I tap her shoulder and say, “Don’t turn around. If you do, I’ll get flustered and put my foot in my mouth again. I’m horrible at face-to-face conversations. Just listen. I’m sorry. You heard right. I quit the baseball team, so I had no right to bring that up. I’m such a mean person today, and you’re so nice and so beautiful. In fact, I can’t think of one thing about you that I don’t like.
“Did you know that you’re the only girl I know that doesn’t call me Biggie? Don’t answer that; let me finish. You don’t disappoint me. I’m disappointed with myself. I wait too long. I think the worst, and then worst eventually happens. But that’s my fault; I guess you know that, but I do, too. Have fun tonight.”
She slowly turns around and glances at me, but says nothing. Her lips are locked and her cheeks are flat. She’s holding everything inside.
“You can breathe,” I say.
We both let out an awkward laugh. But it feels nice, as if we created our own cool breeze on this calm June Iowa night.
“Send me a picture of you in the cowboy hat, okay?” I say.
“Only if I look good in it.”
Chapter 32
Biggie Isn’t a Mean Nickname
For the past six hours, I have been maneuvering through a maze of highways, county roads, city streets, and gravel back roads. When I wanted to turn left, I turned left. When I felt an urge to go right, I spun the steering wheel clockwise. I listened to loud music by Poison, Kiss, Bon Jovi, and Def Leppard. I burned through all the playlists on my iPod.
I don’t want to go home. The house feels empty, quiet, and cold. I’ve spent hundreds of nights alone in my bedroom and not felt the slightest sense of loneliness, yet my bedroom now seems like a consolation prize. I’m supposed to be in Des Moines, celebrating with my teammates after my perfect game or seventeen-strikeout performance, or making out with Courtney, rubbing my hands all over her new hourglass body. Heck, there’s no reason why I couldn’t have done both.
Yet, here I am alone: a failure, who couldn’t figure out how to pitch or how to get a girl to go out with him. Life sucks. There is no other explanation as to how someone who has mastered trigonometry, physics, and British literature can’t figure out baseball or girls.
With my tank running low, I pull into my driveway and notice Killer sitting on my front steps. What the hell? Why isn’t he in Des Moines with the Finch baseball team?
I turn off the truck and climb down. For reasons I can’t explain, I’m really nervous. Hair on my arms stands up and my steps are short and measured. I’m in no hurry to reach the front door.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “I heard on the radio that you guys are in the championship game.”
He nods a couple of times, but says nothing. We just stand there silent, hands on hips, ears at attention, and eyes on each other.
“Cool,” I say. Killer standing silent in my driveway is freaking me out.
“This tournament,” he finally says, “means everything. We’re competing against the big schools, and if we beat them, we can say we’re state champs, regardless of class. The Des Moines paper does a poll of all schools and we could be ranked No. 1. Do you know what that means?”
I just shake my head, confused as to why I’m getting a history lesson.
“Whenever you hear someone talk about Finch baseball, they always say we’re the best small-town team in Iowa. It’s like a backhanded compliment. I want people to see us as the best team, period. That’s why this is so important. You see that, right?”
“Yeah, I get that.” I really don’t, but Killer’s face looks different. He always portrayed power and strength, but now he looks weak and small. He’s obviously nervous. He pulls a program out of his jeans and hands it to me.
“I circled it,” he says.
It’s dark, but I can still make it out. “Henry Abbott, pitcher.”
“Like we’ve been saying, you can come back. Coach will still take you back.”
Before I can speak, he lifts his hands and pleads, “Biggie, I threw nine innings Thursday. Aargo tossed seven tonight, and Kyle pitched three on Thursday. We are down to Jet, and he’s not a good pitcher, not like us. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you throw really, really hard … even harder than me. You need to come back with me. You need to beg Coach to let you pitch tomorrow. We can win this. Our offense is on fire. We scored nine runs tonight against a future college pitcher. We’re hitting everything, and St. John’s used their two top pitchers against Waverly-Shell Rock. Hell, you could give up six runs, and we could still win.”
“I’m not going to Des Moines and giving up six runs,” I say. “No way. I’ll be a laughingstock. And what if you don’t score six runs? Then I’m the losing pitcher of what you’re saying is the biggest game of all time.”
Killer pulls on his hair and, as if he wants to pluck out my eyes, flashes his fingers at me. For a second I think he is going to claw me like a rabid stray cat.
“Don’t be an asshole. I’m not saying you’re going to give up six runs. I’m just saying you could and it wouldn’t matter if you did. We would still win,” Killer says.
Maybe it’s because I’m on a step and he’s on the sidewalk, but Killer seems so irrelevant. We’re back in second grade and he’s the smallest kid in school, not the star quarterback. His chin points to the ground, and his shoulders sag. He looks tired and beaten, distressed and worried.
I hover over him like a god. Helped by a step, I’m a foot taller. While his body slumps, I’m at attention. Standing tall, relaxed, and confident, with the flick of my finger, I could knock him over. He’s a rag doll asking for a favor.
“No,” I say. “I’m not helping you.”
“It’s not me, you idiot,” he replies. “We’re Finch. It’s the town. Don’t you care about your hometown?”
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Don’t do what? It’s true. This is a baseball town. You know it. Everybody loves the Yellow Jackets, and I’m telling you that your town needs you.”
“Killer, it’s like the third game of the season. I really don’t think everyone in town cares that much.”
“I WANT TO WIN!” he yells.
Killer paces a little in front of his car, and I realize we’re not in second grade anymore. He stands tall and looks right at me. “You think I wanted to be born in a town of thousand people? I’m not small town. I’m as good as any one of those players in Des Moines, Iowa City, or Cedar Rapids. I don’t have a single Division I college offer yet.
Why? Because all of my stats have an asterisk. All of my hits are against small-town pitchers. I beg and I beg Coach Phillips to schedule games against bigger schools, but they won’t play us. They’re scared because they don’t want to get beat by a small-town school. Well, we got in this tournament and they have to play us now. And I don’t want to lose because we ran out of pitchers. We’re not out of pitchers, Biggie. We still got you. Maybe you’re right and this town doesn’t really care, but I do. I need you to come back.”
“Why would I help you?” I ask. “You stole Annabelle.”
“Oh my fucking god, is this still about Annabelle? Dude, she’s not going to date you. You hacked into her computer. Do you have any idea?”
“You gave me the horrible name Biggie! You’re the reason everyone, even my little brother, calls me Biggie.”
His face looks shocked and he shrugs his shoulders and twitches his face. “Biggie’s a cool nickname. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
I raise my hands and draw an are-you-kidding-me look on my face. Completely stunned and almost speechless, I say, “It’s cool if it’s ironic, like let’s call hundred-pound Johnny ‘Biggie.’ But if Johnny’s fat, it’s mean and awful.”
“Fine, I’m a horrible person, a horrible boyfriend, but what about Kyle, Jet, Aargo? Hell, your stepfather is
a coach. Your brother is the batboy. You can hate me, but still play a game with your friends tomorrow.”
“It’s not going to happen.” I turn toward my front door.
“Biggie,” he begs.
With my hand an inch from the doorknob, I decide against going inside and, for some idiotic reason, spin around and yell, “I don’t want to give up eight runs and twelve hits! You’re desperate. Don’t you see that? I’m not your savior. I’m not a good pitcher.”
As I turn to shove crooked metal into the keyhole, Killer says, “Annabelle was wrong about you.”
My neck twists and my eyes watch him back up toward his Mustang.
“She said the reason you ignore all of us is because you think you’re better than us with your brains, your big house, and your indoor baseball field. But you don’t think you’re better than us. You’re scared. The biggest kid in school is scared of everything. Biggie is a little coward. We’re through. This year didn’t happen. The next time you see me we’re sophomores again, and you don’t talk to me and I don’t give a shit.” He jumps into his car and peels out of the driveway.
The inside of my house is dark, but I don’t need any light to make my way to my room. Without taking off my shoes, I flop down on my bed and realize that sometime during my shouting match with Killer, I stuck the program in my pocket.
Despite what I said outside about being on the team, it feels kind of cool that my name is listed on the roster. I pull out my phone and use its light to read my name. It says I’m No. 9.
I sit up. That can’t be right. No. 9 is retired. No. 9 was Laser’s number.
I hop off my bed and dart toward my closet. I rip open the Finch duffel bag and pull out the jersey. My hand runs over the No. 9.
I set the shirt down and run down the steps, out the door, and down the street.
Chapter 33
Retired Numbers
With the Yellow Jackets in Des Moines, Finch is quiet. With the exception of an orange summer moon climbing over the water tower, running at 11:30 p.m. is just like running at 5 a.m. Every forty or so steps, I see a pair of headlights providing just enough of a glow to see a half-asleep driver. None of the shops on Second Avenue are open. The school is dark and empty. The wind is calm and warm and getting warmer with every step. Mike’s Sports Bar is open, but only a rundown, rusty two-door Chevy and a conversion van with a paper sack covering a broken window sit in the parking lot.
And there are stars. In May, I can see Leo the lion, Virgo the maiden, and the Big Dipper. At 5 a.m., my eyes focus forward. Tonight, my neck twists and turns in all directions. The sky is amazing.
I stop running when the worn-out rubber on the soles of my shoes hits the asphalt of the parking lot of Finch Field. Slowly, methodically with purpose, I walk to the right-field fence and climb. When my chest reaches the top of the eight-foot chain-link fence, I pump my forearms and flip myself over, sticking my two-foot landing.
I remain focused and inattentive to any sounds. There may be crickets at my feet or bees swirling around my ears or frogs croaking in the creek behind the left-field wall, but I’m not listening. My eyes are locked on a gold “25” on a billboard attached to the left center-field wall. Above the 25, in blue letters, is the name Abbott. My father wore No. 25, and when I was in fifth-grade, the school retired the number. For the past six years, no Yellow Jacket has worn the number. It was the first number the school retired. Soon, billboards went up for 12, 22, 50, and Laser’s No. 9.
I thought the grass would be wet or at least damp, but it’s rough and crisp after two weeks of dry temps. With each step, I crush blades of grass with my tennis shoes.
Three feet from the wooden banner, I stop and release one long breath. My shoulders are at attention and my chin is squared. My hands hang free but don’t sway. My shoes are a foot apart but lined perfectly. With the exception of my lungs pushing against my chest, I’m standing perfectly still.
Seconds tick away and minutes pass, but I say nothing. I just stare at the 25 and gather my thoughts. I have so much to say, but no idea where to start. After six minutes, I say, “I’m not a coward.”
My eyes water and my breaths putter. I rub my nose, mouth, and chin to regain my composure.
“I was called a coward tonight,” I continue, “and I’m not. Also tonight, I had to tell a girl, a girl that I like, that I’m a quitter. Nothing makes a girl fall for you like those three words: I’m a quitter.”
Like a reflex, I chuckle and run my two front teeth over the tip of my bottom lip.
“I saw your Facebook page. I’ve looked at it for years. I saw you and your two boys hugging each other at the baseball field. They’re probably pretty good with their dad being a former first-round draft pick. Do people in Tempe know you’re a high-school legend? Do they know that No. 25 is retired, and you’re in the Iowa High School Baseball Hall of Fame?
“When your two boys, I think their names are Justin and Matt”—I wait for the sign to verify the information, but the two-dimensional white, blue, and gold sign confirms nothing—“when they walk around, do people say, ‘I thought he would be bigger, stronger, faster, better at baseball, football, basketball, better looking’? Do they have to deal with your legacy?
“You know I hate you?” I continue, cheeks warming and tightening. “I know I should hate you for what you did to my mother, but that’s not why. It’s not because you hired a lawyer and signed a paper saying you’re not my dad anymore. It’s because you knew I couldn’t be average, ordinary, or normal. You knew expectations were going to be impossible for me to meet, and you didn’t hang around to help me get through that. You just left and left me with the snickering, the whispering, and the looks of disappointment.
“I told this girl that I was going to play baseball and she said, ‘Good.’ She had no idea if I could even catch a baseball, but she said, ‘Good.’ When I asked why she said that, she said, ‘Because you’re Aaron Abbott’s son.’ That’s what I live with, you selfish asshole.
“Yeah, I was going to play baseball. My brother and I were working on this pitch. It was going to be unhittable, and I was going to throw a perfect game. I’m an idiot. All the pitch does is hang up there. I would be better off placing the baseball on a tee. When I found out that I didn’t have a magic pitch, I quit. But now my friends need me, and I’m going to help them. I’m going to see if Coach can use me. I don’t know what will happen. Coach could tell me to go home. I could pitch and do well. I could pitch and do horribly. But I can’t worry about you. If I go there, I can’t worry about you.
“I know that people tell you things. Finch is small, and people talk to you. I know that. And you probably know I’m smart. You probably know that I stay out of trouble. What you don’t know is that I like pitching, and I truly believed I could have thrown a perfect game.
“After the celebration, someone would have called you and said, ‘Go online. Henry pitched a perfect game.’ You would have logged on, and maybe for a second, just maybe, you would have felt a little regret for leaving me. Maybe you would question what you did. Maybe you would look at your sons differently and worry that you picked the wrong ones.”
My shoulders are now slouching, my back curled and feet shuffling. My fingers either rub my palms, my eyes, or my cheeks. I’m shrinking.
“I just came here tonight to say I’m done with you. I know you already split us up, but I think I should get a turn, a chance to say you’re a nuisance to me. And you know what really sucks? In the movies when people split, someone throws a plate or breaks something. They find an object that the person gave to them, and they break or burn it. But you haven’t given me anything. I have nothing to destroy or throw at this sign.
“All you have ever given me is my last name; something I can’t rip, burn, spit on, piss on, or return.”
I fiddle with my sweaty shirt, then expel a long breath and say, “Tomorrow, I’m goi
ng to pitch. And no matter what, my brother, my mom, and my step-dad are going to be proud of me.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and raise my shoulders, lift my chin, and flex the muscles in my legs and arms. I have no intention of looking weak.
“If I do well, you can think whatever. If I do poorly, be happy. Be happy Matt and Justin are the sons you kept. I don’t care. I’m so tired of giving a shit about what you think about me. I just want to stop being judged by someone I’ve never met. I’m tired of being called weird or scared or a quitter.”
I massage a tear into my cheek and turn away. As I try to steady myself, I see Laser’s sign with his retired No. 9.
I run back and stand close enough to Aaron’s sign that my breath bounces off his last name.
“Tomorrow, I will be wearing No. 9. And when I’m done, Maddux will wear No. 9. And someday, my son will wear No. 9. No one will ever wear your number again. Not in this town. Someday, people will forget about you.”
Chapter 34
Can I Help?
Wearing a Finch baseball hat and balancing a Finch baseball duffel bag on my shoulder makes it easy for me to sneak past security at Principal Field. Next, I have to find Coach Phillips, beg for a spot on the team, and then hope he doesn’t want me to spit shine his shoes.
I pray that I won’t run into Kyle, Jet, Mom, Dad, Maddux, or worst of all, Killer before I can talk to Coach. The game doesn’t begin for ninety minutes, so I’m not 100 percent sure the team has arrived. With every step, Killer’s idea becomes dumber and dumber. A poster on the wall lists all of the Kickoff Classic champions, a menu full of large schools in Iowa. Killer was right, a win tonight would put the Yellow Jackets on the map.
Huddled ahead are Coach Phillips and Laser. They scan a sheet of paper. If I hadn’t just driven three hours, I probably would have turned around and ran, but here I am. I might as well see if I can get a seat in the dugout to one of the biggest regular-season games in Finch history.
Biggie Page 18