Center Field

by Robert Lipsyte

  “Men on first and third, no outs, we’re leading by one run in the seventh.” Coach lofted a high fly deep into left center. There was plenty of time for Mike to get under it and set himself for the throw to nail the runner at the plate and prevent a tie game.

  It was the left-fielder’s ball, Mike thought, my ball, as he took a few steps toward center. But if Eric was in left and I was in center, I’d probably poach, take it because I was a better fielder with a better arm. Billy Budd would have taken it if his best friend Dwayne Higgins was in left. Mike sensed Oscar moving toward him, but that was okay, he was supposed to back up the left fielder.

  Just to be sure, Mike called, “I got it.”

  Oscar yelled, “I got it.”

  “Mine,” yelled Mike.

  Oscar ran into him. They both went down. The ball dropped and they both bounced up, cursing and swinging at each other. Todd and DeVon Morris, the third baseman, were there before they could dig in their spikes and connect with real punches. They snarled but they separated.

  Coach Cody was laughing. “Got to work on that.”

  Work on what, Mike thought. Me in left? The thought of it made his stomach hurt. He hated left field, right field, too, the cramped space, the foul line, all those tricky angles, none of the wide-open purity of center.

  They ended practice with wind sprints. Mike made sure he beat Oscar, but he wasn’t sure Oscar was going all out.

  Back in the locker room Andy said, “It’s happening everywhere.”

  “What?” said Ryan.

  “If the Chico was under the ball and called for it and Mike ran into him, it would be considered a bias crime. Zack Berger would be out demonstrating.”

  “Not so loud,” said Mike.

  “You gotta do something.”

  “Like?” Mike looked around. Oscar was in the showers.

  “Check his immigration papers,” said Andy. “Check his age, he could be too old for high school ball. He might have a pro contract already. He might not even live in the district. Check his address, he might be ineligible.”

  “Get a life.” When Andy shrugged, Mike said, “What did Hector yell at you?”

  “Said to get out of the way, you had a great arm.”

  Somehow that didn’t make him feel better, and he scowled at Hector when the little second baseman came over tugging Oscar. “He got something to say, Mike.”

  “Sorry, man,” said Oscar. He looked sorry, eyes down. “Back home I take everything.”

  You’re not in your home now, you’re in mine, Mike thought, but he nodded and mumbled, “Forget it.”

  After they walked away, Ryan said, “Don’t sweat it, bro, you’ll start in center. You can’t have an illegal in center field, it just isn’t right. Joe D. and Mickey would roll over in their graves. Even Billy Budd would be out demonstrating.”

  PART TWO

  “You can’t win the pennant on opening day, but you can start trying.”

  —IMs to a Young Baller by Billy Budd

  TWELVE

  The sun came out for the opening game.

  The school day had lasted forever but passed in a blur. Sunlight hammered the dusty classroom windows, blotting out words on the page, drowning teachers’ voices, making Mike jittery. Move it, he urged the clocks on the walls. He winced remembering the last time he had said, “Move it.” To Zack.

  Dr. Ching asked if anyone had the answer to the dropped anchor problem. Does the water level rise or fall? No one raised a hand. Mike knew the answer but he couldn’t get his mind focused. He was thinking about center field. Am I starting today?

  “Buoyancy,” prompted Dr. Ching.

  One of the math brainiacs finally raised a hand, but she needed help from Dr. Ching to make her answer clear to the class.

  Anything that displaces water is buoyed upward by the weight of the water displaced. The boat and everything in the boat must be displacing an equal weight in water, otherwise the boat would sink. While the anchor is in the boat, the anchor displaces an anchor’s weight in water.

  But when the anchor is dropped, it sinks, displacing an anchor’s volume of water. Since the anchor is denser than water, an anchor’s volume of water is less than an anchor’s weight of water. So there is less water being displaced, and the overall level of the lake drops slightly.

  The water lowers, not rises, when the anchor is dropped.

  I could have done that, thought Mike. Did I choke? Will I choke in center field? Will I get the chance to choke in center field?

  Lori stopped him in the hall. “You okay?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re, like, sleepwalking?”

  Luckily he was called on only once, in Contemporary Social Issues. Ms. Marsot asked him to make comparisons between immigration today and a hundred years ago, but before he could even say “Huh?” Andy shouted out, “It’s mostly illegal now,” and Kat said, “But it’s still supply and demand.” Ms. Marsot leaned back with a smile and let them take over the class.

  He usually tuned out the Andy-Kat Show and drifted into his own thoughts, but today he kept watching Kat. Those deeply set dark eyes under thick eyebrows made her seem even more intense. He remembered her body while she sat on the edge of the whirlpool machine, soaking her leg, her breasts against the old man’s head at the senior center. She kept those muscular curves pretty well covered in class. Today she was wearing a loose sweatshirt and jeans baggy enough to fit over the brace. You’d never know how packed she was.

  He pushed his thoughts back to center field.

  Coach Cody waited until they were finished with batting practice and warm-ups and had turned the field over to the visiting team before he made his pregame locker-room speech. It was usually a short review of the scouting report and a few things to remember during the game, but this afternoon he was revved up. He strutted to the front of the locker room after the assistant coaches herded everyone together.

  Chest out, muscles bulging through his Ridgedale uniform, cap pushed back on his shaven head, Coach Cody looked like he could take anyone on the team in a cage fight. The rumor was he had racked up kills in Panama, Kuwait, and Somalia as a Ranger. He rocked heel to toe a couple of times, scanning the team until everyone was in their places and quiet. Seniors were sitting on the floor up front. Mike, Andy, Ryan, and the other juniors were right behind them.

  “We are about to embark on a mission,” said Coach Cody, “in which we will seize the state championship.” He tamped down the whistles and cheers with his thick hand. “A three-month mission by a band of brothers, elite athletes with the training, the skill, the heart, and the smarts to make their will prevail.

  “Just like the Army Rangers who fight and die to protect our country, you are focused, dedicated young gentlemen who know how to shut out everything that doesn’t contribute to the success of our mission.”

  “Mission?” whispered Andy. “It’s baseball.”

  Mike elbowed him quiet. He wondered if Coach had heard. He was looking at them when he said, “Not everyone in this school is on our side. There are teachers who don’t like jocks and girls who want to drag you down and the pukes who hate you because they can’t ever measure up.

  “You need to stay together, listen to your coaches, support your teammates, follow the rules, execute with pride, and play your guts out. No one is shooting at you Rangers, but just because we call it a game doesn’t mean that winning isn’t real, isn’t important. Just because we call it a game doesn’t mean that your willingness to work hard, to sacrifice, to put the team ahead of yourself, isn’t the best thing you can do.”

  “What crap,” whispered Andy. Mike ignored him.

  Coach put his hands on his hips and grinned. “The envelope please.” He took a blue sheet of paper from a manager as if he were at the Academy Awards. He began to read, pretending to be surprised. “Leading off and playing second base for the champion Ridgedale Rangers, it’s…Hector Ortiz.”

  “Like he doesn’t know his opening-day line
up,” said Andy.

  Mike’s mouth was too dry to tell him to shut up. He managed, “Sssss.”

  “Batting second, at shortstop, Captain Todd Ganz.” The team whistled and clapped.

  “Bastard’s playing with our heads,” said Andy.

  Coach might have heard but he didn’t react. “Batting third, in center field…Mike Semak.”

  It wasn’t until Ryan yelled, “Yo, Mak,” that his mind processed the information. He was starting. In center field.

  “Batting cleanup, in left field, Oscar Ramirez.”

  There were groans from the seniors. The regular left fielder, Eric Nola, was a popular guy.

  Dimly Mike heard Ryan Gates in right and DeVon Morris at third and Mark Rapp at first base. The sophomore had beat out Andy. Jimmy Russo was catching and batting eighth. Craig Wiebusch was pitching.

  “That’s today’s lineup, gentlemen, and it will change as you change.” Mike thought Coach was looking at him. “I will choose the best player for each position. Every inning of every game is a test of the best.” He clapped his hands. “RIDGEDALE!”

  Everybody grabbed for the nearest two teammates and roared, “RANGERS!”

  The subs led the way out of the locker room, then the starters. Mike didn’t have time to say anything to Andy. He jogged out to center field between Oscar and Ryan. Both of them were nodding and smiling. Once they were in position, they began throwing a ball around.

  The stands weren’t crowded, but they weren’t empty either, a good turnout for a baseball game in a football and basketball school. He looked for Mom and Dad. Maybe they’d come later. The band was playing and the cheerleaders were doing cartwheels. They only came out for opening day and the postseason tournament.

  Tori and Lori ran out. They looked hot in their blue and gold tights as they danced through their devil stick routine, juggling a baton with two control sticks, sometimes passing batons between them. They were good—they would be competing in a national championship tournament in a couple weeks. Lori threw him a quick smile and a head wave without losing her rhythm.

  He swept the stands one more time. Mom and Dad said they’d try to make it, at least one of them, but it would be tough. The floor was being laid in the new store, and in a flooring store it had to be perfect. He didn’t see them.

  He spotted Kat on the sidelines aiming a video cam up at the principal, Dr. Howard, who was high in the grandstand waving a Ridgedale pennant in a group of teachers. He watched Kat limp over to the stands and sit next to Zack, who had a pile of leaflets on his lap. Kat raised her camera. It was too far to tell if she was aiming at him or at the scoreboard behind him.

  THIRTEEN

  Craig Wiebusch was sharp in the top of the first. Three up and three down, a strikeout and two infield grounders.

  From the dugout Mike began studying the Southwood pitcher, a tall, gangly junior Mike remembered from football, a backup quarterback. He was fast and wild, which kept most batters from digging in close to the plate. Scouting reports said he depended on the burner, but could fool you with an inconsistently nasty slider and a good changeup. Mike tried to see if he gave his pitches away. Some pitchers hunched over a little more before throwing a curve, straightened up before a fastball.

  Coach Cody was coaching at third, flashing hand signals that didn’t mean anything. Ranger psych tactics, he called them. He said it distracted the opposition, frustrated them into making bad decisions. He said it was worth a run a game. Hector, leading off, didn’t need any instructions. His job was to get on any way he could.

  Hector’s specialty was driving pitchers crazy, stepping in and out of the box, fouling off pitches. He worked the pitcher for a walk, then kept taking leads off first and scrambling back while Todd waited for a pitch he could bunt. Everyone knew he was going to bunt, but if the pitcher didn’t throw a strike, Todd would walk, too. Finally he threw one low that would have clipped the outside corner if Todd hadn’t reached over and tapped a beauty down the first base line. The catcher threw him out but Hector was dancing on second base when Mike came to bat.

  Coach Cody touched the bill of his cap, pulled his left earlobe, and rubbed the letters on his chest. Ignore everything until he shouted, “Let’s go, Mike,” and clapped twice. The signal after that was the one. Coach leaned over with his hands on his knees. Hit away. No kidding. This early in the game it was all about piling up some runs, giving Craig a lead.

  The pitcher hadn’t tipped off his pitches so Mike set himself for a fastball. Always easier to adjust for a curve than try to catch up to heat. The first pitch was high and inside enough to make Mike lean back. Hard to tell if that was on purpose. Mike fouled off the second pitch, a curve. Now he’ll come in with heat, Mike thought, try to overpower me. Coach Cody was rubbing his left elbow. Meant nothing.

  “Curve,” said Oscar from the on-deck circle.

  Like he would know, thought Mike. His first game in this conference, hasn’t even had his first at bat and he’s an expert. He felt that little bubble of anger in his gut, the same one he had felt before he shoved Zack. The thought was distracting. Gotta get rid of it. He stepped out of the batter’s box, took a deep breath, thought BillyBuddBillyBuddBillyBudd, and stepped back in before the umpire could warn him about delaying the game. He set himself for the fastball. If it was a strike he’d try to drive it into right field, score Hector. There was a big hole between the first and second basemen.

  The pitcher grooved it, down the middle. Thanks, pal. Mike took it late and opened up to hammer it into right. But the ball slowed, broke inside, and dropped. Frantically he still tried to make contact. He punched a hopper past the pitcher. The shortstop scooped it up, bluffed Hector back to second, and fired the ball to first. Mike was out by two steps.

  He avoided looking at Oscar as he trotted back to the dugout, head down.

  Ryan slapped his back. “Wicked curve, Mak.” He was on his way to the on-deck circle.

  Mike shook his head. I blew it, he thought. And Oscar knows it.

  They watched Oscar take his stance. Hector took a lead, yapping at the pitcher. The second baseman stayed close to the bag. Coach Cody was yelling, “Two out, two out.”

  Oscar was cool at the plate. He let two fastballs go by, both of them outside. The umpire called the second one a strike. Coach Cody yelled something, took off his cap and slapped his shaven skull, gleaming in the afternoon sun. That meant, You’re a numbskull, ump. Coach Cody was a master of sly little insults but he knew how far he could go without getting warned or thrown out of the game. He said you had to keep pressure on the umps so they didn’t think you were a wimp who would roll over for them. Ranger psych. Worth a run a game.

  A curve broke inside and Oscar checked his swing. The ump called that one a strike, too. Mike figured that meant, Shut up, Coach, don’t try to make me look bad.

  Oscar’s expression never changed. He was in the hole now, one ball, two strikes. The pitcher is mixing his pitches pretty well, thought Mike. See if Oscar can figure them out.

  Another curve that broke close to Oscar’s hands. He fouled it off.

  The pitcher took his time now. He glared at Oscar. No question now, he was going to challenge him. Heat. He reared back and blazed one in.

  Oscar hardly seemed to move his body, just flicking his wrists. Contact sounded more like pong than the ping. The ball flew on a straight line between first and second and landed deep in right field. Hector scored easily and Oscar was on second before the relay throw came in.

  Coach Cody was clapping and cheering as Ryan got up to bat. He nailed the first pitch and sent a long drive to deep left. Oscar was rounding third as the left fielder pulled it down. Inning over. But the Rangers led, 1–0.

  In center field Mike avoided looking at Oscar, even though as captain of the outfield he should be checking the positions of the other outfielders. He thought, Just try to stay inside yourself today. Too many distracting thoughts.

  Craig was on fire all afternoon. He rarely fell behind
in the count, and even when he did, he challenged them to hit his fastball or chase his changeup. Southwood didn’t get a man into scoring position until the sixth, and then Oscar made a fine running catch along the left-field foul line, whirled, and threw a bullet to DeVon at third when the runner at second tagged up. He was out by two steps to end the inning.

  Craig waited on the mound until Oscar trotted past and bumped fists with him. Craig had forgiven Oscar for making him look bad the other day. At least for now, thought Mike. Good for the team even if I’m not having much of a day. That’s the way Billy Budd would think. Mike bobbled a routine fly in right center, although he held on to it. His ankle ached and he was a step behind a long drive to left-center that hit the fence. Oscar was backing him up and fired in to Todd to keep the batter at second.

  It was worse at bat. Mike was lunging at the ball, never making solid contact. He was overeager and knew it and couldn’t do anything about it. He hit into a double play and popped up to the catcher.

  But the one-run lead held into the seventh when Oscar blasted a homer with Todd on base. The final score was 3–0.

  Oscar was the man in the noisy Ridgedale locker room. He looked happy but humble, slapping palms, bumping fists. Mike thought it would be easier to dislike him if he were cocky instead of just confident. Why should I dislike him? Why shouldn’t he be confident? He can play.

  Craig followed Oscar around, holding up his boom box. Chief Loki was screaming, “We own da season.” Oscar looked embarrassed.

  Mike dressed and got out as quick as he could. Didn’t have a chance to ask Oscar how he knew it was going to be a curve. Baseball instincts or had he spotted the pitcher’s giveaway motion? Maybe I don’t want to know, Mike thought.

  FOURTEEN

  Coach Cody and Oscar didn’t show up for Thursday’s practice. According to Ryan, who heard it from Tori who volunteered in the school office, they were going to see an immigration lawyer.