by Joyce Grant
Before his next pitch, and the one after that, Raj made a point of looking down at his feet.
The boy on third never got a chance to leave his base, because Raj struck the next two batters out.
The top of the inning ended and everyone ran in. Raj’s teammates punched him on the shoulder and slapped his back.
“That was great!” cheered Sebastian. “And I really liked that dance-thing you were doing on the mound.”
“What dance-thing?” asked Raj.
“That thing where you kept shifting your feet. The Twist.”
Raj looked over at Tami and Jock. As they made eye contact, all three of them burst out laughing.
Gnash was on the other side of the dugout. Under hooded eyelids, he watched the exchange between his teammates. Even Gnash had to admit that the advice Jock had given Raj seemed to be working. But he didn’t see why Raj had to be so chummy with the new kid.
The game with the Reds ended in a 5–5 tie. It wasn’t the outcome the Blues had been hoping for, but at least it wasn’t a loss. And the infield had kept the number of runs down to single digits, which didn’t always happen.
All but one of the runs for the Blues had been due to Jock. He had gotten an inside-the-park home run and three runs batted in.
“I might be able to bring my Earned Run Average down before the end of the season,” Raj said to Jock. “Hey, maybe there’s hope for me yet!”
Gnash looked away.
“Maybe,” he told his friend. But he wasn’t so sure.
10
Mudball
When Gnash woke up the next morning it was pouring rain. He looked at his phone and saw that the weather forecast was calling for heavy rain for the whole day.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Gnash’s grandfather asked him as he headed out the door, his baseball bag slung over one shoulder.
Gnash lived with his grandparents, and he couldn’t recall the last time his grandfather had said anything nice to him — unless Gnash hit a home run. Then his grandfather was all smiles and all, “That’s my boy!” Gnash had only hit two home runs since he’d started playing baseball. It was a long time to wait between pats on the back.
Gnash stopped in his tracks. He looked down. “To the Pits,” he said quietly.
“Nice. Gonna go practice with your new boyfriends?” his grandfather sneered.
Gnash tried to sidle past his grandfather. But, although he was much older, the man was still imposing. His grandfather stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you gonna play baseball . . . or something else with your pals?” He smirked.
Gnash was never sure if he was meant to laugh along with his grandfather’s mean jokes.
“Baseball,” he mumbled, and made another attempt to get by.
“Naaa-aaash,” his grandmother called from the kitchen.
“Yeah, Gramma?” Gnash moved away from his grandfather and ducked into the small kitchen.
His grandmother was a petite woman. Her back was hunched from years of washing dishes at the small apartment’s low sink. “It’s raining out. Are you going to be warm enough?” She held a cereal bowl in one hand and a dish towel in the other.
Gnash walked over to the tiny woman and hugged her. He kissed the top of her wiry, grey top-knot. “I’ll be fine, Gramma, thanks. If it rains any harder, I’ll come home.”
He tucked a stray wisp of grey hair behind her ear and she smiled at him. “Say something nice to your grandfather,” she said. “He worries about you.”
“I know he does, Gramma,” said Gnash, giving her a squeeze.
Fortunately, his grandfather was nowhere to be seen as Gnash left the apartment. He took the stairs two at a time down to the rainy sidewalk.
Even if the rain stopped before the afternoon, Gnash knew, there would be no way the team could practice. The diamonds at Christie Pits were notorious for flooding. The water would collect on the infield and form puddles that no amount of sand could soak up. At the Pits, rainouts were a regular occurrence.
Even so, by the time Gnash reached the park, most of the team was huddled around Jock. He was smiling and laughing in the streaming rain.
“And whoever’s left standing is up next,” Jock was saying.
“Wait, wait, what are we talking about?” interrupted Gnash as he reached them.
“Mudball!” said Sebastian, his face framed by rain-soaked tendrils of hair. “Jock’s teaching us how to play.”
“Gee, that sounds like a fun baby-game,” said Gnash. The rain was drizzling uncomfortably down his back.
“We used to play it whenever we got rained out back home,” said Jock. “Christie Pits is perfect for it — I wish we’d had these hills in New Jersey.”
“Yeah, well, it sounds stupid to me,” said Gnash, wiping the rain out of his eyes. “I’m going home. You losers can play your little game. Have fun!”
Not even Raj glanced at Gnash as he headed up the hill.
Gnash couldn’t believe how quickly his stupid friends had turned on him. He used to be the one who decided what the team would do on off-days. Now they were listening to the American kid — the gay kid.
But Gnash didn’t want to go home, either. He walked over to a large oak tree beside the sidewalk at the top of the hill and sat, propping his back against the trunk.
Gnash watched his friends through the curtain of cold rain as Jock repeated the rules.
“So,” he said. “One kid’s it — he’s the mudball. The other kids take up a spot on the hill. The kid who’s it yells ‘mudball!’ and everyone has to freeze where they are. They’re not allowed to move, except to jump up. The mudball guy rolls down the hill and he tries to knock over as many kids as he can. For every kid he knocks down, he gets a point. That’s it. Most points wins.”
“Yeah, and a fall-down counts as a knock-down,” said Lin.
“Okay, got it,” said Raj. “Who’s the first mudball?”
Everyone on the team quickly shouted “Not it!” almost in unison.
Jock, who didn’t know about the “called-it” rule, was the only who hadn’t shouted “not it.”
“You’re it!” shouted Lin, pointing to him.
Jock held his hands up. “All right, I’m the mudball,” he said and he ran up the hill, slipping on patches of wet muck as he went. He stopped close to where Gnash was sitting.
Gnash assumed Jock was coming over to talk him into playing. He started to invent a reason why he wasn’t going to join them when Jock suddenly yelled “Mudball!”
“Hey, no fair!” said Sebastian, who was right in front of Jock near the hilltop. “I wasn’t ready!”
“Ha! I know!” said Jock, smiling. “Geronimoooooo!” And he flopped onto his side and rolled straight into Sebastian, knocking him off his feet. The two boys rolled around until Sebastian untangled himself. He sat down in a river of rainwater that was streaming down the hillside.
Jock wiped some mud away from his eyes. He looked around for his next target. He spotted Lin and Tami, who weren’t looking his way. He angled himself to plow into the girls. He rolled and caught Tami completely unawares. Lin leapt up, but Jock rolled backward so he was underneath her feet as she came down. Lin landed heavily on Jock, who gave another half-roll to shake her off onto the ground.
“Ha! That’s three!” he said happily, looking around for his next victim.
By the time he’d zig-zagged to the bottom of the hill, Jock had successfully taken down every one of the six teammates. They began picking up handfuls of mud and flinging them at Jock and each other.
“I’ve got six points!” said Jock. He laughed and rubbed his right knee where he’d knocked it against a rock when he’d taken out Raj. “Who’s it?”
“I wanna be the mudball!” said Sebastian, sticking his hand up in the air and jumping around. “
I’m it! I’m it!”
The game went on for two more hours, long after the rain had stopped. By the time the players realized they were thirsty and starving, they were so caked in mud they were nearly unrecognizable. Bone-tired and filthy but happy, they clawed their way up the slippery slope and headed home.
No one noticed Gnash trudging toward the bus stop.
11
Doing the Math
The next day was Monday and Gnash sat in Math class trying not to think about the detentions he had earned the previous week.
If someone did something wrong and Gnash was nearby, teachers just assumed it was him. If there was a smell or a spill or a mess in the classroom, the first person any teacher blamed was Gnash. If Gnash didn’t have an alibi, he was automatically guilty. Only about six times out of ten was it actually true. But Gnash wasn’t a snitch and he’d rather serve someone else’s detention than give someone up to the teacher.
So, when a pencil was launched across the room while the teacher was at the blackboard with her back turned, she immediately turned on Gnash. Gnash steeled himself for what was coming — another unfair detention. He was surprised when Jock got up from his seat.
“Sorry, Ms. Euclid. My bad!” Jock said with a cheerful grin.
Jock jogged over to retrieve the pencil, as though running around Math class and sassing the teacher was what every kid did, and got away with.
The teacher looked at Jock, and then over at Gnash, who was staring straight ahead at nothing.
“Sit down, Mr. Christobel,” said Ms. Euclid. “We don’t jog around the classroom. This isn’t Gym class.”
“I was just playing with my pencil and it sort of — flew out of my hand,” said Jock.
“That’s fine, that’s fine,” said Ms. Euclid. “Just please retrieve it and sit down.”
Jock looked over at Gnash, who was struggling to keep his face neutral. If he’d ever tried to pull a stunt that cheeky he would have had detention for a week! Eventually Gnash looked over at Jock — this time, at least, he wasn’t going to get the blame.
Jock winked at him, turning so the teacher couldn’t see them.
“Freak,” Gnash said under his breath.
As Jock walked by Gnash, he laid his Math textbook quietly down on Gnash’s desk and grabbed Gnash’s book.
Gnash could see a piece of paper sticking out of the textbook Jock had put in front of him. Before the teacher could spot it, Gnash quickly covered it with his hands. He might not like Jock, but he knew the rules for note-passing and rule number one was, “Always hide the note from the teacher.”
Gnash glared at Jock, whose chair was now noisily scraping the floor and clanking against his desk as he sat down. Jock’s eyes were smiling — he seemed to be enjoying himself.
When the ruckus died down, the teacher turned back to the board to write out the day’s Geometry lesson.
Gnash quietly slid the folded piece of paper out from the book’s pages. On the front flap, in Jock’s handwriting, it said, “Gnash is a loser.” Gnash felt his face heat up. Silently, he opened the note so he could read what was written inside.
“Now that I have your attention,” the note read, “here’s some advice. When you’re fielding, always go back first. Farther than you think. Then if you have to run forward, you can. Pg. 118.”
Gnash rifled through the pages until he came to 118. It was a lesson about arcs, and Gnash saw that someone had drawn lines on top of a diagram in the book. At the topmost point of the arc was a hand-drawn baseball, with a dotted pencil line straight down to two shaky stick figures. Gnash guessed they were baseball players from the fat, cartoon gloves at the ends of their stick-arms. The diagram showed one player farther back than the other. It was clear by the angle of the arc that that was the player who was in the right position to catch the ball.
Gnash was still studying the diagram when the bell rang to signal the end of class. Suddenly, Jock was over at Gnash’s desk and his finger was on the diagram.
“See, this is the point where you should make your decision about where to run,” said Jock, sliding his finger along the top of the arc. “Run back, so you’re here. And then wait until the ball is here. Then, you can either stay where you are and catch the ball, or you can run forward if you have to. But at least you’ll be in a better position to see it and to catch it.”
Gnash looked away. There was no way he was going to let Jock see he was interested in the discussion.
“What would I do without you?” Gnash sneered. “Can I have my Math book back, please, Coach? This one’s been vandalized — some annoying person has scribbled in it.”
Jock’s cheerful smile faded and he handed Gnash back his textbook. Gnash pushed past Jock to the door. On his way out, he loudly dropped Jock’s textbook onto his desk.
Jock watched Gnash leave the room. He shook his head and then went over to his own desk. He picked up his textbook and opened it. Page 118 was missing.
In the hallway, Gnash carefully folded the page he had ripped out of Jock’s book into a neat square. He put page 118 deep inside his back pocket so it wouldn’t fall out.
***
That evening after dinner, Gnash headed down to Christie Pits. He needed to work off some of the confusion and anger he felt after Jock’s stunt in Math class. It was bad enough when people were mean to him — but for some reason it was so much worse when people tried to be nice. He wasn’t used to people helping him. He knew they were just feeling sorry for him, and that made him feel weak. Gnash didn’t like feeling weak.
So he was gnashing his teeth as he walked along the sidewalk, his baseball bag slung over his shoulder. It bumped against his leg with every step. He headed down the steep hill into the Pits.
It was one of the rare days when the Blues’ diamond wasn’t being used. It was starting to get dark, but teams were practising on the other ball diamonds and on the soccer fields, so the park lights were blazing. Gnash hung his bag on the fence and rummaged around in it until he found his bat and glove. He shoved his cap tightly onto his head. He was wearing his old, ripped baseball pants. He extracted a neatly folded square of paper from one of the shallow back pockets. He left the dugout and unfolded the page. He poked the corners through the holes in the fence so that the diagram of an arc and two baseball players was visible to him from the infield.
Then, taking a handful of scuffed baseballs from his bag, Gnash walked to home plate. He stood underneath the curved fence, looking out at the field. As he looked from base to base, squinting to block out the harsh diamond lights, he imagined the rest of his team. Raj on the mound, Tami at third and Miguel on first. He thought about where he would be standing at shortstop. He looked at the diagram again, and then back to where he pictured himself on the infield.
He tossed a baseball straight up and swung at it with the aluminum bat, as hard as he could. He heard the metallic crack and watched the ball sail up into the air. It was about seven feet high as it blasted over the shortstop position. It continued to rise for another foot or so and Gnash tried to take note of its highest point before it started to arc downward. He picked up another baseball and hit it as hard as he could. He watched it carefully and noted where it lost altitude. Then, not taking his eyes from that point on the field, he ran out until he was standing on the spot. He felt around in his pockets and pulled out an empty Snickers wrapper, which he dropped on the ground to mark the location.
Gnash ran back to home plate and hit three more balls to the outfield, watching to see if his Snickers wrapper was at the spot where they started to fall back to Earth. He jogged over to the diagram and snatched it off the fence. He compared it to the real-life positions, thinking about how far back a shortstop would have to run to catch the fly balls.
He was deep in thought, still squinting at the diagram, when he heard the rough scratch of cleats on dirt. He looked up to find Jock striding toward h
im. “Great,” Gnash muttered as he crumpled up the diagram and shoved it hastily into his pocket.
“What are you doing here?” Gnash asked roughly.
Jock smiled half-heartedly. “Just wanted to get in a bit of extra practice,” he said. “You?”
“Same,” said Gnash, picking up the balls that were scattered around the outfield.
“So, let’s hit to each other, then,” said Jock.
It was an unwritten rule in sports that you didn’t have to be friends to play together. In fact, the whole point was to pit yourself against an opponent.
“Fine,” said Gnash, shoving the page deeper into his pocket. “Me first.”
The two boys took turns hitting fly balls to each other in the gathering dusk. Neither of them spoke. Gnash put everything he had into each swing, willing the ball to go past Jock’s outstretched glove. He wanted to make the other boy feel the way he had felt when they’d had their fistfight. But Jock caught each ball as easily as if it had been thrown directly to him. He was always in the right spot, with his body fully in front of the ball and his glove ready.
Gnash was breathing heavily and he was sweaty with the exertion of swinging the bat as they changed places. Wordlessly, he ran past Jock to take his turn in the outfield.
As Jock tossed the ball into the air to hit it toward the outfield, Gnash thought about the diagram. He had watched Jock’s fly balls and he knew that they went hard and high. He also noticed that they tended toward the third-base line. He started shifting himself toward left field.
On the second ball, he noticed that the arcs of Jock’s fly balls were farther out than he’d thought, so he took a couple of steps back. As he heard the metallic ring of bat against ball, he took two extra steps backward. It didn’t feel right, but he knew from his Snickers wrapper that the highest point of the ball’s arc would be farther out.