by Carl Deuker
I was nearly finished when a silver VW GTI came racing down Jet City’s main road, flying toward the back fence so fast that I was sure the car would crash right through and drive onto the range. Just in time, though, the driver slammed on the brakes. The car skidded across the gravel, sending up a cloud of dirt and dust.
Immediately four guys jumped out of the GTI. They fanned out, calling for someone, but the John Deere’s engine drowned out their words. One of them kicked open the shed door and pushed his way in. The others prowled the area, tossing the plastic chairs aside, tipping over the empty oil drums, eyes searching.
I knew in my gut that they were looking for Garrett. And looking wasn’t the right word. They were coming for Garrett. If Antonio were with him, they’d be coming for him, too.
I’d heard about the drug cartels down in Mexico, had seen on TV how brutal they were. I wanted to believe that stuff that bad didn’t happen in Seattle, but I couldn’t be sure. Antonio could be heading to the back fence right that minute. He didn’t know these guys were here, waiting. He’d walk right into their trap.
I flicked on the John Deere’s warning lights and drove to the back fence. When I neared it, I cut the engine, sounded my horn, and held my cell phone up so the gang guys could see it. “I’m c-calling the police,” I shouted through the metal cage that protected me from golf balls. “See. I’m c-calling them right now.”
They stared at me as if I was a lunatic. I didn’t care. I dialed 911 and put the phone to my ear.
Nothing.
Dead battery.
“Hello!” I screamed anyway. “I want to r-report—”
I didn’t have to fake anything more.
All four guys raced back to the VW. Doors opened; door slammed shut; the engine roared to life; dust and dirt rose for a second time. They were gone.
Nineteen
I sat, the John Deere idling, until my pulse finally stopped singing in my ears. Then I turned around and finished picking up the range. I loaded the ball dispenser, checked out with Mr. Matsui, and headed to Woodacres.
Maybe Antonio would be home. I could get him alone and talk some sense into him. When I neared the driveway leading down to the apartment, I saw that it was filled with cars and trucks. From the roadway I could hear loud voices and occasional groans. Curtis had friends over and they were all watching baseball or maybe basketball.
I knew Antonio wouldn’t be there, so I turned and headed back toward Aurora Avenue. I thought about stopping by the community center, but I wasn’t a North Central kid anymore. There was nothing to do but catch the bus back to Laurelhurst.
When RapidRide E came, I took a window seat and looked out as the used-car dealerships and fast food restaurants flashed by. When the bus stopped near Woodland Park, the driver got off and a new driver got on. As the new guy was putting his gear away, I spotted the field lights at Lower Woodland. I didn’t know who was playing, but a game was on, and that was good enough. I got off.
At a Kidd Valley across from the fields, I bought a burger, fries, and a milk shake before heading to the diamonds.
A girls’ softball game—Roosevelt versus Ballard—was just starting on Field A. I found a seat in the bleachers directly behind home plate, ate my food, and watched.
Only I didn’t watch. Not really. My eyes were on the field, but my mind was on Antonio. I needed to tell him . . . tell him what? That some guys had driven into Jet City, gotten out of their car, and searched for him, trashing everything in their way? What good would that do? He’d blown me off before; he’d just blow me off again.
* * *
Sometime in there I stopped worrying about Antonio and started watching the game. The Ballard pitcher was a tall blonde with a fluid delivery. She was like a machine, all business, dominating every hitter, every inning, the entire game, her eyes like lasers. The final score was 5–0. Roosevelt had one hit—a swinging bunt.
When the game ended, the pitcher’s stone face immediately broke into a huge smile. She hugged teammate after teammate, her eyes glittering.
The field cleared and the benches emptied. I stayed in my spot above home plate, hoping another game would follow, but none did. When the wind came up and all the field lights went dark, I headed to the bus stop to finish the trip to Laurelhurst.
It was after nine when I slipped into the Thurmans’ house, retreated to my room and plugged my cell phone into its charger. In about a minute the screen came back to life.
I had a text message from Clay Pearson, and it was short. Yes/No?
A feature article in the Seattle Times had to be good for me. I couldn’t worry that it might be bad for Laurelhurst or Mr. Thurman or Coach Vereen.
I tapped Yes.
Seconds later another text came.
After Lincoln?
My thumbs moved on their own. See you then
Twenty
Lincoln High was 5–11 on the year and next to last in the league. Tuesday night, just before game time, Clay Pearson settled into a seat behind home plate. Next to him was an older man wearing a San Francisco Giants warm-up jacket. He hunched forward in the same way Tommy Zeller had, and he had a flip notebook that was just like Zeller’s.
I felt electric, and then, as quickly as that feeling came, it was gone. Because right behind Clay Pearson was Mr. Thurman. Twice, I’d started to tell him that I’d agreed to the interview, but I could never bring the words out.
The Lincoln guys played as if they were thinking about summer vacation and not the game. In the first inning, the shortstop booted an easy ground ball, and the left fielder misplayed a fly ball off Ian’s bat into a two-run double.
With an early lead against a bad team, the smart thing would have been to keep the ball low, pitch to contact, and get a bunch of easy ground ball outs. But with a Giants scout watching, I needed to be great, not smart.
And I was.
From the very first pitch, my fastball was nasty, darting this way and that. Lincoln’s leadoff batter fisted a slow roller right back to me. The other two hitters struck out swinging.
My second and third innings went the same way. Strikeouts and easy ground balls. I couldn’t keep myself from peeking up into the stands. Sometimes I’d catch Mr. Thurman’s eyes, sometimes Clay Pearson’s, sometimes the Giants scout’s.
Lincoln’s pitcher held us down for a couple of innings. Then, in the fourth, Ian belted another two-run double and Jay followed with a two-run homer, making our lead 6–0.
Whenever we’d taken a big lead, Coach Vereen had pulled me and turned the game over to Kevin and the twins. But this time he let me stay in the game. I didn’t get it. “You’re pitching a no-hitter,” Hadley said quietly. “He won’t pull you as long as you keep it going—so keep it going.”
That really got me pumped. I breezed through the fifth—pop-up, strikeout, groundout. I could feel the no-hitter . . . but then I got unlucky.
The leadoff batter in the sixth cued a ground ball toward third base. Jay raced in, trying for the bare-hand grab, but the ball had so much spin that fielding it was like trying to catch a lizard. By the time he picked up the ball, the runner had crossed first. Coach Vereen came out, patted me on the back, and brought in Kevin to finish up.
When the game ended, Clay Pearson called out as I was packing my duffle bag. Mr. Thurman was a few feet away, talking to Ian. He turned to me. “I’ll talk to Clay for you, if you want,” he said in a low voice.
I shook my head. “N-No. I’ve d-d-decided to d-do the interview.”
Mr. Thurman tilted his head and eyed me. “But we discussed this, Laz. You said—”
“I changed my m-mind.”
“Great game,” Pearson said, coming up from the other side. “Hungry?”
I turned from Mr. Thurman. “Yeah. Starved.”
Twenty-One
We went to the Ballard Pizza Company. As we ate, Clay Pearson asked about the difference between Laurelhurst and North Central, and whether I missed my old school. When he was done with baseba
ll, he asked about my family.
Mostly it was okay, but I didn’t like his questions about my father. I had no answers, because I know nothing. The interview ended ten minutes after the pizza was gone.
“You think you can win it all?” he asked as we walked back to his car.
“I hope s-so,” I said.
“So do I. Poor kid from a trailer park moves to a high-powered school and leads a bunch of rich kids to the state title they could never win on their own. It’s the kind of story Sports Illustrated likes. Actually, it’s the kind of story movie producers like. So how about we make a deal? You pitch Laurelhurst to the state title, I’ll write another feature story, Steven Spielberg will turn it into a movie, and we’ll both be rich and famous.”
When I got back to the Thurmans’, Mr. Thurman was sitting on the sofa, waiting for me. “Cleveland lost tonight,” he said as soon as I’d stepped inside. “One more win, and we clinch a spot in the playoffs.”
“That’s g-great,” I said, and I started for the stairway leading down to my room.
I didn’t make it.
“How did the interview go?” he asked.
I turned back. “It w-went okay.”
He pursed his lips. “Let’s hope it stays okay, for you and the team.” He started to say more, then stopped. “See you tomorrow, Laz. Great game.”
* * *
We did clinch the title with a win on Friday night. It was May, but it felt like December. A cold wind was blowing from Puget Sound, carrying a misty rain. In the top of the first, O’Dea’s starting pitcher gave up two hits and then walked Ian to load the bases. Jay Massine laced the first pitch he saw into left center for a bases-clearing double. Three more hits and another walk followed, staking me to a 7–0 lead before I had to throw a pitch.
When I took the mound, the wind was howling. The O’Dea batters swung at everything I threw, hitting pop-ups and ground balls when they weren’t striking out. Their nine batter got a cheap hit—a slow grounder that died in the wet turf, and their cleanup batter almost took my head off with a line single to center field, but those two hits were all they got. We won 9–0, with one of the twins pitching the final two innings.
When the game ended, Coach Vereen announced that we were the Metro League champions. It was the first championship team I’d ever been on, but none of the guys even pretended to be excited. They let out a little cheer, then packed up and went home. From the first day of practice, they’d expected to take the league. All that mattered was taking the state.
Anything less was failure.
Twenty-Two
Saturday morning I woke up at six fifteen. I slipped upstairs, took out three eggs and a couple of slices of Swiss cheese, and set to work cooking an omelet. I kept quiet, hoping to eat, clean up, and get back downstairs without waking anyone. I was halfway through my omelet when Mr. Thurman came into the room. “Got to go,” he said as he dropped the Seattle Times on the counter. “Pearson’s article is in there.”
Once he left, I pulled out the sports section. The headline jumped out at me:
Lazarus Rising
As I read, my head swam. Clay Pearson had interviewed not just me but some of my North Central teachers and my mom, too. She’d told him how I’d nearly died as a newborn. “My boy has always been a fighter. He’s my Superhero.”
That was the worst, but lots of other places were bad. Pearson wrote that we were almost homeless; that I never knew my father; that I had a speech impediment and a learning disability. He made Jet City seem like something out of a zombie horror film, with junkies and prostitutes and thieves roaming around 24/7.
After the paragraphs about my home life, a whole new set of paragraphs described how great I was on the mound. Even though I’d told him a bunch of times that I couldn’t have won without my teammates, he didn’t mention a single one, not even Ian. I’d been starving thirty minutes earlier, but by the time I finished reading, I wanted to puke.
I managed a few more bites, then scraped what was left of my omelet into the compost bin, put my plate and silverware in the dishwasher, and went back to my room. I had an hour to kill before it would be time to leave to see Suja and then head to work.
I’d barely closed the door when I got a one-word text from Antonio: SuperBro! Seconds later came a phone call from my mom. She told me how proud she was and how she was glad other people would know that I was the one who was making Laurelhurst so good. I tried to explain that nobody does it alone, but she wasn’t hearing it. “Curtis says you’re the man, and he knows baseball. I didn’t want you to go to that school, but I was wrong.” She paused. “You stop by here when you finish work. You’re having dinner with us tonight.”
I left early for the bus stop. When the bus pulled up, I climbed aboard and leaned my head against the window. I wanted to ride to the end of the line, wherever that was, but I got off at the stop near the Krispy Kreme. I hoped Suja hadn’t seen the article, but she held up a newspaper and waved it around as soon as she saw me. “You’re famous!” she half yelled as I neared her, and she looked around, as if other people might recognize me and ask for my autograph.
“D-Don’t,” I whispered.
“And that’s cool about how you got your name. You never told me that.”
“Please.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, lowering her voice. “But I don’t see why you’re being so modest.”
We got our regular orders and, since the sun was shining, took them outside. Before she could talk more about me, I asked about her day with the women from Whitman. The excitement drained from her eyes.
“I don’t think I’ll go.”
“Why n-not?”
“The other kids are all going to be rich, like those women. They’ll have expensive clothes and jewelry. I’ll be trailer trash to them.”
“They won’t know whether you’re rich or p-poor.”
“They’ll know, Laz.”
“So what? You’re smart. You’ll do g-great.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay.”
She swirled her plastic spoon around in her mocha. “I have a favor, Laz. You’re going to think it’s pretty random—”
“Okay, what?” I asked.
“Take me to the Senior Ball.”
“The Senior B-Ball,” I repeated.
“I told you it was random. But we’re seniors now, remember?”
“At Laurelhurst?”
Her eyes went wide. “Are you crazy? North Central. And it’s not for some sex thing. We’d just go as friends.” She paused. “I didn’t say that right, but you know what I mean.”
My face went red. I wanted to answer, but nothing came out. She waited, then drank off the rest of her mocha and stood. “Okay. I get it. You don’t want to. Forget I asked.”
“No,” I said, reaching out and taking her hand. “I want to g-go with you. I really do. When is it?”
She sat back down and went into business mode. “June. The Saturday before graduation. They’ll be six of us. We’ll rent a shuttle van and hire a driver from that company that takes people to the airport. Maybe we’ll eat at that barbecue place—you know the one I mean—or maybe someplace else. I’ll work on that. And nobody spends money on clothes. We’re going as ourselves and as friends. We’ll hang out and say goodbye to North Central. That’s it.”
Twenty-Three
After we separated, I headed to the driving range. I’d been away only one week, but in that week the pro shop had gone from okay to a total wreck. Red signs shouting 75% OFF! and EVERYTHING MUST GO! were slapped on the walls, the shelves, the windows. And almost everything was gone. Clubs, bags, balls, carts, gloves, towels, tees—wiped out. The clothes racks were bare except for XXL or XXS. The same with the shoes.
Mr. Matsui looked up as I entered. “Hey, Laz,” he said, the usual spark in his voice missing. He opened his hands and gestured to the store. “An ad ran in the Monday Times. It was crazy for three days, but then things set
tled down, mainly because nothing much is left. The locusts got it all.”
“Should I straighten things up?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Don’t bother. Just pick up the range and then use the shag bags to get the balls that are caught up in the nets.”
I walked to the corner shed where the John Deere was parked. On the way, I passed the two ball dispensing machines, one of which had an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to it. The John Deere had a FOR SALE sign on the driver’s side door.
After starting it up, I headed onto the range, driving slowly. The one functioning arm caught the balls and spit them into the baskets. Every once in a while a golf ball would smack the metal cage, jolting me. Mostly it was driving back and forth.
When I reached the back fence, I parked the John Deere and used the shag bags to collect the balls that had rolled into the netting. As I worked, the screen doors of the abandoned trailers in Jet City slapped open and closed in the wind. Antonio wasn’t hanging out at the back fence. No VWs came flying down the road.
When I finished, it was almost five. “Your mom called,” Mr. Matsui said as I put the keys back. “She asked me to remind you to stop by.”
I pulled my cell out of my back pocket. The screen read four missed calls. The John Deere had been so loud I hadn’t heard the rings. I hit the callback button.
“Just finished work,” I said when my mom answered. “I’ll b-be there in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
Antonio let me in. “Mom’s going crazy over this,” he warned me, smiling. A second later, she was standing in front of me, shaking the Seattle Times in my face. “This is wonderful, Laz! Your picture in the paper and an entire article all about you.”