“You stay out of this. This guy is wild, Coley. He’s got five walks already, plus two wild pitches. If he tries to come inside, he could plunk you right on the elbow.”
“This guy can’t hit my arm or anything else. He’s got nothin’.”
“Let him hit, Coach.” This time it was Rico speaking up; as a senior cocaptain he was a more persuasive lobbyist than any freshman. “The bottom line is, we can win the game.”
Coach Mason was staring out at center field, clearly tempted, but just as clearly on the horns of a dilemma. The umpire was approaching the dugout, impatient for a decision. “Have you got a hitter, or what?” he asked.
The coach turned to Coley. He spoke quietly. “You’d have to wear Lovell’s arm guard.”
“I don’t care,” he lied. He hated the idea of wearing the arm guard, which was like a soft cast with a flexible hinge, covered by hard plastic. Because it was stiff and cumbersome, it would limit his range of motion when swinging the bat. But he knew better than to press his luck. “Whatever you say, Coach.”
“Because I’m not letting you hit unless you wear it.”
“You’re the boss,” said Coley with a smile.
“Am I really?” Mason didn’t wait for an answer. He turned to the restless umpire to give him Coley’s name as a pinch hitter.
Coley strapped on the arm guard as he approached the plate slowly. He took several ballistic swings with the heaviest bat in the collection to try to feel loose with a restricted left elbow.
“Okay, let’s go.” The ump was long out of patience.
“You the man, Coley!” he could hear Quintero shouting. “You the man!”
Coley just watched the first two pitches to see what the Clearwater lefty had. It wasn’t much. The second pitch was a strike on a dinky curve about letter high.
Throw me that curve one more time, he thought to himself as he dug in for the next pitch. The next pitch was the same one, a hanging curve up in the strike zone. Coley mashed it, immensely high and far to straightaway center. He had gotten under it just a touch, so it wasn’t going to clear the fence, but it would back the center fielder up as far as he could go.
Coley was jogging halfway between first and second when the catch was made. He began unstrapping the arm guard while the center fielder was still waiting for the ball to come down. Kershaw, who was the runner at third, scored easily. It was Coley’s turn to take a pounding between the shoulder blades from his teammates.
He was ready to pitch the bottom half of the inning if needed, but it wasn’t necessary. His teammates held on for the win.
Chapter Five
Coley pitched the first home game of the season against Peoria Richwoods the following week. He didn’t have his best stuff, but he was more than Richwoods could handle. He walked too many batters—six—but he also recorded eleven strikeouts. He only allowed two hits, both singles and both on the infield. They won the game, 9-1.
It was a blustery day with dirt blowing around and the temperature no higher than the middle fifties. Chilly conditions usually affected Coley’s control. Today he was wild high, but not by much. His high hard one, particularly when it was out of the strike zone but not above the armpits, was an effective strikeout pitch. Between innings he bundled up with a towel around his neck, stuffed inside the collar of his letter jacket. He couldn’t help thinking glumly of Tampa and Clearwater, and the warm sunshine.
The sixth inning typified his shaky dominance. After walking the first two batters, he gave up one of the two hits, a chopper to his left that Lovell, the second baseman, couldn’t flag down in time. Then he threw a wild pitch in the dirt, which allowed a run to score. He struck out the next three batters to end the inning.
His father wasn’t there for the whole game but had arrived in time to watch the last three innings. When the game was over, he approached Coley near the dugout. “When you’re wild high like that, what does it mean?”
“It means I’m gonna walk too many people,” Coley replied. “Except for the guys who can’t lay off the high one.”
“Now, don’t be a smart-ass. You know what I’m asking. If you’re wild high, what does that tell you?”
Coley’s left arm and shoulder were wrapped in a big, fluffy towel. He was struggling to get his jacket on over the bulk. “Give it a rest, huh? You know my control is down when it’s cold.”
“This isn’t cold, this is in the fifties.”
“Yeah, well, it’s cold when you’re tryin’ to throw strikes.”
His father’s reply came in sentences as crisp as burning leaves: “Excuses are all of equal value. They make us cowards. They deliver us from mental toughness.”
“You think I’m makin’ excuses.”
“I know you’re makin’ excuses. The weather’s the same for you as it is for everybody else.”
The one thing Coley knew for sure was that his father wouldn’t let go of this until he got the right answer. “What you want me to say is my right shoulder was flyin’ open.”
“It’s not what I want you to say that matters. It’s what you can learn that will help you improve.”
“Okay, my right shoulder was flyin’ open. The next time, I’ll concentrate on it.”
“The cold weather’s only the excuse, yeah? It’s the excuse to lose concentration. To lose mental toughness.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“What makes great pitchers is their concentration. They don’t lose track of their mechanics even under adverse conditions. Besides which, it’s not even cold out here.”
“Yeah, okay, it’s not cold.” Coley was distracted as soon as he saw Bree Madison approaching the fence. She was wearing sunglasses. Her hair looked great, the way it blew in the breeze and radiated deep red color in the sun.
Now his father was asking him, “What about the times you had to cover first?”
“What?”
“Two times you covered first but you didn’t follow the J route. You ran right at the bag as straight as a string.”
“I got there, didn’t I? I got the outs.”
“Sometimes people get hits when they swing with their eyes closed,” Ben Burke countered. “But you wouldn’t expect them to do it consistently. Consistency comes from doing things the right way.”
“Yeah, okay.”
His father couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t have Coley’s undivided attention. “I don’t know who she is, but you suppose you could pay attention here for one more minute?”
Coley turned his gaze from Bree back to his dad. Ben Burke definitely knew the game. But these were old lectures and Coley wasn’t in the mood to reprise them. “Did you notice I won the game?” he asked.
“Of course I noticed. I saw how you dominated Peoria Rich woods.” When he said the words Peoria Richwoods, Ben’s contempt was so evident he might have been talking about the girls’ softball team.
“I dominated them without my good stuff,” Coley added.
“Okay, you dominated them without your good stuff. Some people will be impressed by that, but it won’t be you or me. That’s not the next level.”
“Okay, okay,” said Coley, turning away. He saw Bree still waiting nearby, by herself. “I’ve got to go now.”
“You go now. We can talk later.”
Now, there’s something to look forward to, Coley thought. He approached Bree so he could speak to her through the Cyclone fence. “How are you?” he asked her.
“I’m fine.” She was smiling. “You were awesome.”
“Nah. I didn’t even have my good stuff.”
“You were still awesome, though. They couldn’t even get any hits.”
“They had a couple. I’ll have my good stuff when it gets hot, you wait and see. Are you a baseball fan?”
“I guess I could be,” Bree answered.
Coley couldn’t be sure what she meant by that, but it was a lot better listening to her compliments than to his father’s criticism. Bree’s fingers were hooked on to the fence.
Her well-shaped fingernails were covered with a pale, frosted polish the color of cultured pearl. “Did you drive?” he asked her.
“You mean here? To the game?”
“Yeah, how’d you get here? Did you, like, drive or walk or what?”
“I don’t have a license yet,” she told him. “I’m only fifteen. I just stayed after school, until the game started.” By extending her fingers, she was able to secure the hem of Coley’s letter jacket in a tentative pincer grip. When she tugged, he let himself move flush against the fence.
“You want a ride home?”
“With you?” she asked. “You’d do that for me?” It was somewhat awkward through the fence, but she was in the process of fastening the bottom three snaps of his jacket. Deft as it was, it didn’t happen quickly, because she had only the use of her fingers. No way to use her arms for leverage. She giggled as she went. It was a bold act of familiarity somehow, as intoxicating to Coley as it was unexpected. An unlikely combination of the maternal and the flirtatious.
He covered her fingers with his larger ones before he said, “I’ll give you a ride. I have to get showered, but it won’t take me long.” He tried to look into her eyes, but he saw instead his own image reflected in her sunglasses.
“Where should I meet you?” Bree asked him. She took off the shades to push some of the blowing hair from her face. At the corner of her left eye was a pale, greenish yellow blemish that looked like the final visible trace of a bruise. It wasn’t eye shadow, though, that was plain. She wasn’t wearing much makeup at all, except for the red lipstick, which was expertly applied.
Coley still covered her free hand with his own. “Just wait by my car in the parking lot. I’ll be right out.”
“It won’t take you long, though, huh?”
“Not long at all. Ten minutes, tops.”
“Okay, but promise it won’t be more.” She started to giggle.
“Okay, I promise.” He turned to go, heading in the direction of the locker room, but after twenty feet or so he remembered to turn back. “My car’s the purple Beretta.”
“I know,” he heard her say.
It took him eight minutes. His hair was still wet when he found her leaning against the passenger’s side of the car, holding her books to her chest. As soon as she got in, Bree said, “This car is so cool.”
Coley started the engine. “It’s a good car except for the color.”
“But I like the color.”
“Who wants a purple car? My dad bought it out at Hennesy’s because he got a great price on it. It was a program car.”
“What’s a program car?”
“It’s like a demonstrator. Salesmen use them so people can make test drives.”
Bree was twisting her torso in order to put her books in the backseat by way of the gap between the seats. Her short, silky skirt was one of those that buttoned down the front; it was high on her thighs. “But Coley, this is a lavender car, not a purple one. A purple car would be gross.”
“Purple, lavender. Anyway, it’s better than the last car I had.”
“You had another car before this?”
“I’ve had two other cars. This is the third car I’ve had.” Coley couldn’t help wearing a sheepish grin while he delivered this information. They were idling by the stop sign at the entry to the street. “So you’ll have to give me directions,” he reminded her. “I don’t know where your house is.”
“Yale Boulevard. You know where it is?”
“I know.” He pulled swiftly into the street and headed east on South Grand. Bree asked him if she could turn the rearview mirror in her direction, and he said, “No problem. I’ve got the side mirrors.”
She began combing her hair. “Your dad buys you cars? You must be rich.”
“We’re rich enough,” Coley had to admit. “I don’t know who makes more money, though, my mom or my dad. She sells real estate.”
Bree was still combing, leaning forward in her seat to get a better look in the mirror. “What car did you have before this?”
“It was a Honda Accord. It was okay, but it didn’t have much guts. I talked my old man into getting this one.”
“I think a lavender car is super cool.” She was speaking to him, but by way of the mirror. Her legs weren’t together and her skirt wasn’t pulled down. She was arousing him, even if her suggestive body language wasn’t premeditated. Maybe even because it wasn’t.
“Lavender, purple.”
Bree giggled before she said, “I’ll take your old Honda when I turn sixteen, since you don’t need it now.”
“Sorry.” He smiled. “It got traded in on this one.” The left side of her face was less than a foot from his head. She was still combing the fine, straight hair with regular strokes, but it looked to him like everything was in place and there wasn’t much more to accomplish. “How’d you get the bruise?” he asked casually. They were stopped at the Eleventh Street traffic light.
Before she answered, she put the sunglasses back on. “I hit it on the car door.” She was putting the comb away in her purse.
“How did that happen?”
Something was different all of a sudden. Bree located herself squarely in her own seat. She crossed her legs and pulled the hem of her skirt down. “It just happened. It was clumsy. Don’t ask so many questions.”
“That was one question. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s cool.”
They were headed south on Eleventh Street. Bree was quiet. Content, it seemed, to stare out the passenger’s window. Coley asked her about her family. She told him she lived with her mother and stepfather.
“Where does your real dad live?”
“He used to live in Texas. He still might, as far as I know. We practically never hear from him.”
“What does your stepfather do?”
“He’s a retired air force officer.”
Coley didn’t know much about her, but he decided she was a puzzle. The same girl who buttoned up his coat through the fence and gushed about his lavender car was now the one giving terse and reluctant answers to questions that didn’t seem all that personal. He decided to change the subject. “So what do you say? You wanna go out? Let’s go out to Knight’s Action.”
“I haven’t been there. Is it nice?”
“Yeah. How about Friday?”
“I’m free on Friday,” she said, “but what about Gloria?”
“I already told you. That’s over.”
She removed the sunglasses before turning to face him. “She’s so popular, though.”
Coley nodded. “That’s good for her, then. She’ll land on her feet.”
“But I have to be sure,” said Bree.
“You can be sure. Just trust what I’m tellin’ you.”
Bree’s house was a modest Cape Cod on the east side of Yale Boulevard. She stood on the porch waving good-bye to him as he pulled away from the curb. The wind blew her hair and her skirt. Not too far from where she stood, a curtain was pulling back along the edge of the large picture window, but Coley couldn’t see whose hand might be moving it.
Chapter Six
The next time Ruthie Roth brought him a notice in the library, Coley was set to be annoyed. He was reading the sports section of the Tribune. “What is it now?”
“You mean we have to stop meeting like this? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Very funny. What do you want?”
Ruthie took the liberty of sitting in the closest chair, but she had to duck to avoid the wooden spindle on the spine of Coley’s newspaper.
“Mrs. Alvarez wants to see you in her office,” Ruthie informed him.
The box next to immediately had a check mark. Underneath, Mrs. Alvarez’s signature was stamped in place. “I can see that,” Coley said. “What the hell does she want?”
“How would I know? That would have to be between you and her.”
Coley couldn’t think what he might be in trouble for. His English midterm had come through; he wasn
’t flunking anything. At least he didn’t think he was. Before he went to the office, he decided to ask Ruthie a favor. He asked her if she would help him with his values survey for human dynamics.
“You want me to help you with your homework.”
She must have meant it as a question, even if it didn’t sound like one. So he said, “Yeah, if you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind? You’re always there for me, aren’t you?”
“If you’re going to be sarcastic, then I take it back. Don’t help me.”
“Every time you need a favor, usually one that has to do with some class that’s a problem for you, it’s time for us to be friends.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Am I wrong, Coley?”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I really? It seems the last time you wanted to associate with me was sophomore year, when I spent two weeks as your tutor for geometry. You were flunking, remember?”
He remembered. The fact he’d scraped by with a D was in no small part thanks to Ruthie. He probably would’ve flunked the final without the help. But he had to believe she was exaggerating. “Okay, forget I even asked.”
“Just like that? I should forget?”
Coley regretted he’d even brought it up. “You’ve got leftover makeup around your eyes. A little glitter, too, it looks like.”
“It’s theater makeup,” she replied.
“Why do you need makeup for rehearsals?”
“I don’t. But I like to experiment. Is that okay with you?”
Coley shrugged his shoulders. “If you want to look like a raccoon, it’s okay with me.” He took the newspaper back to the rack. When he returned, Ruthie stated, “Okay, I’ll help you. But on one condition: You have to come to my house.”
If this was meant as a challenge, Coley couldn’t see it as one. “Fine.”
“I may look like a raccoon, you never know.”
“That’s your call, Ruthie.”
“I mean, I want you to be up front and visible about the fact that you’re not afraid to spend time with me.”
Now she was pissing him off. He picked up his books. “That’s bullshit, Ruthie, and you know it. Who am I supposed to be afraid of?”
Plunking Reggie Jackson Page 5