by Carl Deuker
He was my brother.
I turned and headed toward Garrett’s trailer. As I neared it, I thought Suja must have been wrong. The Subaru wasn’t in front; the shades were drawn, the windows closed. As I headed up the walkway, though, I heard voices, one of which was Antonio’s.
I knocked.
The voices went quiet.
I knocked again. “It’s me. Laz Weathers. Is Antonio there?”
Then I heard what sounded like chains rattling. Next a deadbolt slid back, another lock was released, the door opened, and Antonio slipped outside. As soon as he did, the door closed behind him and the deadbolt clicked into place.
“Has Garrett g-got chains over his d-door?” I asked.
“It’s weird here now, Laz,” Antonio answered, his eyes darting from side to side, his voice tense. “Crazies from Aurora come in at night.”
“How does his g-grandfather get out with all those locks? Or S-Selena?”
“They’re gone. They moved to an apartment in Burien. It’s just Garrett here now.”
I understood why I hadn’t seen either of them at the back fence for a while. Garrett was dealing right from the trailer.
Something must have passed over my face, because Antonio spoke before I had a chance to say anything. “It’s ending. Garrett moves out on Saturday. And I’m glad he’s going, glad to be done with all this.”
It took a moment for me to understand what he was saying. When the meaning did come through, I felt tension pour out of me like water over a dam. “That’s g-good,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “Really g-good. In fact, it’s great.” I paused. “The championship g-game is Friday n-night at T-Mobile. I left a ticket for you with Mom. Think you can m-make it?”
Garrett called out something I couldn’t make out. “I hope so, Bro. I just can’t promise. There are still things that need finishing.”
Five
Tuesday morning, Coach Vereen called me out of class to his office. I was working up the courage to ask him to make a DVD for me, but he started talking before I could say anything.
“Got some news I think you’re going to like,” he said as he handed me printed copies of two emails he’d gotten. “The first is from the San Francisco Giants, the second from the Colorado Rockies. You can read them later. Basically, they both ask the same question. Are you interested in professional baseball?” Coach Vereen paused. “Are you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “Yes, I am.”
He tugged on one of his ears. “The June draft is coming up, so you’ve got to move fast. I’ve got a DVD of the Jesuit High game. I’ll have one of my TAs make copies. You come back here during your lunch period—the door will be open. Check out a laptop from the library, write a cover letter, include your email address and your phone number, and then send the DVD and the letter to the Giants and the Rockies. Their addresses are on the emails. And send one to Tommy Zeller, too. The scouts also want a letter from me describing your work habits and all that stuff. I’ll write it on Saturday”—he stopped and smiled—“after we win the championship. Got all that?”
No teacher called on me that morning, which was good, because I barely knew what class I was in. For three hours, all I did was compose a cover letter in my head. When lunch came, I hustled to the library, checked out a computer, and then went to Coach Vereen’s office.
The letter took no time. Rookie league, A-Ball, instructional league, Mexican League, Latin America, Japan, Korea, Taiwan—I wrote that I’d play anywhere. I’d be a starter, a middle reliever, a closer. Whatever they wanted me to do, I was all in.
Coach Vereen had left three stamped manila envelopes on the table. I wrote the address of one team onto the envelope, slid the letter and DVD inside, and sealed it. Then I went to the next team and started the process again. I finished just when the bell rang for class.
I was burning with energy all afternoon, so it was great to get out of the building and onto the baseball diamond for practice. I stretched, ran in the outfield, played some long catch, stretched some more, ran some more.
When it was time for the hitters to take batting practice, I was the first pitcher to reach the mound. I felt strong enough to throw my fastball right through Hadley’s mitt. As soon as I stepped on the mound, Coach Vereen waved me off. “Go run some laps.”
“But I want to p-pitch,” I said.
“You’re too pumped. You won’t be able to dial it down, and you might hurt your arm or hit somebody in the head and kill them. Run some laps.”
Six
It was the end of the year, so teachers were going easy on us. That meant slack time, when I’d rather have had something hard. Even math was no sweat. The last chapter in the text was about biased and unbiased surveys. It was filled with questions like Marie Schwartz surveys the school soccer teams to find out the favorite sport at Pleasant Valley High. Why is this survey biased? I could have answered that in sixth grade.
I used some of my extra time to research Gonzaga Prep—the team we’d be facing in the final. The school was in Spokane, a couple of miles from Gonzaga University. They’d won the eastern regional, so they were good, but they’d also lost four games during the year and had four one-run victories. The three- and four-hitters hit for high averages, but didn’t have much power. The rest of the lineup looked okay, but just okay.
Sometimes in school I’d be sitting next to a bunch of top students and they’d take turns talking about how they were worried they’d flunked some test or bombed some paper. Then, a day later, they’d pretend to be shocked when they got an A.
I hated it when kids did that, but I played my version of that game a couple of times, scaring myself with the thought that if I had a bad outing against Gonzaga, no team would draft me.
It wasn’t true, and I knew it. I’d pitched Laurelhurst to a league title and a regional title and into the state title game. I’d shut down the best teams in the state. My fastball was in the nineties. I had good control. Even if I lost to Gonzaga Prep, I’d shown enough. Teams never have enough pitching, and forty rounds is a lot of rounds.
Some team would draft me.
Seven
Friday. Championship Day.
North Central had had pep rallies, but none were anything like the one at Laurelhurst. The walls of the gym were covered with banners. The band blasted out song after song. Players from earlier teams sat on folding chairs set up on the gym floor. Every person chanted “Pop! Pop! Pop!” when Vereen entered.
The principal, Mr. Chavez, gave a speech recounting Coach Vereen’s career. I knew he had been around for years, but I didn’t know that he’d started coaching the year the school opened, making him the only baseball coach in the forty-two-year history of Laurelhurst.
When Mr. Chavez finished, Mr. Thurman took the microphone. “The boosters have a gift for you,” he said, and he held up a plaque that showed Coach Vereen’s face in profile. “This will be placed above the main entrance to the gymnasium, which has officially been renamed Pop Vereen Gymnasium.” More cheering, more stamping of feet. Some of Vereen’s old players looked like they were wiping away tears.
Next, former players took turns telling stories about this team and that team and how Coach Vereen had taught them a lot about baseball but even more about life. The period was about over when Coach Vereen stepped up to the microphone. He had notes in front of him, but all he managed to say was “Thank you.” He stepped back, and everyone rose to their feet, clapping and cheering.
That ended the pep rally. The one thing that hadn’t been mentioned was the only thing that was missing: the state title. If I pitched my game, it would be a kid from North Central High who made the fairy tale ending come true.
Eight
When the school day ended, all the guys on the team met at the gym. We stretched, ran a little, and then hung out. At four thirty we got the word to change into our game uniforms. Fifteen minutes later we were on the bus, heading to T-Mobile Park.
There’s nothing nor
mal about a championship game, so nobody knew how to act. Being quiet seemed wrong, so guys talked, only they talked too loud and they laughed too hard.
We reached the ballpark ninety minutes before the game. A security guy led us through different rooms that were just for the Mariners players. As he walked, he rattled off a list of things we couldn’t touch—which was everything. But we could look. The clubhouse, the weight room, the showers, the trainer’s room—it was all out of a magazine. At last he led us down a hallway that led into the locker room itself.
In the center area leather sofas and chairs were positioned for watching widescreen TVs suspended from the ceiling. Around the edge were the players’ cubicles, each about the size of Antonio’s room at the apartment.
When we reached the dugout, I understood why players stand on the top steps during a game. From the bench you can hardly see the field.
My duffle held my street clothes and cell. I shoved it into a corner, and then, for the first time in my life, I stepped onto a major-league field. As I took that step, I thought that someday I might step onto the field as a major-league player. The hairs on my arm and neck stood straight up. Coach Vereen’s voice snapped me back into the present. “Let’s go. Regular warm-up. Get to it.”
I stretched, jogged in the outfield, played pepper. A few people were filtering into the park, but not many. Parents and kids could come right down to the railing and say hello and wish guys luck.
My mom was one of them. I heard her before I saw her. “Laz!” I turned and she was holding her hands above her head, clapping as if she were at a rock concert. “Antonio and Curtis are coming later,” she hollered. “We’ll be there,” she said, pointing to the section directly behind home plate. She made two fists and shook them. “Good luck!”
I waved and then trotted to the outfield to play long catch with Ian. Back and forth the baseball went, the only bond between us, but a strong one. Finally I heard Hadley’s voice: “Time to get ready, Laz.”
The bullpen was out in left field, cut off from everyone else. I stepped up on the mound as Hadley crouched down behind the plate. The distractions were gone. His glove was the whole world. With every pitch, I felt stronger, more confident.
This was my moment.
Ten minutes before game time Hadley and I jogged to the infield and lined up along first base, waiting for the Laurelhurst band to play the national anthem. I was minutes from the high point of my life.
Then everything crashed.
Nine
Suja.
She was running down the aisle from the main concourse, holding out her cell phone. “Laz! Laz! You need to hear this!” Her eyes were so wild that everybody on the team, and almost everybody in the stands, was staring at her.
What was she thinking? I couldn’t talk to her, not with the game minutes away. I looked down, staring at the dirt, ignoring her. She kept running, kept calling my name. When she reached the railing, she leaned over, stretching her phone out as if I could reach from the first base line to the railing and take it from her.
“Laz, Antonio is in trouble.”
My head jerked up. Our eyes met. Her fear grabbed hold of me. I took one small step toward her, then a bigger one, and then I was running. When I reached the railing, she shoved the phone into my hand.
“Who is this?” I asked. “What’s h-happening?”
“Laz, it’s me. Garrett. I did a stupid thing. A really stupid thing, and I’m sorry.”
“Wh-What are you t-talking about?”
“Your brother. I sent him to do a deal, the last deal. I was selling everything. Done. Out. No more. He was supposed to meet the buyer under the Ballard Bridge. But it was all a setup. I’ve been calling him, but he doesn’t answer. You got to get there first. These are bad guys, Laz. Really bad guys. They could do anything.”
“Wh—”
“Twenty minutes. It goes down in twenty minutes. He has my Subaru, so I can’t get there. Besides, I can’t show my face. They want me more than they want him. But they’re not after you at all. You see that, right?” He paused. “That’s why it’s on you.”
The phone went dead.
Mom must have heard Suja, must have sensed that something was wrong, because she was working her way toward me, pushing past people, moving as fast as she could. The band had started playing the national anthem.
And then it was Mr. Thurman at the railing, shouldering Suja aside. “What are you doing, Laz? Get back there with your team.”
I dropped my glove and started to climb over the railing. “I can’t,” I said, shouting to be heard over the band. “I have to go.”
He grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Are you crazy? The game starts in two minutes.”
Mom was racing down the aisle, coming closer. I couldn’t hear her, but I could read her lips: What’s wrong?
“Antonio,” I shouted as the last notes of the anthem faded and cheers came up from the thousand or so fans.
Mr. Thurman, his hand still gripping my arm, twisted me so that I was facing the press box. “Major-league scouts are watching you right this minute. Think what you’re doing. They’re not going to waste a draft pick on a player who walks out on his team.”
Mom had reached us. “Take your hands off my son!” she barked.
His grip relaxed. I shook free, got completely over the railing, and started up the aisle. “We’ve g-got to g-get to the Ballard Bridge,” I said to my mom, who was right by my side. “Antonio is in danger.”
Ten
We had to dodge cars and trucks to cross First Avenue South. After that we ran to Utah Street, where Mom had parked the Corolla.
Horns blared as she shot out into traffic. She blew through a red light and raced toward Western Avenue and Ballard.
“Explain,” she said as she wove in and out of lanes.
“Some g-guys he’s meeting. They’re g-going to hurt him. Or they m-might.”
“What guys, Laz? What are you talking about? Why would anyone want to hurt Antonio?”
“That Garrett kid g-got him m-mixed up with drugs. “
She looked over at me, her eyes blazing. I felt the car accelerate. Then she peppered me with questions.
How long?
Where?
When?
Why hadn’t I said anything to her?
That was the hardest question. I remembered Antonio telling me last year that he was sixteen, not six, and the days of running to Mom were over. That had sounded right back then, but now it sounded all wrong.
Where Western Avenue turns into Elliott, a group of Chinese tourists, shopping bags over their arms, were crossing the street. “Come on, come on,” she shouted, pounding the steering wheel. Then she turned to me. “My phone,” she said. “It’s in my purse. Give it to me.”
She punched a number on speed dial. The last tourist cleared the street, and she took off. “Curtis, did Antonio show up?” Pause. “Listen, Laz says he’s in trouble. Gangs. drugs—I don’t understand it all, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that some guys are waiting for him by the Ballard Bridge, and he has no clue.” Pause. “It goes to voice mail.” Pause. “We’re headed there right now.” Pause. “No. You call them.”
She disconnected.
For a while we were lucky—green light after green light. But the light by Whole Foods turned yellow when we were still a couple hundred yards away. Instead of stopping, Mom floored it and roared through. The animal shelter flew by, and after that, Interbay Golf Center.
The Ballard Bridge was finally in sight.
“What side?” Mom asked.
My body seized up. “I d-don’t know.”
She bit her lip. “It’ll be the other side. More places to hide over there.”
She handed me her cell. “Try him again.”
I punched in the number.
Voice mail again.
The Ballard Bridge is a drawbridge that opens about a dozen times a day. Cars have to sit and wait while sailboats and fishing boats pass un
der. As Mom reached the south end of the bridge, I was sure the red lights would flash, the bridge would open, and we’d be stuck for five minutes. I didn’t want to think about what would happen to Antonio in those minutes. But then I felt the pavement change to metal grating, and seconds later we were on the Ballard side. A thought flashed into my head.
“Nine-one-one,” I said. “We sh—”
“Curtis called,” Mom said as she took the off-ramp. She pulled to a stop in front of Mike’s Chili.
“Shouldn’t we c-circle around?” I asked. “A bunch of streets g-go under the b-bridge. The m-meeting could be at any of them.”
She shook her head as she threw open her door. “It’s faster on foot.”
Eleven
We started by searching where Leary Avenue passes under the bridge. The sun was going down, and it is dark below a bridge deck even at noon. I looked into the darkness and saw something moving behind the bridge supports.
Mom saw it, too. “Antonio!” she called out as she rushed toward it. “Antonio!”
I was next to her, but I could barely hear her—the roar from the cars above was as loud as a fighter jet. We pushed aside a deserted shopping cart. “Antonio!” Mom called a third time as again something moved in the darkness.
A voice came back. “Leave me alone.”
My eyes had adjusted. A homeless guy, hollow-eyed and holding a moldy sleeping bag, was staring at us.
We headed down a narrow one-way street that led to where Northwest Forty-Sixth crossed under the bridge. The area was smaller and dirtier and smelled like sewage.
“Antonio!” my mother shouted, walking toward Pono Ranch.
I searched in the opposite direction, toward LA Fitness.
“Antonio!” I shouted.
Nothing.
“Antonio!”
“Antonio!”
More nothing. No gang guys, no brother.