by Andrew Cotto
Around the dorm, he was Godzilla, breathing fire and looking for trouble. Outside, he bumped kids in the hall, skipped meals, and piled up Sunrises left and right. Someone had to save him from himself, which wasn’t going to be easy, since you couldn’t get close to the kid. I avoided him, since I knew that, if we went at it again, I’d be done for sure at Hamden Academy. And while I wanted to help him and everything, I still had plans for next year. Big plans.
A bunch of wrestlers, all the ones who’d stood up during the basketball game and yelled, including Chester (but not McCoy), had been suspended for a week, though their punishment wouldn’t begin until after their season ended. Unbelievable.
“Please, Sammie,” I begged, as he began to plug in another gloom-rock album. “Any more of those crybabies and I’m moving down to the laundry room.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “You want ‘Thunder Road,’ right?”
“There you go,” I said with a wink. I’d been playing a lot of Brenda’s favorite Springsteen song lately. And after a quick trip in my head to the Connecticut seaside, I went back to smacking the ball into my glove and thinking about Terence.
I understood where he was coming from, I really did. I’d been hurt, too, and it messed with everything. All your hope goes away, and you think of the world as unfair and vicious. It practically makes you blind. And it definitely makes you stupid (especially in my case).
And I knew Terence blamed me like I blamed my father, because we have to blame someone for our suffering, and the easiest person to blame is usually right in front of us, though rarely responsible. And I knew that it wasn’t just me and Terence who suffered. It was part of growing up, and almost every kid everywhere goes through it in some way or another, including those we never think of, even though they’re sometimes right in front of us.
“Hey,” I said to Sammie. “Let me ask you something.”
“Sure, Danny,” he said. I could tell he was kind of happy again, having me back in his room, and I hated to scare the crap out of him like this.
“You still have them shoes, or did you get rid of them already?”
“What shoes?” he asked, trying to look all perplexed, though he knew, right away, what I was talking about.
“The wrestling shoes.”
He jumped up. “I don’t have them!” He said it in a voice about two notes higher than normal.
I hopped off the window ledge and walked toward the middle of the room to turn off the music. “Bullshit,” I said. “At first I thought it was that retard Rice, but that was before I figured out it was you who stole them shoes.”
He stood up and faced me, for the first time, with confidence, like he knew he was smarter than me. He was, but I had him here.
“You know how I know?” I asked.
“How?” he said, daring me
I walked over to the closet and put my finger on the door. “Right here,” I said. “This picture right here. That’s how I know.”
He came over and squinted at the photo of his friends from home, caught in some hilarious moment with Sammie right in the middle, sunglasses on and his head thrown back in laughter, wherethehellishamdenville? printed across the front of his shirt. My shirt.
“I’m sorry, Danny,” he said. “It must have gotten mixed up with my laundry before we left for the summer, and I forgot to bring it back. That’s all. So what?”
“That was my lucky shirt, Sammie,” I said. “You knew that.”
His eyes were wide, and the little giblet under his chin wobbled.
“Why’d you take my shirt, Sammie?” I asked. I was right in his face now.
“I didn’t,” he said. “I didn’t.”
I asked him again. When he opened his mouth, I cocked my fist. He collapsed on his bed.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Sammie yelped. “I was so mad at you. I was so mad. I thought we were friends and you dumped me. You dumped me for those jerks. Didn’t you know how mean they were to me? Didn’t you know how bad that made me feel?”
He buried his face in his hands and began to cry. I didn’t need to think for a second about what he’d said. I knew. And I told him so, and that I was sorry. Then I sat right next to him on the bed and draped an arm over his shoulder. We sat like that for awhile.
Chapter 17
Spring showed up for real, with showers and flowers and all that, but a dull sense of something, like an invisible fog, hung between our young heads and the new blue sky. It kind of felt that way ever since that whole deal with Terence and the wrestlers, and while Terence practically disappeared, the wrestlers were everywhere. They’d won the state tournament, and were into the regional semi-finals. If they won the northeast part, they’d be going to the national finals somewhere in Missouri or something.
I knew all this because of the announcements they made practically every night at dinner, and the new banner that hung from the Arch and, of course, because of the fagakada signs they kept putting up in the mail room: Support Wrestling. I started to think the same genius who designed their uniforms came up with that slogan, too. I started to think that the students who didn’t wrestle, and who didn’t like being told what to do and when to do it, needed a slogan of their own.
The point would be that we were tired of being second class students, tired of being bullied, tired of having our school divided by a minority of knuckleheads who didn’t even care about the rest of us. Pop had taught me to stand up and do the right thing, and standing up to the wrestlers seemed like the right thing to do. It reminded me of back home, in the old neighborhood, when things started to go wrong. If more people had stood up, the outcome would have been different. Much different. For everyone, not just me. So I started working on a plan.
One afternoon, I walked off campus, down past the waterfall and into town. At the old general store, I bought a can of spray paint, some duct tape, a box of rubber gloves, a bottle of prune juice, a ball of twine, and a pack of gum. The old lady behind the counter looked at me like I was nuts. She was right. Back in the room, I sat in the window, chomped on the gum and worked out the details. I had to admit, what I came up with was crazier, and more dangerous, than anything I’d ever considered.
Baseball began in the middle of the month. We’d been practicing for a couple of weeks, and the team rolled through some scrimmages against some local high schools. We figured we might be pretty good again, maybe even better than last year. The first league game would let us know for sure.
On the April afternoon that we waited on York, the sky was bright blue with white clouds exploding in the distance. I was the first one on the field.
An untouched baseball diamond is so beautiful. The justcut grass, fresh-raked dirt, and that white chalk, like cake frosting, always reminded me of my first time at Shea Stadium. I was 5 years old, and the second we cleared the tunnels and saw the field, I knew the world was full of magic. The Mets got smoked that day, 8-tonothing, but still, Pop and I stayed to the end. We snuck down to the box seats after the big shots left early and sat there, right behind the dugout, eating peanuts until the very last out. I remember that day, and that feeling of wonder, every time I come across a fresh field.
Across the grass of the Far Fields at Hamden, my teammates approached in their blue and white uniforms. Coach warmed us up with some basic drills. We looked good, which was important, since York was supposed to be the best prep team in the state this year. They had smoked us pretty good last year (I think it was 8-tonothing), and probably expected to do the same that day. I felt a little intimidated when their players appeared around the bend by the gymnasium, taking the 200- yard walk in their red pinstripes.
Our team came to the bench and sat there as the boys from York unpacked their gear and ran crisp drills in their sharp uniforms. We watched from the bench with our hats yanked down.
I called out to my catcher and went to warm up. Behind the bleachers, we tossed the ball back and forth until he squatted to take some real throws. The warm, moist air helped m
y arm get loose in a hurry. My fastball popped as it hit where I aimed. I thought back to when Pop and I used to play catch in the alley, and he would insist, every time, that I throw exactly where he held his glove. “Focus on your spot, Pal,” he would say. “Then hit it.”
That day, during warm-ups, I hit my spots alright, like never before. I was worried about leaving all that good stuff on the sidelines, so I gave it a rest and went to each guy individually, shook his hand, and told him we would win. I swore we would.
Our team took to the field, and the guys behind me did their warm-ups while I threw some from the mound. “Play ball!” the umpire yelled, and our catcher fired the ball down to second base, where it went around the horn and back to me. I looked over the field to make sure everyone was in position and then turned to face York’s lead-off man.
He got himself ready with tugs on his crotch, squints, and spits. Classy sport, that baseball. I went into a slow wind-up and then snapped off a nasty curve. The batter jumped back just as the break began, leaving him out of place as the ball arched over the plate. “Strike one!” the umpire called. Things got quiet. I missed a couple of fastballs outside, then smoked two down the middle for the first strikeout of the day.
From there, the pattern was set: fastballs and curves, like a one-two punch, working in tandem, each more devastating due to the threat of the other. After mowing down the other two batters, I walked straight to our bench without looking around. I remembered the way the air smelled — clean, with the coming of moisture — but there would be no rain that day. That day belonged to me.
Each inning during warm-ups, I reminded myself of what Pop had told me about focusing first, and then hitting the target. I tried to think about what the batter was expecting. Fastball or curve? Inside or outside? Then, I did the opposite. I felt invincible, like a superhero or something. A superhero and a mind reader all wrapped up into one. Everything moved in slow motion, expect for the pitches, which zipped from my hand to right where I aimed. There was no sound in my world, no peripheral vision. Just straight ahead. After each inning, I walked right to our bench and sat on the end.
We’d put together a few threats with our bats, but hadn’t scored either, so when I came out to start the fourth inning, the York bench started riding me. They must have figured the little show was over, and that the expected script would now play itself out.
Their lead-off guy came swaggering up for a second taste. I motioned with my head for him to get in the box, which he did to the even louder calls from his teammates.
I blew three pitches by him, just like that. Then, I told him to have a seat on the bench. He studied me for a moment, like he was seeing me for the first time, before walking back to the bench. The following guy popped out to third on a pitch in on his hands.
I knew the next guy mattered most, since he was their best player. He lumbered his bumpy torso up to the plate with a look on his face like he’d just eaten something insulting. He gave me a glare and spit through his teeth.
I looked him over and called “Three pitches” loud enough for everyone to hear. The guys behind me came alive, and the York bench jumped to its feet. The batter smiled and shook his head while digging into the box. Again, he spit through his teeth in my direction. It was loud and tense, but not a problem for me.
After agreeing to the first pitch, I made eye contact with the batter and told him, “Fastball.” He snorted and dug in some more while I went through my wind-up, and I blew one in on the inside corner. Mr. Manners couldn’t catch up.– His swing finished after the ball had already passed. I’d never thrown a ball so hard in my life.
“Strike one!” the umpire yelled. Screams continued from both sides. I took the next signal, addressed him again, and said, “Fastball.” He might have been closer to this one, but not by much.
“Strike two!” was announced, and I could see the blood start to swell in the batter’s face. When the ball came back, I tucked it into my glove and walked to the front of the mound. “You ready for the bender?” I asked.
He flared his nostrils and prepped himself by digging in his spikes, gripping and re-gripping the bat like he was strangling the poor thing. I stood tall on the mound, with my glove up high, just below my eyes. I began the wind-up with a small step backward and my hands rising, together in the glove, over my head. Then I dug a foot against the rubber and pivoted the other leg around the opposite hip, which launched my whole body forward toward the plate like a human missile. With my front foot in the dirt, I whipped my arm and body forward and prepared to release the ball.
I could feel the stitching between thumb and forefingers, and snapped the ball so hard it looked frozen, hanging high and still for a moment, fighting the spin, before the bottom fell out and the ball dropped two feet, right over the plate.
“Strike three!” yelled the umpire, punching his hand across his chest protector.
The poor guy from York stood there stunned, bat on his shoulder. I gave him a wink and walked toward the sound of applause.
Our team, pumped up by the showdown, didn’t stop hitting until we had a five-run cushion. I mowed down the remaining batters without drama or danger, and when the last looped a lazy fly ball to our right fielder, Hamden Academy had beaten the York School in baseball for the first time in 10 seasons. I felt the crowd coming, but before the team could jump me, I searched the bleachers. Not too many people, really, for the first ball game of the season. Just a few, including Sammie up top and a Bella Faccia sitting alone in the front row. Brenda smiled at me, like I had asked her to in the letter. I should have asked for more.
After the hoopla, she was gone. It was late in the afternoon when we walked home, and the sky had turned as blue as the center of a flame. A breeze picked up, signaling the storm, and it dried the sweet sweat on my skin.
Chapter 18
That night at dinner, they made an announcement about my perfect game. The guys on our team, and the lacrosse team, too, chanted “Scholarship! Scholarship! Scholarship!” All that chanting ended when the announcements began about the upcoming wrestling match: the regional semi-final, to be held in our gym, the day after next.
Early the next morning, at my old Sunrise hour, I took a walk across campus with a stuffed knapsack that was practically all I could carry. Light was coming from over the hills and workers from town arrived on campus. A couple of students, like zombies, trudged their way toward detention. I pretended I was one of them, walking slowly, with my head down but, unlike them, I was alert in the early hour, my eyes alive, checking out everything.
A kid read a letter in the mail room, so I waited around the corner, in the shadows, until he left. With no one else in sight, I slipped inside and got right to work. First, I tore down the Support Wrestling signs, letting them scatter over the floor. Then I whipped out the stack of thick books I’d been carrying in my backpack and made a platform. With the spray can in my back pocket, I balanced on top of the books, pulled out the can, and sprayed in blue (our school color), as large as I could and as high as I could: ABORT WRESTLING.
After checking out my work, I stuffed the books and the spray can back into my bag and walked through campus like a regular student. I went to the library, just after it opened, returned the encyclopedias and dictionaries, sat at a table, and pretended for an hour to be studious, though all I worked on were the next parts of my plan. I figured the first phase had been a success, getting those signs down and the new slogan up without being noticed. But someone had seen me come out of the mail room, and if they didn’t know then, they knew for sure by lunchtime what I’d been up to.
The wrestling coach got up on the podium at lunch and made an announcement before the meal even started. His cauliflower ears burned bright as he tried to keep his cool, warning about desecration of school property and respect for tradition. According to this guy, jealousy was behind the “attack,” and this type of outrage was a threat to our institution and would not be tolerated and yeah, yeah, yeah...
&nbs
p; Word about the “attack” had reached me by second period. Some kid came into class and told everyone. I heard Meeks holding court in the hallway, and even before lunch, there was a steady line to get into the mail room. After lunch, and the announcement by hot-headed Coach Cauliflower Ears, people packed in there to get a load of what had been done. I had to admit, I was pretty proud. Less impressed was Trent McCoy, who walked into the mail room, right through the after-lunch crowd, and tore that bulletin board off the wall. To tell the truth, I had hoped he’d do something like that, since it made me feel confident about their probable reaction to part two of my plan.
The next part would be a lot harder to pull off, in a lot of ways. I needed help, too, so I looked across the room. Sammie wanted in, right away. He felt bad about everything that had happened, especially to Terence, and didn’t mind risking his ass to try and make things right. I think he felt the same need to do something as I did, though neither of us knew at the time that what we were doing had a lot more to do with us, and the things that had happened to us, than anything else. What I did know was that having Sammie on board meant having a partner, a partner with a key to the wrestler’s locker room.
On that moonless night, way past lights out, we watched from our room as the lights of the small security vehicle shined around the field, past the big buildings and finally through the Arch. We’d timed the trail four times and knew how much time we’d have to do what we had to do. Dressed in dark jeans and sweatshirts, zipped up and with hoods tied tight, Sammie and I crept out of our room, duct-taped the lock cylinder on the front door of the dorm, and skipped from tree to tree in the shadows along the path. In the landing behind the gymnasium, we entered that forgotten door that Brenda and I had probably been the last ones to use back in the fall.