Biggie

by Derek E. Sullivan

  “Biggie,” Coach Phillips squeezes the top of my shoulder.

  “Go into the office; I’ll be right in,” he orders.

  I turn around and hope that he will give me more time on the field. For someone who has yearned to be alone most of his life, I am so happy to be on the diamond with the celebrating players and family members. The air buzzes with delight and elation. It’s intoxicating.

  “I will, sir, but can I just stand out here a little longer?” I ask.

  “Sure, Biggie,” Phillips says. “Oh, and you might want to look at the scoreboard. Every day, I planned on erasing you from the roster, but Laser kept sharing this tall tale that you would come back some day. He just wouldn’t let me take you off.”

  I look up at the massive outfield scoreboard and there it is.

  WP—Henry Abbott (1–0).

  “Let’s keep that loss number at zero for awhile,” Coach says as he walks away.

  “Perfect,” I whisper.

  Chapter 38

  EiGht texts

  I sit down in the blue leather chair in front of the cluttered Iowa Cubs manager’s desk. My back curls and my eyes look down at my knees. Why does Coach Phillips want to talk to me in private? Am I getting cut? Was this a one-time thing? I should have listened to him. He said fastballs. What was I doing?

  “Biggie, how’s the arm?” Coach walks in.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Your fastball looked good.”

  He settles on the edge of the desk. His chin, filled with black and gray stubble, hovers right over my head.

  “Coach, I’m so sorry about the hit. I should’ve listened to you. I just thought the pitch was unhittable. I was wrong.”

  “Shut up.” He takes off his hat and rubs the bald spot on the top of his head. “How can the smartest kid in this school be so mentally weak? How can the strongest kid in school have no backbone?”

  My body tingles as I wonder if I should answer either of the questions or follow his order to shut up.

  “Is it a girl?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you doing this? All of this?” he asks. “Why are you here, playing baseball after all of these years?”

  He was right. It was a girl. Strap me up to a lie-detector test and the only passable answer was Annabelle. But I couldn’t say that. Reason No. 2 may be to get the attention of my step-dad or my real dad, but I can’t bring myself to admit that either. I exhale a long breath, look up, swallow some rancid cigar breath and say, “Because I want to be a champion. You aren’t anybody in this town if you’re not a champion, and I want to be someone.”

  That was the coolest thing I’ve ever said, I think, feeling really proud of myself. I’m almost more proud of those words than my game-winning pitching performance. Before Coach Phillips can respond to my awesome response, two men walk in the office. Leading the way is Finch mayor Marty Blaine, and right behind him is him. Aaron Abbott.

  “Marty, Aaron, I’m just talking to my pitcher right now,” Coach says.

  “Aah, don’t mind us, Coach,” Mayor Blaine says. “We’re just looking for that trophy.”

  Aaron limps. It’s not pronounced, but I notice that he pulls his right leg with every step. He’s tall, really tall actually. I feel a slight urge to stand to see if I tower over him, but I remain planted in the chair. I always imagined that when I saw him, he would look rough. His face would be covered in a five-o’clock shadow and his clothes would be dirty, like he just got out of a fight. I supposed I always imagined him as a loser, a bum whose time had passed.

  In reality, he looks wealthy and clean-cut, with a black Polo shirt and olive green shorts. He walks, limp and all, in flip-flops. He doesn’t look big, more lean, in shape. Part of me always hoped he would carry around a big gut, and my obesity was hereditary. Nope, he looks great. I am fat, and became fat due to shoving my face with junk food and spent free time reading and playing video games.

  “Sorry, guys, the trophy’s gone. It’s getting engraved,” Coach says.

  “Yeah, they probably already had St. John’s engraved on it. Oops!” Mayor Blaine says before releasing an over-the-top belly laugh.

  “Thanks for making the trip, Aaron,” Coach Phillips says.

  “I saw the sweep yesterday and got on a plane this morning. This is a big win, Coach,” Aaron says.

  “Thanks,” Coach responds.

  “And this is the winning pitcher.” Aaron looked down on me. His eyes look just like mine.

  My mind is blank. I can think of nothing to say. I guess I said it all last night.

  “He kept us in the game. That’s for sure,” Coach says.

  “Well done, No. 9.” Aaron places his hand in front of mine, and I shake it. As he grips my hand, I wish I hadn’t, but I did.

  “You need to put some ice on that shoulder,” Aaron says.

  I nod my head and remain silent.

  “Well, we’ll let you get back to it,” Mayor Blaine says. “You bring that trophy by when it’s engraved.”

  As Aaron walks out, he places his hand on the top of my shoulder. He pats it twice and then squeezes it, almost as if there’s a meaning behind the squeeze.

  “See you guys at State,” he says as he lets go.

  I watch him walk out and close the door. Two fingers from Coach Phillip’s hand pull my chin back around.

  “You’re only going to worry about me right now.” Coach Phillips’s eyes are inches from mine.

  “Well, you missed two weeks of practice, most of which was training to get everyone in shape. Looking at you, I can tell you did what you had to do to get in shape, but as a gesture to the guys who busted their asses for two weeks, you’ll carry everyone’s bags to the bus on road trips. I told the guys to leave their stuff by their lockers and you would take care of it.”

  “Yes, Coach,” I say. “Of course. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Now hit the showers,” he orders.

  I get up, but before I reach the door, I look back and blurt out, “I’m going to throw a perfect game.”

  He nods a couple of times and exhales. “Don’t forget the bags.”

  Before getting dressed, I reach for my phone. It’s been a personal record four hours since I fiddled with it. I sit down and start looking through the text messages I missed. They’re all from Courtney.

  First one says, This might sound stupid, but it looks like you’re pitching in the bullpen.

  Second, They just called your name.

  The third message is a picture of me on the mound.

  Then, there’s a picture of the crowd cheering for me.

  And another picture of me. Below it says, After the strikeout.

  The sixth message says, Wow, you throw hard.

  Another picture. This time, I’m leading cheers.

  The eighth message says, You were amazing.

  My eyes water and my hands shake so much that I fumble the phone. As it lands on the concrete floor, it slides under the bench.

  Every hair on my body tingles as I reach down to pick up the phone. I pray that she’s still at the stadium.

  With the phone lodged between my hands, I take a deep breath before slowly typing. Whether it’s nervous energy or water on my fingers, I keep hitting the wrong key. After several stop-and-starts, I finally ask, Where are you?

  As I wait for a response, I slide on my underwear, shorts, and my lucky blue shirt. Before I bend over to pick up my towel, my phone vibrates.

  With my eyes closed, I whisper, “Please still be here.”

  Sliding my thumb to see the response, I see, I’m outside Gate B.

  I hurdle the bench and push open the door. With wet hair, no shoes and no idea where Gate B is, I race past Coach Phillips.

  “Biggie, the bags!”

  “I won’t forget.”

/>   Leaving wet footprints, I maneuver around fans young and old until I’m outside. Before I see the sign for Gate B, I see her.

  She’s alone. Her eyes scan the crowd. Her half-zipped blue sweatshirt covers her chest. Even on a humid night, her dark hair lies straight.

  Her eyes see me. She adds a small smile to her half-wave.

  Eight months of daily running doesn’t keep me from losing my breath as I get within the vanilla scent of her perfume.

  “I looked for you,” I say.

  “Jenna and I were hiding from what’s-her-face,” she says. “We were sitting with the enemy.”

  “How did it go?” I ask.

  “You were awesome. When you—”

  “No. How did last night go?” I interrupt her.

  She leans in a little and says, “You were right about him. All hands.”

  It happens fast. In less than a blink, my lips touch hers. As she rubs my neck, I place my hands on her cheeks.

  I’ve never kissed a girl before, so I have no idea what I’m doing. Her lips are soft but flavorless. For years, I dreamed of kissing Annabelle, a Chapstick addict. So I expected to taste cherry, but Courtney’s lips are flavorless. Flavorless and really soft.

  She steps back. How long did it last? Who knows? Maybe two seconds, maybe ten, but it didn’t last long enough.

  “So you like the PDA, I see,” she jokes.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Don’t apologize. It was nice,” she says.

  “You saw the home run?”

  She steps back, looks stunned, and says, “Oh, my God. One more inch and it would have gone foul.”

  Chapter 39

  Maddux and Math

  I love summer. I don’t have to worry about schoolwork. I can read comic books and contemporary fiction. Deep into Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk, I stare at Maddux, who sits next to me in the backseat of Laser’s SUV. The family, me included, are headed south to Springfield, Missouri, to watch Laser throw out the first pitch for the Springfield Cardinals, a minor league team he played for a couple of seasons. I have never seen a minor league baseball game, so I’m excited to see how much harder pro pitchers throw than me.

  After making some friends playing Little League, Maddux told Mom that he wanted to go to school. He actually said he wanted to get straight As like his older brother. I was there in the kitchen when he said it. It was really cool. To help him with his goal, I’ve been tutoring the little guy since summer vacation started four weeks ago. I’m giving him a crash course in subjects like math, science, history, and language. I enjoy tutoring him and think that being a teacher might be a good profession for me, maybe even a coach. I want to work with the sorry players, not cut them. Have those players, not just the talented ones, lead us to state titles.

  “Is this right?” Maddux asks.

  Through the eraser crumbles is a fraction problem. “Is this supposed to be four?” I ask.

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” he says. “You just add two plus two—the easiest math problem in the world.”

  “It’s not four,” I inform him and return to Fight Club.

  He takes back his work. “I thought it was too easy.” He blushes a little.

  “What is the only rule when it comes to math problems?” I ask.

  “Do the steps,” he says with little pep. He’s tired of me reminding him not to take shortcuts. “I keep getting four.”

  I drop the book, keeping my thumb planted on page 187. “Look at this. What do you subtract here?”

  “Um,” he ponders and guesses. “Thirty-five minus seven?”

  “No, you skipped a step. Look back.”

  “Oh, I didn’t multiply the two. So it’s thirty-five minus fourteen, and then it’s twenty-one divided by seven equals three.”

  “Don’t skip steps,” I tell him.

  “Wow, that’s was easy,” he says, although it took him ten minutes and four wrong answers.

  “Oh, trust me, it gets harder,” I honestly say.

  “I like math,” he says. “I think it’s my favorite subject.”

  I stretch back on the comfortable leather seat and spread out my legs. It’s a lot easier to get comfortable in a car now that I don’t weight three hundred pounds. I reopen Fight Club and find my spot.

  “Hey, Biggie.” Maddux interrupts my reading. “You should learn how to hit. I could teach you.”

  “There are DHs.” I keep my eyes in the book.

  “Yeah, but you’re a big guy,” he says. “You could hit the ball five hundred feet.”

  “This is coming from the same kid who told me I could throw a perfect game. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still looking for a perfect inning.”

  “I looked at the record books,” he continues the sales pitch. “No one has ever hit three home runs in a game. With my help, you could be the first, and then I would hit four and break your record.”

  “You think?” I ask with a strong dose of sarcasm.

  “Yeah! I admit a perfect game in pitching was a pipe dream. Too many outside factors: the umpire, your teammates, the weather, lots of stuff. Dad, what do you always tell me about hitting?”

  “It’s just you and the ball,” Laser says from the driver’s seat.

  “It’s just you and the ball,” Maddux repeats. “Look, I’ve hit a lot of home runs. Home-run hitting is different. You can make mistakes. It’s okay. Hell, you could hit home runs in three at-bats and strike out in the other three. Home-run hitters strike out all the time. I’m telling you. Mom, what do you think would happen if Biggie connected with a baseball?”

  “It may never land,” she jokes from the passenger seat.

  “Never land. Did you hear that?” Maddux asks, knowing very well I did. “What do you say? Want to hit some home runs?”

  I peek over the top of the paperback and ponder his suggestion.

  “Biggie, you don’t have to be perfect,” he says.

  “All right,” I agree. “Let’s buy a bat.”

  And Maddux smiles.

  Acknowledgments

  Biggie is my debut novel. But it wasn’t supposed to be. While in graduate school at Hamline University, I spent three years working on another book. For whatever reason, I couldn’t get any of my instructors to tell me the book was finished. After a rough critique, I asked Mary Logue, one of my instructors, what I needed to do next. She told me to give that manuscript a break, put it away and write something else, anything else. I took her advice and wrote a short story about an overweight teen who somehow throws a perfect game of gym-class Wiffle ball. I originally intended to just write that short story, but Mary told me to keep going. Mary, without your wonderful pep talks, Biggie would not exist.

  I have to thank my Owatonna family. It was at the People’s Press newspaper that I fell in love with writing. I especially want to thank Jeffrey Jackson for giving me my first writing job. I also want to thank all of my instructors and classmates at Hamline. I have been so lucky to be surrounded by so many talented writers.

  To Sara Megibow and everyone at Nelson Literary Agency, thank you for all of your hard work. Sara, I’m so grateful that you found my story in a stack of queries. I would not want anyone else championing my novels. To Kelly Barrales-Saylor, my editor at Albert Whitman, thank you for believing in a book about a shy, overweight teen from a small town in Iowa. Working with you and your teammates has been amazing. And to Pamela Carter Joern, thank you for your insight when I was first starting my novel.

  Thank you to my family for all your encouragement and support through the years. And to Beth, my motivator. You have always believed in me and pushed me to be my best, with the perfect mix of compassionate support and brutal honesty.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, w
hether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Derek E. Sullivan

  Cover design by Jordan Kost

  978-1-5040-0078-9

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