Every night while reading or watching TV, I’d hold a baseball in my right hand and tuck my index finger against the rawhide, perfecting the knuckle curveball grip I’d been coveting for years. My hands had finally grown enough for this killer pitch, and I couldn’t wait to unleash it.
My parents hinted I shouldn’t bother going out for Middle Merion High School’s team this year, since the season would end after the Rush. But even their religious fervor paled next to my passion for the game, so they didn’t forbid me to play. Maybe they appreciated the hard work I’d put in during the off-season.
Or maybe they wanted me to enjoy life while I could.
• • •
On the day of tryouts in mid-March, I dressed slowly and carefully as usual, calming my nerves by going through the old familiar routine. Baseball pants, shirt, cleats, hat, in that order. My mind and muscles hummed with adrenaline. I was ready.
A minute before Kane was set to arrive, I picked up my glove from the table near the front door. A note in my mother’s handwriting was tucked into the webbing:
The magnitude of your sacrifice shows the magnitude of your faith.
Whatever happened to “I’m proud of you, honey!” and “Go get ’em, tiger!”?
A car horn honked outside. I adjusted my cap, tapped the toes of my cleats against the hedgehog doorstop/shoe scraper for good luck, and opened the door. At the last second, I reached back and grabbed Mom’s note.
Inside Kane’s car, his new favorite alt-metal band was cranked to the max. “Hey!” He pounded his palms on the steering wheel in time to the music. “I am completely panicking over tryouts. Distract me or I’m going to puke.”
A half-full Big Gulp of soda sat in the cup holder between us. Kane was hopped up on caffeine, sugar, and nerves.
“The world is ending,” I told him.
“It will be if we’re late.” He jerked the gearshift into drive and took off, checking his mirrors only after he’d pulled out onto the road. “The fire of Coach Kopecki’s wrath will outshine that of the sun, turning our planet into a charcoal briquette.”
Kopecki was a patient man when it came to playing the game, giving calm corrections rather than emotional beat downs when we screwed up. But he was a beast about promptness and preparation. The only acceptable excuse for being late to practice was one’s own death, and even then, he said, we needed a note from our coroner.
“I mean the world is ending,” I said. “My parents think Jesus is coming back.”
“Like the Rapture?”
“Sort of, but they don’t use the word ‘Rapture.’ ”
“Because it has a bad rap? Get it?”
“I get it, and yeah, because of the false prophets who predicted the date wrong. Anyway, my parents call it the Rush.”
“I saw that on the news, with the lady preacher? Your parents believe that?”
“Apparently.” I could tell Kane wasn’t taking this seriously.
“How do they know this chick’s not a false prophet too?”
“Because she doesn’t want money.”
“So she’s a prophet with no profit.” Kane smacked the dashboard in glee. “Ha! I love the English language.”
“If only it loved you back.” I slumped down in the seat, which shoved the brim of my cap over my eyes. “They say it’s happening May eleventh.”
“It would suck if the world ended then. Sweeps week starts on the twelfth. I’d hate to miss the Amazing Race season finale because of an apocalypse.”
I waited to drop the bomb until we were slowing for the stop sign at the edge of our development. “I think my parents want me to give up baseball.”
Kane jammed on the brakes. Only the shoulder harness kept me from face-planting on the dashboard.
“David.” He stated it emphatically, as if informing me of my own name. “Baseball might be your only chance to go to college.”
“That’s how I know they’re serious.”
“That’s how you know they’re insane.” Kane shook his head. “Wait them out. Humor them as much as you can to keep the peace, but do not quit baseball. Not after we spent all winter practicing. The world needs your new pitch. You’re like a knuckle-curve Messiah.”
He cranked the music back up to end the discussion. His words echoed in my head with each measure:
Do not quit baseball. Do not quit baseball. Do not quit baseball.
I slipped my left hand into my glove, which had once belonged to John. The cool leather hugged every bulge of muscle and bone and came flush against the webbing between my fingers. Only a year before, my hand had swum inside this glove.
Beneath the stitching at the tip of each finger was a letter of my brother’s name. It made me think of the “WWJD?” rubber bracelet I used to wear when we first started going to Stony Hill. Lots of kids wore them to ask themselves, when faced with a decision, “What would Jesus do?” I never told anyone that the J in my bracelet sometimes stood for John.
I wondered now, with Kane’s do not quit baseball command still bouncing around my brain, WTFWJD?
• • •
Once on the mound, I put every fear and distraction aside and focused on the next pitch, and the next, and so on. Rather than stressing me out, this total concentration on the job at hand helped clear my mind. I was right where I belonged.
When my turn was over, I descended the mound and headed for the dugout. Coach Kopecki met me near the third-base line. “Listen, Coop, we need to talk about getting you a pitching coach.”
Am I that bad I need extra help? I tucked my glove under my arm and rolled the ball between my hands, then realized Kopecki probably knew it was my nervous habit. “Why do I need a pitching coach?”
“Because I’ve taught you all I can. Your fastball’s coming under control, and your changeup and curve are making these batters look like a bunch of T-ball players. You’re ready to move to the next level.”
So getting extra help was a good thing. But it meant more pressure, too. I handed him the ball so I would stop fidgeting with it. “Wow, that’s . . . thanks.”
“I can give your parents the names of some excellent private coaches.”
My parents. I shifted my cleats in the dirt, feeling the wave of excitement recede into dismay. “We can’t afford it.”
“I know times are tough, with your dad out of work. But maybe he can find some funds somewhere?”
“There’s no way. It’s not just the money.” Even if we had the cash, Dad would say pitching coaches were for “tomorrow people,” Sophia’s derogatory word for those who planned for the future. I couldn’t tell Kopecki about the Rush without making him question my commitment to the team, but he knew that my home life had been off the past year. Dad hadn’t come to any of last season’s games, even though he was less busy now that he was out of work.
The coach sighed and rubbed the black-gray stubble on his cheeks. “Tell you what. Let me talk to the school’s athletic director about the budget. Maybe he can shift some money from the soccer team. Why anyone wants to watch that sport, I’ll never know.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. We’ll get you the best coach money can buy, even if I have to start my own paper route.”
My head was still spinning as I stepped down into the dugout to get ready for batting tryouts. I sat next to Kane, who was examining the inside of a helmet.
“So bizarre,” he said. “The first one I picked up had a spiderweb in it. How do spiders get into the equipment room? And what bugs would they find to eat inside a batting helmet?” He glanced up. “What did Coach want?”
I shoved a stick of bubble gum in my mouth to buy a few seconds’ time. If I told Kane about the pitching coach, he’d be even madder if I had to quit. “He said to watch out for too much backspin on the changeup.”
“Yeah, you don’t want it to slow down too soon or you might as well put a neon ‘Not a Fastball’ sign on it. Easy to fool batters the first time they see it, but soon they’ll have your number.”
I changed the subject. “So how’d it feel at third?”
“Ehhh, perfect.” He grinned at me. “I’ll be the happiest guy on the planet if I get to play there or at second. Nate’s got a lock on first.” He raised his voice so the guy in question could hear.
“You know it.” Nate looked over from where he was picking out a bat from the rack. He gave us a cocky but good-natured grin. “Don’t worry, Walsh, third’s yours if you want.”
Kane stammered, seemingly having lost the ability to speak once his crush complimented him. After Kane came out last fall, Nate admitted to me one day at Stony Hill that he was freaked at the idea of sharing a locker room with him. It took months of convincing on my part, but eventually Nate saw the light and was now one of Kane’s most vocal defenders. He still seemed clueless about our friend’s feelings for him, though.
I filled in the conversational gap before it got awkward. “Thing is, we have a lot of guys who could play third. Kane’s still the best catcher we have.”
“Yeah, but Miguel could be good too.” Nate selected a bat and dropped an iron doughnut around it to make it heavier for warming up. As he walked past, he squeezed Kane’s cheeks like a proud aunt. “Besides, it’s a crime to put a mask over this pretty face.” His chuckle faded as he trotted out to the on-deck circle, leaving us alone in the dugout.
Kane’s face went pink, like the time he broke out in hives after eating shrimp.
I blew a bubble and snapped it back into my mouth. “Try to breathe.”
“I’m going to be decoding that moment all night long,” he whispered.
“He has a girlfriend.”
“Aleesha, yeah. But he said I had a pretty face. And he should know—he looks like a young Derek Jeter.”
“A young Derek Jeter who wears a purity ring.”
“Is that what that is? Wait, what’s a purity ring?”
“It means you’re saving yourself for marriage.”
He gazed at Nate as the first baseman walked to the plate. “What a tragic waste.” Then he glanced at my hands. “How come you don’t wear one? Your girlfriend won’t let you?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, smiling at the thought of Bailey’s hypothetical reaction to a purity ring. “I like to keep my options open.”
“If you’re not saving yourself, then what are you waiting for?”
“The right time.” I shrugged. “Besides, the Bible seems to like virginity.”
“For women. Getting a virgin girl was a big deal because then the guy knew her babies were his. But where in the Bible does it say a man has to be a virgin?”
I gave a noncommittal grunt, deciding not to tell Kane about Revelation’s mention of the 144,000 male virgins who would be saved from the apocalypse. I’d been combing through that book, trying to figure out what my parents and the Rushers found so attractive about it. Most of it read like a cheesy Saturday-night SyFy Channel movie.
I turned the conversation back to him. “There’s gotta be somebody else you like at school.”
Kane sighed. “There is one guy in my chem class. But he’s a Mets fan.”
“I hope you can put aside your philosophical differences, because you need a real boyfriend.” Before the world ends, I added mentally, then blinked hard. Where had that thought come from?
I pulled my mom’s note out of my pocket, spit my gum into it, and tossed it in the trash, feeling suddenly too old and too young. I couldn’t wait for May 11, when it would all be over.
• • •
A few minutes later, I stood in the on-deck circle. With the way I pitched, no one much cared how I hit. But I cared, because the scouts cared. A good hitting pitcher meant a college team’s batting order held no obvious weak spots.
I could run, too, though I’d been told never to slide headfirst and risk my pitching arm. But sometimes not playing it safe is the only way to be safe.
Though it was just tryouts and there was no crowd, I could hear the sounds as clearly as if it were a playoff game: the slap of leather on leather, the crack of wood, the shing of the chain link fence as some kid tried to climb it. The background chatter—a mom on her cell phone with her office, working after hours; two dads arguing over whether you need a John Deere X300 series for a two-acre lawn or if the 100 is enough; a trio of little sisters playing a clapping game.
Could I give that up? Were the Rushers right, that I should focus on the fate of my soul, not that of a little white ball? Or was I just scared of letting down the team?
“Cooper! Quit daydreaming and get your ass to the plate.”
I gave Coach Kopecki a thumbs-up, then tapped the handle end of the bat against the ground to loosen the iron doughnut around it. The doughnut clinked when it hit the dirt, another sound I’d leave behind.
I stepped to the plate, touched the end of the bat against the far side of the white pentagon, took a practice swing, then set into my stance. Brendan Rhees stared down at me from the mound. A look of understanding passed between us.
What the pitcher wants most is nothing. If your opponents never leave home plate, it’s called a perfect game. The batter’s job is to ruin that dream of perfection, that fantasy of nothing.
I offered my decision up to God: If I hit this ball, I’ll stay on the team. If I strike out, I’ll quit.
I got walked, and decided on my own to stay.
• • •
I was feeling particularly brave the night after baseball tryouts as I helped prepare dinner, despite the fact that my mother was armed with a knife and I had nothing but a potato masher.
“Mom, what if the Rush doesn’t happen?”
She stopped midchop, the blade of the knife poised above the pile of green beans. Her eyes went in and out of focus a few times, like she was trying to see through the countertop into the cabinets below. Maybe she was hoping I’d change the subject or prompt her impatiently so she could snap at me.
But I didn’t. I simply mashed and waited.
Finally she let the blade fall, slicing off the ends of the beans. “I don’t know.”
It seemed like an honest answer. “You haven’t thought about it?”
“Thinking about it would be a sign of faithlessness. Please don’t let your father hear that kind of talk. The Lord will come for us all.”
“But what if He doesn’t? Or if He does come but not on May eleventh at three a.m.?” I hurried to add, to avoid a larger discussion about the Rapture. “What if He’s not coming for another year or decade or millennium? What’ll you and Dad and Sophia do on May twelfth?”
Mom sighed, then lifted her eyes and watched Tod strut into the sunroom toward Juno. The tiny older cat was grooming herself near the back door, pausing to look out its full-length window at the squirrels. Juno chirped at the sight of her giant offspring and proceeded to wash his face. Tod raised his paw half-playful, half-threatening. She streaked into the kitchen in territorial surrender.
“Don’t worry, David.” Mom wiped the knife clean. “Everything is taken care of.”
What could I say to that? I rapped the masher on the side of the pot to loosen the bits of potatoes, trying to figure out how to reopen the conversation. Couldn’t she tell her vagueness was freaking me out? “Taken care of” could mean anything, especially considering the gun I’d found in Dad’s desk.
Suicide . . . murder . . . murder-suicide?
I vowed I’d give Mom and Dad an ultimatum at dinner that night: You have to get serious psychiatric help, or else.
Or else what? I didn’t know. I only knew that their lives could be at stake. The idea of the Rush brought them so much hope for the future, the moment it was stolen from them, they’d be filled with despair.
We sat at the table, where Mom said a quiet grace, then passed the dishes of potatoes, chicken, green beans, and bread. There was no sound but the clink of silverware against plates, and murmured thanks for passing the whatever, and the slight slurp of beverages. I waited for the right moment, but the silence stretch
ed on, until it seemed unbreakable.
Mara was absorbed in eating. Her green beans stayed untouched until the end of the meal, when she buttered a piece of bread, folded the beans inside, and ate it. Then she glared at me as if to say, I dare you to make fun of my bean-and-butter sandwich.
Normally I didn’t mind our silent meals. For years now, the less we spoke, the better. When I was on my graffiti rage kick, I’d had so many lies to keep straight—about where I’d been, who I’d seen, what I’d been doing. Then once Mom and Dad got superreligious, we couldn’t bring up heavy issues without arguing. It was easier to shut up and eat, or make small talk about sports or the weather.
Ah, sports. My entry.
“If the Rush comes, do you think there’ll still be Stanley Cup playoffs?”
“You mean when the Rush comes,” Mom said. “And the answer is, it depends how quickly society deteriorates.”
“For when they are saying, ‘Peace and safety,’ ” Dad proclaimed, “then sudden destruction will come on them, like birth pains on a pregnant woman; and they will in no way escape.”
Mara snorted. Mom and Dad stared at her. She lowered her eyes and made another bean-and-butter sandwich.
“Either way,” I said, “if I’m still around, I’d like to see it. The Flyers have a good chance this year.”
Mom gave me an indulgent smile. “Where we’re going, there’ll be no TVs, but you’ll be able to watch. You’ll have a front-row seat for everything from the Stanley Cup to Armageddon.”
“I’m setting up a popcorn stand,” Mara said. “I’ll make millions.”
“Go to your room,” Mom snapped at her.
My sister’s eyes went wide with what looked like remorse. “But I wasn’t—”
“Now. Leave your sandwich.”
Mara slid back her chair and left without a word. Great, now I’d have to do dishes, too.
While my parents went back to eating, I drew tracks in my mashed potatoes with the tips of my fork tines, horizontal, vertical, diagonal, diagonal the other way.
I’m worried about you guys. I’m worried about Mara. I’m worried about me.
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