by Tim Green
24
WITHOUT A WORD, YAGER SLIPPED the car out of gear and picked up his phone. He hit a number and it began to ring over the speaker system.
“Hello?”
Jalen’s heart soared at the sound of Cat’s mom.
“Victoria? It’s James.” Yager spoke into the windshield, like there was someone on the other side of the glass. “I know this sounds strange, but could I ask Cat a quick question? Her friend and I have a . . . a little bet going here. . . .”
“Oh. Of course. Again, I so appreciate your coming to dinner, and I know Gary does too, especially since he couldn’t be here. Cat’s still on cloud nine. Hang on, James. . . .”
They could hear Cat’s mom talking to her in a muffled voice before she got on the phone.
“Hello? Jalen?”
“It’s me and Jalen,” Yager said. “In my car. Cat, this is silly, I know, but Jalen is insisting that he can predict the next pitch in a ball game, and I know that’s not possible, but he says you think so too. I know it’s fun to joke around, but you don’t really believe that, right?”
Cat went silent. Jalen thought he could hear her breathing.
“Cat? I’m sorry. This is silly stuff. We’re just goofing around here.” Yager sounded apologetic but pleased. “I’ll let you go. Happy birthday, Cat.”
Yager looked at his phone and his thumb wavered over the screen, ready to disconnect.
“Wait!” It was Cat. “He can do it, Mr. Yager. Jalen can predict the next pitch. I know it sounds crazy, and we don’t even know how, but he can. I think it’s numbers or percentages or something. He’s a wonk in math. Maybe it’s body language too. I have no idea, but it’s like this gift. It’s magic. He does it in his own Little League games, and he does it if we watch a game on TV, too.”
“Okay, Cat.” Yager’s voice got low and soft. “Thank you. I appreciate your thoughts. Good night.”
Yager hung up and turned to Jalen. “You know I still don’t believe you.”
Jalen blinked and nodded. “You don’t have to. Just let me show you.”
Yager nodded and put the car back into gear. He checked the road for traffic, then spun the car around and punched the accelerator. They whizzed back up Old Post Road, past Mount Tipton, and turned into the gates where Yager’s brick mansion rose up in front of them like a fortress.
They pulled into the circle and got out. The bronze angels splashed and struggled, frozen forever with their prize trumpet just out of reach.
Yager turned and flashed a scowl back at Jalen as he walked. “You know, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Jalen climbed the steps behind the famous Yankees player and followed him inside.
25
JALEN TOOK A DEEP BREATH.
A massive chandelier hung above him, its crystals sparkling with the hint of a million tiny rainbows. The tall marble columns, huge oil paintings, and alcoves where bronze sculptures were tucked away like treasures all fell to the back of Jalen’s mind. It was the chandelier he couldn’t stop staring at.
“Come on, kid.” Yager sounded impatient, like he wanted to dispose of this nonsense.
Jalen forced his feet to move across the giant oriental rug, deep blue and thick as a close-cut grass lawn, and down a long hallway. Yager disappeared into a doorway without looking back. Jalen followed him down some stairs before entering a cave of dark wood. A bar stood at one end and a wall-size screen at the other. A plush couch faced the screen and a large fireplace was beneath the screen, cold and empty. The couch filled the middle of the room along with plump leather chairs surrounding a low round table. The walls held a dozen or so large framed photos, portraits of Yager with other famous people: President Obama, Peyton Manning, Jeter, DiCaprio, Denzel, Shaq, and others he knew but whose names didn’t spring to mind. Each was set in a wood panel and lit by a small brass light.
Yager ignored the photos, picked up the remote, and plunked himself down on the couch.
“Sit,” he said.
Jalen sat at the other end while his host brought Saturday Night Baseball up on the screen. Edinson Vólquez was on the mound, winding up.
“What’s it gonna be?” Yager blurted out the question.
“Uh . . .”
The pitch smacked the catcher’s mitt. A fastball down the middle.
“Too late,” Yager said.
“I can’t do it that fast.” Jalen felt his insides squirm. Even the eyes of the famous people’s photos around the room seemed to accuse him of lying.
“How fast can you do it?” Yager was slumped into the couch with the remote in his hand, staring at the screen, which lit his bored, angry face in an eerie light.
“I need the count. I need the inning. The batter. I need to see the game,” Jalen said.
“Okay, see it.” Yager hit the mute button and the announcers went quiet.
“I’d like to hear it if I can too, please.” Jalen clutched his hands together. Vólquez was already winding up again.
“What’s the pitch? What’s the pitch?” Yager insisted in a bitter tone.
“Uh . . .”
The batter swung and missed, striking out, and banged his bat in the dirt as he walked away.
“Can’t do it, can you?” Yager jumped up out of his seat, glaring down on Jalen. “Okay, joke’s up, kid. Let’s see what your dad thinks about all this.”
“No! Wait!” Jalen pleaded, fighting back tears. “Give me a chance. Why won’t you give me a chance? Why are you so angry?”
“Angry?” Yager seemed to consider the word, chewing on his lip while he gazed at Jalen. Finally he sighed. “You’re right. I am angry. I hate Jeffrey Foxx. He thinks he knows baseball, but he doesn’t. It’s not just about numbers. I can . . .”
The player sat down and turned on the sound. “Okay, kid. Show me. Let’s see if you really can do something. Anything would help me at this point, so I should at least let you show me so I can say I did everything possible when I’m sitting on a beach chair a month from now in Tahiti.”
Jalen sighed and returned his attention to the screen. Vólquez was in his windup again and threw a curveball that went way wide of the plate for a ball. Jalen forced himself to study the screen. Third inning. Mariners up 1–0. A man on first. Two outs. Kyle Seager was the batter, a slugging infielder with an average strikeout rate and a high line-drive rate. His home run production had gone up for five years in a row. Jalen wished he’d seen the first two innings, but as he opened his mouth to explain how he usually needed time to see the pattern, Vólquez nodded to the catcher and checked the runner at first.
“Changeup.” The name of the pitch popped out of Jalen’s mouth.
Vólquez wound up and threw an eighty-three-mile-an-hour changeup. Seager swung and missed, making it a 1–1 count.
“Hey, you’re right.” Yager glanced at Jalen and sat up. “But you’ve got a one-in-four chance, right? Vólquez only throws four pitches, right?”
“Right.” Jalen nodded but kept his eyes on the game. The camera cut around the stadium, showing pictures of fans, the stadium lights, the managers, setting the scene. Jalen gritted his teeth because he wanted to see the pitcher.
“Yeah,” Yager said, “so, good guess.”
The screen cut quickly to Vólquez.
“Fastball!” Jalen blurted. “Four-seam.”
Vólquez threw a four-seam fastball high and outside for a second ball.
“Kid, if you can only pick it when he’s already in his windup, how is that supposed to help me?” Yager asked, sounding more sad now than angry.
“I gotta see the pitcher. I gotta see it all. It’s better in person, and I have to see the pitcher before he gets into his windup. I can tell before he winds up, but not like this. Wait. I’ll show you. I got the changeup right, didn’t I? And the fastball? Give me a chance.”
Yager sat back into the couch and folded his arms across his chest.
This time the camera stayed on the pitcher, and before he went into his windup, Vólquez shook
the catcher off.
“Another four-seam fastball,” said Jalen.
That’s what it was. Seager swung and missed.
“Two-two count,” Yager said.
“Here comes the sinker,” Jalen said without thinking.
“You know that? Already?” Yager stared at him, hard.
Jalen nodded because he knew.
Vólquez nodded to his catcher and went into his windup. Jalen knew this was the tipping point. If the pitcher threw a sinker, Yager would believe.
If not . . .
Jalen was going home.
26
SEAGER SWUNG FOR THE FENCES and missed.
The ump jagged his thumb and barked.
Jalen sat silently as the announcers showed the replay from behind the pitcher and traced the path of the pitch, a rope that dropped off the table at the last instant, a nasty sinker. Vólquez pumped his fist. The inning ended, and the TV went to a shaving cream commercial.
Yager turned to Jalen, still frowning. “I want to see more.”
Jalen nodded, let out a breath, and sat back into the soft leather cushions. They could watch as much as the Yankees star liked.
“You want something to drink?” Yager asked, getting up and heading for the bar.
Jalen smiled but tried not to let it get out of control, even though he knew his entire life had just taken a turn for the better. “I’ll take a Pepsi if you have it.”
27
IT WASN’T EASY TO CONVINCE the Yankees star.
If Jalen hadn’t known his dad would be at the diner until well after midnight, he would have had to call home and try to explain what was going on.
Yager couldn’t get enough. Even as the game ended in the bottom of the ninth after Jalen called the last pitch—a changeup knocked out of the park with two runners on base—Yager wanted more and kept flipping through channels.
“That’s the last game.” Jalen pointed at the clock. “And I should get home.”
The Yankees player looked at the clock with alarm. “Holy crow. What are your parents going to say?”
“My . . . I only have a dad.”
“Oh. Divorce? My parents got divorced when I was ten. I know it hurts.” Yager frowned.
“I don’t even know if they’re divorced,” Jalen said. “We don’t really talk about it. She was a singer, I know that. I think she had some big chance or something, but still, you just leave your family?”
Yager nodded with understanding. “My dad took off too. Him and his secretary. Moved to Australia. But you can either let things like that ruin you or spur you on to do great things.”
Jalen was confused and didn’t hide it.
“My parents’ divorce probably helped me make it to the pros,” Yager explained. “I felt like the whole thing was my fault, and I wanted to be worthy of something. So I set out to prove it with baseball. I mean, I had talent, too, but work? I’d get in the batting cage and hit until my hands bled. I’m serious.”
Jalen nodded. “I get that. I want to do that too, make it to the pros, and I’m going to work hard. That you better believe.”
“Is your dad going to let you help me here?” Yager obviously wanted to get back on solid ground. “Will he be okay with all this?”
“What do you mean?”
“So, I need you at Yankee Stadium. We need some signals.” Yager stared into empty space for a moment. “And I’ve got to get you some seats. Your dad can come with you.”
Jalen shook his head. “You play the next three games at night. My dad can’t. He works.”
“Maybe Victoria and Cat could bring you?” Yager looked at Jalen for the answer.
Jalen could only shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Would your dad let you?”
“If you asked, he would.” Jalen opened his mouth to say something else, then stopped.
“What?” Yager narrowed his eyes.
Jalen had an idea. It was a bit bold, brazen maybe, brash? Something Cat would do. Oh, Cat would definitely do it. Jalen could hear her now, in his mind.
Do it, Jalen! Just do it!
28
“I DON’T WANT TO MAKE it like you have to do this.” Jalen tried to sound as casual as he could, even though he was brimming with excitement. “It’s just that . . .”
“What, kid? Some autographs or something? Spit it out.”
Jalen took a breath and spoke fast. “Well, I didn’t have enough money for my travel team, and my coach said my dad could make some sandwiches instead, but he works like a dog as it is, and I was thinking you could maybe have your foundation give me that money. I mean, no big deal, right?”
Yager frowned. “I’m cutting you a break by not turning you in for stealing baseballs and now you want more from me?”
“I was just doing what your own foundation is supposed to be doing.” Jalen felt suddenly angry and frustrated, and he just cut loose. “But I’m sure you have no idea, right? It’s like your social media. Someone does it for you, right? Well, I had the chance to play summer ball but I needed some money for the fees, exactly what your foundation says it wants to do, but what you get if you’re a kid who really needs money for baseball is answering machines and form replies.”
Yager stared hard.
Jalen calmed himself and softened his voice. “Is it really that big a deal? It’s the last thing my dad needs, to make a bunch of free sandwiches and then a banquet for the team. That’s not going to help him get out of the hole he’s been in since forever.”
Yager chewed his lip again, then pointed the remote at Jalen like he was changing a channel. “You help me go four-for-four on Wednesday, and I’ll get the foundation to pay it.”
“All four hundred ninety dollars?”
Yager smiled and nodded. “Sure. No problem.”
Jalen beamed. “Then let’s go meet my dad.”
29
JALEN BURST WITH PRIDE AS he climbed out of JY’s Lamborghini, but no one was there to notice. Inside the diner, five loud, sloppy college kids sat in the corner booth by the counter. On the other side, in the dining room, were two couples, one young and eating bread, the other middle-aged and whispering to each other over glasses of wine and fried calamari.
Greta, his father’s frumpiest waitress, with short, dyed-black hair, burst from the kitchen and hustled by with a tray of burgers, cursing under her breath at the college kids. She didn’t even notice Yager. No one did.
“Come on.” Jalen led the player back into the kitchen. His father was sweating over a hissing stove.
“Jalen!” He glanced up only for a moment. “Hand me the parmesan. The parmesan! Jalen!”
Jalen did as he was told and stood there with Yager while his father rasped dusty flakes from the wooden block of cheese. Finally he tilted his head, added another sprinkle, and then eased a fine chop out of the pan and onto a bed of arugula on one of his best plates. He turned quickly to the oven, brushing past Yager and removing a pan of eggplant rollatini tucked beneath a blanket of mozzarella. He added that to another plate, then dribbled red sauce from a pot, before depositing a pinch of basil and salt.
“Greta!” Jalen’s father bellowed as the waitress banged in through the swinging doors with a pink mess all over the front of her apron.
She held her hands in the air and wore a look of raging disgust. “Rich brats! One puked on me! Puked! All over!”
She made a beeline for the sink, flung her apron in a corner, and began scrubbing her arms and face in a torrent of water.
“Jimmy, get the mop! Go clean it!” Jalen’s dad yelled at a stringy young man with tattoos covering his arms, who was busy loading the dishwasher. “And put on your hat!”
Jimmy slapped a white paper hat on his head, grabbed the mop, and headed out into the war zone.
“Jalen, you have to take this out for me. I can’t go out like this, and I’ve got rice balls to do and table three’s been waiting too long already.” Without pause, Jalen’s dad handed him the two dinner plates. �
�Table seven.”
Jalen gave James Yager an embarrassed look.
“Help your dad.” Yager spoke in a low voice.
“I’m sorry.” Jalen’s dad gave Yager a glance as he got back to his stove. “I’ll talk to you in a minute.”
“He doesn’t mean to be rude,” Jalen said. “He’s just working.”
“Take the food.” Yager nodded toward the dining room. “I’m fine.”
Jalen backed out through the swinging doors. He ignored the college kids laughing uproariously in the corner and delivered the food to table seven with as much dignity as he could muster. The serious middle-aged couple were blinking at the booth with the students now, not happy.
“Can I offer you some fresh ground pepper?” Jalen tried to place himself in their sight line to block their view of the corner booth. One of the kids let out an outrageous fart, and they all laughed hysterically.
The man looked around Jalen before asking him, “Can someone please get them to quiet down?”
“Uh, yes,” Jalen said, wondering what they thought a twelve-year-old kid was going to do. “Buon appetito.”
He retreated to the kitchen, where Greta was now crying and his father was putting out a small fire on the stove. Jalen wanted to cry himself when he saw another burning welt on his father’s forearm.
“Dad, seven wants someone to get those college kids to be quiet.”
His father placed the fried rice balls onto a small plate, doused them in red sauce, and added his pinches of basil, salt, and this time pepper before he looked up. “Greta, you cannot cry. You gotta take this to table three, and I gotta get those boys to stop-a the noise. I got a stuffed calamari in the oven.”
His father flipped off his apron, mopped his brow, and looked up at Yager. “I think I see you before. In a shaving commercial. For the razors, no?”
“That’d be me.” Yager rubbed his chin. “Maybe I can help with the kids in the corner. You keep cooking.”
Jalen’s father’s eyes twinkled with delight. “Jalen, did you bring me an angel from above?”