by Joyce Grant
This time, when the ball came toward him, Gnash found that he barely had to move to catch it. He hopped left one step and then held his glove up and out from his chest. There was a satisfying slap as the ball landed in his glove.
“Like there’s a magnet in my glove and the ball is metal,” he whispered to himself.
12
Common Ground
Gnash found himself making catches with a lot less effort. Instead of moving forward, he moved backward farther than he thought he needed to. Twice he had to run in to catch the ball, but he was nicely in position for nearly everything Jock belted out to him.
Sweat was pouring down his face. He barely noticed how tired he was when Jock yelled, “Hey, what do you think, last coupla balls?”
“Sure,” Gnash said, realizing that it had gotten dark. Most of the people in the park had gone home.
“Hey, get really far back this time,” Jock yelled.
Gnash backed up.
“No — farther,” said Jock, waving his arm. “Farther!”
Gnash kept going until he was up against the fence. He shaded his eyes with one hand to block out the bright lights glaring down on the infield. He could see Jock behind home plate, but it didn’t look like he was holding a bat. As Gnash watched, Jock coiled his body like a spring. Then Gnash saw the white ball screaming at him from the plate out to where he was standing — more than 230 feet away.
The ball went up and up. It looked like it would never come down. Finally it started to arc down, farther into the outfield than any of the balls either of them had batted. Gnash realized it was going to go past him.
As it sailed over him, Gnash jumped up as high as he could. His arms were stretched above his head but the ball neatly cleared him and kept going. Higher and higher and then — over the fence.
Gnash took off his cap and watched with amazement as the ball cleared the fence. It landed in the next diamond, rolling until it almost reached the pitcher’s mound. Gnash stared at the ball, and then back toward Jock, practically a speck at the plate. Gnash laughed in surprise. Jock had thrown the ball farther than anyone Gnash had ever seen — even adults.
Gnash let out a whoop.
“Oh, sure, but can you do that again?” he called to Jock, teasingly.
Jock didn’t answer, but instead coiled up and sent another ball heading toward Gnash, almost as high and nearly as fast. This time, however, it came down close enough that Gnash was able to catch it at the fence with a great leap in the air.
Gnash hopped the outfield fence and retrieved the first ball, still shaking his head in amazement. With two baseballs in his glove, he climbed back over the fence and ran to join Jock, who was sitting in the dugout, drinking a Gatorade.
For a moment, Gnash forgot how much he disliked Jock. “Holy crap!” he said, as he took off his glove and retrieved his water bottle. “Holy crap!”
Jock chuckled. “Pretty good party trick, eh?” he said.
“Yeah, how’d you do that?”
“I don’t know,” said Jock. “Just worked at it, I guess. Nothing else to do back home. I practised a lot.”
“Well, it’s pretty amazing. Shoot. I’ve got to hand it to you,” said Gnash. He walked over to Jock and clunked bottles with him in a salute to his skill.
They drank, sitting beside each other, enjoying the silence of the Pits.
Finally Gnash spoke, “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“What?” asked Jock.
“What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?” asked Jock.
“You know. Being . . . the way you are.”
“What, gay?” asked Jock.
“Yeah. Liking . . .” Gnash’s voice trailed off.
“I don’t know,” said Jock, leaning against the dugout fence and taking a swig of his orange drink. “What’s it like being straight?”
Gnash thought for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t really think about it. I’ve just always liked girls.”
Jock motioned with his bottle toward Gnash. “Well, there you go,” he said.
“What, you don’t think about it?”
“Nope,” said Jock. “I really don’t think about it.”
“Yeah, but . . . well, it’s not normal, right?”
“It is for me,” said Jock. “Look, what’s a food you don’t like?”
“Onions,” said Gnash.
“And do you think about that?”
“I just avoid them.”
“You didn’t decide to hate onions. You didn’t tell yourself, ‘I’m never going to have onions,’ right?”
“No.”
“So,” said Jock. “It’s a bit like that — a preference that you’ve always had, even though other people have a different preference.” Then he added, “Wait, that’s a really stupid explanation.”
“No, it’s not,” said Gnash. Then, “Actually, yeah. Yeah, it is.” They both laughed. “Onions!”
They sat in silence, a slight smile on Gnash’s face.
“I mean . . .” said Jock, thoughtfully, his voice trailing off.
“Yeah?”
“It’s not like I’ve even been on a date or anything,” said Jock.
“What?” Gnash was amazed.
Jock laughed. “Nope.”
“Oh geez, I just assumed —”
“What?” asked Jock.
“I just figured you were, like, going out with all these guys and stuff . . .”
Jock laughed. “Is that what you’re doing? Going out with girls all the time?”
“Oh, geez, no,” said Gnash. “No, I haven’t . . .”
Gnash stopped, about to say that he had never been on a date either. He chuckled.
“Honestly, I don’t really do anything except baseball,” he said.
Jock laughed. “Me either,” he said.
Suddenly, both boys jumped as a loud clank and then a bzzzz crackled overhead. In an instant, the floodlights went out. Darkness immediately descended on Christie Pits.
“I guess it’s later than we thought,” said Gnash, checking the time on his cell phone. He looked around the park. “Everyone’s gone home.”
“Yeah, time to go,” said Jock, shifting on the bench to gather his things.
As the boys’ eyes slowly grew used to the blackness, they heard voices at the top of the hill. The voices got louder and Gnash and Jock saw three boys coming down the slope toward them.
“Hi, girls!” one boy called to them, in a horrible, sing-song voice. He waggled his fingers at them in a gesture that, in other circumstances, would have meant “hello.” Tonight, it did not.
“Yeah,” sneered another boy. “Hi, ladies!”
Jock and Gnash stared at the small but dangerous-looking gang headed their way.
13
History Repeats
Gnash knew that soon he and Jock would be trapped. He stepped out of the dugout and stood at its entrance. The three boys came closer.
“Hey, Stretch, do you know what I heard?” one of the gang members asked his friends.
“No, what?” answered a lanky boy with blond curls.
“I heard that the new Blues kid likes guys!”
The lanky boy laughed. “You mean he’s gay?”
“Yep, that’s what I heard!”
Gnash could feel the blood rising in his face. He was more angry than afraid, even though it was dark and they were outnumbered. He stood in front of Jock, blocking him from the three boys.
“And you know what else I heard?” the boy asked Stretch. “That the Blues are losers! And you know who told me? Their coach!”
It was a ridiculous insult, but it fuelled Gnash’s anger.
“Oh, yeah?” Gnash taunted back, “Well, at least we can improve at baseball — yo
u guys are morons! That’ll never change!”
Stretch made a guttural sound in his throat and sprinted toward Gnash. All three boys closed in but Gnash had his fists up. He threw a punch at Stretch, connecting unevenly with part of his jaw. Then he shoved his shoulder against the other two boys, kicking out with his feet at the same time.
He wasn’t thinking — raw anger had overtaken him. All he wanted to do was hurt the bullies.
Jock pushed his way to the entrance of the dugout and joined the fight, kicking and punching at the three boys. Gnash heard a grunt as one of the boys’ fists connected with Jock’s stomach.
Two of the boys were on the ground where Gnash had shoved them, but Stretch was still on his feet.
Jock became blocked in the dugout, behind the standoff that was happening between Gnash and Stretch. He turned and grabbed the only weapon he could find — a metal baseball bat.
Gnash looked around and snatched the bat from Jock. He waved it menacingly at Stretch, who stopped at the sight of it.
Gnash swung the bat hard against the metal pole at the entrance to the dugout. It made a horrible metallic clang that rang out across the dark, deserted Pits.
“Do you want to do this?” Gnash asked Stretch. He could feel himself losing control of his anger. “Because I want to do this. Do you want to finish this?”
Stretch looked at his friends, lying in the dirt a few yards away. Their eyes were wide and fixed on the bat.
“Let’s just get out of here,” Jock whispered to Gnash. “Let’s go.” Something in Jock’s voice pulled Gnash out of his angry trance.
Gnash looked at the bat in his hands and then over at the two boys. He realized Jock was right. They needed to get out of the park before something really bad happened.
“Who’s the loser now?” Gnash asked, and he spat hard on the ground.
Gnash picked up Jock’s baseball bag and shoved it into his arms, then grabbed his own. He pushed Jock roughly out of the dugout and along the fence. He heard Jock grunt as they headed away from the diamond. Still holding the bat up with one hand, Gnash walked slowly backward toward the slope of the hill, glaring at the other boys.
“LOSERS!” he screamed again. Then he turned, grabbed Jock’s arm, and scrambled out of the diamond.
“Hey, where you girls going?” yelled one of the boys, who had finally clambered to his feet. With the angry, bat-wielding Gnash on the run he sounded a lot braver.
“Yeah, you better run!” called Stretch.
Gnash was very tempted to go back. He tightened his grip on the bat and turned toward the diamond. But Jock grabbed the back of his shirt and tugged him backward, clearly in a hurry to get away.
Jock and Gnash darted up the hill under the cover of the darkness. Gnash had spent countless hours going up and down the hills in the Pits, so his feet knew exactly where to plant themselves. He and Jock dragged each other upward, stumbling and slipping, until they reached the sidewalk at the top.
They could still hear the young thugs they’d left at the bottom of the Pits, yelling and running around the bases in the darkness.
Gnash and Jock hustled along the sidewalk and then darted down a nearby alley. They didn’t stop until they were sure they weren’t being followed. Both boys were breathing hard from their getaway. They stopped under a streetlight and Gnash looked at Jock, whose eyes were full and glistening.
“Holy crap,” Gnash heard Jock say to himself. “Holycrapholycrapholycrap.”
Gnash didn’t say a word. He put his baseball bag on the ground and unzipped it, placing the dented bat inside. He zipped it up again.
Jock’s head was down and he was bent over, with his hands on his knees. Gnash could see his rib cage expanding and contracting with heavy breaths. It was a long time before Jock calmed down enough to stand up straight. He looked at Gnash, wide-eyed. “If you hadn’t —” he started to say.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Gnash.
“But if they —”
“But they didn’t,” said Gnash.
“I mean, stuff has happened to me before, but that was just crazy!” said Jock. “They wanted to —”
“They wouldn’t have done anything,” said Gnash. “And you know why?”
“Why?” asked Jock.
“Because we know where they live,” said Gnash.
“We know where they live?” asked Jock. “What do you mean, we know where they live?”
“Those jerks were Pirates,” said Gnash gruffly. “The Parkhill kind.”
***
Gnash slowly climbed the stairs up to his apartment, his mind going over what had happened in the Pits. He’d watched Jock’s bus lumber down the street. He could still see the raw fear on Jock’s face as he’d stared out at Gnash from the window of the bus.
His own fear had quickly turned to anger. All he could think about was what he would do to the three Pirates who had tormented his friend. Friend, Gnash realized with a start. He wondered when he’d started thinking about Jock that way.
He didn’t have long to think about it.
“Nash Calvecchio, get in here!” his grandfather’s voice thundered down the hall.
What now? Gnash wondered.
Gnash set his baseball bag down and slowly walked into the small living room. His grandfather was pointing at the clock on the wall above the TV. “What time do you call this?” he demanded.
“We were practising,” Gnash said. His voice sounded squeaky to his own ears.
“Practising? The coach called a practice at this time of night? That’s it, that’s ridiculous — I’m gonna call him!” his grandfather said, reaching for the phone.
“No, it wasn’t everyone,” said Gnash.
“Well, who, then?” asked his grandfather, coming closer.
“It was just a couple of us,” said Gnash. He realized tears were welling up behind his eyes and he felt his face grow hot.
“Well, it’s not fair to your grandmother, coming in at this time of night!” Gnash’s grandfather’s voice boomed.
Gnash suddenly felt bone-tired. His mind searched for a way to get away from his grandfather without making him angrier. He just wanted a safe, quiet, comfortable space to think. He wanted to crawl into his bed and sleep.
But it was more than half an hour before Gnash would be able to do that. Half an hour of keeping his tears in check so he didn’t cry in front of his grandfather. Half an hour of waiting until he could get away.
Finally, his grandfather grew tired of his own bluster and Gnash found his moment. He faded backward into the hallway and slipped into his room. He closed the door without a sound and sank onto his bed. He stretched out on his mattress and let go of the tears he had been holding back, making sure that his sobs wouldn’t be overheard.
Gnash didn’t know why he was crying. It felt like every sob was being wrung out of him, like a dishrag. His tears felt like part anger and part relief. He turned over and buried his face in his pillow.
14
Disappearing Act
The next day, the Blues were sitting in the lunchroom at their table, doing their usual sandwich-trades. Sebastian was eating a sandwich that was half tuna and half salami. It looked exactly like Tami’s sandwich.
Since Jock had joined the team, lunchtime was a bit more restrained. But this afternoon, Jock wasn’t at the table.
“Was Jock in homeroom this morning, Gnash?” Sebastian asked.
“What do I look like, the guy’s secretary?” Gnash grumbled.
“Come to think of it, I didn’t see him at the lockers before school this morning or before lunch,” said Sebastian.
“What classes did you guys have this morning?” Raj asked Gnash.
“Computer, History, Health,” mumbled Gnash over a mouthful of macaroni salad.
“You’re doing Health already?” Sebastian asked,
bits of sandwich falling out of his mouth. “Suck-ahs! We don’t start that until next week. We’re still finishing up basketball.”
“Do you know where he is?” Raj asked Gnash. “Look, if you know something, just tell us.”
“What the heck?!” asked Gnash, so loudly that the kids at the next table stopped their conversation and looked over at them. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. I have no idea where the American is.”
“Oh, well, he’s probably at a dentist appointment or something,” said Raj. “Too bad. I wanted to talk to him about the Pirates game this weekend. I’ll just text him.” Raj brought out his phone and thumbed a message. Cell phones were allowed during off-periods like lunch.
When Raj didn’t hear back, he sent another text.
There was no answer back from Jock by the end of lunch.
“That’s so weird,” said Raj.
“You mean it’s weird that Jock isn’t texting you back?” asked Tami.
“Well, that and your sandwich is weird,” said Raj.
“Hey, I’m very proud of that sandwich,” said Tami. “It contained nearly all of the food groups!”
Gnash got up to leave the cafeteria. “If His Royal Highness puts in an appearance during Geography class, is there a message?” he asked in a broad accent that sounded more German than British.
“Yes,” said Raj. “Tell him I wanna talk to him.”
“I will have my people deliver the message,” said Gnash with an exaggerated bow, and he strode out of the cafeteria.
But Jock wasn’t in class the next period, or the one after that. During the last period of the day, the principal showed up at the classroom and signalled to the teacher to come to the door. After a brief chat, she poked her head into the room and crooked a finger at Gnash, calling him into the hall.
Gnash rolled his eyes. What was he going to get blamed for now? he wondered.
The principal’s lips were pinched in disapproval.
“Nash, have you seen Jock today?” she asked.
“Why is everyone asking me that?” asked Gnash, exasperated. “I haven’t seen the guy!”