Golden Arm

by Carl Deuker

  I checked the time on my cell—3:12.

  * * *

  Saturday morning came up windy and cold, terrible weather for baseball. For breakfast I had orange juice, a bowl of yogurt with cantaloupe, some mango slices, and a cinnamon bagel with blackberry jam. I still wasn’t used to the food the Thurmans just had.

  Once I’d finished, I went outside to the batting cage, stretched, threw a couple of dozen balls into the screen, then stretched some more. Mrs. Thurman came out and said hello before heading off on her morning run. When I returned to the house, Mr. Thurman was eating breakfast and reading the newspaper. “Ian up yet?” he asked me.

  “I d-don’t know,” I said.

  Ian didn’t come down until it was time to leave for the game. His face was gray; his eyes were bloodshot; he moved like an old man.

  “What time did you get in last night?” his father asked as we got into the car.

  Ian shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Not too late.”

  As soon as we got to the field, I knew that Cleveland would be more of a challenge than Garfield. The coach ran their warm-up with precision. And their power guys had quicker, shorter swings than Garfield’s hitters.

  Because of the cold weather, my fastball didn’t have its usual jump. I couldn’t overpower the Cleveland hitters, so in the early innings I changed speeds and worked both sides of the plate. I wasn’t striking anybody out, but I was getting through the innings.

  To my eye, Cleveland’s pitcher—a stocky guy who looked like a young Russell Westbrook—was just okay. Every inning, he walked some guys or gave up some hits. The table was set, but nobody could deliver the clutch hit.

  Twice Ian batted with runners in scoring position—striking out in the first and popping up in the third, his bat slow both times. Martin Moran and Andrew Comette were both green in the face and sluggish in the field. It didn’t take Einstein to figure out who’d been partying with Ian.

  The game was scoreless in the top of the fourth. I got a couple of quick outs but then gave up a single. I hit the next batter when a fastball slipped out of my hand. That brought up Cleveland’s cleanup hitter, a guy about thirty pounds overweight.

  I worked the count to two strikes, then threw a fastball off the outside corner. The guy put a good swing on the ball, but he caught it on the end of the bat, sending a line drive to straightaway center. It should have been an easy out, but Ian backed up a few steps and then—realizing he’d misjudged the ball—raced in. He took half a dozen steps, lost his balance, tripped, and fell on his face as the ball bounded past him. Ian lay on the ground for a couple of beats before he got back to his feet and chased after the ball. By the time he tracked it down, both runners had scored and the hitter was puffing his way around third.

  Bronzan was in short center ready to make the relay home. Had Ian made a decent throw, we would have at least gotten the guy out at the plate, but Ian’s throw sailed over Bronzan’s head. The Cleveland guy staggered home, scoring standing up. His teammates were laughing and shouting. If you were going to pick the most unlikely player on either team to hit an inside-the-park home run—and that’s how it was scored—you’d have picked him.

  Cleveland 3–Laurelhurst 0.

  Hadley carried the ball back to me and dropped it into my glove. “Shake it off,” he said.

  I was calm on the outside, but inside I was seething. Sure, things happen in baseball. But your best fielder—a future major-leaguer—misjudging an easy fly ball, then falling down, and then making a terrible throw? Dawit at North Central had never made a play that bad. Not even close.

  In the fifth, Comette let a ground ball get by him, allowing another run to score. I lost it then, walking two guys in a row. When the count went to 2-0 on the next batter, Coach Vereen yanked me. Kevin Griffith allowed both of those guys to score, pushing the lead to 6–0.

  And our guys? We didn’t mount any kind of a threat until the seventh. Then, with the bases loaded, Ian grounded into a double play—pitcher to catcher to first—to end the game. He didn’t even bother to run it out. The Cleveland players mobbed their pitcher: it was their first win over Laurelhurst in a decade.

  Guys on my team packed up fast and left fast. I got in the back seat of Mr. Thurman’s SUV; Ian slumped down in the passenger seat.

  Mr. Thurman backed up the car and pulled into traffic. “I’m not stupid,” he said once we were out on the street. “I know when someone is hung over from booze or drugs or both. Understand one thing. You get caught, Coach Vereen will kick you off the team. Guaranteed. That happens, and you can kiss your Arizona State scholarship goodbye. And as far as getting drafted by a major-league team? You think they’d waste a pick on an eighteen-year-old with a substance abuse problem?”

  “I had a bad game. That doesn’t mean I was drinking or doing drugs,” Ian growled.

  “Now you’re lying, which makes it worse.”

  Ian slumped down further. “What’s the point of talking if you don’t believe what I say?”

  They both stayed silent after that. When we reached the Thurmans’ house, I went downstairs to my room, booted up the laptop, and forced myself to type an email to Tommy Zeller. I wrote about the cold and the wind and Ian’s misplayed fly ball. I read it over and knew it was wrong. I deleted and started again.

  We lost 6–0. I pitched four innings, walked three, struck out three—just didn’t have it. Laz Weathers.

  I hit send and then sat staring at the screen.

  Eleven

  It was only two thirty. I still had time to put in some hours at the range, and driving the John Deere would be a lot better than moping around the Thurmans’ basement. I used the back door to slip out and then caught the 45 and RapidRide E to the driving range.

  As I walked down the steep driveway from Aurora, I saw Mr. Matsui staring at the front of the pro shop. The words EAT THE RICH had been spray-painted on the wall. “Nice, isn’t it?” he said when he saw me. “Though the thought isn’t all bad.” He paused. “I’ve got some paint. Cover this up before you do anything else today, okay?”

  “The s-s-security c-c-camera catch anything?”

  “The owners took them away. If somebody burned the place down, they’d be happy.”

  I painted over the graffiti, but the words still peeked through. When I asked about a second coat, Mr. Matsui shook his head. “That’s good enough. Pick up the range and power wash the stalls, and then get out of here and do something fun.”

  As I drove the John Deere near the back fence, I got a good look into Jet City. I didn’t see Garrett’s Subaru or Garrett or Antonio or anybody.

  When I finished work, I decided to go see my mom. Maybe Antonio would be there, too. It was after six when I walked through the entrance to Jet City. Bulbs had gone out on the neon sign over the manager’s trailer, so JET CITY now read: J T CI Y.

  I knew something was wrong the instant I saw our trailer. No lights were on, and the shades had been pulled down. The flowerpots along the side were missing. Then I understood. It was two weeks early, but they’d moved.

  I walked up the steps to the front door of the trailer. The welcome mat—in shreds—was still there, a bad joke.

  I turned the handle on the door, pushed, and it banged opened. No reason to lock it. I flicked on the light for the main room. A bare bulb hung down, giving off a brutal light.

  My footsteps echoed as I wandered through the empty trailer. The rug was dirty; the kitchen linoleum was coming up; the wood paneling was warped. Why hadn’t I noticed those things before, when the trailer was my home?

  I forced myself to go through each room and see everything. Only then did I return to the front door, switch off the light, and leave. I was on the gravel path heading out of Jet City when Garrett’s black Subaru pulled up next to me.

  The passenger window rolled down, and Antonio hung his arm out. “Hey, Laz. What’s up?”

  “How c-come nobody t-told me about the move?”

  “I sent you a text, and Mom calle
d you.”

  I took out my phone and flipped it open. Dead battery. Again.

  “M-My fault. Sorry.”

  “Did you beat Cleveland last night?”

  I shook my head. “We p-played today, and we lost six to nothing.”

  “What? That other kid pitch?”

  “No, I pitched.”

  His face screwed up in disbelief. “Cleveland scored six? They suck. And how come your guys didn’t score a dozen? I thought that Ian kid hit a home run every time he stepped to the plate.”

  “T-Today Mighty C-Casey struck out.” I paused. “I was going to the new p-place to see Mom. You want to go with m-me? I don’t even know which unit it is.”

  He looked to Garrett. “An hour?”

  “No problem,” Garrett replied. “Just don’t be late.”

  Twelve

  “So h-how is it?” I asked Antonio as we walked toward Aurora Avenue.

  “Woodacres? It sucks.”

  “M-Mom said it was g-great.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, well, she wants it to be great. That huge closet isn’t so huge once you stick a bed in it. And with you not there, it feels off.” He paused and forced himself to smile. “But change is good, right? That’s what everybody says.”

  “Is Mom g-going to s-sell the trailer?”

  He snorted. “She’s going to try, but nobody will buy it. It’d cost more to move it than it’s worth.”

  We’d reached Aurora Avenue. The roar of the cars put a temporary end to our conversation. When the light turned green, we hustled across.

  “You g-getting along okay with C-Curtis?” I asked once we’d walked far enough from Aurora to hear each other again.

  “Trying.”

  He pointed down the street toward a driveway. “You see that blue light? The apartment is at the end of that road on the right. Number Four-C. I don’t see Curtis’s pickup out front, so it’ll just be Mom.”

  “Aren’t you c-coming? At least for a while?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I swallowed. “Come on, Antonio. I n-never see you. And it would b-be just the three of us, l-like the old d-days.”

  He looked toward the apartment, and then he stood there for a long moment. Finally he shook his head. “I spend enough time in there.” And then he was gone, headed back to Jet City.

  Mom must have seen me from the window, because she opened the door to the apartment before I knocked. She hugged me and then gave me a tour. The apartment had real walls and a real roof and a real plumbing system. The stove and the microwave and the refrigerator looked new, but Antonio’s room was so small she couldn’t open the door all the way. “Once we save some money, we’re going to replace this bed with a chair that folds out for sleeping. That’ll give your brother some room. Right now, he looks for any reason to stay away . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  We ate dinner together: a take-and-bake extra-large sausage pizza from Papa John’s. We were sitting at the same old kitchen table with the same old plates and the same old knives and forks and glasses. I could almost pretend we were in Jet City, before Curtis and before the townhomes and before everything. Mom told me a funny story about an old man whose whole family had practically moved into her hospital, sleeping on the sofa and in the chairs, watching TV day and night, eating the old guy’s food, even asking for seconds. I told her about my baseball games, leaving out the loss against Cleveland. She drank only one glass of wine and didn’t smoke a single cigarette.

  We’d just finished eating when the pickup pulled into the driveway. “See you found your way, Laz,” Curtis said as he stepped inside. He motioned with his head toward the main room. “A lot nicer than that trailer, isn’t it?”

  “It’s g-great,” I said.

  “Do I smell pizza?” he asked.

  Mom stood and went to the oven. “There’s lots left.”

  He got a beer from the refrigerator and then sat and stretched his arms high above his head. Mom put the pizza in front of him. “I am starved,” he said as he picked up a piece and bit into it.

  As he ate, he complained about working in Windermere, a rich neighborhood near Laurelhurst. “Those people don’t want me to trim the limbs hanging over the electric lines, but they’ll go ballistic if they lose their power in a storm.”

  At Jet City, the trailer had been Mom’s and Antonio’s and mine. Curtis had been the outsider, the one who never quite fit. But Woodacres was his home. I was the outsider.

  When Curtis finished eating, Mom wanted us all to watch Skyfall, a James Bond movie. I lied and said I needed to get back to Laurelhurst. “I’m going to p-play some v-video g-games with Ian and other g-guys on the team.”

  “So you have friends?” Mom asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said.

  Curtis drove me back to the Thurmans’. He knew that I’d pitched well against Garfield, but he hadn’t heard about the Cleveland game. “Those baseball scouts find talent in the Dominican Republic. If they can do that, they’ll find you in Seattle, Washington, U.S. of A. You’ll see.”

  Thirteen

  That Sunday, Mrs. Thurman, Mr. Thurman, Ian, and I all had dinner in the dining room. When I’d first moved in, Mrs. Thurman said they did that most Sundays, but this was the first time.

  She cooked salmon with brown rice, Brussels sprouts, salad, and great bread from a bakery. I told her how tremendous it all tasted, which was true. “Wait until the Copper River salmon comes in,” she said. “That’s even better.”

  As we ate, Mr. Thurman talked about a geography book he was reading. I asked a couple of questions, and so did Mrs. Thurman. Then he asked me if I was ready for midterms. Through all of it, Ian said nothing.

  Toward the end of the meal Mr. Thurman turned in his chair to face him. “Son, I apologize for what I said in the car yesterday. I want you to know that I do believe you.”

  Ian kept his eyes on his plate. “Forget it.”

  “Does that mean my apology has been accepted?”

  Ian looked up. “Yeah. Sure.”

  A few minutes later Ian stood. “That was great, Mom. I’ve got lots of homework.” He looked at his dad and nodded, and Mr. Thurman nodded back.

  I finished my dinner quickly. If I were in Jet City, I would have done the dishes, but here I just put my dirty plate in the dishwasher and beat it down to the basement. It felt good to be alone. Before taking out my history book, I checked the sports scores on the Internet.

  I hadn’t been reading long when I heard footsteps, followed by a knock on my door. I opened up.

  Ian.

  “You want to shoot some pool?” he asked.

  * * *

  He broke, sinking one and leaving himself an easy second shot. “So, you got anything going for next year?” he asked as he lined it up. “College recruiters or major-league scouts?”

  He took his shot, missed, then looked at me.

  “Tommy Z-Zeller,” I said, keeping my voice level. “The Mariner g-guy who s-scouted you. He asked m-me to send him updates.”

  I stepped to the table, took my shot, missed.

  “Anybody else?” he asked, moving in.

  I shook my head.

  “Colleges?”

  “I’m not r-really interested in c-college.”

  He smacked the six ball into the corner pocket. “So, if nothing happens for you, will you move back in with your mom and your brother?”

  “I g-guess,” I said, not wanting to explain.

  “You don’t sound like you want to.”

  “I d-don’t,” I admitted.

  He snorted. “My dad wouldn’t care if you stayed here forever. He likes you a thousand times more than he likes me. My mom will want you out, though. Not right away, but by the end of summer.”

  “I won’t s-stay that long.”

  He held the pool cue upright. “You don’t like it here?”

  “I didn’t s-say that.”

  “But you don’t. And you don’t like Laurelhurst High.”

  I
nodded toward the pool table. “How about we j-just play?”

  He looked at me for a long moment, then returned his attention to the table. After he’d knocked in the eight ball to win the game, he turned back to me. “All right. Here’s the deal. My dad was right. I did get wasted Friday night. A bunch of us did. We drank some beers, supplemented with a little oxy from that G-man guy up at Jet City that you pretend you don’t know. We got loaded, and it cost us the game. But you knew that, right?”

  He paused, waiting for me to answer. What could I say?

  “It won’t happen again,” he went on, waving his cue stick around. “That’s a promise. Partly it’s for you, because I get how much this season matters to you. But mainly I’m doing this for me. I’m tired of living here, tired of my dad, even though this time he was right. If a team picks me in the first round, I’m set for life. But if I get booted off the team, I’ll be playing for some community college and living at home. I couldn’t stand that. So it’s all clean living from here on out. And what I do, the other guys will do.”

  His eyes spun back to the pool table. He broke, pocketing two balls. Then I watched as he cleared the table, setting up each succeeding shot like a pro, knocking in the eight ball to end the game. I never got a shot.

  Fourteen

  I wanted to believe Ian, but I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced. Guys at North Central were always saying things like Starting tomorrow, I’m going to come to school every day, and then two days later they’d be cutting class again.

  Our next game was in West Seattle. Technically, West Seattle is part of Seattle, but the neighborhood is separate from the rest of the city. From Alki Point, the Space Needle and downtown seem miles away.

  The team bus got stuck in traffic on I-5 through downtown and then got stuck again on the West Seattle Bridge. Rain was predicted, so we’d hardly warmed up when the umpire screamed “Play ball!”