by Joan Bauer
I take my seat behind Franny, who whispers, “Our game with the Vipers got canceled.”
“Why?”
She shrugs.
Logo leans in. “They decided not to play us.”
Just great! I expected more from vipers than this.
We need to do something before we rust.
I forgot it’s a half school day because the teachers have an afternoon meeting. That means no practice after school.
But as my bus pulls out, I see Donald Mole on the field throwing to Terrell. Again and again. And he’s getting it. I wish these bus windows opened! I shout, “Yes! That’s the way!” The kids on the bus look at me like I’m strange.
I am strange! “Baseball is back from the dead!” I shout.
I’m not sure if this is hyperbole or just plain fact, but not one person cheers.
◆ ◆ ◆
“You want to walk with me, Jeremiah?” Bo asks. “Not far. A couple blocks.”
“Okay.” I figure he might want to talk. “How are you doing?”
He shrugs, looks at the envelope he’s holding. We turn right on Old Church Road and walk to Fullerton. At Spaulding, Bo turns left.
I know where we’re going.
Bo walks toward Hargie’s house. It’s painted white. All the shutters are closed. The flowers in the garden are dying. It feels like sadness has crept over everything on this block. We stand here. Then Bo puts the envelope in the mailbox.
“I wrote something to his parents. You know.”
“That’s nice,” I say.
Bo shrugs again. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks at the house.
“I don’t think he knew. I don’t think Hargie knew what he was taking.”
I just listen.
“Because he loved the game. He lived it.”
Bo stands there some more. The sun is shining over the Cantwells’ roof, glowing bright and sure.
“I wanted to be on that team,” Bo says. “I wanted to be a Hornet bad. Coach Perkins told me, work like a demon on the middle school team. Do more, be better than anybody, never quit. That’s how you become a Hornet. When he talked to me, it was like . . . he knew everything. He had this power about him. You wanted to do whatever he said.”
Bo picks up a stick and throws it.
“The middle school coach, Bordin, said if we complained, we were babies. The umpires hated him, the other coaches hated him. He got thrown out of games for shouting that they were idiots. I kept my mouth shut, I did the drills, I played hurt. Perkins told me, keep it up. I’d be a Hornet. Hargie said when it happened, it would be the best day of my life. I did summer baseball last year before I started high school. I threw out my pitching arm. I can play catch. That’s it. Not enough to . . .” His voice trails off.
“That’s hard, man.”
“Let’s go.” We cross the street, head back home down Old Church Road.
“Thanks,” he says to me.
I nod. He sits on his porch steps thinking. I stand there wondering.
Is Bo right? Did Hargie not know?
Did his parents not see him changing?
Did the other players get fooled?
Are we being fooled?
The sun is brighter now. I’m picturing it warming the sky over Hargie’s house of sadness.
El Grande comes on the porch, smiling. “Craziest thing,” he says. He takes off his glasses, cleans them on his shirt. “Dr. Selligman of the middle school called me and asked if I would consider coaching the baseball team.”
I freeze.
“And old fool that I am, I said yes.”
Bo is grinning. I’d better smile.
“That’s great!” I shout.
“And,” he continues, “Bo, if you’re ever inclined to stop by after school and lend a hand, we could use your wisdom.”
I smile big, so big it hurts, so big that no one can see that I feel like a heavy door just got slammed in my face.
“That’s great!” I say again.
El Grande’s phone rings. This is good—I can leave.
The sky is so blue. A perfect baseball day . . .
I wave and walk across the street.
Head up, Lopper. Shoulders strong.
I go inside my house, close the door, shut my eyes.
No crying.
Ex-coaches don’t cry.
Chapter
31
I HAD ALL these plans. Not that I told anybody.
I pictured Walt getting off early once a week and helping me coach. I pictured us winning after a few more games and someone doing an article on me as the youngest coach ever.
The problem with picturing is it’s not real, even if you put a frame around it.
I sit in our kitchen feeling like I just got fired. That’s stupid, I know, seeing as I was never hired . . .
“Jerwal, wake up.”
A glow, a beep. He’s waiting for my next command. I don’t have one.
This was supposed to be a fun place. I left my science fair project and Yaff for baseball and robots. Most of the robots are still falling over. Baseball doesn’t need me.
“I’m not their coach, Jerwal.” He rolls over and stops near me. “But I loved being out there. I felt like I was really part of a baseball team.” He lifts his arm and glows.
A knock at the front door.
I don’t feel like getting up, but I do.
“Come on, Jerwal.”
Jerwal and I head down the hall.
El Grande is at the door.
I open it.
“Hello, Jeremiah.” He looks strangely at my robot. “And you again.”
Jerwal makes a robot noise. El Grande coughs. This might be more than he can handle.
“Jerwal, go to sleep.” The robot shuts down.
“We’ve got business to discuss,” El Grande explains. “You left before I could tell you. Here’s what I told that principal.” He points at me. “I said if I took that coaching job, I’d want you to help. Full-time.”
What?
“I’m a good coach, and I’ve always worked my tail off. But if you think I’m going to stand in front of fifteen middle school baseball players every day—”
“The team is shrinking, sir. We’re down to twelve . . . maybe eleven.”
“Well, even more proof I need a serious right-hand man to keep me on track.”
“That’s me?”
“That’s you, son. You decide if that works for you. Talk to your father. I’ll talk to him, if you want.”
“Wow. I would love to do this.” But I can’t not tell him about Walt’s contract. “Full disclosure, El Grande: I’m hoping we’ll be here through June, but I don’t know.”
“Hate to see you go, but I’m willing to take whatever we can get of your time. You’re a valuable asset.”
I am?
We shake hands. I try to act like I do this all the time, but who am I kidding?
I grin. “What do you want me to do, Coach?”
He folds his arms across his chest. “Whatever I tell you.”
◆ ◆ ◆
El Grande gets out of his car and walks slowly to the baseball diamond.
It’s like a movie western when the sheriff comes to town to clean up whatever.
The wind blows across the field. El Grande nods at me, and I feel his power. He takes his glasses off, cleans them on his shirt, puts them back on, and squints. Squinting is a big part of baseball management.
The guys look at him.
“You’ve got a game,” he says.
They chew and spit.
He nods. “What are you guys best at?”
“Losing,” Logo says. Terrell pushes him; the others laugh nervously.
Arms crossed tight. “Is that right? I’
m standing here with a bunch of losers?”
They look at me. El Grande does, too. “Is that right, Jeremiah?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think we’ve lost some games—three, actually—but that doesn’t make us losers.”
El Grande walks back and forth. His right leg has a little hobble in it. “What makes a loser?”
They look down.
“Jeremiah?”
“Uh . . .” I take out my phone. Technically, I’m not in school, I’m on the field, so the phone rules don’t apply. I go to my thesaurus. Loser . . . loser . . . This is bad.
El Grande points to me. I cough. “Well, a loser isn’t just someone who gets defeated. A loser is a failure, an underachiever, a write-off, has-been, misfit, freak, unpopular person, flop, washout.”
El Grande asks the guys, “Are you losers?”
Terrell steps forward. “No, sir.”
The rest of the boys step forward and say no and drag Logo with them.
“So let’s redefine this. You started late in the season. You’ve lost a grand total of three games in a row.”
Handro raises his hand. “We got booed once.”
El Grande pushes his glasses down his nose. “Looks like you survived.” He’s walking again. “Need I remind you of the great turnarounds in baseball history? The New York Yankees won the pennant after losing seven straight games. The Atlanta Braves rose to the World Series after crushing losses. The Cincinnati Reds couldn’t even find their locker room for the first month of the 2012 season, but they came back hard and fast to make the playoffs. How did they do that?”
The team looks to me.
“Jeremiah?” El Grande barks.
“Uh . . . well . . . They got down to . . . I’m making a guess here . . . the fundamentals of the game.”
El Grande nods. “That is absolutely right.”
Whew.
Hands on his hips. “Fundamentals, gentlemen. Getting on base. Baseball is about getting on base.”
The guys spit, which I think is appropriate. Donald misses the ground and spits on his shoe.
“You’ve got some attitude going here. I like that. We don’t have time to practice—we’ve got a game. But I’m going to tell you what winners don’t do. They don’t look down or slump their shoulders.”
The team is standing up, squaring their shoulders, chewing big.
“I’m giving you one tip. It’s for everybody, no matter what position you play. Keep your eye on the ball. You’re . . . What’s the name of this team?”
I swallow hard. “The Muskrats.”
El Grande looks at me. “Where did that come from?”
“No one knows, sir.”
El Grande again: “I mean, a muskrat is . . .”
I take out my phone, look it up. It’s not good. “A large semiaquatic North American rodent with a musky smell, valued for its fur.”
The team looks at one another.
“Benchant smells pretty bad,” Danny mentions.
“Shut up, Lopez.”
El Grande looks at them. “Is Muskrat on your uniforms?”
“No, sir! They just say Hillcrest Middle School.”
“We can be grateful for the little things.”
Alvin says, “There’s a Muskrat banner in the gym.”
“But it’s ripped,” Alex says.
“Rodents rip stuff,” their brother Aiden adds.
“Are you three together?” El Grande asks them.
“They’re the Oxley brothers,” I explain. “Our outfield.”
El Grande nods. “We’ve got oxen in the outfield.”
Everybody laughs. He looks at the team. “Have you thought of another name for the team?”
I smile. It all becomes clear to me. “I was thinking, sir, we could be the Eagles.”
This rips through the air like a strong wind.
El Grande: “I like that, Jeremiah. I like that very much. An eagle heart. Good eyesight. Fierce.”
“Hey.” Danny sticks out his hands like they’re wings. “I’m a flying muskrat.”
“You’re our third baseman, son?”
Danny nods.
El Grande thinks about that in a way that should make Danny nervous. “I’ll be having meetings with your parents. We want them to know what we’re about. We want them to be part of this effort. Now let’s get to that game.”
We climb in the bus. Mr. Hazard is sitting in the back. “You’re looking strong, guys. Looking tough.”
“We got a name transplant!” Danny shouts.
No. A transplant is a lot more complicated. I pass out gum. The team looks at one another, chews, and nods. Nobody slumps.
Franny and Benny climb on the bus. Franny’s wearing her glove.
“It doesn’t mean anything, Jeremiah.”
“We’re eagles now,” I tell her.
“You always were eagles.” She says it loud so everyone can hear.
Chapter
32
IT’S INTERESTING WHAT happens when people get encouraged. Walt taught me that when someone decides not to give up on you, it’s proof positive that you’d better not give up on yourself.
There wasn’t enough gum or encouragement in the world to help the Eagles win, but I will say we looked tough losing, and we didn’t lose by much: 3–2. If Logo hadn’t dropped the ball at home plate when a Thunderbolt runner raced in to score, if Benchant hadn’t bobbled the ball when Greenville’s first baseman bunted and brought the kid on third base home, if the umpire wasn’t half blind, we might have won.
But two big things happened.
Our fan base is growing. We had six parents cheering for us, but no one shouted as loudly as Mr. Hazard, who, as a vice principal, has a big voice and isn’t afraid to use it.
The other thing was, the loss didn’t seem like the others. It almost seemed like a win.
Back on the bus, El Grande says, “I saw some nice plays. Sky, you were throwing to Logo’s glove and finding that strike zone. Alvin, you caught two high flies on the run.”
Alvin smiles. “My goal was to catch one.”
El Grande nods. “Anyone else have a goal for this game?”
Danny says, “I’m not trying to be a moron, but—”
“You don’t have to try, Danny,” someone says.
“Let him talk. Go on, son.”
“I didn’t want to leave the field embarrassed.”
“I had that goal any number of times when I was playing. And did you?”
“No, sir. I wasn’t embarrassed.”
Mr. Hazard claps. “I like that!”
“We’re going to start looking at personal bests we want to achieve in each game. Jeremiah’s going to help you figure out what to work on.”
Absolutely!
Franny and Benny are in the bus riding back to the school with us. Benny is looking out the window, waving to people.
El Grande says, “How’s that arm, Sky?”
“A little sore.”
“How much did you warm up? How many throws before the game?”
“Uh . . .” Sky isn’t sure.
“One seven,” Benny says.
Seventeen. El Grande and I look at each other.
Benny waves at a car.
El Grande looks back at Benny. “Were you counting pitches, Benny?”
Benny doesn’t answer.
Franny says, “Benny, how many pitches did Sky throw today?”
“Six three.”
I keep track of these things during a game. I check my phone. It wasn’t sixty-three. It was forty-six. But wait a minute. Forty-six during the actual game plus seventeen in warm-up. That’s sixty-three!
I show El Grande.
“Benny,” El Grande says, “are you writing the numbers down?”
Benny doesn’t answer. He looks out the window. “Sky pitched six seven pitches before that.”
“At the Badgers game, Benny?”
He doesn’t answer.
I go through my numbers on that game. Sixty-seven pitches. He’s right. Why didn’t he get the practice ones?
“Was that the game we came late to, Benny?” Franny asks.
“Six seven,” he says, bouncing in his seat.
El Grande says, “Did you keep score with a pencil and paper?”
Benny looks confused. He points to his head. “I see.”
“You see it?” Mr. Hazard sits by them. “Benny, how many people are there on this bus?”
Benny doesn’t look to check. “One eight,” he says instantly.
I count. It’s seventeen, actually. Twelve Eagles, me, El Grande, Franny, Benny, and Mr. Hazard. You can’t bat a thousand.
But wait a minute. I forgot the bus driver.
That’s eighteen!
Mr. Hazard says, “Benny, what do you see on the street?” He points out the window.
“Two one, five, six, five seven.”
I don’t know what he is counting, but I doubt he’s wrong.
The bus pulls into the school parking lot. We get off. Kids are telling Benny, “Way to go.”
“You’ve got a gift, son,” El Grande tells him. “One whale of a gift.”
◆ ◆ ◆
That night I make the cards.
BASEBALL IS BACK AT HILLCREST MIDDLE SCHOOL
Below that is a picture of a soaring eagle. In the lower right corner it reads:
The Eagle has landed. Come watch us play ball.
We need name recognition fast. I print a ton of these cards.
“Pass these out around town,” I tell the Eagles. “Let them know we’re here. And don’t act dumb about it. We want people to love us.”
Chapter
33
I SHOW ONE of the cards to Adler, who sniffs it. “Tell the other dogs, Adler. You need to do your part.” I’m watching Franny’s house—no sign of her yet this morning. “Adler, it’s Saturday. I want you to let me know the minute you see Franny, okay? I need to talk to her.”
Adler cocks his head and looks at me.
“You could go by her front door like you’re injured. You could cry and whine. What do you think?”