Biggie

by Derek E. Sullivan

  As the first batter steps to the plate, Kyle puts down the sign for a fastball and, just like I had seen in the movies, I shake it off. I’m throwing my Wiffle ball. As if I’m going back in time to the first-day-of-school Wiffle ball game, I place my fingertips in the proper positions. With my left hand in my glove and the baseball hidden inside it, I bring my glove to my mouth and calmly blow on it. I step back and I begin my windup. I snap my wrist and release the ball. It starts outside. Kyle slides to his right just before the baseball spins back to him. He catches it right in front of the outside corner of the plate.

  “Strike one!” the umpire yells.

  The batter shuffles forward in the box. Kyle sees it and quickly and emphatically drops one finger between his folded legs. I throw my fastest one yet and it catches the outside corner.

  “Strike two!” the umpire yells.

  Again, the batter dances in the box.

  Kyle again asks for a fastball, but I shake him off. He looks into the dugout for a split second, but comes back quickly and makes an upside-down peace sign in front of his crotch.

  Nine months after my parking-lot perfect game, I still remember where the holes were on that Wiffle ball and the right amount of pressure to make even this sturdy baseball dance.

  Once again, the ball starts outside and hooks over the plate. Just like last time, it’s going to catch the corner and the umpire will jump up and send this batter to the bench. Kyle reaches forward to catch the ball and my mouth starts to tingle.

  But right before Kyle can snag it, the batter leans over and swings. The ball connects with the barrel of his bat and soars high into the air. There is no ding this time. The bat releases a dull thump. I watch it fly to left field, and it looks like it’s going to go foul. I attempt to lift my hand and pray it into the stands, but before I can do anything, even breathe, the ball bounces off the foul pole. Home run.

  My shoulders drop. The St. John’s crowd screams so loud that my brain can’t create simple thoughts. The clapping rattles between my ears. I have to bend over and press hard on my ears to clear my head. While the St. John’s fans’ cheers and clapping are ear-popping, I still hear Coach Phillips yell from the top step of the dugout, “Biggie, what did I say? What did I say? Throw heat and get us in the dugout!”

  Chapter 36

  The Villain

  After a running catch by Jet ends the inning, I walk off the mound, eyeing only dirt and grass. As the players surround Coach Phillips, I walk through the dugout and into the hallway. I rip off my glove and let it fall to the ground. I place my forehead and elbows against the concrete wall and they slide, along with the rest of me, to the ground.

  I blew it. I knew it was a bad idea. That’s why I quit the team. I’m not ready to be a pitcher. Killer talked me into coming down here, but maybe he did it on purpose to teach me a lesson. Worst of all, I didn’t listen to my coach, who told me not to get fancy. Instead I listened to an eleven-year-old.

  “Biggie, you’ve got to come and cheer for your teammates.” Maddux appears in the hallway.

  I get up. Shoulder hung, eyes glazed.

  “No,” I say.

  “Biggie. I’m not kidding. You have to go out there. It’s the bottom of the seventh. You need to be with your team.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Listen to me,” he says.

  I walk toward him.

  “What? You said I need to listen to you. Who are you? C’mon, tell me who you are.”

  “Biggie,” he says, backpedaling.

  “You said you were going to teach me an unhittable pitch,” I mumble, closing in on him. “You said I could throw a perfect game. You said I could do something no one has done, not even Aaron Abbott. This is all your fault. You convinced me. You told me to throw the pitch, even though Coach said not to. You told me you could teach me a pitch that was unhittable. This is all your fault.”

  “The pitch worked on the first guy,” he says.

  My volume increases, “It’s all your fault, but here’s the thing: no one knows that. Everyone out there thinks it’s my fault. Hell, maybe it is my fault. After all, I listened to you.”

  Despite the fact that I weigh 150 pounds more than him, Maddux, all of five feet, stands tall and steps toward me. “You need to be with your team,” he says. “You need to be a good teammate.”

  In one quick motion, I pick him up by his armpits and toss him up against the tunnel wall. His torso convulses in my hands. With his legs swinging in the air, we are at eye level.

  “Listen to me!” I yell. “You’re a kid. You’re not a ballplayer. You’re not on this team. You’re a glorified batboy. No! You are just a batboy, a kid who picks up bats. You’re not a coach. Do you hear me? You don’t know anything! Do you hear me? You don’t know anything!”

  Tears glaze his eyes and start to flow. His cheeks glow red and his lips shake.

  “Why are you so mad?” he asks.

  I feel like a monster, huffing and puffing with a small boy in the palms of my hands. I set Maddux down.

  “I’m a laughingstock. I cost us this game,” I say with my back to my little brother.

  “The game’s not over,” Maddux says.

  I head down the tunnel to the locker room. I feel lucky that I have my truck. It’s just a few steps away. I can easily grab my stuff, race back out the door, and be gone before anyone notices. The nightmare will be over. As I enter the locker room, I immediately turn on the sink and splash water on my face.

  All I can think about is that note my mom found nine months ago in my backpack. Why did I put that note in my backpack? If I’d folded it in my pocket, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have thrown up on YouTube, almost strangled a redneck, gotten beat up by a girl, or blown a title chance for my classmates at Principal Park.

  I pound the sink with the side of my fist.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I rotate obscenities with sink punches until the side of my hand aches too much to continue.

  On the floor I see my Yellow Jackets cap lying there upside down. A banner stain of sweat covers the brim and inside. My hand reaches for it, worried that it’s ruined. I’m mad that the cap may be soiled so I rub the blotch in faint hopes that it would disappear. Sweat transfers to my fingertips. And then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

  I stand up straight and place the hat back on the top of my head.

  It’s weird how reality can just slap you in the face. In the past nine months, I played catch almost daily with Maddux and Laser, tried out for the Yellow Jackets, got cut, made the team, received a uniform with Laser’s retired number, sat in the Iowa Cubs bullpen, struck out two batters, and gave up a home run, but only now, rubbing the sweat off the inside of my black and gold Yellow Jackets cap, do I suddenly feel like a baseball player.

  As I look at my reflection, the first thing I see is the cap. Then I see my face, worn by running sweat and flying dirt. Then, the uniform top, “Yellow Jackets” spelled out over my chest. To see it more clearly, I take a step back and then another and then another.

  For years, I have hated mirrors. The reflecting glass is nothing more than a bully, and the worst kind. In the schoolyard, kids call you names—“fat ass,” “dumb ass”—mostly they pick a word and throw “ass” on the end, but what do they know? They’re just mean, dumb kids. A mirror, however, knows all. When it calls you fat, guess what? You’re fat. When it calls you ugly, guess what? You’re ugly. A mirror never lies. And as I keep stepping backward, I can see more of my uniform—my black belt, my long baseball pants, and finally as I bump my back into the locker-room wall, my black, dirtied cleats.

  A small smile appears as I think about Coach Phillips cutting me. “How do you like me now?” I think, happy that I proved everyone wrong. But the smile fades as I try to think of others who doubted me, who said this day would never come. I try to remember ot
her moments when people laughed at the idea of Biggie playing baseball, but I can’t think of any.

  Suddenly, my chin drops and my lips dry out. It’s a cold, lonely feeling when you realize that the person in the mirror is the villain in the story. This is the guy. This guy, now five feet from me, stalked a girl online, ignored and shut out classmates, lied to his mother on a daily basis, looked down on his stepfather, and threw his little brother up against the wall, just for telling me to support my teammates.

  When I said I wanted to be a ballplayer, Maddux jumped on board. Although I embarrassed him at the first tryout, Laser trained me anyway. Even Kyle told me to try again after I lost some weight. Shit! Even Killer drove three hours to tell me I could be just what Finch needed to win this tournament. No one doubted me. No matter how much I want to believe that this world is full of cold, selfish bullies, the simple fact is that I’m the one who treats others with disrespect. I’m the selfish one.

  For the second time in nine months, I look straight into a mirror and make promises.

  “I’m going to be better person,” I say. “I have to say I’m sorry to Maddux.”

  I run out of the locker room.

  As I head out the tunnel, the ceiling rumbles under pounding feet. I feel like a four-year-old experiencing his first thunderstorm. As I reenter the dugout, everyone is standing, leaning against the dugout rail or pacing back and forth. At first glance, I don’t see Maddux. My teammates are congratulating Christensen, who stands on first. The sophomore hears shouts of, “Way to get us started,” “Now we go,” and “Get him home, guys.”

  As Jet walks up to the plate, I see Maddux sandwiched between two players twice his size. He’s not screaming or pacing. He just stands there and watches Jet take a few practice swings. As I walk toward him, Maddux finally yells, “Speed kills, Jet. Put it in play and keep it going.”

  As I reach Maddux, he uses the protective dugout bar to pull himself up and yells, “C’mon, Jet.”

  “Maddux,” I say.

  He doesn’t look back. “C’mon, Jet!” he repeats, either ignoring me or blocking out everything other than the game.

  “Maddux!”

  He looks up and over his shoulder, his hands still pushing and pulling the fence as if the motion is creating the electricity to energize Jet.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean any of it. You do know a lot about baseball.”

  “I know I do,” he says.

  “So what do I do now?” I ask.

  “You just cheer,” he says. “You need to fire up Jet. It’s the bottom of the seventh. You have to cheer as loud as you can.”

  Maddux follows his own advice. Like a raging madman, he opens his mouth and lets out the loudest animal-like scream I’ve ever heard. If his fingers weren’t curled around the fat, red bar, his fists would be pounding on his chest.

  I look out and see Jet circle the sky with his bat. He’s batting left-handed now, not right-handed like he did in gym class. He’s ahead in the count, two balls and no strikes, and there is one out. The pitcher throws the ball, and Jet reaches out and slaps at it. The ball skips up the third-base line. The St. John’s fielder snags the ball and pumps his arm, but doesn’t even try to throw out the two-time small-school state champion in the 100-meter dash.

  As Jet crosses first base, he flexes his chest, tilts his neck, and just screams to the sky.

  “We need one hit, Killer,” Kyle yells out as Killer steps into the on-deck circle.

  “C’mon, Killer!” Maddux cheers.

  I want so bad to cheer for him, but I just can’t. Instead, I clap my hands tentatively and place my cleats on the top step and look into the crowd. Practically everyone who lives in Finch is in the stands, clapping their hands and chanting, “Yel-low jack-ets, yel-low jack-ets.”

  As I look for Annabelle, Mom, or, yes, I know it’s crazy, Courtney, I hear, PING!

  I twist my head and see the baseball fly high over left field. The cheers are deafening, and every member of the Yellow Jackets jumps out of the dugout.

  Killer jogs slowly to first. With a tight grip, he still holds the bat. Christensen and Jet stand still a few feet from their respective bases, and the St. John’s left fielder stands up against left-field wall.

  Then, the world stops. As if God hit the mute button, we all stand in silence.

  Chapter 37

  Plenty of Gas

  From three hundred fifty feet, it looks like the left fielder is leaning against the wall when he reaches up and catches the ball. As he throws the ball back in, the crowd behind me and the players beside me go quiet.

  Tagging up, Christensen races to third and Jet to second as Killer fires his bat to the ground, leaving it there for Maddux to pick up. Killer pulls open the Velcro of his batting glove like a nurse rips off a Band-Aid.

  “In the dugout.” The umpire orders that I take a couple small steps back to the top step.

  “Now or never, Kyle,” Maddux says.

  Kyle steps into the box. Resting the bat on his shoulders, he stands upright and blows a pink bubble.

  “Kyle,” I yell.

  He looks at me, and I freeze. Not a word appears from my mouth. He grins and looks at the pitcher. Under my breath, I say, “C’mon, one hit.”

  The St. John’s crowd chants its pitcher’s name. Morgan, I think. Our crowd claps calmly and says next to nothing. Most just have their eyes open and hands clasped. As I look down the dugout, everyone leans against the fence and breathes slowly. Three games, all close, have worn the team out. Finch has played twenty-seven innings in three nights. Over the past two days, there have been too many rallies, big hits, highlight catches, costly errors, and brain farts to count. After letting out every last bit of energy in a feeble attempt to scream Killer’s fly ball over the left-field fence, no one, not Maddux, the players, or the fans have any cheering fuel left in the tank.

  Well, not everyone is gassed. Someone was resting on his bed during the first two games and sitting on his ass in the bullpen for much of this one.

  I raise my fists and yell, “Kyle, we just need one hit! C’mon, No. 10, one hit!”

  The first pitch is high, and Kyle bends his back and drops his shoulders to get out of the way.

  “Kyle, he’s scared,” I continue. “He is just like the rest of us. He knows you’re going to win this game. C’mon.”

  Although, the umpire banished me to the dugout, I step back onto the dirt, look up at the crowd, and start clapping my hands above my head. “C’mon, let’s go,” I yell to my neighbors.

  Slowly, everyone starts to clap with me.

  “C’mon, Kyle,” I yell again.

  The next pitch is right down the middle, but Kyle doesn’t swing.

  “Kyle, Kyle, Kyle!” I try to start a chant … and it works.

  The cheer gets so loud that we can no longer hear the clapping hands or pounding feet.

  “Nine, get back into the dugout,” the home-plate umpire orders.

  I start to jump, pumping my fists, chanting, “Kyle, Kyle, Kyle!”

  Laser grabs my shirt and pulls me into the dugout.

  “Don’t get kicked out,” he says.

  After regaining my balance, I look at Kyle, and he’s laughing. Although he’s twenty feet away, it’s like we’re back at our locker telling jokes.

  Kyle swings at the next pitch and lines the ball to center field. The outfielder races in and my heart stops beating, my lungs forget to pump air, my lips lock, and my clinched fists rise slowly into the air.

  The outfielder dives face-first at the dropping baseball. The ball hits the grass and bounces over his glove.

  Elbows, shoulders, and knees thump my back and legs as Yellow Jackets race toward Kyle at first base. As Jet, who easily scored the winning run, picks up Kyle, I look at the scoreboard and smile when the seven changes to nine. Abov
e the box score, it says, “Congrats, Finch!”

  A long row of Finch fans, who are clapping and cheering “Best Team Ever,” wait for us in front of the locker room. Girls from my school are high-fiving and hugging the players. Nothing too passionate, mostly a quick two-arm wrap around the neck. By the time the player can place his arm on her back, she has let go and moved on to the next guy.

  I give high five after high five, receiving a few hugs and a bunch of “Way to go, Biggie” compliments.

  I have dreamed about having one girl after another press her boobs up against me, even if it’s just for a split second. But the two hours of stress weigh on me, and I’m barely awake going through the line.

  At the end of the line is Annabelle, who is talking with Jet. From two feet away, I can see him blatantly stare at her breasts, which are hidden by only a thin piece of gold fabric with the words “Finch Softball,” stretched out over the front. Annabelle has no problem wearing shirts way too tight for her gifts from God.

  As I walk up to her, I don’t wait for her to decide between hug or high five. I place my hand right in the middle of her back and pull her tight up against me.

  “You know you were the one that told me I should play baseball,” I whisper into her ear.

  She pulls back. “I don’t remember that.”

  “I do,” I say. “It was the first day of school.”

  “Oh yeah! Wiffle ball.”

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Well, I’m glad I did.”

  She’s so beautiful. I know I have to let go. I can’t hold on to her forever, but I just want to rub her back a few more seconds before I have to say good-bye. As I pull my hand away, she gets on her tippy-toes and kisses me on the cheek.

  “I’ll always be sorry about … you know,” I say. “I want you to know that.”

  She smirks and says, “You should be.”

  And with that, she’s gone.