by Tim Green
Chris glanced at Daniel but directed his angry scowl at Jalen, as if he’d been the one who’d popped off about the Bronxville pitcher.
“My arm doesn’t give out,” Chris snarled, “unless some jerk smacks it when I’m in the middle of throwing something.”
“Serves you right,” Daniel snapped, “for tossing his dad’s sandwiches in the garbage.”
“I’ve had about enough of you.” Dirk pointed his bat at Daniel.
Daniel snorted with contempt to show he was unafraid before marching out of the dugout.
Dirk then directed his bat at Jalen. “And we’ve got a surprise for you.”
“What surprise?” Daniel asked.
“Oh, you’ll see.” Chris’s voice was laced with pure evil, and the light in his eyes held Jalen’s attention the way they say a cobra can hypnotize its prey.
24
THE HARSH BLAST OF COACH Gamble’s whistle broke the trance.
Jalen dumped his gear bag behind the bench, whipped out his glove, and headed toward home plate at a jog.
“Okay, take a knee,” said Coach Gamble in his gruff voice. “First of all, that was absolute crap yesterday. The Rockton Rockets aren’t about second place. Right, Coach?”
Coach Benning’s mouth was full of sunflower seeds, but he nodded vigorously in agreement.
“That’s right.” Coach Gamble answered his own question. “And I’m sure most of you—if not all of you—saw that Chris is hurt. The doctor said it looks like he sprained his elbow and we have no idea how long it will take to heal, so we are going to have to work ten times as hard this week if we are going to be ready for the Boston tournament next weekend.”
Jalen expected Coach Gamble to give him a dirty look, but it was just the opposite. Coach Gamble looked around at his team, not making eye contact with Jalen at all. This seemed worse than a dirty look.
No one said a word, and finally Coach Gamble glanced down at his clipboard before announcing that they would have practices on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.
“And we’ll be leaving for Boston at seven a.m. on Friday morning. Now let’s not have a good practice, let’s have a great practice!” The coach blew his whistle and the team began its warm-up by running bases.
During long throw, Jalen saw Chris staring at him from the dugout like an angry troll. After a while, he forgot about Chris. He’d shifted his entire focus to baseball and worked up a sweat shagging balls, scrambling for pop flies, and swinging his bat relentlessly in the tee and soft-toss drills. It did seem to him, as practice progressed, that no one was speaking to him but Daniel. Coach Gamble and Coach Benning had no comments on his efforts, good or bad, and his teammates stared dead-faced at him, if they looked his way at all.
Jalen worked so hard and with such intensity that he had no idea how big a problem he really had until their water break before live batting practice, when Caleb Paquet brushed up against him.
“Hey.” Caleb spoke in a whisper.
When Jalen looked at him, Caleb was very busy with a knot in his glove lace.
“Me?” Jalen asked, also quietly.
“Yup,” Caleb said without looking up. “I just want to say sorry.”
“For what?” The water in Jalen’s stomach seemed to go sour.
“It’s nothing personal,” Caleb said. “This whole thing is not my idea.”
Caleb began to walk away, but Jalen caught his arm and asked, “Are you saying sorry because no one is talking to me?”
“No.” Caleb shook free and spoke through his teeth. He gave Jalen an angry look that didn’t match his words of apology. “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.”
25
JALEN BEGAN THE LIVE HITTING period in the outfield.
His eyes got lost in the tattered clouds above, like he was searching for something to appear, some shape or sign, as he thought about Caleb’s warning. It seemed like some sort of practical joke to make him uneasy. Maybe that was all it was.
Daniel was pitching when Caleb smacked a ball Jalen’s way. Because he hadn’t been focused on the action, Jalen missed the pop fly. He threw the ball in to Daniel, wondering if a fly ball was the thing Caleb had been talking about. It didn’t make sense, though. How could Caleb have known Jalen would miss the ball? Also, was that really something to apologize for?
Jalen spent the rest of the session wondering, until it was his turn to bat. He realized Caleb was now on the mound. No one spoke as Jalen stepped up to the plate. Birds chattered in the trees above. New leaves whispered what might have been a warning. Jalen took a practice swing and set his feet.
Caleb flexed his arm and went into his windup.
The pitch came in, fast and wild. Dirk Benning had to leap up and away to snag it. The cloud of dust from Dirk’s efforts settled around the plate. Each batter got ten pitches to hit, and Jalen frowned, thinking that Caleb might have been instructed not to give him a pitch he could hit.
“Looking a little out of control, Caleb!” Coach Gamble shouted from where he stood leaning up against the dugout. “Let’s see some control!”
Jalen was briefly confused, because maybe he was wrong.
He tightened his grip on the bat and set his feet again. Out on the mound Caleb had his lower lip between his teeth. He took a deep breath and went into his windup.
This time the ball came directly at Jalen. He dropped to the dirt just in time.
“Caleb!” Coach Gamble shouted. “I told you to get control!”
While Jalen heard what Coach Gamble said, what he saw was Chris grinning from the shadows of the dugout. Then he heard Dirk snickering from behind his catcher’s mask and he knew what Caleb had apologized for—a beanball.
Jalen kept his chin up. He dusted himself off and took his place in the batter’s box once again. His own face was deadpan. He wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing he was upset.
The next pitch was wide and high again, and Coach Gamble chewed on Caleb’s ear. Jalen was determined to make contact with the ball just to show them that he wasn’t afraid.
The next pitch was high and very tight, but Jalen kept his hands inside the ball and pulled a liner right over the bag at third.
“That’s it, Jalen!” Daniel shouted from his spot at second base, confirming for Jalen that at least one person was still on his side.
Coach Gamble yelled, “Paquet, tighten up. You’ve got to get a lot better for Boston.”
In response, Caleb sent two throws right down the middle. The first surprised Jalen so much that he swung and missed, but the second he got hold of and sent over the fence. Daniel crowed from second base, but other than that, the only encouragement Jalen got was from the birds. He settled in for the next pitch, determined to send another one over.
When the pitch came, it was fast and straight at his head.
The helmet’s faceguard took the hit. However, Jalen still saw stars and staggered to keep his feet.
26
COACH GAMBLE WAS THE FIRST to reach him, upset and concerned. Jalen thought whatever had been planned must have been the work of Chris and Dirk alone. Coach Gamble helped him to the dugout and got a bag of ice.
“Let’s see if we can keep your jaw from swelling too much,” the coach said anxiously.
Coach Benning hustled over and started asking Jalen questions. “Where are we? What day is it?” Jalen’s face hurt, but his mind was clear. He answered easily.
When Coach Gamble saw his son grinning, he snapped, “You think that’s funny? I ought to throw a baseball at your mouth and see if you’re still smiling.”
The light went out of Chris’s face and he stared straight ahead, muttering to himself.
Jalen was still answering questions when Coach Gamble yelled at the pitcher. “Caleb, come here! Daniel, take the mound!”
Caleb moved reluctantly toward the dugout. He exchanged the quickest of looks with Chris before asking, “What, Coach?”
“That’s what I’m asking you: What?” the coach sa
id. “What’s going on?”
Caleb shrugged and rubbed his elbow. “Not sure, Coach. Too many pitches yesterday? All of a sudden my fastball’s getting away from me.”
“What do you think you should say to Jalen?” the coach asked.
Caleb looked at the ground. “Sorry, Jalen.”
“It’s okay,” Jalen said. “I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”
After Jalen counted backward from thirty and showed no trouble with his balance, Coach Benning said, “At least he doesn’t have a concussion, but we better get his dad here to take him home.”
“I’ll be okay, really,” Jalen said, not wanting them to call the Silver Liner and upset his father. “Mr. Bellone is taking me home.”
The coaches hovered with concern, changing the ice pack and watching Jalen until practice ended.
Jalen’s teammates, spooked by the turn of events, continued to avoid him. Coach Gamble dismissed them all with his typical gruff comments and a warning about being on time Tuesday.
Giving Jalen instructions to ice his cheek when he got home and to call immediately if he got a headache or double vision, the coaches let him go.
Jalen and Daniel were halfway across the parking lot before either of them spoke.
“I’m glad that’s over with,” said Jalen.
“Practice?” Daniel asked.
“No, Chris’s revenge.”
“Revenge? Chris?” Daniel looked confused. “You mean Caleb wasn’t the one who thought up the beanball?”
Jalen nodded.
Daniel stopped and his mouth fell open. “That came from Chris? How do you know?”
“Caleb actually told me,” Jalen said. “He apologized before he even did it, and before that Chris and Dirk said they had a surprise for me.”
Daniel looked back at the dugout, narrowed his eyes, and balled his hands into fists. “I got something for those fatheads. I can’t believe it. That is such hot sauce.”
Jalen grabbed him by the arm. “Just leave it, Daniel.”
“Leave it?” Daniel’s eyes widened. “You can’t just let them do that to you.”
“Sometimes the best thing to do is let things go. I’ve learned that.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
Daniel’s father gave his truck horn a beep.
“Come on, your dad’s waiting.” Jalen headed for the truck. Its bed was loaded up with fresh green hay. The back of the extended cab smelled like manure and sunbaked grass.
Daniel’s father wore a sweat-stained cowboy hat tilted back on his head. His hands were calloused and cracked, with dirt under his fingernails. He looked at Jalen in surprise. “What happened to him?” he asked.
Daniel told the story about the beanballs.
“They did that to you?” Daniel’s father looked at Jalen in the rearview mirror, studying his face.
Jalen held up his hand to hide his cheek and said, “It was an accident.”
“No,” said Daniel. “It was on purpose.”
Jalen angled away and kept quiet, even when Daniel’s father stopped the truck so that he could turn around in his seat to see Jalen directly. His dark brown eyes burned with fury. His face hardened, stonelike. It was as if the older man was suddenly possessed by a demon, and Jalen knew where Daniel got his temper from.
If Daniel was ready to fight, Jalen didn’t even want to think about what his father was going to do.
27
“DID THEY?” MR. BELLONE DEMANDED. “DID they do what Daniel said?”
Jalen stopped trying to hide the swollen side of his face and said, “It happened, but I can’t prove anything. He said he was sorry.”
Jalen locked eyes with Daniel’s father until the fire suddenly went out.
“Yeah, that’s how they do it.” Daniel’s father sniffed, turned around, and put the truck back into gear. He spoke as he drove, without looking back. “You got the right idea just letting it go. There’s us and there’s them, and it’s always good to know the difference.”
“But we’re all on the same team, Dad,” said Daniel.
“Maybe the same baseball team,” his dad said, “but that’s not what I’m talking about. Jalen knows, don’t you, Jalen?”
Jalen nodded to Daniel’s dad in the mirror that he did, and it seemed to cast a gloom on the three of them, so that they rode to the stables where Daniel’s family lived in silence.
They pulled through the towering gates of Mount Tipton, the enormous estate owned by Cat’s stepfather. Daniel’s father drove up the long, winding drive through the tall trees and past the stables so he could back his truck up to one of the barns.
“Daniel, I could use your help unloading this hay,” Daniel’s father said.
“Aw, Dad, we’re going up to the big house to watch the game with Cat. She’s waiting for us and it already started.”
“We’ll help you first, Mr. Bellone,” Jalen said.
Daniel gave Jalen a dirty look, but he left his gear bag in the truck and fell in alongside him. They began to lift the big, scratchy bales off the truck bed and heave them into the barn, where Daniel’s father stacked them, using a baling hook. It took them no more than fifteen minutes. Mr. Bellone thanked them, and Jalen thanked him for the ride.
As they trudged up toward the mansion, Daniel complained, “Now I’m all sweaty.”
“You were sweaty anyway,” said Jalen.
“Goody Two-shoes.”
“Which means what, exactly?” Jalen asked.
“It’s a nice name for a brownnoser, which means—”
“I know what ‘brownnoser’ means!” Jalen said. “I was talking about Goody Two-shoes. It’s one of those things people say, like ‘hot sauce.’ ”
“Hot sauce can be really good, or really bad, depending on the situation.” Daniel loved to talk about his favorite expression. “Bad is if you get it up your nose or in your eyes somehow. Good is when it’s on a taco with lots of sour cream. Then nothing is better.”
“I don’t mind helping your dad,” Jalen said, changing the subject. “I appreciate all the rides he and your mom give me.”
“It’s nothing.” Daniel dismissed their rides with a wave of his hand. “They gotta take me anyway.”
They circled the mansion and knocked at the door to the kitchen. A maid let them in and told them Cat was waiting in the TV room.
“Shh,” Cat said, waving for them to sit down without looking up. “JY is up.”
They sat down on either side of her. Daniel settled into the deep cushions of the long, low couch, but Jalen sat on the edge of his seat with his knees pressing into the coffee table. The sixty-inch screen on the wall in front of them was filled with the image of James Yager at the plate, taking a practice swing. The volume was low, but Jalen could hear the excitement in the voices of the announcers as they discussed Yager’s incredible hitting streak and how it had revived his career.
On the mound was Josh Tomlin. They sat frozen while Tomlin threw three cutters for a 1–2 count.
“I told you he needed you,” Cat said without taking her eyes from the screen. She clenched her hands so hard they shook.
Jalen bit his lip and forgot about his swollen jaw.
Tomlin wound up and threw his next pitch, a sinker.
JY hit a three-hopper deep to short and just beat the throw to take first base.
The announcers went wild.
The camera cut to a pair of fans in Yankee gear going crazy amid a sea of Cleveland supporters.
Jalen felt sick.
28
YAGER ENDED THE NIGHT WITH two singles and two strikeouts.
The Yankees won 3–2.
Cat shut down the TV and let the remote clatter onto the coffee table. “Well, he sure didn’t bat a thousand.”
“Yeah, who needs a .500 hitter?” Daniel’s voice was full of sarcasm.
Cat turned to see Jalen’s reaction.
“Tell me you don’t feel as bad as you look.” Cat put a hand on his shoulder. “You gonna te
ll me what happened to your jaw now?”
Jalen told her how Chris had somehow convinced Caleb to throw beanballs at him.
“That stinks,” she said.
“Now this.” Jalen pointed at the TV.
“Don’t look so down,” Cat said, jumping up and popping the top of a pizza box. “Have another piece of pizza. Want another soda?”
Her false cheer made Jalen feel worse. “I’ve had enough. I better get home.” He stood up to go.
“Here, can I see that?” Cat reached for Jalen’s iPhone. “Let’s get your Twitter going. How about something like . . . ‘JY has another super night! Looks like it’s still #LUCKYCALAMARI.’ Look, you’ve already got fifty-two followers. This is gonna take off!”
Cat had set up a Twitter account on Jalen’s phone during the commercial breaks under the name CalamariKid1. She had given him some basic instructions, but he was confused by it all, and not up for even thinking about it now.
“Hey, it’s one game,” Cat said. “Wait until he goes O-fer against the Klubot.”
Jalen had to admit that the thought of JY being shut down by Corey Kluber the next night let a small ray of hope into his gloomy mood. The light quickly faded, though. He thanked Cat and dropped Daniel off at his place before continuing down the driveway and on down Old Post Road by himself. It was dark, and the idea of rooting against JY seemed so wrong, he decided against it.
He took the iPhone out of his pocket and dialed Cat.
“You okay?” was how she answered.
“Not really,” he said. “I’m not rooting against JY anymore. I’m wishing him to strike out, then I tweet about how great his night was? It just feels wrong.”
“It’s business, Jalen.”
“It is and it isn’t.” Jalen saw a car coming, and he stepped off the road to let it pass. “This whole thing happened because I love baseball. I love the Yankees. I love JY, and I love to play the game. I’ve got to focus on that, my own game. My dad’s restaurant is taking off already, so he doesn’t need all this JY tweeting stuff anymore. This whole baseball genius thing is over, and I’ve just got to face it and move on.”