by Carl Deuker
The weirdness of it all calmed me. I went into my wind-up and threw. Thurman swung from the heels, fouling the pitch straight back.
I thought about throwing a changeup for the second pitch, but I didn’t want to get Thurman out by fooling him. So my second pitch was another fastball; this one he popped down the first base line, out of play.
He stepped out to adjust his batting gloves. When he stepped back in, I made sure he was set, and then delivered. This fastball had late movement, jamming him. For a second I didn’t see the ball, but there it was—a soft liner toward first. Burgos made the easy catch for the third out.
Thurman slammed his helmet down. It bounced straight back up, hitting him in the face. Antonio, jogging in from shortstop, saw it and laughed. “Sweet! Do that again!”
Thurman, fuming, took a step toward Antonio, trying to intimidate him. It was a mistake because, though my brother never looks for a fight, he never backs down either. Antonio dropped his glove, his hands balling into fists, his whole body screaming Let’s go! Before anything stupid happened, their first base coach jumped between them and led Thurman back to the Marauders sideline. As he walked off the field, Thurman pretended he wanted a piece of Antonio, but you could see in his eyes it was all show.
Eleven
In the top of the second, the Marauders pitcher set us down one-two-three and then walked off the mound, with an I’m done fooling around look on this face.
He was trying to unnerve me, and so was their cleanup hitter, a kid named Jay. He smacked his bat against the outside part of the plate, pulled it back into hitting position, and glared.
I’d overpowered Ian Thurman. I had a two-run lead. Did he really think I’d toss up a fat fastball for him to drive into the gap because he pulled his cap down and furrowed his eyebrows?
I started him off by blowing a fastball right past him. He stepped out, took a couple of vicious practice swings, and stepped back in. He was geared up for another fastball, so I threw him a change. He was way out in front, lifting an easy fly to Kevin Snead in short left.
The next hitter wouldn’t expect a first pitch changeup, so I threw one. That’s how baseball is—lots of thinking about what the other guy is thinking. He didn’t swing, giving me a quick strike. Two fastballs later he was dragging his bat back to the bench. I struck out the next guy, too, though he did hit a long foul fly down the first base line.
Nothing happened in the third for either team, and we went down in order in the top of the fourth. When I took the mound for the bottom of the fourth, the Marauders coach stepped onto the field. “This is it. Last at bat.”
It wasn’t a full game, and it wasn’t a real game, but if I could get three more outs, we would have beaten the Seattle Marauders and I would have held them hitless.
I wanted the W so badly that my nerves took over. I overthrew my first pitch; it sailed inside and plunked their leadoff hitter in the back. He grimaced as he made his way to first.
The Marauders bench came alive, half of the guys screaming at me for hitting the batter and the other half screaming encouragement to their teammate as he settled in at the plate.
The wild pitch made me aim the ball instead of throwing it. My next delivery came in fat, and the Marauders hitter smacked it into right center for a double, their first hit. That put runners at second and third with nobody out and Ian Thurman stepping up to the plate.
I knew the correct baseball strategy, even if nobody else on my team did: walk Thurman to set up a force at every base.
But there was no way I was walking Ian Thurman.
Thurman took a few slow, easy practice swings.
He knew what was going to happen. Everybody on his team knew what was going to happen. Kids from North Central don’t beat kids from Laurelhurst. Not in baseball, not in anything. Thurman would drive one of my pitches over the fence. Then he’d trot around the bases as his teammates high-fived one another. We’d have lost—just like we were supposed to.
I held the ball gently, as if it were a small bird and I was feeling for its tiny, beating heart. There’d be no changeups, no sliders, no pitches in the dirt. I was coming right down the middle, trusting the ball to move late.
He swung over the top of the first pitch, a fastball that darted down and in. He stepped out, took two breaths, and stepped in. I came with pure heat again. Again he swung, a long, powerful swing. Too long. The ball was by him before his bat reached the hitting zone.
Strike two.
Ian followed his same routine, stepping out, taking his two breaths, stepping in. A strange peace came over me. Everything loose and light. Everything fluid. The zone. The ball exploded out of my hand. His bat ripped across the plate. His teammates yelled in anticipation. But all he caught was air.
Strike three.
I don’t remember pitching to the final two hitters. All I know is that my arm felt as light as air, and the ball came out of my hand like a missile. When the final hitter struck out, the guys behind me raced toward the mound, jumping around as though we’d won the World Series. Pushkin, wearing his orange shirt, barked insanely as he ran in circles.
As we walked toward Leskov’s van, the Marauders head coach came over to me. “What’s your name, son?”
“Laz Weathers.”
“That’s a helluva fastball you got, Laz. What high school do you play for?”
“N-N-North Central.”
His mind worked for a moment. “Oh, the team that forfeited. No wonder I didn’t recognize you.” He nodded. “Well, you’ve got a golden arm there. Take good care of it.”
Twelve
We played four games in the next two weeks, and they all followed the same pattern. Mr. Leskov drove us to some nice field. We piled out of the van, and our opponents snickered at our raggedy pants and our bright orange T-shirts. Then I took the mound, fired a few fastballs past them, and the smirks disappeared.
I wasn’t perfect on the mound. Some ground balls got through; some fly balls fell in. And if a ball was hit hard to somebody other than Antonio, the chance for an error was pretty good. But we scratched out at least three runs in every game, and I never gave up more than two, so we won them all.
On the rides back, we drank the orange soda—Mr. Leskov’s joke—that he always had for us. Antonio and some of the other guys took turns telling stories, keeping everybody loose. It was all so much fun that I could almost convince myself that playing for Leskov was better than playing with a select team.
Almost.
When I wasn’t working or pitching, I’d go to the community center and play foosball or pool or just hang out. Every so often I’d log onto one of the computers to check how Ian Thurman and the rest of the Seattle Marauders were doing.
While I’d spent the Fourth of July driving the Gator back and forth at the driving range, Thurman had been banging out doubles and home runs at a tournament in Boise. He’d played in another tournament in Missoula in the middle of July, and the Marauders would later play at Cannon Beach, Oregon, before finishing the summer with three games in Vancouver, British Columbia.
Thurman was the biggest star on a team of stars. A picture of him crossing home plate after a grand slam was at the top of the Seattle Marauders homepage. He was batting over .400 and was the leading RBI guy on the team.
So what if I’d struck him out? So what if I’d shut down the whole team? No scout had seen it. No reporter had written about it. It might as well have happened in an ice cave in Antarctica.
Thirteen
I hung out with Antonio during our baseball games, but that was it. He had his morning job at Home Depot; I worked afternoons at the driving range. As soon as Antonio was out of Leskov’s van, he headed to the back fence.
As I swept up golf balls in the John Deere, I’d see him with Garrett and the others. They’d be leaning against the fence or sitting on old plastic chairs just outside an abandoned toolshed. It looked like nothing—Antonio hanging out, telling stories, making other kids laugh. And that’s what
it was most of the time. Nothing. But every once in a while a guy would wander back. Then everything would stop as he bought pills from Garrett. The guy would leave, and the stories would start again.
As the weeks rolled by, though, every once in a while became every hour and then every half-hour. Some of the guys were from Jet City. Others walked in off Aurora Avenue or rode in on bicycles. They’d work their way down Jet City’s gravel lanes to where Garrett and Antonio were hanging. There’d be talk and then an exchange. After a handclasp, the guy would pedal or walk away. About every tenth person was a female.
The first time a car drove in was on July 20. I know the exact date because we’d beaten Stanwood the day before. I was replaying the game in my head when a black Kia came in the side entrance of Jet City, drove slowly to the back fence, and pulled to a stop.
The driver’s window rolled down, and the exchange with Garrett was made. The window closed; the Kia backed up and then glided out of Jet City. The next day, two cars pulled in. The Tuesday after that, I counted four cars—and that was just while I was driving the John Deere.
When Antonio left for his job at Home Depot the next morning, I walked out of the trailer with him. He’d gotten me to agree not to say anything to Mom, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t speak my mind to him.
“What’s up?” he asked as we headed toward Aurora Avenue.
“G-Garrett.”
He rolled his eyes. “Suja again?”
“No. Not Suja. I c-can s-see what’s going on with m-my own eyes. You s-say it’s n-nothing, but G-Garrett is selling more and m-more.”
He blew out air. “Laz, Garrett is so smalltime that he doesn’t exist. He’s like a fly surrounded by jets at SeaTac. Nobody cares about a kid selling a few pills at Jet City.”
“I d-don’t g-get it. Why hang with h-him?”
His face clouded. “Look, you’re happy playing Ping-Pong at the community center with Leskov watching. But I’m not you. The walls just push in on me there. I feel like I’m going to suffocate. But when I’m at the fence with Garrett and Jasmine and the rest of them—I can breathe. I don’t sell; I don’t buy; I don’t use. I just hang out and tell stories with my friends. Have some laughs. So stop worrying about me.”
Fourteen
Mom had been getting home late lots of nights that summer. I figured she was working overtime, but a few days later I found out the real reason. Coming back from the driving range, I spotted a GMC pickup parked behind her Corolla. Cleated logger boots were outside our front door, and the music pouring out of the trailer was Megadeth, not Pearl Jam or Nirvana or any of the old rock Mom listens to.
I opened the door and stepped inside. Stretched out on the sofa, his feet up on the cushions, was a burly guy with dark hair and a thick black beard. He was wearing a muscle shirt that showed off tatted biceps.
“Laz,” Mom said, standing up to meet me, her voice strangely high-pitched. She motioned with her head toward the guy. “This is Curtis Driver, Antonio’s dad. You remember him, don’t you?”
I did, sort of.
He’d lived with us in an apartment in the Central District when I was in preschool, the year before Mom bought our trailer in Jet City.
Curtis stood and stretched a hand toward me. His handshake was so strong it hurt. “Good to see you again, Laz.”
“G-G-Good to s-s-see you,” I said.
“Last time I saw you,” he said, grinning, “you were having trouble keeping the sheets dry at night. You better with that now?”
Blood rushed to my face.
“Don’t tease him,” Mom said. She looked at me. “Do you know where Antonio is?”
I shook my head. “I’m g-going to change.”
I stepped into my room, closed the door, and dropped onto my bed. I belched, and it tasted like puke.
I didn’t want to go back out and face Curtis, so I just stayed there. Finally, I heard the front door open—Antonio.
The walls in the trailer are about as thin as a cracker. Mom did most of the talking. Sometimes Curtis would say something, usually followed by a big laugh. When Antonio spoke, his voice was so quiet I couldn’t make out his words.
I started to feel like a spy so I switched on my radio, plugged in headphones, and tuned to KJR. I’d been listening to fans rip the Mariners for about ten minutes when Mom tapped on my door. “Laz, Curtis is taking us to Northgate Mall for dinner.”
* * *
We went in Mom’s Corolla, but Curtis drove. Mom asked questions about how the day had gone, and I answered. Antonio stared out the window, grim.
As we parked and walked to the food court, Curtis said, “I’ve been thinning hemlocks all day, and I’m starved. I think I’ll get myself a twelve-inch hero sandwich. How about you, Antonio? You feel like a hero?”
“Not really,” Antonio mumbled.
Irritation flashed in Curtis’s eyes.
“I’ll get a hero,” I said.
Ignoring me, Curtis opened his wallet, took out two ten-dollar bills, and held them out to Antonio. “Get whatever you’d like.”
Antonio stared at the bills. “I won’t need that much.”
“Then bring me back the change.”
Mom was full of cheer while we ate, going on about how good her fish and chips were. Once everyone had finished, Curtis looked to Mom. She nodded, and then Curtis stood. “I’m going to take a walk,” he said. “Down to the end of the mall and back. Heroes need to keep moving.”
Fifteen
“So how does your father seem to you?” Mom asked Antonio.
“He’s okay,” Antonio answered, picking at his fingernails.
“Just okay?”
Antonio kept picking at his nails.
“Antonio?”
Antonio frowned. “I don’t know him. I can’t say anything about a guy I don’t know.”
“How about you, Laz? What do you think of Curtis?”
I looked at the table. “I d-don’t know him either.”
She folded her hands together as if she were praying and looked from Antonio to me. “Well, I hope that eventually he is more than okay for you boys, because Curtis and I have decided that we’re going to reconnect.”
Silence.
“What’s that m-mean?” I finally asked.
“Duh,” Antonio mocked.
“Antonio,” Mom snapped. She turned to me. “It means he’s going to move in, Laz.”
Antonio dropped his head. Five seconds went by. Ten. Fifteen. “Does he expect me to call him Dad?” Antonio said, breaking the silence.
“Do you want to?”
The answer was immediate. “No.”
“Then call him Curtis. Laz, you can call him that, too.”
I nodded.
“And you’ll be respectful. Both of you.”
I nodded.
“Antonio?”
“Whatever you say.”
“But where will he sleep?” I asked.
As soon as the words were out, I felt like a fool. Antonio laid his forehead on the table. Mom paused, and then answered. “He’s going to sleep with me, like a grown man does with a grown woman.”
I looked toward the mall and saw Curtis approaching. When he reached our table, he opened the bag he was holding. “I got us pretzels.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking one.
Mom also took one, but Antonio shook his head. “Not hungry.”
Curtis drove the Corolla back to Jet City, got into his pickup, and returned to his own place, wherever that was.
Back inside the trailer, I lay on my bed, listening to my mom through the wall, moving around. Soon Curtis Driver would be in her room, in her bed. They’d have sex sometimes, and I’d hear them. Just thinking about that made my whole body ache.
Sixteen
Two days later he moved in. I was coming home from the driving range when I saw him unload a box from the back of his pickup and carry it up the three stairs that led to the trailer.
When he stepped back out, our eyes met
. “Let’s talk,” he said.
He went to his truck and leaned against it. I stood in the roadway and waited. Nothing. Finally he scrunched up his face and spoke. “I know you don’t want me moving in, Laz. And I get it.”
I shook my head. “I n-n-never—”
“Just listen,” he said, stopping me.
I nodded.
“You’re going to be a senior. Once you graduate, you’ll be wanting to move out, right? That’s just natural. Start your own life and all that. So how long is that? Nine? Ten months? That’s all we’re talking about. We can make this work that long, right?”
I swallowed. “Y-Yeah.”
Curtis stuck out his fist and we bumped knuckles. Then he nodded toward his truck. “How about giving me a hand with my stuff?”
Nothing was heavy, not even his big-screen TV, but my legs were wobbly, as if I’d been hit by a sucker punch. Sure I was planning on moving out of the trailer someday, but I always figured that I’d decide when I was ready. Now Curtis Driver was calling the shots. Ten months, and then he wanted me gone. I could feel time rushing at me like a train.
That night, Mom ordered Domino’s for Antonio and me, and then she and Curtis drove off somewhere. When the pizza came, we ate in the front room, the Mariners game on the TV.
“What do you think?” Antonio asked, his head down.
“About what?”
“Come on, Laz.”
I thought about Curtis shoving me out the door in ten months, but that’s not what I said. “It’s okay.”
He snorted. “It sucks.”
I shrugged. “He’s your f-father. You should g-give him a ch-chance.”
Antonio’s eyes narrowed. “I’m dead to him for twelve years and I’m supposed to act like it’s Christmas because he’s back for a couple of weeks?”