Screaming at the Ump

by Audrey Vernick

  “I have my reasons.”

  I didn’t need to tell him that I’d written the story the best way I could. In my notebook. In fact, I’d written that story three different ways, and I still couldn’t tell you which one was best. The truth was I still had a lot to learn. It was bitter and stinging, but it was the straight-up truth.

  “But that doesn’t change the fact that I think your rules suck,” I said.

  “You taking the late bus?” Chris asked.

  I nodded.

  “Me too,” he said.

  “So can I ask you something?” I said.

  “I guess.”

  “What if we change that rule for sixth-graders, maybe for the kids who join the paper next year?”

  He was quiet as we walked out the side door to the bus. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  That kind of silenced me. I had expected some nasty response. I considered asking him why he’d always hated me, but it seemed both impossible and kind of pathetic. My dad had kept him from playing in a tournament, and he’d been mad at me. Anger isn’t always logical.

  Chris walked to the back of the late bus, where the eighth-graders sat, and I sat up front, wondering a little what it would be like when I sat back there.

  ***

  When I reached BTP’s front gate, I had to look three times before I realized what I was seeing. There was a couple there, a guy and a woman—she had to be June Sponato—just standing there. But there was something really weird about it. The guy handed June something really fast, like he was scared of getting caught holding it. It was almost funny—they were acting like little kids. I walked a few steps closer and confirmed that it was June Sponato. Holding a cigarette. That Soupcan had handed her in a hurry when he saw me coming. It made me think of the reform-school boys who must have snuck smokes on these grounds, probably right here near the front gate.

  June dropped the butt to the ground and stepped on it. Soupcan shook his head and walked away, like he was too embarrassed to even look at me. June headed back toward the fields.

  “You can quit again tomorrow,” I called after Soupcan, but he was still shaking his head. He didn’t look back.

  ***

  As I headed toward the fields, Dad walked away from the students, mid-drill, to meet me, even though he was in the middle of student evaluations. That had never happened before, and I got a sick, panicky feeling as I looked around for Pop, but I spotted him right away out on field two, finishing up before break.

  “How was your time at your mother’s?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “I want to talk to you for a few minutes,” he said. “Come on over here.” We sat on the ledge outside the cages.

  “I’ve been thinking since I dropped you off, and I decided there are a few things I need to tell you.”

  It sounded so serious, and I knew it was coming, how I was going to be sent to stay at my mother’s. I looked around at this place that I loved, and I couldn’t even breathe. Maybe when he’d asked how it went at her house I should have said it was awful, the worst night ever. Rewind! I needed to rewind!

  “Overheard conversations are out of bounds,” Dad said. “If you’re listening to things you shouldn’t be listening to, you’re stuck with the consequences.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  “And now I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to give me an honest answer.”

  This did not sound promising.

  “What did you know about Zeke’s TV-show idea?”

  How did he know about that? “Um, I did know he was thinking about it. And I knew that was why he was videotaping on You Suck, Ump! Day. It was his own idea, but, um, how do you know about it?”

  “Did you see a guy in a Phillies shirt, a really tall guy?”

  I nodded and I knew it was really coming now, the whole Phillies spring-training complex thing, moving to Florida for January, no more Academy for me.

  “He was some kind of scout for some show about a new reality TV show, some contest Zeke entered. Your Show Here, maybe?”

  “Are you serious? That’s who he was? And he talked to you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You had enough on your mind with visiting your mother. And running You Suck, Ump! Day. And I needed to think through some things myself.”

  Pop walked over and rubbed my head like I was a much-loved dog. “Everything okay here?” We nodded, and Pop headed toward the water cooler.

  “They didn’t pick Zeke’s idea. Did they?”

  “They’re considering it. They were checking to make sure it was okay with me.”

  “Is it?”

  “Now I’m considering it. I’m not sure, but who knows? Maybe a little TV exposure would get more people interested in our school.”

  I did not drop to the ground, but it took some effort.

  “What about Florida?”

  “I had already decided about Florida,” Dad said.

  “Oh,” I said. I looked around at the fields and felt all the great memories—setting up roommate pairs with Zeke; watching students progress from spazzy to serious umpires; the big ceremony on the last night when they announced which students were going on to Cocoa.

  “When I thought about giving up our New Jersey Academy, I realized that on a good day, it’s more like a gift than a responsibility. Florida will still be there when you’ve grown up,” Dad said. “And it’s not like I’m suffering, being here. This is a good life.”

  My brain was revving like a lawn mower that wouldn’t start up, ready for bad news, sputtering, ready to shout, “But, but, but, but, but . . . ,” unable to adjust to the not-bad news he’d actually said. Suddenly, it felt like my blood was having an easier time flowing. Like there was less mess in the way of the oxygen getting where it needed to go.

  “Last night, Pop and I were talking, and we agreed that this was one of the best You Suck, Ump! Days we could remember. You worked hard to make that happen, and you did it all. There are more than two generations of Snowdens, more than just me and Pop; you’ve got a stake in this place too.”

  Out past the fields, I saw Zeke on his skateboard, heading our way. I couldn’t wait to tell him that Dad was actually thinking about his umpire-school reality show idea. I couldn’t wait to tell him that I wasn’t going anywhere, that maybe his real claim to fame was saving me.

  “But here’s what I want you to know, Casey: What I’m choosing is the whole thing. To continue Academy here. But beyond that, to be here as your dad. To be in your life until you grow up. That’s not just a responsibility. It’s the best thing I get to do.”

  There were no words big enough for all I wanted to say, so I just reached out and hugged him. Without a second of surprise or hesitation, he hugged me right back. I could feel some of the worry and suspicion that had been with me every minute the past couple of weeks start to fade. It really wasn’t so bad that Dad had thought about going to Florida, so long as he’d decided to stay. And he had.

  We were just patting each other’s backs and separating when Zeke rode right by us, stretching out the word “S T A R V I N G” as he rolled past, heading toward the house for a snack. How did he know Dad had just been shopping for food?

  His head was going to fall off when I told him everything.

  “Catch you later, Casey,” Dad said.

  I was turning to follow Zeke before he had a chance to eat all our good stuff, and I nearly walked right into the massiveness that was J-Mac. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hello, Casey.” There was something weird, almost like a question, in his voice.

  “Thanks for talking with me the other day; I loved hearing your stories. I’m still thinking about some of the stuff you told me.”

  “If you’re going to ask me to speak on the record about —”

  “No,” I said. “I wanted to tell you—I decided not to write that article.”

  It took him a while to answer. “I was starting to wonder if you were planning to bring me down or
what,” he said with a little laugh that almost sounded nervous. Or just uncomfortable.

  “I really wanted to write that article,” I said. I really did want to write that article. “You know, a lot of people would love to know what happened to you. But I was thinking that maybe you should write about what happened. If you decide to. Someday. What I finally realized is that it should really be your story to tell.”

  “But, Casey, were you—” A few seconds passed, though it sure felt longer than that, and he didn’t say anything else. He just smiled and reached out his hand for a shake.

  As we shook (let it be known: J-Mac had a VERY tight grip), he put his left hand on the top part of my right arm and gave me one of those gazing-right-at-you looks. It was a moment. J-Mac and I had ourselves a moment. There was more than thanks in it. It almost felt like respect.

  He turned to walk away, and I took a minute to just look around. At this place, this third-best-in-the-country umpire school, with all its old reform-school buildings and fields full of people pretending to play baseball.

  What a weird world my world was.

  I looked out at field one. A runner was racing down the third-base line. I couldn’t tell who the plate ump student was, but he was in perfect position. Beyond him stretched a beautiful field of green, still and glistening in the late-afternoon sun, and beyond that, I could see my house, my home. With his arms parallel to the ground, the student extended his hands slowly outward. His voice was crisp and loud and deep; it rang out with confidence:

  “SAFE!”

  Postgame (Author's Note)

  This is a work of fiction. Clay Coves, New Jersey, is an imagined town, and Behind the Plate is a made-up umpire school.

  There are, however, two umpire schools in Florida, and the method of umpire selection described in this book—with the ultimate evaluation and ranking being done at the Professional Baseball Umpire Corp. in Cocoa, Florida—is real.

  Acknowledgments

  So many smart, generous people helped me with this book in different ways at various stages. I wholeheartedly appreciate every one of them.

  Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich has always looked out for Casey and Zeke, maybe because she met them before she met me. This almost makes up for her insistence that Derek Jeter wears mom jeans. Kim Marcus somehow figured out that Jackson Alter was using before I did, and has held my hand through every draft of this book. Stacy DeKeyser gave me a wonderful weekend of writing and showed me where this story really began. Liz Scanlon and I wrote together daily, across 1,500 miles, and she’s a kind of scary genius. I will always think of Casey and Liz’s Ivy as literary cousins. Amy Hill Hearth cheered me on and met for Thai lunches whenever the need arose. Pamela Ross always wears her pride in her friends like a mama.

  I worked on this book as a student in Patti Gauch’s Heart of the Novel workshop, and she taught us all so much. I am grateful that she shares her wisdom so freely. My thanks, too, to all my Heart of the Novel mates for their feedback.

  I want to thank everyone at JEAPU, especially Jim Evans and Dick Nelson, for patiently answering a rookie’s questions and allowing me to watch an umpire school in session.

  I am lucky to belong to two incredible groups of writers—the EMLA Gango and the Atomic Engineers. The support, camaraderie, and fun to be had within those circles is immeasurable and extraordinary.

  My editor, Jennifer Greene, is all kinds of wonderful. Her always light touch invariably evokes deep and meaningful change. Any writer would be lucky to have Jennifer on her team. Everyone at Clarion Books has transformed my manuscripts into beautiful books, for which I will always be deeply appreciative and somewhat awestruck.

  That Erin Murphy, who would not understand a Scott Boras reference here, loved the long-ago-cut parts of this manuscript that featured Casey and Zeke doing nothing but geeking out together should have been a pretty clear indicator that I’d found the right agent. This is the book that started it all, so I guess I am also grateful to Casey Snowden for introducing me to a great friend.

  My family is large and loving and supportive beyond measure. They make almost every day feel like You Suck, Ump! Day in Oppositeland—constantly hurling praise from the stands. I cherish the love and enthusiasm of Jules and Barbara Glassman, Ellen Gidaro, Beth Arnold, all my aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, cousins, and, really, all my friends and relatives and friends of my relatives and relatives of my friends. My people are such good people.

  And though members of the home team claimed unearned victory in the searching-for-the-missing-umpire-school-notebook sweepstakes, they are the truest, best teammates a writer could ever hope for. My thanks and love to Michael, Jacob, and Anna.

  Brightly Colored Happiness

  The blitzing began five years ago, in second grade, on one of those amazing spring days that remind you how hot summer can be. I was sitting outside, waiting for my best friends to come over. I knew we’d spend the day outside—the weather was the kind of gorgeous that makes you feel stupid if you spend a minute indoors.

  I have no idea why I had a bag of balloons in the garage, but I did. Before Leah and Jane arrived, I blew up a ton with the hose and filled this big planter behind my dad’s grill with water balloons.

  Whenever we hung out, we played Monopoly. We were inventing our own rules, our own way to play. Whoever bought Park Place had to get drinks for all players. If you landed on Marvin Gardens, the other players had to quickly come up with a new hairstyle for you. That kind of thing. These days, there’s an action associated with every space. (Except Baltic. If you land on Baltic, you can just relax.) But on that day, we were still making it up.

  So there we were, playing our evolving version of Monopoly on the wooden picnic table in the backyard. Leah was leaning back to get some sun on her face. Jane was focused on the game, like me. She had a pad next to her, keeping track of the random action we applied to each space.

  I landed on B&O Railroad, which, according to our rules, meant I had to go get pretzels for them. Instead, I went to the planter.

  Was there a minute, a pause, before I started throwing the balloons? A second when I realized that something way beyond awesome was about to take place? I wish I could remember.

  What I do remember is the identical look on their faces. I managed to hit Jane and Leah within seconds of each other, and it was as if they had no idea what had happened. Did the sky just fall? Did a bird crap on them? Did their heads explode? How could they suddenly be wet, sitting outside on a hot spring day? Almost before it was humanly possible, they were right there beside me, pulling balloons out and attacking me right back. There was water everywhere, wet everything, balloons flying, breaking apart, arms throwing and trying to deflect, voices squealing, screaming, laughing. We were running, trying to get away, running back, getting more balloons from the planter. It was wet and brightly colored happiness of the splatted, splattered water balloon variety.

  Rig raced out barking, running circles around us. My parents ran out of the house too; all the noise must have set off their Parent Alerts. Mom and Dad took it all in: how wet we were, how hard we were laughing, the red and yellow and blue and purple balloon splats everywhere. Instead of yelling at us to clean it all up, or did we realize we had nearly drenched a perfectly good Monopoly game, or even What the hell is going on out here?, my mom found one balloon that had landed unbroken and smashed it directly on my dad’s head.

  She looked so happy! Almost proud, in a goofy way. Dad had that look of wonder he always got—as if he couldn’t believe how great she was. Or how lucky he was. A look I haven’t seen in so long.

  First Water Balloon Blitz. Quite possibly the best water balloon fight in the history of mankind.

  The next year, Jane ambushed Leah and me at the park. She had her brother and father help her hide a stash in this big bin behind the playground, and she just totally blindsided us with a water balloon attack of pure excellence.

  What impressed me most was not the total shock factor, or the way
Jane made an annual tradition out of what we all had thought of as the greatest ever onetime event. I just loved the Jane way she went about it. It was so well planned. I mean, she brought the full water balloons to the park in a bucket half filled with water so they wouldn’t break. Seriously—that was taking it to a whole other level.

  Over the years, rules evolved. We came up with a points system.

  The Water Balloon Blitz can only be after school ends, and there can be only one blitz per year. Points are given in the following categories:

  Number of witnesses to water balloon blitzing.

  Number of days since last day of school—in other words, the longer you wait, the more points you get. Of course, there’s also a greater the chance of someone else bombing you first.

  Bonus points for courage—it’s a lot easier to launch a surprise balloon attack on your best friends when it’s just the three of you in a backyard than it is in a public place or when your friend’s parents might kill you.

  Which is why Leah is reigning champion. Her attack at Jane’s sister’s birthday party two years ago was a thing of great beauty. And utter surprise. Leah wasn’t exactly a follower, but she sure wasn’t a leader. She mostly went along with what Jane and I did. So for her to come up with this blitz, this most incredibly courageous blitz, well, Jane and I were nearly speechless for days. And Leah was never the same herself.

  All these older neighbors were there, not to mention Jane’s mega-uptight mother and grandmother, but Leah went all out, bombing Jane and me. Most of the other guests, too. Jane and I kneeled down before her at the end of that party. Literally.

  The weird thing is that last summer, there was no blitz. All through August, I was sure I’d score with a ton of points by waiting so long, but the days slipped by, and Jane and Leah were so busy all the time. I never blitzed them. They never blitzed me. Then seventh grade started. And life went on.

  Well, life didn’t exactly go on. My life got a little stopped for a while. Or it felt like it did, when Dad moved out.