by Carl Deuker
Mom had him sit down in the chair across from the sofa. Mr. Thurman started talking about what a warm September it was, when Mom cut him off. “Sorry, but we’ve got to leave soon, so—”
“Okay,” Mr. Thurman said. “I’ll make this short.”
It took him just a few minutes to explain the fall training program. When he finished, Mom nodded. “Okay, all that sounds good. Give me the forms and I’ll fill them out.”
Mr. Thurman started to hand a manila envelope to Mom, but Curtis raised his hands. “Hold on a second. You wouldn’t be breaking any rules having these workouts, would you? I played high school football, and there were strict regulations about out-of-season practices.”
I felt my face flush. He was calling Mr. Thurman a cheater.
If Mr. Thurman was angry, he didn’t show it. “Good question. And the answer is no. The program is run by the YMCA, not Laurelhurst. It’s a regular eight-week class like all the others the Y offers. They’ll be no Laurelhurst coaches there.”
Curtis wouldn’t let it drop. “But all the kids just happen to play on the Laurelhurst team. Come on. We all—”
Mom jumped in. “Curtis, Kenmore at eleven. Remember?” Then her eyes went to me. “Laz, you want to do this, right?”
I nodded.
She turned back to Mr. Thurman. “If you leave those papers, I’ll fill them out and get them back to you.”
Mr. Thurman handed Mom the envelope. “Our first session is Tuesday. Laz can bring the forms with him then.”
“You got forms in there for my son, Antonio?” Curtis asked.
Mr. Thurman stood. “Yes. Laz mentioned Antonio, so you’ll find two sets of paperwork in there.”
As soon as Mr. Thurman had driven away, Mom turned on Curtis. “What was that all about?” she asked, puzzled.
“What was what all about?”
“Hassling the man like that? He’s doing the boys a favor.”
Curtis snorted. “Timmi, he didn’t come here to help Antonio or Laz. He’s here because he thinks they can help him. I just wanted him to know that I know his game.”
Mom started to say more, then stopped. She picked up her purse and handed Mr. Thurman’s envelope to me. “Fill out everything you can, and I’ll do the rest when we get back. Do Antonio’s form, too. Okay?” She turned to Curtis. “The Corolla is almost out of gas. We should take your truck.”
Seven
I got good news that night: Antonio agreed to give Laurelhurst baseball a try. Mom told me when I showed her where she needed to sign the forms. “He said no at first, but then Curtis asked him to give it at least one shot, and Antonio said he would.” A little smile came to her face. “I know. I was surprised, too.”
I was glad Antonio was going with me. Really glad. But later, when I was in my room, an unexpected sadness came over me. Curtis wasn’t ever going to win Father of the Year, but he tried to point the way. Sometimes Antonio listened; sometimes he didn’t. Either way, Antonio had a dad—something I’d never have.
When school let out Tuesday, I got my duffle bag from my locker and hustled to the bus stop. There were seven minutes between the final bell and the bus’s arrival—plenty of time.
But as the minutes ticked away, I worried. Where was Antonio? Right as the bus pulled up, he bounded down the school stairs. “Hurry,” I yelled, standing half on and half off the bus so the driver couldn’t shut the door and drive away.
Twenty minutes later the bus pulled to a stop at Sandpoint Way and we got off. What struck me first about Laurelhurst were the trees. They were everywhere, lining every street. Some were red and orange. Others were tall evergreens. The trees at North Central High were the same tree, over and over. Laurelhurst trees were different kinds, and they glowed in the late-afternoon light.
“Do you know where this field is?” Antonio asked as the bus rolled away.
I checked the map I’d printed from a library computer and pointed. “Two blocks that way.”
When we reached the diamond, about a dozen guys were loosening up on the infield. Mr. Thurman must have been looking out for us, because he waved and smiled as soon as we stepped onto the field.
“Laz! Antonio! Come on and meet the other guys.”
I handed him the envelope with the completed forms. He took it and tossed it into a box with other envelopes. Next he introduced us to the Laurelhurst players, explaining that North Central High was dropping baseball, so we were going to try out for their team.
We warmed up, Antonio and I, by playing catch. Talk filled the air around us, but the only sound between us was the smack of a baseball hitting leather.
We’d made about twenty throws when a whistle blew and the workout began. Mr. Thurman had four stations set up around the diamond, with adults running each of them. The other kids knew the names of each of the men, but I called them all Coach. Antonio did the same.
We rotated through in small groups. Fielding. Throwing. Hitting. Base running. At every station Antonio and I stuck together. That ended when Mr. Thurman separated pitchers from position players. While I was in the outfield playing long catch with Kevin Griffith, the kid who had been the Seattle Marauders pitcher, Antonio waited his turn to hit off the pitching machine.
I kept peeking over. I wanted Antonio to show Mr. Thurman that he was a player. Wasn’t he ever going to get his turn?
And then he was up.
It went as I’d hoped: he drove the ball hard, smacking line drives to all fields.
Near the end of practice, I was called to pitch live batting practice. Twice Mr. Thurman told me not to throw hard. “Even ninety percent is too much. Don’t risk injury.”
For the first three batters, I tossed up slow fastballs, if there is such a thing. Then Ian Thurman stepped into the box. He was my last batter, and he got seven pitches. I threw the first five the way I was told, and he blasted line drives into the gaps. I would have been okay with that if he hadn’t grinned after every hit. When my sixth pitch was roped 350 feet to dead center, I stepped off the mound and looked hard at him. I wanted him to know what was coming. He gave me a nod. I climbed onto the mound, went into my motion, and came with everything I had. He swung from the heels . . . and missed.
The next kid stepped to the plate, and I went back to throwing watermelons.
Finally, a whistle blew and the workout was over. “Thursday. Same time.” Mr. Thurman called out. “And remember—there are a lot of good teams in the state. The one that wins that championship will be the one that works the hardest. So be here.”
Eight
Antonio and I reached the bus stop just in time to see the bus pull away. Who knew how long it would be before the next one? Plopping down on his duffle bag, Antonio looked straight ahead.
Mr. Thurman’s gold Lexus SUV pulled to a stop across the street. The driver’s window lowered, and Mr. Thurman called out. “Can I give you boys a ride?”
“That’s okay,” I called back.
“It’s no problem. Buses don’t come too often around here.”
I looked at Antonio, and he shrugged. We grabbed our stuff and hurried across the street.
This is how dumb I can be. I was surprised to see Ian in the front passenger seat. Where else would he be?
As Mr. Thurman drove toward Jet City, he asked questions about the workout. Was it too long? Not long enough? What would make it better? Ian had his iPhone out, thumbs flying. Antonio said nothing, leaving me—the stutterer—to do the talking.
As we headed north on Aurora Avenue and neared Jet City, my stomach knotted. I didn’t want Ian to see Jet City, didn’t want him to go to school the next day and say—Those two guys from North Central? You’re not going to believe this, but they live in a trailer.
Mr. Thurman pulled to a stop at a red light by the driving range. Without warning, Antonio threw open the door. “This is good right here,” he said, grabbing me by the elbow and yanking me.
“Hold on. Are you sure?” Mr. Thurman said, but by then we were both on th
e street. I managed a thank you before Antonio slammed the car door shut. The light turned green, and the Lexus drove off.
“Couldn’t take it any longer,” Antonio said.
* * *
That night, everyone was home at dinnertime, which didn’t happen often. Mom bought bean salad and French bread to go with the macaroni and cheese she had made. “We made the news,” she said as she spooned the gooey pasta onto the plates.
“How?” Antonio asked.
“There’s an organization—Keep Seattle Affordable—that is trying to save Jet City.”
“A bunch of do-gooders against a multimillion-dollar developer,” Curtis grumbled. “Who do you think will win that battle?”
“At least they’re trying,” Mom said.
The bean salad and bread made their way around the table.
“How did the practice go?” Curtis asked as he piled food onto his plate.
“It was g-great,” I said. “I learned a l-lot.”
Curtis looked to Antonio. “So you’re going to keep going?”
Antonio shook his head. “Laz can do what he wants, but I’m never going back there.”
My eyes went wide. “I thought you l-liked it,” I said.
“Yeah? Well, you thought wrong,” he said.
“Why didn’t you like it?” Curtis asked.
“Because I didn’t.”
Curtis kept after him. “Because they’ve got more money? Is that why?”
Antonio shrugged. “Money is part of it.”
Curtis kept after him. “What’s the rest?”
Antonio filled his mouth with food. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just know I’m not going back.”
“Come on, Antonio,” Curtis snapped. “You’ve got to do better than that.”
Antonio’s eyes went to Mom.
“Curtis,” she said quietly. “You asked him to go once, and he did. Now he’s telling you he didn’t like it. So . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Curtis opened his hands. “So I’m just supposed to go along?”
Mom nodded. “Yeah. You are.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Curtis sat back in his chair. I was sure he was going to go after Antonio, or Mom, or both, but he didn’t. “All right,” he said, his voice calm but his eyes angry. “You don’t want to play baseball, don’t play baseball.” Then he dug his fork into the mac and cheese and got back to eating.
There wasn’t much talk after that. When dinner was finished, I went to my room and Antonio went to his. I tried to read, but I could hear Mom and Curtis arguing in the kitchen. The argument lasted about ten minutes, and then the trailer went silent and stayed silent.
Later that night, Antonio knocked on my door and stepped inside. “You’re okay without me playing, right?”
“N-Not really. I don’t g-get it. You could b-be a g-good player. Really g-good. And you know what I th-think about G-Ga—”
“This has nothing to do with Garrett,” he said, interrupting. “I’m just done with baseball.”
I shrugged. “All r-right. That’s it.”
We were both quiet for a moment; then he nodded toward the main room, where Curtis was watching TV. “What do you think of him?”
“He’s okay.” I paused. “And Mom’s happier since he m-moved in. She l-likes him a lot.”
Antonio’s face broke into a smile. “I guess I’m proof of that.”
He stood in the doorway a little longer, his eyes way off somewhere. Finally he looked at me. “You show those rich kids the kind of ball we play in North Central. Okay?”
Nine
When I got home from school the next day, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, her hand bandaged.
“Are you all r-right?” I asked.
“I cut myself at work. Careless. I’ll be fine, but they sent me home.”
“Can I h-help with something? Dinner?”
“No, but stick around. I’ve got news I want you and Antonio to hear at the same time. I texted him. He’ll be home in a few minutes. I texted you, too, but your phone is dead.”
She had a pamphlet open in front of her. When she caught me trying to look at it, she turned it over. “Go recharge that phone of yours. There’s no point in having one if you don’t keep it charged.”
I hadn’t forgotten; I’d charged it a day earlier. My phone just didn’t hold a charge for long. Neither did Antonio’s, but I didn’t tell Mom that. We couldn’t afford new ones, so what we had was what we had.
I’d just finished plugging my phone into the charger when I heard Antonio come through the front door. Back in the kitchen, Mom was waving both hands in front of her face. “Antonio, I’m not going to die. It’s just a cut. Relax.” She pointed to the chairs at the kitchen table. “Now sit down, both of you.”
We sat.
Mom took a deep breath and exhaled. “They’ve found us a place. Magic Lantern Trailer Park up in Marysville. If we take the spot, we get a two-year lease and the townhomes developer pays our moving expenses and our first month’s fees. “
She slid the pamphlet she’d hidden from me to the middle of the table.
In the photos, the trailer park looked old and tired, but so did Jet City. “Marysville is a l-long way, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Twenty-five miles north.”
Antonio flipped through the pamphlet. “We’d have to change schools.”
Mom nodded. “It would mean changes for all of us.”
Antonio dropped the pamphlet on the table. “Have you signed?”
“Not yet. We have until January first, and if we do sign, we won’t move until April. So nothing will happen right away.”
I felt as if the walls of the trailer were closing in on me. April was in the middle of baseball season. I’d just be settling in at Laurelhurst and I’d have to leave.
Mom’s eyes moved from Antonio to me, but neither of us spoke. Finally she opened her hands. “Look, I hope something else comes through, but this is a whole lot better than being homeless.”
Other pamphlets were stacked up on the far side of the table. Antonio reached for one and held it up. “I know this place. Woodacres Apartments. It’s just across Aurora, five blocks from here. A girl from Jet City is moving there with her mom. Why can’t we go there?”
Mom shook her head. “They turned us down.”
“How come?”
“They only have one-bedroom apartments, and the manager allows three people per unit and no more. With so many families from Jet City scrambling for a new place, he can pick and choose.”
Antonio tilted his head. “Couldn’t we lie?”
Mom shook her head. “Wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?” Antonio persisted.
“Because to qualify for the relocation money, I had to fill out a form. The developers gave that form to the manager at Woodacres. All four of our names are there in black and white.”
Antonio’s chin dropped. “If Curtis hadn’t moved—
“Stop,” Mom said firmly. “Not another word.”
After dinner, I walked in a light rain to the community center. I had reading to do for history and English, and ten algebra problems. But before I tackled my homework, I used one of Mr. Leskov’s ancient computers to look up the Marysville baseball team.
They hadn’t had a winning season in seven years. Worse, they played all their games in Snohomish or Skagit County. There was a good chance the Marysville coach wouldn’t let me join the team—not in April. But even if he did, what would it matter? No major-league scout would drive hours to see an unknown pitcher on a bad team.
Ten
Thursday came up rainy, windy, and cold. I thought the workout at Laurelhurst would be cancelled, but no message from Mr. Thurman came through on my cell, and the charge was good. I almost skipped anyway. Since I’d be moving to Marysville, what was the point?
Because I didn’t have anything better to do, I went. The rain stopped during the bus ride, bu
t when I reached the field, it was empty—the workout had been canceled. I was headed back to the bus stop when Mr. Thurman called my name.
“I thought you might be here,” he said as he walked across the parking lot toward the field. “I must have your number wrong; I kept getting an error message.”
I gave him my number and he made the correction. “Where’s your brother?”
I told him Antonio wouldn’t be coming anymore. I thought he’d ask why, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked up at the sky. “Since we’re both here and it’s not raining, why don’t we work on a few things.”
* * *
I’d been leading with my shoulder, but he wanted me to lead with my hip. “If you bring your hip back at an angle,” he explained, “you can throw your leg forward as you release the ball. You’ll get more velocity and put less strain on your arm.”
Once I got the feel for the new motion, he had me repeat it. “Burn it into your muscle memory. Then, in a game, it’ll come automatically.”
Slowly, I could feel both my control and my velocity improve.
Black clouds rolled in from the southwest, bringing back the rain. When I slipped after a pitch, Mr. Thurman waved his hands. “That’s it, Laz.”
I packed my stuff and started toward the bus stop, but again he offered me a ride.
There’d been an accident near Evergreen Washelli Cemetery, so traffic on Aurora Avenue crawled. As we inched along, Mr. Thurman talked about how excited he was for the upcoming season. “The head coach at Laurelhurst is retiring after this season. Coach Vereen. All three of my boys played for him. He’s won everything except the state championship. We made it to the quarterfinals last year, and the core players are back. With the extra pitching you’ll bring . . .” He looked over at me. “If ever a man deserved to go out a champion, it’s Pop Vereen. It would be the perfect ending to a great career—”
Drops of sweat were rolling down my spine.
“Mr. Thurman, I need t-t-to t-tell you s-something.”