Stealing Home

by Todd Hafer

  “Robyn,” the word flopped out of Cody’s mouth before he could reel it back in.

  “Yeah, that’s right, Robyn. She a…uh…friend of yours?”

  Cody shook his head wearily. “Yeah,” he sighed, “I guess so.”

  “I take it you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You take it correctly.”

  “Oh. Well, you wanna head back over to the diamond? I was terrible at the plate today. You think you could pitch me a few so I can work on my swing?”

  Cody sandwiched his head between his hands for a moment. “You know what, Murph? Let’s do it another time, okay? I’m kinda tired and stressed, and I think I need to go home and have a nervous breakdown now.”

  After Murph shrugged and headed back to the diamond, Cody felt the pull, like that of an electromagnet, trying to draw him back to the park. But he knew he couldn’t go. “You make an exit speech like that,” he whispered to himself, “you gotta stay exited.” He slid off his baseball cleats, pulled on his running shoes, and began a slow trot home.

  There was a note taped to the front door when he arrived. It was written in Beth’s loopy cursive hand, which Cody thought looked like a sixth grader’s penmanship.

  Dear Cody,

  Sorry we missed your game. We hit heavy traffic on the way back from our lunch date in Denver. Super sorry about that. We’ve gone for a walk. Look forward to hearing about the big game when we get back.

  “Yeah,” Cody muttered sarcastically, “I bet you look forward to it.” Sure, Beth would ask about the game. She was good about that—always asking him how his workouts were going, which sports he planned to play in high school. But he wasn’t sure why she was asking. Was she really interested, or was she just trying to get him to accept her as his dad’s girlfriend—and the person who might someday be his step—he couldn’t even allow himself to think the word, much less say it.

  “The world is officially nuts,” he said, searching the refrigerator for a snack. “I’m almost fourteen and a half years old and I don’t have a girlfriend. My dad’s forty-two and he does. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  He slung his body across the couch and tried to find something worth watching on television. A bowling tournament was the most interesting thing he could find. “Scary,” he said.

  Through the epic fifth frame of the tournament, Cody battled the urge to call Pork Chop. Let him call me, he huffed to himself. I can’t believe he didn’t just walk away with me. What does he have to lose? Everyone at school knows he’s the man. Still, if he got hurt—

  Before the sixth frame ended, the urge beat Cody. He dialed the Porter house and got a busy signal. He hit the redial button ten times, with the same result.

  He had begun to pace the living room when the phone rang. He almost dove on it like it was a fumble in the end zone. He was surprised that, when he heard Robyn’s voice on the other end of the line, he wasn’t disappointed—much.

  “Hey, Hart,” he said. “I gotta know—did you hear anything about the fight? I heard you walked away.”

  “Well,” she said, her voice like cotton candy, “I started to, but then I went back. I had to, you know, so someone could tell you if your speech worked. And by the way, it was awesome, Cody. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Hart,” he said. “You know, I kind of owe it all to you. Remember how you stood up for Greta this past year, when everybody was doggin’ her in the halls at school? I guess I figured that if you could do it, so could I. You kinda inspired me, or something. Besides, if I hadn’t stepped in, you probably would have, huh?”

  “Are you crazy? Get between Alston and Porter when they’re both in a macho rage? I like my face just the way it is, thank you very much.”

  “So do I.” Cody regretted the words as soon as they tumbled from his lips.

  “What a nice thing to say, Cody. Thanks!”

  “Anyway, Hart,” he added quickly, “what happened? Did they end up fighting? I mean, I’ve called Chop, like, a hundred times, and—”

  “Cody.” Robyn’s voice was still feather soft, but there was authority in it. There was weight to it. It reminded him of his mother’s voice. “You need to chill,” she said. “There was no fight.”

  “Really? That’s great! But how?”

  “I’ll tell you how. After you left, Chop and Alston are just standing there, like two macho idiots. Finally, Alston says, ‘You gonna do something, Porter, then do it. I’m not gonna stand here all night.’

  “Then Porter, clever dude that he is, replies, ‘Why don’t you do something?’ This is followed by more staring and glaring. A few of the kids on bikes shake their heads and pedal away. Your friend Mr. Porter looks desperately uncomfortable. But I know he’s not going to back down. So I walk down toward the deep end, and I tell him I need to talk to him about something. I figure that way, I can step in without really stepping in, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyway, Pork Chop starts backing off. But he’s still yapping as he’s moving. ‘No way is this over,’ he tells Alston.

  “Alston says, ‘You got that right. You get back in my face, and I’m crackin’ your oversize skull!’

  “‘Don’t you mean my oversize black skull?’ Chop asks. And the tension is as thick as tar. Something comes over Alston. He actually looks ashamed, or at least embarrassed. He looks like he wants to squirm out of his own skin, like one of those snakes on the Discovery Channel.

  “Everything is all quiet for a minute or so. Then Alston looks down and says, ‘Look, what I said before—I shouldn’t have said that, okay? I don’t know where that came from. I’m not a racist or anything. I don’t roll like that.’”

  Cody whistled through his teeth. “Whoa! Alston said that? That’s almost like an apology. That would be two apologies from him in the same year! I can’t believe it.”

  “I don’t think Chop could believe it, either. Now it’s his turn to look like he’s been stun gunned. He’s shaking his head and frowning, like he’s concentrating on something really important to him.”

  “Like dinner.”

  “Ha ha ha. So anyway, Chop finally shrugs his shoulders and says, ‘Okay, TA, but this doesn’t change the beating I’m gonna put on you someday.’

  “‘Yeah, right,’ Alston says. ‘We’ll see.’ Before Chop can retort, the Evans twins, God bless ’em, they drag him out of the pool before his mouth ends the truce.”

  “I am so relieved, Hart. I was praying that no blood would get spilled in the pool.”

  “I guess Chop’s guardian angels were working overtime. Hey, Code, what is it about you guys and your man-egos, anyway?”

  “I have no idea. I’m fresh outta answers on that one.”

  “Well, try this question, then. I have to know—how did you find the strength to walk away? It must have been so hard not to stick around and see what would happen, especially with your best friend involved.”

  Cody laughed sadly. “Yeah, it was. But, on the other hand, I was so disgusted about the whole thing. And I didn’t want to see Chop get hurt. I’m not saying Alston could take him, but he is older than the rest of us. And he gets in lots of fights. Chop almost never does. He doesn’t have to. He just flexes those biceps, puffs out his chest, and that’s enough to strike terror in most people’s hearts.”

  Cody heard a click on the line. “Uh,” Robyn said, a hint of apology in her voice, “that’s the other line, and I better take it. My mom’s supposed to be calling.”

  “That’s cool, Hart. I’ll see you around. And thanks again for what you did today.”

  “You did the hard part. Till whenever, then—”

  Chapter 3

  High Heat

  Cody called the Porter house five more times over the weekend, leaving messages for Pork Chop each time.

  On Monday afternoon Pork Chop’s brother dropped him off for practice, and Cody walked purposefully to his friend.

  “Hey, Code,” Chop said with a forced laugh. “How you livin�
��?”

  “I don’t know, Chop. How’s your answering machine—still working?”

  “Look, dawg, I’m sorry, okay? I know you called me a bunch, and I shoulda hit you back. I just had a lot of thinking to do this weekend.”

  Cody leveled his eyes on Chop. “You get anything sorted out?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m trying to figure out who to be mad at—who needs to get rocked.”

  Cody sighed. “Maybe nobody does. Maybe we all just need to focus on the sport at hand. Maybe some of us could focus on being teammates instead of enemies.”

  Pork Chop gave a noncommittal nod. “Maybe. We do have the Plainsmen coming up this weekend. Those guys are tough.”

  Cody watched Alston and Chop carefully through the week’s practices. They didn’t speak much, but that was okay, because that meant no trash-talking. He felt nervousness buzzing in his stomach during Wednesday’s practice, when Alston and Chop found themselves throwing to each other.

  The tosses got progressively harder, as each tried to force a yelp of pain—or at least a wince or grimace—out of the other. But both remained stone-faced, even though their throws were hitting the respective mitts with the angriest smacks and pops Cody had ever heard—at least since the Rockies faced Madison the previous season.

  The Plainsmen were a collection of players from a handful of tiny towns, like Grant, that dotted Colorado’s eastern plains. They were always one of the toughest teams in the USBL, and they usually won their share of trophies at various independent tournaments. Not surprisingly, the Plainsmen came to the Grant baseball and softball complex riding a five-game winning streak, including a first-place finish at a big three-day tournament in Kansas.

  After five innings, it appeared the streak was due to be snapped. Grant held a 3–1 lead, and Bart Evans hadn’t allowed a base hit since the first inning. Meanwhile, Alston had two doubles, and Pork Chop had launched his second homer of the season, a towering shot to right field. Cody was the first person out of the dugout to congratulate him as he trotted home and jumped on the plate with both feet.

  Cody led off the bottom of the sixth, still hoping for his first base hit of the young season. Coach Lathrop’s going to pull me from the leadoff spot if I go hitless this game, he scolded himself as he assumed his stance.

  Harris, the Plainsmen hurler, was lanky and had a herky-jerky delivery that made it hard for Cody to time his pitches. He had struck out swinging on his first two trips to the plate—then hit a high pop-up that the Plainsmen catcher barely had to move to catch.

  Come on, Harris, Cody thought, just give me one pitch I can hit, since my dad’s here to watch me.

  Harris’s first offering was an ankle-high fastball that Cody nearly swung at. He was way out in front of the second pitch, swinging so hard that he felt he might corkscrew himself into the ground.

  He saw Harris smirk as he snagged the throw from his catcher. Cody wanted to charge the mound and force-feed the baseball to the pitcher. Oh, Harris, he thought, I’d love to see you try that smirk with a mouthful of horsehide.

  Harris’s third pitch was a fastball right down the middle of the plate. Cody was so enthralled with the image of mashing a baseball into Harris’s mouth that he didn’t even have time to think about swinging.

  Harris shook his head, as if amused by the whole situation.

  Cody took a deep breath as he stepped out of the batter’s box to collect himself.

  Dear God, he prayed silently, help me to get a grip on my temper. I know that self-control is part of the fruit of the Spirit. Apparently, for me, that part of the fruit isn’t ripe yet.

  “He’s got a little hitch in his delivery. Don’t get fooled by that,” Cody heard a voice say. “You wait for your pitch. Be patient, dude!”

  Whose voice is that? Cody wondered as he stepped back into the batter’s box. Then it hit him. The voice belonged to Beth. Great, he thought, now my dad’s girlfriend is giving me hitting advice.

  He watched Harris go into his windup. He tightened his grip on his bat. Harris began to bring his soda-straw right arm forward. Then, as if posing for a quick photo opportunity, he stopped his motion for just a moment.

  Well, how about that, Cody thought as he studied the fastball coming toward him, belt high. He does have a hitch in his delivery.

  Cody felt the loud metallic click when the sweet spot of his bat met Harris’s pitch. The Plainsmen center fielder was playing Cody too shallow, and he had no chance to field the bullet line drive that caromed off the fence in straightaway center field—275 feet from home plate.

  Cody made a wide turn at first, then hustled back to the bag when the Plainsmen’s second baseman cut off the throw from the outfield. He risked a glance to the bleachers behind home plate and saw Beth pumping her fist in the air and nodding approvingly, like a black-haired bobble-head doll.

  Cody allowed himself a small smile as he took his lead from first.

  Okay, Lord, he prayed, I just got my first hit of the season, thanks to advice from a girl. I guess the Bible wasn’t kidding when it says you work in mysterious ways.

  Alston followed Cody with a strong at bat. With the count at 3–2, he fouled off four straight fastballs before a frustrated Harris missed with a slider, giving the Rockies base runners on first and second.

  Brett Evans swung on his first pitch, an inside fastball just above his hands. Harris fielded the resulting weak come-backer to the mound, then turned and threw to second in time to put out a hard-sliding Alston. And the second baseman, leaping to avoid Alston’s cleats, fired a frozen rope to first to nail Evans by half a step.

  Cody made it to third on the play, but he knew his team had missed a chance to blow the game wide open.

  Harris, realizing his team had dodged a bullet, carefully painted the inside corners of the strike zone throughout Pork Chop’s at bat. With the count at 2– 2, Chop tried to muscle a pitch over the fence in right, but the Plainsmen fielder snared it on the warning track, giving the visitors a chance for a final-inning victory.

  Bart Evans struck out the first batter he faced, but then issued two walks. Harris helped his own cause with a double to the gap in left center, tying the score at 3–3. Harris then stole third on an Evans changeup to the Plainsmen catcher.

  Bart bore down and struck out the catcher, bringing up the shortstop.

  This should be an easy out, Cody thought. Their shortstop looks like he’s about twelve. I don’t think he’s gotten the bat off his shoulder all afternoon.

  “Come on, Milo,” Cody heard the Plainsmen coach bellow. “Be a big stick out there, boy!”

  “I’d much prefer it if you’d be a little stick, Milo,” Cody whispered. “How about a carrot stick? Or a matchstick? Come on, Milo. We need another win. How ’bout throwing us a bone, okay?”

  Milo stood statue-like as two Bart Evans curveballs looped in for called strikes.

  “That’s it, Bart,” Cody muttered. “Throw this stiff one more hook, and we’re in business.”

  Evans did go to his curve again, but Milo was ready. He chopped down at the ball, like a little child swatting a bee. The ball nose-dived to the infield grass and then began rolling, as if in slow motion, toward the left of the pitcher’s mound.

  Bart’s momentum had taken him away from the direction of the hit, but he quickly gathered himself and veered toward the ball. Murphy, however, was charging in from short. “Mine!” he yelled. Bart obediently stopped.

  Murphy sprinted toward the ball. Cody could tell he was going to bare-hand it and fire it to Chop.

  Milo was dashing to first base, but it looked like Murphy would make the play.

  Until, that is, he overran the ball and came up with nothing but a handful of air—and a few blades of grass. Harris loped in to score.

  The Rockies got the next batter out but were unable to overcome the visitors’ momentum in the bottom of the inning. Harris registered three straight strikeouts to clinch the win, then ran to Milo, hoisting him high in the air.
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  Cody found Murphy huddled in a corner of one of the softball dugouts, as far away from the baseball dugouts as one could get and still be within the complex. His chin drooped to his chest and he was muttering something. At first Cody thought he was praying. But after hearing a bit of the language the third baseman was using, he knew this was no prayer.

  “Hey, Murph,” he said. “That was a tough play you tried to make. Those slow rollers are killers. You okay?”

  Murphy didn’t look up. “Yeah, I guess so. I’m so stupid. Coach is probably going to bench me next game. I’m sorry I lost us the game.”

  Cody sat next to his teammate. “You didn’t lose it. I mean, look at me, going one-for-four. I’m not even hitting my weight so far this season.”

  Murphy smacked his hand on the bench. “At least you didn’t make an error. You know, last season I didn’t make a single error. And the year before that I had only two. Now this. My concentration is lousy lately. It’s just—”

  Cody cocked his head. “Just what?”

  Murphy looked at him briefly and then turned away. “You lost your mom a while ago. To cancer, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, my mom has it, too. It started as breast cancer but now it’s everywhere. Her bones, her brain. Everywhere.”

  Cody exhaled slowly. Please, God, he prayed. Help me help Murph. Help me be strong. Help me to focus on him, not my own sadness, which feels like it might swallow me again.

  He studied Murphy’s sullen face for a few moments and then said slowly, “I know what you mean. It was the same thing with my mom. It’s hard to play carrying that kind of weight around inside. It’s hard to focus. You try to get away from it, but it just keeps creeping back on you.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Does Coach know about your situation?”

  “No. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Have my dad write a note that says, ‘Please excuse AJ if he occasionally plays like a stiff. His mom is dying’? Besides, I don’t get the impression that Coach Lathrop would care. He’s one cold dude.”