by Tim Green
Yager shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Okay. Thanks.”
The two players sat on either side of Jalen.
“Okay,” Jeter said, pointing to the screen. “Let’s do this.”
Jalen took a deep breath. “Fastball.”
It was.
The next pitch was as well, and the next. Yager sighed, but Jalen kept his eyes on the screen.
“Changeup,” Jalen said.
De La Rosa threw a changeup.
“Curve,” said Jalen.
A curve it was. Logan Forsythe hit it, putting two on.
“Hey, hey.” Jeter patted Jalen on the back, flooding him with warmth.
“Fastball.”
It was.
“Slider.”
It was.
“Changeup.”
Miller struck out, ending the inning.
“Yup.” Jeter stood up, clicked off the TV, and looked at Yager with a serious face. “He’s real.”
“Just like that?” Yager’s mouth hung open.
“Yeah, James.” Jeter pointed to the darkened screen. “He did it. Exactly what you told me he could do on the phone.”
“But . . . you don’t want to see more?” Yager asked. “It could be luck.”
Jeter turned to Jalen. “Can you do that all the time, or was it luck?”
Jalen stuttered. “I—uh—yes, I can do it.”
“You think this kid would lie?” Jeter chuckled and thumped Yager on the back like he’d just hit a home run. “Come on. Don’t be afraid.”
“Afraid?” Yager stiffened.
“Yeah,” Jeter said. “Sometimes people are. Sometimes you get exactly what you need, and you’re afraid because it seems too good to be true. Don’t do that, James. Let it be that good. Get out there tomorrow night and knock it out of the park. I’ll be watching.”
“You’re coming to the game?” Yager wrinkled his face.
Jeter laughed and pointed to the TV. “No. You know I hate being there without a bat in my hand. I’ll watch, though. Promise.”
“Okay, well . . .” Yager still seemed uncertain, but he hugged his friend. “Thanks. I really, really appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
Jalen followed Yager out of the room, and Jeter saw them to the front door. Jalen couldn’t help stealing another look at the incredible view.
“Hey Jalen,” Jeter said at the door.
“Yes, sir?”
“Have fun.”
“Fun?” Jalen scowled, trying to figure out what the star ballplayer meant.
“Yeah.” Jeter smiled a bright-white smile. “I mean, it’s a gift, right? That thing you do. Enjoy it. Have fun.”
Jalen’s face relaxed, and he nodded and shook Jeter’s hand one more time before they left. A daze clouded his mind until the sign ROCKTON 10 MILES jumped out at him from the roadside. Jalen felt a sudden panic when he looked at the clock and it said 17:43. He did a quick calculation, subtracting twelve from seventeen and getting 5:43. He let out a sigh, but then furrowed his brow because he had no idea how they could be back so fast.
“Wait, is that really the time?” Jalen pointed across the steering wheel at the glowing numbers on the other side of the speedometer, where the needle floated between eighty and ninety.
Yager glanced down. “Uh . . . let’s see . . . no, I forgot to adjust it to daylight savings. I hate that daylights savings. It should really say eighteen forty-three.”
“That’s . . .” Jalen bolted upright in his seat. “That’s six forty-three, now six forty-four. I’ve got practice at seven!”
“Well . . .” Yager shrugged. “A couple minutes won’t matter, right?”
Jalen’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes it will. I can’t be late. I can’t.”
“I can’t go much faster.” Yager swerved smoothly between two cars.
“Oh no. Oh no.” Jalen felt his insides turn to mush. “That stupid traffic in the city. I can’t be late. You promised. I’ll lose my spot. I can’t believe you did this!”
“Hey, easy, kid,” Yager said. “Relax.”
“I can’t relax. You don’t understand. This is all your fault!” Jalen pounded a fist on the dashboard. “You don’t believe me? Why? I keep showing you, and now you’re going to ruin everything!”
Yager frowned, downshifted the car, and surged ahead. Speed pressed Jalen back into the seat, and he pointed the way to Simon Park once they soared off the highway. When Yager pulled over before the entrance to the park, Jalen’s mouth fell open. “What are you doing?”
Yager shook his head. “I can’t let them see me.”
“You . . .” Jalen was so furious he couldn’t speak.
“You better run,” Yager said, nodding at the clock, which read 6:59. “I’ll see you at the diner tomorrow about three thirty.”
All the problems in Jalen’s life piled up behind a dam in his mind: his dad making sandwiches and the bank taking the diner, Chris Gamble hating him, and him missing Thursday’s practice, but first and foremost was being late right now. Jalen wanted to explode and somehow force Yager to drive right into the park. What did it matter if people knew he was a baseball genius, the kid who would save Yager’s career? They’d find out eventually, wouldn’t they?
No matter what he might say, though, Jalen could clearly read the look on Yager’s face. The ballplayer wasn’t going to budge. So Jalen flung the door open and took off, praying Coach Gamble’s watch was slow.
44
JALEN SUCKED AIR THROUGH HIS dry mouth. His lungs burned, and he sprinted the last fifty yards when he heard Coach Gamble’s whistle and the rest of the team circled up. Daniel looked at him with wide eyes and a lower lip pinned under his teeth.
“You barely made it, DeLuca.” The giant coach looked up from his watch and cast a dirty look at Jalen before addressing the team. “Okay. Day two. A lot like day one, only we’ll do some live pitching to end things. One line behind home plate, let’s go!”
Jalen fell in with his teammates and ran the bases, gasping for breath and stumbling across home plate on the last lap. They went right to a long-toss drill to loosen up their arms, and Jalen found himself next to Chris.
“You’re hanging by a thread, Sandwich.” Chris threw the ball without looking at Jalen. “I can feel it. You won’t make it more than two weeks, is my bet.”
Jalen gritted his teeth. He ached to tell this big jerk where he’d just been—Derek Jeter’s hotel suite—and what he was about to do—save the career of the Yankees’ star second baseman—but there was nothing he could say.
“What?” Chris snatched the ball Dirk threw to him out of the air. “You got nothing to say? You only write notes and stick them on people’s backs, huh? I figured.”
Jalen tried to focus on his skills. He wanted to make himself better. He felt certain he needed to be much better than anyone else if he was going to break into the Rockets lineup. It was no use, though. Jalen couldn’t concentrate. He muffed pop flies and dropped throws. His own tosses were off target, and by the time he stepped up to the plate at the end of practice, he was a bundle of nerves. Of course it wasn’t Daniel or another less-skilled pitcher Jalen had to face. It was Chris atop the mound, casting multiple shadows beneath the field lights shining above.
The idea of somehow pulling himself out of his funk by smacking several pitches over the fence quickly disappeared. Even though Jalen knew each and every pitch he was going to get, his timing was off. After the first couple of strikes, he let his shoulder rise up again, cursing the advice Yager had given him. Two more fastballs screamed by him, with his bat whistling in the wind, before he lowered his shoulder again. Chris’s grin grew and grew until it looked like his face must be hurting.
Ten pitches were what each player got from a live pitcher.
Jalen didn’t hit a single one of his, not even a foul ball, not even a tick.
He thumped the bat on the ground and marched back to the dugout to get his glove and take a spot in the field. He tried to i
gnore the soft chuckling from Chris, atop the mound, as he jogged out into the outfield.
Daniel stepped up to the plate next and blasted seven out of ten, confirming that Chris wasn’t invincible. After two more batters, Coach Gamble blew his whistle and brought everyone into a circle at home plate. He checked his clipboard and looked up. “Okay, not a bad night. Thursday, same time. Those of you who struggled hitting tonight might want to see if you can get to the Pro Swing in White Plains. . . .”
Jalen expected the coach to make eye contact with him and he braced himself for it, relieved that it didn’t come. They all put their hands in for a chant and broke to the cry of, “Champions!”
Jalen hung his head and headed for the dugout along with everyone else. He had nearly reached his equipment bag when he heard someone call his name.
Jalen turned and saw that it was Coach Benning. He and Coach Gamble stood at home plate, right where Jalen had left them. Coach Benning crooked his finger and Jalen returned.
Coach Gamble scowled down at him. “Jalen, we need to talk. Coach Benning and I aren’t sure this is working out.”
45
JALEN COULD HEAR THE CRICKETS chirping among the trees where the picnic tables stood and the thunk of car doors as his teammates got swallowed up by their rides. The two men looked at each other, Coach Benning squinting up at Coach Gamble in the thin light with a nod. Their boys had disappeared somewhere, and Jalen wondered if they were watching from some secret spot.
“Well . . .” Coach Gamble cleared his throat and touched the brim of his cap. “You almost did us all a favor and showed up late. That would’ve made things easy, because we don’t bend our rules.”
The coaches looked at each other in obvious agreement.
Coach Gamble turned back to Jalen to study his face. “You look upset, Jalen, and we don’t want you to be upset.”
Jalen stiffened at the sound of Coach Gamble’s softened voice, certain that something bad was sure to follow.
“It’s just that . . .” Here Coach Gamble seemed to pass the baton of speaking to Coach Benning.
“You know this team is all about winning,” said Coach Benning.
Coach Gamble nodded. “It’s all about winning. That’s the only thing, and we know it wasn’t—isn’t—an easy thing for your dad from a money standpoint and . . . to be honest?” Coach Gamble paused, forcing a smile. “You want me to be honest, right, Jalen?”
Jalen could only dip his head. Somehow the two coaches being nice to him created more discomfort than if they were growling with anger.
“Right, and well, sometimes you play outside yourself,” Coach Gamble continued. “And that’s what I think happened last week when you played us, the A’s. You played outside yourself and made an impression.”
“A very good impression,” said Coach Benning.
“An excellent impression,” said Coach Gamble.
Jalen looked up at the enormous man and saw that the wiry hairs in his nose had been cut back. He could still see them, though, lurking beneath the shadow of his nostrils and somehow looking even more dangerous.
“But now,” Coach Gamble continued, “after a couple practices, we see that your skills aren’t really up to the rest of these guys and—with the money situation and your dad having to make all those sandwiches—we thought we’d give you a chance to get your money back. It’s not too late.”
Jalen felt the earth shifting beneath his feet. “You . . . don’t want me?”
“Oh, we want you.” Coach Benning nodded furiously. “But it doesn’t seem like it’s going to be all that good of an experience for you.”
“We think you’ll struggle,” Coach Benning added.
Jalen’s face felt like he’d gotten too many shots from the dentist. He felt like he should know what they meant, but they were saying one thing when it also seemed like they meant something else. His thoughts were muddled by the horror of being kicked off the team when he’d made it on time after all. He hadn’t even asked to skip Thursday night yet. “You don’t think I’m good enough,” Jalen said, “but you’ll keep me anyway? As long as I don’t break the rules?”
“We wanted you to know that you still could get your money back because we really don’t know how much playing time you’re going to get this summer.” Coach Gamble seemed relieved to have his cards out on the table.
Jalen bit his lip. They’d actually hoped he’d be late. If he was late, they could have gotten rid of him without a problem, but the reason they didn’t want him was because they thought he wasn’t good enough. He was good enough. He just needed a calmer head to prove it. He saw a clear path, too. If he helped James Yager, he’d get the tweet that would save his father’s business. Also, Yager would be so overjoyed, he and Jalen would be even. Jalen’s cloud of guilt over everything that had happened would be blown away. With a clear head, he’d be back to his normal self on the baseball diamond.
He just needed to hang on.
“Well,” Jalen said after pretending to think about it, “I’d like to stay.”
“He’d like to stay.” Coach Gamble looked at Coach Benning like the other man had done something wrong.
“Yes,” Coach Benning said. “That’s what he said.”
“But you don’t have to tell us right now.” Coach Gamble put a beefy hand on Jalen’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You need to take more time to think about something this important. Maybe talk to your dad? The money and all . . .”
Jalen knew they weren’t going to take his answer, so he stayed quiet.
They all stood silently in a pool of discomfort until Coach Gamble angled his head toward the backstop. “Okay, Jalen. That’s it. We need to go over some things, so you can get on your way. We’ll see you Thursday. Don’t be late.” His voice had gone from falsely pleasant to gruff.
Jalen could see the blue pickup truck Daniel’s father drove waiting for him in the parking lot. The orange moon of Daniel’s face stared at Jalen through the glare of the window and he walked toward the truck, thinking about Thursday.
As he reached for the truck door to make his getaway, Jalen realized there was really nothing to worry about, because he had to get past tomorrow first.
46
JALEN HELPED AT THE DINER until he could barely keep his eyes open and his father ordered him home, where he lay down on top of his bed without getting undressed.
When he woke, it was to an earthquake of vibration and noise. The four a.m. train rarely did more than cause him to roll over. This time it woke him from a dream of bankers swarming the infield, and Coach Gamble hollering that his swing was late.
“If you can’t get a hit, you can’t make the team!” his coach bellowed at him from a lawn chair atop the dugout, while Chris ate onion rings and sneered at Jalen from the dugout below. The dream-words rang in Jalen’s ears as the trembling settled and the train eased into the station. After a few minutes, it hissed and tooted twice. Five hundred tons of train crept away. More crossing bells rang as it picked up speed, and then a warning horn sounded as it flashed through town. Jalen tried to go back to sleep, but the blare of the horn faded like a mistaken warning cry amid the now-distant clatter of crossing bells. It was a haunting sound that stayed in his mind, warning of some trouble ahead.
Jalen got up in the dark, wide awake.
He ran the water in the sink and brushed his teeth. The puffy-eyed boy in the mirror didn’t look like someone who could save a baseball career, not even his own, let alone a famous Yankee player’s.
Jalen slipped on his shoes and went out the back. He walked the tracks to the diner, where the newspaper lay like a dead fish on the steps. Jalen looked around for any sign of the guy who delivered it. Puffs of breath left his mouth, glowing in the streetlight before going the way of real ghosts. Jalen could smell the Dumpster from where he stood, and he fretted over whether they’d pick up the trash before Yager stopped by before the game to have his photo taken with a plate of stuffed calamari.
&nbs
p; He returned home, tiptoeing inside with a shiver. In the narrow front room—which was kitchen, dining area, and living room all rolled into one—he took up his spot in a rickety chair whose faded cushion provided minimum comfort but offered the best reading light there was to be had. He pored over the sports section, seeing that Derek Holton would be the pitcher Yager would have to face. Jalen scowled, wondering why everything had to go against him. Holton was the White Sox’s ace. He was a lefty who hid the ball and threw high heat with a rear sidearm motion. Holton had more horizontal movement on his fastball than Randy Johnson, and a lot of people said his slider was his nastiest pitch. For Yager, as a right-handed batter, that slider would be like an outside pitch at the belt that could cross the inside of the plate at his knees. Holton was a beast.
Jalen closed his eyes and—like magic—there it was, a billboard busy with a million numbers and graphs in his brain, every stat and tendency Derek Holton had generated since he’d entered professional baseball. He didn’t visualize it to study but rather to assure himself it was all there, and it was. He didn’t want to think about how it all worked; it just did, and the times he’d tried to name it were the times he’d stumbled and crumbled and failed. Thinking about it too much, and certainly trying to study it, ruined everything.
In fourth grade, Mrs. Boehr said he was off the charts for the state math test they’d taken as a practice before the real thing. With great joy and trembling hands, she informed Jalen that he might be a savant. Jalen didn’t want to be a savant. He wanted to be a second baseman for the Yankees, and Mrs. Boehr’s excitement had scared him because adults weren’t supposed to be silly with glee. The next week a man with a thick gray beard and glasses appeared to take Jalen out of class for more tests.
Jalen watched the man from the corner of his eye as he selected the answers to the problems before him on a multiple-choice exam. He could tell they were supposed to get harder and harder, but the first was as easy as the next. The man’s eyes got wide and his foot began to tap the floor after Jalen got number 23 correct. Jalen heard the man whisper, “Yes!” to himself and pump his fist, and that scared him. After that, Jalen was careful to answer incorrectly, even after the man made him stop and look him directly in the eyes.