Golden Arm

by Carl Deuker

  It didn’t matter that nobody was loose. Ian tripled in a run in the top of the first, and he scored one pitch later with a headfirst slide after a wild pitch bounded ten feet from the catcher. In the bottom of the first, Andrew Comette came busting in on a little dribbler, fielded it barehanded, and—all in one motion—fired to first for the out.

  That’s how the game went—heads-up baseball from the first pitch to the last. I had good stuff, not my best, but the defense sucked up every hard-hit ball.

  The score was 10–0 after four innings. The mercy rule ended the game, and I was sitting in the back seat of Mr. Thurman’s SUV heading to Seattle when the sky opened and sheets of rain poured down.

  Friday’s home game against Chief Sealth was a rerun of Tuesday’s game, only without the rain. Ian hit a home run in the first and pushed the score to 6–0 with a two-run double in the third. I kept the ball on the corners, throwing loose and free. I hit 92 on the speed gun, and my pitches darted just before they reached the plate. When Kevin replaced me in the fifth, we were up 7–1, the one run coming on a walk followed by an opposite field double that was fair by six inches. Kevin pitched a scoreless fifth, and the twins pitched the final two innings, with both giving up a couple of runs. The final was 10–5.

  When I got back to my room, I wrote to Tommy Zeller, laying out for him my totals for the two games. Eight innings. One run. Four hits. Twelve strikeouts. Three walks. Fastball in the low nineties. I admired those numbers for a while.

  Then I hit send.

  Fifteen

  Laurelhurst High was the New York Yankees of the Metro League. All the other city schools circled our game on their calendar. Over the next weeks, Roosevelt, Ballard, Rainier Beach, and the rest of them came at us with everything they had, turning every game into a big game.

  The thing about baseball is that talent doesn’t always translate into wins. A guy can hit a ball on the screws, absolutely crush it, and have it turn into a double play. The next guy up can be completely fooled, throw his bat at a pitch, and hit a flare down the line that ends up a triple.

  To win, you need to focus. That takes leadership. Our leader was Ian. He kept the promise he made to me after the Cleveland game. He was all business at practice, pushing himself to get stronger, faster, quicker. His hands flashed through the hitting zone; his hips turned in perfect unison with his shoulders. He must have popped out sometimes, but it seemed as if he hit the ball hard every single at bat.

  I was becoming more and more of a pitcher, just like Mr. Thurman wanted, and not just a thrower. I still got my share of strikeouts, especially in the early innings. Once we had a lead, I pitched to contact. Guys hit ground balls and pop flies, but only once or twice in a game would anybody square up anything. The wins kept coming. After every game I emailed my stats to Tommy Zeller.

  Antonio had said I had baseball to hang on to, and he was right. If I could have stayed on the baseball diamond all the time, my life would have been as clear as a blue sky in summer. But when I wasn’t practicing or playing, everything turned murky. I kept wondering where my home was. Not in Laurelhurst. Not at Woodacres. Not anywhere. And my family, too. My mom would always be my mom, but Curtis had changed things between us. No sense in pretending that he hadn’t. And Antonio? For years, we’d been half brothers and best friends. Now we were half brothers and sort of friends. Was a day coming when we’d just be half brothers—two guys who called each other every couple of years to say hello and then goodbye?

  * * *

  When May came, that early loss to Cleveland remained the single blemish on our record. Cleveland, though, had lost two league games, one to Ballard and one to Sealth. So technically, we were ahead by a game in the standings, but if they beat us a second time and then won out, they’d hold the tiebreaker. Cleveland, not Laurelhurst, would represent Seattle in the state playoffs.

  We had to win the rematch.

  The game was on a Friday night at their park. Their starting pitcher was the same stocky Russell Westbrook look-alike who’d shut us down in the first game. Throughout the warm-ups he had a cockiness to him—cap a little off-center, walk a little too loose, grin a little too big. The message came through loud and clear: I shut you down last time, and I’m going to do it again.

  It rankled. Guys on my team wanted to make him eat that smile. But he mowed us down in the top of the first, even getting Ian to strike out on a pitch in the dirt.

  The way he breezed through the first inning pumped Cleveland up. I struck out the first guy looking and got the second on a tapper right back to me. My first pitch to the three-hitter was a fastball on the inside corner, right where I wanted it. But he turned on it, sending a hard line drive down the third base line. It was only 275 feet to the fence, and the ball just cleared it, but there was nothing lucky about it. If it hadn’t gone over the fence, it might have gone right through it—that’s how hard he hit it.

  I was stunned, and then I heard Hadley’s voice as he walked out toward the mound to toss me a new ball. “First inning, Laz. Lots of time.” I nodded, took some deep breaths, and then struck out their cleanup hitter.

  They had only one run, but I could see the fire in the eyes of every player on Cleveland’s team. Powered by the confidence that came from that home run, their pitcher got tougher. We put a runner on base in every inning, and sometimes two runners, but the clutch hit wouldn’t come.

  The score remained 1–0 through three innings . . . four innings . . . five innings. In the top of the sixth, we loaded the bases with two out. I could feel a clutch hit coming, but Hadley bounced out to second.

  Their crowd—maybe fifty people—went crazy, clapping and stomping the metal bleachers, sounding like one thousand. The Cleveland players fed off that excitement. We were down, and they were ready to knock us out.

  I felt strong when I took the mound for the bottom of the sixth, but I took extra time between pitches. I wanted to slow the adrenaline rush the Cleveland guys were feeling, make them wait. I tuned out the shouting from the stands, focused on Hadley’s glove—and I got them: one-two-three. A clean inning.

  Top of the seventh.

  Our last at bat.

  The season on the line.

  I didn’t have to look at the lineup card to know that Ian was batting fourth. If somebody could get on and bring him to the plate, he’d have a chance to work his magic. The Cleveland pitcher had been in trouble most of the game. We just had to keep hammering at the door, hoping it would open.

  But Evan Peterson, leading off, popped up to shortstop on the first pitch. The second out came when Andrew Comette fanned with a wild swing at an eye-level fastball. The Cleveland fans rose to their feet as Jared Bronzan, our last chance, stepped to the plate.

  Jared isn’t a great hitter, but he’s a battler. The Cleveland pitcher got ahead in the count, but Jared stayed alive by fouling off two nasty fastballs, barely making contact on the second. The next pitch was probably outside, but too close to take. Jared swung, sending a nubber past the pitcher toward second base. His swing got him moving toward first, and he turned on the jets, running faster than I’d ever seen him run.

  Cleveland’s second baseman raced in, fielded the ball, and, in one motion, threw to first. Jared’s foot came down as the ball smacked into the first baseman’s glove. The umpire paused. “Safe!” he screamed, throwing his arms out. A cascade of boos came down from the Cleveland side while the small group of parents and kids on our side cheered.

  Ian.

  The Cleveland coach trotted out. He had a couple of pitchers warming up, but they looked young and scared. He wasn’t making a change.

  I was certain—probably because that’s how it always happens in the movies—that the count would go to 3-2, that Ian would foul a couple off, and only then whatever was going to happen would happen. Instead, Ian swung at the first pitch, sending a towering fly ball down the third-base line. It cleared the fence by twenty feet, but was it fair?

  I couldn’t tell. Nobody on either
bench could. The foul pole extends just ten feet above the fence. The only person who had a clear view was the home plate umpire. I held my breath, waiting for his call.

  Nothing.

  And then he twirled his index finger in the air—the signal for a home run. We’d taken the lead, 2–1!

  When I took the mound in the bottom of the seventh, I was the one with the adrenaline racing through my bloodstream. The Cleveland hitters looked dejected. I needed to pour strikes over the plate. And that’s what I did. I struck out the side, never giving them even a sliver of hope.

  Sixteen

  Packing up my stuff, I composed my email to Tommy Zeller in my head, when a young black man—thin face, short beard, rangy build of a wide receiver—called out. “Laz Weathers, got a minute?”

  He strode over and stuck a hand out for me to shake. “I’m Clay Pearson of the Seattle Times. I wrote the ‘Better than Perfect’ article.”

  “Thanks f-for writing that,” I said, “and g-good to m-meet you.”

  I glanced toward Mr. Thurman’s SUV. He had the hatch open, and Ian was already heading across the parking lot.

  Clay Pearson followed my eyes. “This won’t take long. I heard some of your life story from Curtis Driver. He’s your stepdad, right?”

  “Not really. It’s c-complicated.”

  “No? Well, anyway, he works tree service with my dad. Curtis told my father how you lost your team and your home. You’re even losing your job, right? But instead of quitting, you fought back. It’s a good story. Number one pitcher for the city champions, headed to the state playoffs, maybe a major-league pitcher someday.”

  My face went red. “I’m just hoping for a ch-chance in the minor l-leagues.”

  He nodded. “Sure. Here’s the deal. I’ll take you out for pizza, interview you, write up your story, and submit it to my editor. If she likes it, the Times prints it. If she doesn’t like it, you’re out an hour or two of time, but you got a free pizza. Interested?”

  My throat tightened. “I’m not g-good at t-talking.”

  “Doesn’t matter, because I am good at writing.”

  “I d-don’t know,” I said.

  “Look, kid, you just said you want to get drafted. Publicity can only help. So think it over. Give me your number, and I’ll call in a couple of days for your answer. Fair enough?”

  In the SUV, Mr. Thurman did most of the talking, as usual. “Gutsy calls by the umpires. Two in a row against the home team. You don’t see that every day. And a clutch hit, Ian. File that in the memory bank.”

  Then Mr. Thurman looked over his shoulder at me. “You pitched great, Laz. Fantastic. And that last inning. Wow! Talk about shutting the door.”

  Back in my room, I emailed Tommy Zeller. The numbers—seven innings, one run, four hits, nine strikeouts, one walk—spoke for themselves.

  I showered, went into the game room, and turned on the Mariners. The M’s reliever—just up from Tacoma—was getting rocked. He didn’t have a clue where his pitches were going. I thought about my own control. I’d had the ball on a string, putting it right where I wanted it, with movement.

  After I’d been watching the game for ten minutes, Mr. Thurman came in and sat down in the big chair off to the side. “You okay with some company?”

  In the eighth, the Mariners mounted a rally, but a double play killed the inning. “What did Clay Pearson want?” Mr. Thurman asked as the commercials came on.

  For a second I was surprised that he knew Clay Pearson, but it made sense. Ian had been a top player for years—Clay Pearson would have interviewed him. Pearson had probably talked to Ian’s older brothers, too.

  I explained about the interview. When I finished, Mr. Thurman shook his head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Why n-not?”

  He frowned. “Look, there’s nothing against the rules in what you’re doing. Playing for Laurelhurst, I mean. And there’s nothing wrong with my off-season program either. But there are haters out there—people who’d call us cheaters. Call you a cheater. You don’t need that kind of attention. Better to stay under the radar, if you see what I mean.”

  “I g-guess so,” I said.

  There was a long silence.

  “Have you arranged anything yet?”

  “N-No. He’s giving me a couple days to think about it.”

  “When he calls, just tell him you don’t want any distractions.”

  The commercials ended; the Mariners game came back on. After the Astros banged out four straight hits to blow the game open, Mr. Thurman stood. “It’s déjà vu all over again. I can’t watch.” When he reached the door, he turned back. “Great pitching today. That was special.”

  Seventeen

  I met Suja on Sunday at Krispy Kreme. As soon as I saw her, I knew something was up. She was dressed in a long black skirt and blue blouse, and she was wearing lipstick and eye shadow. Ten seconds after I said hello, she pulled out her cell.

  “G-Got something?” I asked.

  Her eyes danced. “I’m meeting two women from Whitman College. Grads. They’re going to tell me what to expect.”

  “Where are you meeting them?”

  “Here. I didn’t want them to see Jet City. They’re coming in ten minutes.” She reached across and took my hand. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

  As we ate, her eyes kept going to the entrance. We were about half done when she sat bolt upright. “There they are.”

  Two women in their thirties had just stepped inside the door. Their hair, their makeup, their shoes, their jackets, their skirts, their blouses—they looked like models in the Nordstrom catalog my mom sometimes gets in the mail. Suja leaned forward and gave them a tiny wave. They spotted her, smiled, and started toward our table.

  “I’ll s-see you n-next w-week,” I said, getting up.

  She reached out and grabbed my hand. “I hope I don’t make a fool of myself,” she whispered.

  “You won’t,” I whispered back.

  I crossed Aurora Avenue and walked down the roadway to the pro shop. The thwack of golf balls grew louder with each step. A decent number of cars were in the parking lot, which meant I still had work.

  The pro shop looked about the same. Clubs, shoes, balls, clothes—the shelves weren’t full, but they weren’t empty either. It was hard to believe that soon a bulldozer would pulverize everything.

  I started by picking up the litter in the parking lot. There was more trash than usual; I guess the golfers figured that since the place was being torn down, use of the garbage cans was optional. Once the lot was presentable, I straightened the clothes racks and made sure the shoes were correctly paired.

  “Take a break,” Mr. Matsui said to me when he saw me reaching for the keys to the John Deere. “You’re making me feel guilty.”

  Why not? I thought. I bought a Coke from the vending machine, sat on one of the benches, and watched guys hit. A couple of them were really good, pounding long drives to the back fence or hitting iron shots that soared high and landed softly. Most were mediocre, hitting one or two good shots and then snap-hooking or slicing the next one.

  I looked toward the ball-dispensing machine and then looked again. Curtis? Was that who was punching numbers into the keypad? The balls clattered down the chute into the green basket. Curtis picked them up, turned toward me.

  If I could have, I’d have sneaked off. But Curtis nodded in my direction, then carried his bucket and a couple of clubs down to where I sat.

  “I didn’t know you p-played g-golf,” I said as he took the hitting stall in front of me.

  He shook his head. “I don’t. But when I have a bad day at work or when Antonio is rattling my chain, I come and take it out on these.” He nodded toward the range balls. “I usually hit sixty-nine crooked balls, but when I do catch one on the sweet spot—that does make life better.”

  I sipped my Coke as he hacked away, and he was a hacker. After he topped four in a row, he leaned the club against a post.
“I need a break,” he said, and he came and sat next to me.

  “Thanks for t-talking to C-Clay Pearson about me.”

  Curtis’s eyebrows went up. “He got in touch with you, then? I didn’t say anything to you, because I didn’t want to get your hopes up and have jack come of it.”

  “I s-saw him after our last g-game.”

  “So when will the story be in the paper?”

  “There’s not g-going to be story,” I said, and then I repeated all that Mr. Thurman had said.

  Curtis snorted. “And you’re going to do what he says?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t want to c-cause tr-trouble. He’s been g-good to me. They all have.”

  Curtis looked up at the sky and then looked back at me. “Good to you? Laz, he’s got you down in his basement like a servant. You don’t think there’s an empty room upstairs in that house? They’re using you to get the title they can’t win on their own.” He paused for a moment. “Listen to me. Right now your job at the driving range is to wash the rich man’s balls. You got no money, so you got no choice. But you don’t want to be stuck in this kind of job for the rest of your life. Do what’s good for you and don’t worry about Thurman or your coach. They’ll be fine. People like them always are.”

  He went back to the stall and smacked a drive that soared high and straight until it hit the back netting. He looked at me and smiled. “Every once in a while.”

  He had at least a dozen balls left, but he didn’t hit them. “That’s the one to quit on,” he said, and he walked back to the parking lot.

  Eighteen

  After Curtis left, I got back to work. One of the arms on the Gator had stopped spinning, so collecting the golf balls took longer, giving me even more time to think. All these months, I’d thought that Mr. Thurman was looking out for me and that Curtis didn’t care. Was it possible I had it backwards?

  My eyes went to the back fence every time I made a turn. The area was deserted. I hated it when I saw Antonio with Garrett, waiting for customers, but I hated it when he wasn’t there, too. Because if Antonio wasn’t in Jet City, then where was he? And what was he doing?