Golden Arm

by Carl Deuker

  “I s-stink at m-math,” I said, trying to make a joke.

  Mr. Marsh narrowed those eyebrows and wagged a finger at me. “I’m a great teacher, and we have a great peer-tutoring program. You don’t stink at math anymore.”

  He had me fill out a form for after-school tutoring in the library. “I’ll give this to Ms. Cramer, our librarian,” he said when I handed the form back to him. “She’ll be looking for you.”

  “When d-does this start?” I asked.

  Those bushy eyebrows again furrowed. “Today.”

  When I left, I made my way to the cafeteria, where I filled my tray with pizza and salad. I qualified for free lunch; moving to Laurelhurst High hadn’t changed that. At North Central, kid after kid scanned their card under a reader, and a computerized voice said, “Thank you.”

  But as I worked my way up the line at Laurelhurst, I didn’t see a scanner and I didn’t hear a single computerized “Thank you.” I broke into a sweat when I reached the front of the line and showed my card to the lunch lady. What if she didn’t know what it was? She took it, then reached down under the cash register to pull out the card reader. After she scanned my card, the machine made a whirring noise followed by a full volume “Thank you.” I might as well have hung a sign around my neck reading POOR KID.

  I carried my tray to a corner and found a chair that faced the wall. I’d taken a couple bites of pizza when Hadley Welsh came up and nodded at the chair across from me.

  “Okay?”

  “S-sure.”

  He looked like a linebacker, and he ate like one, too, polishing off two pieces of pizza and a fistful of french fries in a couple of minutes. It wasn’t until he started on his apple that he spoke.

  “You struck me out in the summer. Do you remember?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t figure you would, because you struck out just about everybody. That’s why the guys are so pumped to have you here. Or at least most of them are.” He stopped to wipe his mouth with his sleeve. “Some kids think your transferring here is cheating.”

  “Ch-Cheating?”

  He scrunched his face. “Not cheating, exactly. Just iffy. New pitcher coming to a new school for one semester. Kevin Griffith, our number one starter, has friends who want him to stay number one. I get it. He won a ton of games last year and the year before. The problem is that Jesuit High keeps bombing him in the state tournament. I mean, they totally lit him up two years straight. Actually, he kind of sucks against all the good teams.” Hadley paused. “This is Coach Vereen’s last year—you know about him, right? He’s a god around here. A living legend and all that crap. All the other coaches call him Pop because he’s been around forever.”

  I nodded. “What’s he l-like?”

  “He’s okay as long as you don’t cross him. Get on his bad side, and there’s no getting back.” Hadley stretched his arms above his head and smiled. “So, Laz, my new best friend forever, here’s all you need to do. Pitch Laurelhurst to its first state title so dear old Pop Vereen can retire a champion. Do that, and you’ll be everybody’s best friend forever.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said.

  He wagged a finger in front of my face. “No joke.”

  Twenty-One

  My afternoon classes looked easy: visual arts and then PE with Coach Vereen. I’d thought it was a fluke that I’d been assigned to his class, but ten guys from the baseball team—including Hadley and Ian—were also there.

  Everybody had talked about how old Vereen was, so I expected him to be beaten down and bent over. The man in the front of the gym was at least six foot three and well over two hundred pounds. He had wiry gray hair, a hawk’s nose, and dark brown eyes.

  After the warm-up exercises were over, Coach Vereen led the baseball players to the wrestling room, where he passed out notebooks—green for infielders, blue for outfielders, and red for pitchers. Mine contained a series of exercises to increase leg strength, arm strength, flexibility, and agility—along with directions and pictures of how to do each properly.

  In a Marine sergeant voice, Coach Vereen gave us a pep talk about how preparation today leads to winning tomorrow, and then the guys got to work—all except Ian and two of his friends—Martin Moran and Andrew Comette. The three of them worked hard when Vereen was watching, but when he returned to the main gym, they stopped. “Are they always like that?” I asked Hadley, motioning toward them.

  Hadley shook his head. “They used to work harder than anyone. Especially Ian. But this is their fourth year of hearing Vereen say the same things. It gets old.”

  Near the end of class, Coach Vereen came over, watched me for a while, and then tweaked the way I was doing a core exercise. “Just like that. Good. Really good.” Then he paused and lowered his voice. “Don’t worry about anything, kid. I’ll ease you in. I don’t expect you to be Cy Young.”

  The school day was over, but my day wasn’t. I took the slip of paper Mr. Marsh had given me and headed to the library. The librarian, Ms. Cramer, led me to a back room. “I’ve assigned you to Jesus Ramirez.”

  Ramirez was short—maybe five foot two. He had a long, braided ponytail and wore a Pokémon Go T-shirt and black sweatpants. “Cool problems,” he said when I showed him my math assignment.

  He talked loud and he laughed even louder, but he explained the math step by step. If I asked him to show me something twice, or even three times, he did.

  It was nearly five before I returned to the Thurmans’ house. I used my key to get in, closed the door quietly, took off my shoes, and headed toward the stairs leading to the basement. I’d almost reached them when Mrs. Thurman called my name, stopping me.

  “I’ve got something for you,” she said, and then she handed me an Apple laptop.

  “This is f-for m-me?” I asked, confused.

  “We bought it for Ian when he started high school. We thought he could take it to his classes, but it has a fourteen-inch screen, which makes it too heavy. We got him a MacBook Air, so this one has just been sitting in a closet.”

  “I c-can’t—”

  “Laz, it’s silly to have it sit unused. So please, just take it. Our WiFi password is STATECHAMPIONS. All caps, one word.” A smile came to her eyes. “A household with dreams.”

  Twenty-Two

  That Sunday, I wasn’t scheduled to work at the driving range until one, so I arranged a noon meeting with Suja at Krispy Kreme. I didn’t really need math help—Jesus Ramirez was keeping my head above water—but I wanted to be with her.

  We each ordered a mocha and a maple bar. I pulled out my algebra book, and she went over stuff that I understood, though it didn’t hurt having it explained again. “How did the week go?” she asked when we finished.

  I gave her a quick summary, leaving out Jesus. When I finished, she looked at me quizzically. “So . . . when you’re in that big house, what exactly do you do?”

  “Pretty much I j-just hole up in the b-basement. There’s a microwave and a kitchen down there, so I make my own m-meals. You wouldn’t believe the f-food they have.”

  A little smile played on her lips. “Sounds like you’re sort of a pet rat.”

  I was confused. “What d-d you m-mean?”

  The smile got larger. “They’re keeping you down in the basement until they want you to come out and play. Right?”

  I felt a touch of anger. “It’s n-not like that.”

  She lowered her head. “Okay, I’m sorry. Don’t get mad.” She paused. “What about their kid? What’s he like?”

  “He’s got a g-girlfriend named Mariah; and he’s g-got a b-bunch of buddies. I won’t see m-much of him.”

  “He’s not going to be your new bro?”

  I shook my head. “Not even c-close.”

  She paused. “How about your old bro? You keeping up with Antonio?”

  “I haven’t t-talked to him since I m-moved. I’ve been k-kind of busy,” I said.

  She dropped her eyes. “I know you won’t want to hear this, but every day th
is week I’ve seen him driving Garrett’s Subaru in and out of Jet City.”

  “So?” I asked, not understanding what she was trying to tell me.

  “So, Garrett loves that car. He won’t even let people lean against it.”

  I felt as if I were in a math class staring at a problem I didn’t understand. I shook my head. “I don’t g-get what you’re s-saying.”

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Okay, maybe Garrett’s just being a good guy, lending his car to his friend. That’s possible. But maybe he’s got your brother out there doing things that are risky, things that Garrett doesn’t want to do himself.” She paused. “Antonio likes flashy stuff, right? Maybe it’s sort of a deal they’ve got going. You see what I mean?”

  She stopped, and her words hung in the air. My heart was pounding so hard and so fast I thought it would come through my chest.

  “I’ve got to g-get g-going. I’m s-supposed to be at work right now.”

  Suja frowned. Then she stood and squirmed into her backpack. “I need to go, too.” She paused. “You want to meet next week?” Her voice was cheerful, trying to smooth away the tension.

  “Yeah, I d-do,” I said. “And Suja, th-thanks for t-telling me about Antonio. I always want to know even if I d-don’t w-want to know. That d-doesn’t m-make sense, b-but—”

  She smiled. “I get it, and I’ll do it.” Then she held up her phone. “I’ve got Garrett in my contact list. I don’t know how or why, and it sort of freaks me out that he’s got my number. But you ever need it, just ask.”

  * * *

  That afternoon, as I drove the John Deere back and forth, my mind went in circles. I tried to tell myself that there was really nothing there. A guy lets his friend drive his car? Big deal. The other stuff? Suja was just guessing—she’d said so herself. But what if her guess was right? What then?

  Mom had called earlier in the week, telling me to come by. I finished work at five, signed out with Mr. Matsui, and then headed along Aurora until I reached Jet City.

  I’d walked the gravel path to our trailer thousands of times, but never before as a visitor. I noticed things I’d never noticed before: how rutted the road was, how close together the trailers were, how many windows had sheets instead of curtains, how the cars and trucks were parked helter-skelter, how toys were strewn about the side yards.

  At the front door, I knocked, even though I still had a key. It was strange to have keys to two houses and not belong at either. Mom opened the door, grabbed my arm, and pulled me into the living room.

  “Sit down, sit down,” she said once she’d let me go. “Curtis and Antonio are making a dump run. When they get back, we’ll all go out to dinner.”

  While we waited, she peppered me with questions. What was Mr. Thurman like? Mrs. Thurman? The kids at Laurelhurst? The teachers? The coaches? Was everyone treating me okay? Was I happy?

  The pickup pulled into the driveway. Antonio and Curtis came in and asked the same sort of questions Mom had asked, only fewer of them. “Let’s go eat,” Antonio finally said.

  We all piled into the Corolla. “Did Antonio tell you?” Curtis asked as he was driving.

  “Tell m-me what?”

  “Tell him, Antonio,” Mom said.

  Antonio groaned. “Could we not do this?”

  “He made the honor roll,” Mom said.

  “From flunking everything to honors,” Curtis said, looking over his shoulder at Antonio. “That shows what you can do when you try.”

  Antonio looked sideways at me and shook his head.

  “Way to go,” I said. “That’s g-great.”

  We went to the Ram restaurant at Northgate. The Ram has at least fifteen televisions mounted on the walls, and most were tuned to the Golden State Warriors game. People cheered and groaned as they watched.

  We got a booth and ordered. Mom had toured the apartment at Woodacres, and while we were waiting for the food to come, she told me about the new appliances in the kitchen, the tile in the bathroom, the double-paned windows that would keep out drafts. “But the best thing is that there’s a walk-in closet that can work as a bedroom for Antonio.”

  The food came. Antonio and I had both ordered cheeseburgers, and we got to work on them. Across from us, Curtis was pointing out to my mom the great plays Steph Curry was making. Mom burrowed in right next to him, her eyes on the big screen.

  Looking back, that was my chance. I could have said something to Antonio about Garrett. The restaurant was so loud that he would have been the only one to hear. But I didn’t. This was one of the few times Mom and Curtis and Antonio and I were all happy and together. I didn’t want make it all go sour.

  With a minute left in the game, Steph Curry drained a long three-pointer to seal the win for Golden State. Curtis reached across the table and gave Antonio a fist bump.

  “That man can shoot,” Curtis said.

  “Sure can,” Antonio said as he stuffed the last fries into his mouth.

  Then Antonio gave me a fist bump, too.

  Twenty-Three

  Baseball tryouts were the last week of February. At North Central, Mr. Kellogg had coached the team by himself. Coach Vereen had two assistant coaches and three parent volunteers. I was hoping Mr. Thurman would be one of the volunteers, but he wasn’t. “That off-season program and the summer team?” Hadley explained. “Because of those, he can’t be connected to the school program, or he’d being breaking some rule.”

  I stayed nervous until Vereen separated the four pitchers from the other guys. Two—identical twins named Marc Robosky and Andrew Robosky—were tall, skinny sophomores. You could see in their eyes that all they wanted was to make the team.

  That left Kevin Griffith as my only competition for number one starter. Kevin was a good pitcher, but when we threw side by side, my fastball was faster and had more movement. If I could see that, Coach Vereen had to see it, too.

  But as the week passed, I started to think he didn’t. When Vereen wanted a pitcher to demonstrate a fielding technique, he chose Griffith. When he wanted live batting practice, Griffith pitched first. And when we played practice games, the starters backed up Griffith while I had second-stringers and guys from the freshman team behind me.

  You ask me, you ask Hadley, you ask anybody, and they’ll tell you that I outpitched Griffith during tryouts, but at the team meeting before the opener, Coach Vereen announced that Griffith would start the opener. The guys congratulated him. I smiled, but it felt like a fist to the gut.

  When the meeting ended, Coach Vereen called me to his office and had me sit in a chair across from him. He put his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. “You understand, don’t you? Why you’re not starting?”

  “Not r-really,” I said, my voice shaky. “I outpitched him.”

  I was certain he’d be angry, but he nodded in agreement. “I know you did. But this is Kevin’s fourth year in the program. Making him watch you throw the first pitch in his senior year wouldn’t be right. We play twenty games, not counting the playoffs. You’ll get your chance.”

  PART

  THREE

  One

  We opened Tuesday afternoon at home against the Sumas Warriors. Laurelhurst was my team, but as I sat at the end of the bench, chomping on sunflower seeds, I found myself pulling for the Sumas guys.

  They were poor. No other way to say it. They wore T-shirts instead of jerseys, blue jeans instead of baseball pants, tennis shoes instead of baseball cleats. Looking at them was like looking at my North Central team. I didn’t really want Sumas to beat us; I just wanted them to do okay.

  And they did, for three innings. They banged out a couple of hits off Kevin in the second and scored a run. Their pitcher gave up two in the bottom of the second, but it was still 2–1 when we came to bat in the bottom of the fourth.

  But that was the end of them doing okay.

  A couple of walks and an error brought Ian to the plate with the bases loaded. When the Sumas pitcher guided a fastball down the middle
, Ian swung so hard he about came out of his shoes. The ball soared high in the afternoon air, clearing the fence by twenty feet. The guys on the bench pounded one another in awe.

  After that, the hits and runs kept coming. In the bottom of the fourth, Jay Massine, our third baseman, smashed a two-run triple to left center, pushing the lead to 11–1. The ten-run mercy rule kicked in, ending the game. When we went down the line high-fiving the Warriors and saying “Good game,” only a couple of them had their heads up.

  And my team? “Jack the Giant Killer” is a great story, but when the Giant grinds Jack into the dust? We quietly high-fived one another and headed home.

  Mr. Thurman stopped and bought fish and chips for Ian and me at Ivar’s. He was amped, congratulating Ian on his big game, talking up the team. I ate and smiled along, but when your uniform is spotless, you aren’t part of anything.

  Back in my basement room, I closed the door and replayed the game in my head. Kevin Griffith had given up only a couple of hits.

  Competition.

  I’d never had any at North Central High. From the day I took the mound in my freshman year, I’d been the number one pitcher.

  Things would be different at Laurelhurst. Sure, I’d been better than Griffith at tryouts, but if I didn’t outperform him in the games, he’d start the big games against the top teams and I’d get the leftovers.

  Two

  My first chance came that Friday against the Mount Vernon Bulldogs on their field. The team bus rumbled up I-5 in the HOV lane toward Mount Vernon, passing first through Everett, where the big Boeing plant is, and then Marysville. I stared out the window, looking for a trailer park, thinking I saw one, but then realizing it was just a place that sold used RVs.

  By the time we reached the field, rain was falling and a cold wind was blowing down from Canada. I’d read online that Mount Vernon had been picked to win the Skagit Valley league. I’d need good stuff to beat them, but during warm-ups, I struggled to get loose. When Coach Vereen saw that my fastball had no zip, he told me to keep the ball low. “Trust your defense.”