? Lookit the world out there.”
Wyatt swung by Dub’s place on the way home. The Mannions lived in a big farmhouse just outside of town; they had chickens, a couple of horses, and a mule they’d named Wyatt. As Wyatt drove past the corral, Wyatt the mule curled back his lips, showing huge yellow teeth; he was a mean bastard. That was the joke: the Mannions were fond of Wyatt-Wyatt the kid-and almost treated him as one of their own.
Wyatt parked beside Mr. Mannion’s car-a shiny black Caddy, three or four years old. Mr. Mannion could probably afford a new one every year, but the Mannions weren’t like that. Wyatt knocked on the front door.
“It’s open,” Mrs. Mannion called from inside.
Wyatt went in, saw her in the kitchen, slicing a big red tomato. “Hi, Mrs. Mannion.”
“Hi, sweetie. I think he’s downstairs.”
Wyatt found Dub and Mr. Mannion i
n the TV room. The Mannions called it the TV room but really it was a cool home theater, with a huge flat-screen TV, surround sound, soft leather couches, and an old-fashioned popcorn machine. But the TV wasn’t on, and Dub and his father were talking, Dub on a stool, his father behind the bar. They stopped as Wyatt came in.
“Hey.”
“Hi, Mr. Mannion.”
“Lousy goddamn news,” Mr. Mannion said. He was a big bald guy, once a Big Ten linebacker, now twenty or thirty pounds overweight.
“Yeah, I know,” Wyatt said.
Dub glanced at his father. “Can I tell him?”
“Don’t see why not,” said Mr. Mannion.
“Tell me what?” said Wyatt.
“The thing is,” Dub said, “my dad’s kind of, you know, like, arranged, uh-”
Mr. Mannion interrupted. “Listen to him, Wyatt. Seventeen years old and he can’t string two words together. What he’s trying to say is that starting next week he’s going to be living with his aunt in Silver City.”
“Silver City?” Wyatt said.
“I’m transferring to a school down there,” said Dub.
“Bridger High?”
“How’d you know?”
Wyatt laughed. “I’m doing the same thing.”
Mr. Mannion gave him a quick, sharp glance.
“You are?” said Dub.
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “When did the coach talk to you?”
“He, uh, didn’t,” Dub said.
“Coach didn’t talk to you? I don’t get it.”
“My dad-”
“The Bridger AD and I went to college together,” Mr. Mannion said.
Mr. Mannion was a smart businessman, as everyone said, knew how to get things done. “Cool,” Wyatt said. “We’ll be there together.” He laughed. “Maybe the whole team’ll move down.”
Dub laughed, too. Then he said, “Hey, Dad-any chance Wyatt can live with Aunt Hildy, too?”
“One thing at a time,” Mr. Mannion said. He checked his watch, then went upstairs.
Wyatt and Dub made popcorn, cracked open some sodas, watched SportsCenter. “Ever been to Silver City?” Dub said.
“No.”
“Pretty nice town,” Dub said. “Practically in the mountains. They got elk there.”
That sounded good.
“We could take up bow hunting,” Dub said,
“Nah,” Wyatt said.
“Ice climbing?”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “We’ll need crampons.”
“What’s that?”
“Kind of spikes for your boots.”
“How do you know that?”
Wyatt shrugged. They were showing highlights on TV. A skinny guy with full-sleeve tattoos on both arms drained a long three-pointer. “The coach gave me something.”
“What?”
Wyatt had the photo in the big inside pocket of his jacket. He handed it to Dub.
“Is that the coach?” Dub said. Dub was pretty smart, although hardly anyone seemed to know; he was an even worse student than Wyatt.
“Yeah,” Wyatt said.
“Looked just as mean back then,” Dub said. “Who’s the kid?”
Wyatt gazed at that big smile for a moment; a confident smile, even cocky. “My father,” he said.
Dub’s eyebrows-bushy and expressive-went up. “Whoa,” he said.
“Yeah, I know.”
“He played ball for Coach Bouchard?”
“News to me, too.”
“He looks kind of…you know, normal,” Dub said. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“I meant like which prison.”
“Got that,” Wyatt said. “And the answer’s still I don’t know.”
Dub took another look at the picture. “What position did he play?”
“Short.”
“’Cause he’s wearing the same number as you-would have been amazing if he was a center fielder, too.”
“I guess.”
They sat on the couch, feet stretched out on footrests, ate popcorn, drank soda, watched more highlights.
“Can you believe that pass?” Wyatt said. “Sick.”
“You never, uh, talk about him, huh?” said Dub.
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“Gone before I was born-you know that.”
“Yeah.”
“So there’s nothing to talk about.”
They lapsed into silence, not an uncomfortable one. Wyatt and Dub had spent lots of time together, just like this.
“Play some Madden?” Dub said after a while.
“Sure.”
“Gonna beat your ass,” Dub said. They played Madden. Wyatt was up by two touchdowns-Dub never won-when Mrs. Mannion called down, “Wyatt? Staying for dinner?”
“Thanks, I better get going,” Wyatt said.
He drove home, stopping for gas when he noticed the needle quivering down near empty. He put in three dollars’ worth, all he had on him. Standing at the pumps, cold wind whipping through under the overhang, sky dark, he tried to find the right words for telling his mother about Bridger High. Nothing came to mind. He decided to just wing it. Why not? She was his mom.
She was in the kitchen, still in her office clothes except for slippers, thawing a frozen red block of spaghetti sauce on the stove.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey. Dinner’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“I-”
“And Coach Bouchard called.”
“Yeah?”
Wyatt went into his bedroom, closed the door, called the coach on his cell phone.
“Hi, Coach. Wyatt.”
Silence on the other end. Then came what might have been ice cubes clinking in a glass.
“Coach? You called me?”
The coach cleared his throat. “Yeah, hi. I did.” The coach sounded a little strange-like he’d been drinking. Wyatt rejected that idea immediately.
“What’s up?”
“Kind of a-what would you call it? — bump in the road. That’s it-bump in the road. We’ve hit a little bump in the road.”
“Who?” said Wyatt. “What bump?”
“About Bobby Avril. Seems like the school committee-talkin’ about Silver City, not East Canton-has these rules I didn’t know about, rules-what’s the word? — governing, rules governing transfers. Transfers and sports, is what I’m referrin’ to. Anybody else can transfer, of course. But for playin’ sports, don’t matter varsity or JV, there’s only one transfer who can play on a team each year, meanin’ the year of transferrin’. After that, why, you’d be resident, so no problem for the next year. Get what I’m sayin’?”
Coach Bouchard was taking fast, and again Wyatt got the feeling he’d been drinking, but he thought he grasped the general idea, and it led to a bad thought: Dub wasn’t going to be able to play for Bridger.
“So, um,” Wyatt said.
“Bottom line-you can transfer to Bridger, no problem, but you can’t play ball for Bobby Avril, not this season.”
Wyatt’s heart began to beat way too fast. “Coach? I don’t think I heard you right.”
Coach Bouchard’s voice sharpened a bit. “There’s nothin’ I can do. Rules is rules.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“Don’ understand? Chrissakes, by the time I called Bobby Avril, first thing I got in the door, that one transfer space was already taken.”
“Someone else transferred first?”
“Exackly. Turns out his dad goes back a ways with the AD, just like I go back with Bobby. Only thing is he beat me to the post.”
The post? What post? Wyatt didn’t get that, maybe didn’t get any of it. “Whose dad?” he said.
“Dub Mannion’s,” said the coach.
“Dub got the position?” Wyatt thought back to that sharp glance Mr. Mannion had shot him down in the home theater. What had Wyatt said just before that? I’m doing the same thing.
“What I’m tellin’ you,” Coach
Bouchard said. “First come, first served basis.”
Silence. And then the ice cubes again.
“Coach? Can I stop by your office tomorrow? Talk about this?”
“Tomorrow? Not gonna be there tomorrow or any other goddamn tomorrows. I resigned. Done, all through. Weren’t you listenin’ today?”
4
“Supper’s on,” his mom called from the kitchen.
Wyatt heard her but stayed where he was, standing in his room. He’d laid the photo on his desk and was now examining it under the light of the lamp. He noticed little things he’d missed before, like how big his father’s hands were-bigger than Wyatt’s, just about the same size as the coach’s-and a light-colored metal chain, maybe gold, that his father wore around his neck. He bent closer, gazing into the photo image of his father’s eyes. They began to look not like eyes at all, but simply ovals of light and shade, mostly shade.
“Wyatt? I’ve been calling and calling.”
He turned. His mom was in the room, a red-tipped wooden spoon in her hand; he hadn’t heard her enter.
“Sorry, I-”
Her glance went right to the photo. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, Mom.”
“I hope it’s not something you shouldn’t be-” By now she’d moved in closer; his mom was kind of unstoppable when she got curious about something. “Who are-Oh, my God.” She grabbed the photo, stared at it, then whipped around toward Wyatt. “Where did you get this?”
“I, uh, the coach gave it to me.”
“The coach? Why would he do a thing like that?”
“On account of the economy, Mom. He was packing up. All the extracurriculars are gone.”
His mother’s eyes opened wide, and her face seemed to soften. “Baseball, too?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yeah.” Was there any point in going into the whole Bridger idea? None that Wyatt could see: The Bridger idea was gone, too. “So the coach had this and he gave it to me.” He pointed to the photo, still in her hand. They were standing close together now, their eyes on the photo. “Did you know him back then, Mom, in high school?”
“Hey,” Rusty called from the kitchen, “what’s the holdup with dinner?”
Bullet Point Page 2