High Heat

by Carl Deuker

  "Don't worry about me, Miguel. Just pitch."

  "You're better than me."

  I laughed. "I'm terrible."

  Grandison's voice boomed across the field. "Miguel, come here."

  "You'll make it back," Alvarez said before jogging off.

  He was taking my position from me, but I still liked him. In another time and place, he could have been a friend.

  We had a game Wednesday afternoon against Edmonds. I sat at the end of the bench next to Alvarez, as usual. Only he was the one fighting to keep his nervous energy under control, and I was the guy just watching.

  Edmonds broke on top with three runs in the second inning on an error, two walks, and a bases-clearing double down the line. But we fought back, scratching out single runs in the third and fourth innings, before breaking through for three runs in the top of the sixth. When Hank Fowler got the third out in Edmonds' half of the sixth, Grandison called down the bench. "Get loose, Miguel. You're pitching the seventh." We didn't score in the top of the seventh, so our lead was 5–3 as Alvarez made his way to the mound to pitch the bottom of the seventh.

  Alvarez hadn't done anything, but by his third warm-up pitch sweat was pouring down his forehead. Usually he had a smile on his face, but he was all business. And he was on. He fired strike after strike. His arm was loose and free—the way mine used to be. He struck out the first Edmonds hitter on three pitches, got the next batter on a grounder to third. The final hitter lifted an easy fly ball out toward Jim Wilson in right field. Wilson settled under it and squeezed it for the third out.

  The guys surrounded Alvarez at the mound, pounding him on the back. His grin went from one side of his face to the other. I joined them. "Way to go, Miguel," I said.

  "Thanks, Shane. Thanks a lot."

  CHAPTER 21

  That night I dreamed I was riding my bicycle in the international district, and my dad was driving along in the car next to me. I had my old dirt bike, and I did a wheelie along the sidewalk, a great wheelie, only I smashed into this old Chinese lady's table. The table was made of thin little boards, and they all splintered from the impact.

  "I'm sorry," I said, but she didn't seem to hear.

  "My table, my table," she said over and over. Then she started picking up the splintered pieces and trying to piece them together again.

  My dad jumped out of his car and came running over. Immediately he pulled out his wallet and gave her one hundred dollars. "Here. Take it. It's more than the table is worth."

  The woman didn't stop wailing. "My table, my table, my table."

  "Take the money," my dad said angrily. I looked at him, afraid he might hit the old woman. It wasn't his normal face that I saw. Instead, it was that ridiculous, grinning face that had stared down at motorists from the billboard above his dealership on Aurora Avenue. I woke up, my heart racing, my forehead covered in sweat.

  I lay there until my heartbeat settled, then went downstairs and made some hot chocolate. As I drank it, I looked out the window. The streetlight must have been out, because everything was incredibly dark. I stared into the darkness and thought about Alvarez and Grandison and pitching. There was nothing to be mad about. Everything ends sometime.

  I finished the hot chocolate, but instead of returning to my room, I sat thinking of my dad, wondering what it would be like to be dead. Always before, I'd thought that I didn't want to die, not ever, no matter how old or how sick I was. But that night death seemed peaceful and not scary. It would be like being lost in the darkness, where no one could ever find you.

  I spent the next practices running down fly balls in right field. I was okay; I knew how to hit the cutoff man and all that. Grandison gave me a double shift during batting practice, and I managed a few decent hits. But I didn't hit as well as Jim Wilson, and I didn't field as well as he did either. At the end of practice on Friday, Grandison called me over. "I thought you might dog it on me, Shane, but you're working hard, and I'm impressed. Since you've been straight with me, I'll be straight with you. Miguel is going to close out our games for the rest of the year. I'll try to get you an inning or two in right field if I can, but I don't guarantee anything. You may not play again this year."

  After that, the season seemed to leak away. Alvarez was okay as a closer but not great. He could bust the ball right by weak hitters, but his fastball was too straight, and the really good hitters drilled him. We lost three of our last six games, two of them in the last inning. I didn't play at all.

  I followed Shorelake's season in the newspaper and on the Internet. They finished more poorly than we did, dropping five of their last six. Reese managed a hit now and then, but not too many. It seemed unbelievable that a team once ranked number one in the state could fail to make the playoffs, yet that's what happened.

  Coach Grandison gave me a ride home after our last game. "I know this season went sour on you, but I still want you to turn out again next year," he said as I stepped out of the van.

  "Why?" I said, surprised he cared. "You've got enough outfielders without me."

  "I know I've got outfielders; I still want you to turn out."

  I shook my head. "I don't know."

  "Think about it, okay?"

  I shrugged. "Sure, I'll think about it."

  As I watched his van disappear around a corner, I knew that I'd played my last game. For a moment I felt guilty. My dad wouldn't have wanted me to quit. He would have told me to work hard and come back strong to show everybody what I was really made of. I could almost hear him say it.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 1

  I was in the kitchen on a Saturday morning eating breakfast. The school year had ended. Mom was at the sink washing dishes. "Have you thought about what you're going to do this summer?" she asked. It was at least the tenth time she'd asked that question in the last week.

  "I told you. I'll get a job or something," I said.

  "I talked to the manager at Pasta Bella. I can get you work at the restaurant, washing dishes or maybe being a busboy."

  "I don't want to work in a restaurant."

  "I don't want you to work in a restaurant either. But you're not going to sit around for two and a half months."

  "Marian doesn't have anything to do. You're not on her all the time."

  "Marian's signed up for a bunch of different camps at the community center. Besides, Marian's different."

  That made me mad. "Why? Because I was arrested and she wasn't?"

  "I wouldn't have put it that way, but yes."

  "I'm done with that. I've told you. You don't have to worry."

  She turned and faced me. "Great. I'm glad I don't. But I still want you to have something to do this summer. So if you don't get a job on your own, you're going to work at Pasta Bella." She paused. "You know, Shane, we're not rich. If you earned some money, it would help."

  That afternoon I took the bus to Northgate Mall. At store after store I filled out application forms. The managers would take the forms and stick them in a file. "We're not hiring now, but if somebody quits or doesn't work out, we'll give you a call."

  For a couple of days I sulked around the house, feeling guilty but still dreading the day when I'd have to start washing dishes. Mom kept looking at me, and I knew I couldn't hold out much longer. I was just about to give up when I got the phone call.

  It wasn't from any store manager at Northgate; it was from Coach Grandison. I was surprised to hear his voice and even more surprised to hear his offer. "I've got a summer basketball league starting, and I need referees. You interested? It pays twelve dollars a game, and you'd do three games a day."

  "I sure am," I said. "Where?"

  "At Bitter Lake Community Center. The program goes all summer. You start tomorrow. A man named Matthew Falk is my partner. He'll train you."

  "Tomorrow?" I said.

  "Yeah. Tomorrow. Noon. Why? You doing something else?"

  "No. It's just that..."

  "What?"

  "Nothing. I'll be there.
"

  When I hung up, I felt excited and then confused. Why had Grandison called me? How did he know I was looking for a job?

  Just then Mom came into the room.

  "Did you ask Coach Grandison to get me a job?" I said.

  For a moment she didn't reply. When she finally spoke, her voice was clipped. "As a matter of fact, I did."

  That made me mad. "You should have asked me before you did that."

  "Why?"

  "Because I would have told you not to."

  "Oh, Shane, don't be such a child. There's nothing wrong with asking for help. You don't want to work at Pasta Bella, and I don't want you working there. If Coach Grandison can get you something better, take it."

  "You don't understand," I said. "I'm not going out for the baseball team next year. Grandison wouldn't give me this job if he knew that. He'd give it to somebody who is coming back."

  "How do you know that?"

  "It's obvious."

  She considered for a moment. "Okay, say you're right. Then let me ask you this. How do you know you won't turn out for baseball next year?"

  "I'm not turning out again. There's no way."

  "Do me a favor, Shane. Look where we are today, and think where we were a year ago. Then, if you're still certain you know what you'll be doing next year, call Coach Grandison and tell him you don't want the job and I'll get you the dishwashing job. Right now I'm going to the grocery store. You need anything?"

  Once she'd left, I let my eyes wander over the front room: the little sofa, the small television, the bookcases, the coffee table. It was so much my home that it was hard for me to remember the Sound Ridge house. And when I did picture that house, it seemed comically big and showy. Had it been only a year since I'd lived there?

  That night I got out the bus schedule. I'd have to transfer once, and of course the times didn't work out at all. The thought of standing at a bus stop every morning and every afternoon was depressing. I already felt sluggish and out of shape.

  Then an idea came to me. I could jog the two miles to the community center and then jog home at the end of the day. If I got to the center a little early, I could pump iron in the weight room. I could turn the job into a way to make money and get in shape.

  After breakfast the next morning, I laced up my shoes and headed off for Bitter Lake. For most of the way, I ran along Second Avenue, a quiet street without the traffic of Greenwood. I was right about my conditioning; by the time I reached Bitter Lake I was dragging.

  I headed straight for the weight room but stopped short when I saw the rates: three dollars for a single visit, twenty dollars for ten. "You want to do some lifting?" the man at the main counter called out.

  "Not now," I said, feeling my empty pocket. "Maybe tomorrow."

  "Go on in. Give it a try. See if you like it. In the summer it's free in the mornings to kids under eighteen."

  "Really?" I said. "It doesn't say that here."

  "It doesn't? Well, it should."

  I pushed the door open and stepped inside. There were maybe ten different stations, and at each station there was a chart explaining how to do the lift properly. I started with the bench press. I had nobody to spot me, so I had to keep the weights on the low side and do lots of repetitions, which is the right way to lift anyway. After the bench presses, I worked through squats and curls, all the regular stuff.

  It was hard work, but it was good to feel my muscles strain. I'd pump iron, then rest, then pump some more. When I finally looked up at the clock, it was nearly noon. I did two more reverse curls, then hustled to the gym to start my new job.

  I was nervous. I'd played basketball in grade school and junior high. I had a decent outside touch, but I wasn't fast enough to play guard, and I wasn't tall enough to play in the front court, so I lost interest. I knew the rules, or at least most of them, but I wasn't sure about the signals for blocking fouls and charges and that sort of thing.

  When I stepped onto the Bitter Lake gym, the first guy I saw was Miguel Alvarez. He smiled and called out, "You refereeing too?"

  "Yeah," I said, smiling back.

  Seeing him made me realize how much I liked the guy. You could tell he just wanted things to go well for you and that he'd help you if he could. I couldn't think of anybody I'd rather work with.

  In the next few minutes, four more "refs" showed up. Two of them were black guys, Abdul and Jonas, who definitely looked like basketball players. There was also a tough-looking girl named Brandy and her friend Carmen. Both had about fifty earrings in each ear, and their clothes reeked of cigarettes. The six of us stood around until a man came onto the court. "Welcome," he called out. "I'm Matthew Falk. You must be my summer refs."

  Falk was a young guy with short gray-blond hair. You could tell he was both strong and fast. He had the easy smile of a coach who is used to being liked by all his players. "This week you'll learn how to ref. Starting next week, you'll be assigned to different gyms in the North End. You'll come here, and we'll drive you to wherever your games are. You'll handle three games a day, Monday to Friday. Pay is twelve bucks a game. Any questions?"

  That afternoon we shadowed Falk, watching him as he refereed scrimmages. The next day we took turns doing the refereeing, with him supervising. After the first scrimmage, Falk took me aside. "Remember, this is a rec league. Don't call everything. Blow the whistle only if they can't play through the contact."

  On day three Miguel and I did better, except Falk said we should have called a technical foul when this little punk slammed the basketball against the wall and shouted, "This game sucks!"

  At night I studied the rule book and practiced the moves refs make: hands on the hips for a block, two arms up for a three pointer. Sometimes I'd get dramatic, pretending I was calling an NBA game: Kobe and Shaq and Kidd and Webber. "What are you doing?" Marian called up. "The whole room's shaking down here."

  On Monday Miguel and I were on our own. We were assigned to the Loyal Heights gym, which was closer to town. The players were fifth and sixth graders, and it was only a summer league, but it was work. And I don't mean the running up and down the court. That was easy. The hard part was making the calls as best you could, then tuning out the whining coaches and kids.

  Falk watched our last game that day. I thought we'd done terribly, but when the final buzzer sounded, he came onto the court with a smile on his face. "Don't get down on yourselves. You made some mistakes, but that happens. The important thing is you worked as a team, picking up the calls for one another. You're going to do fine."

  That evening Mom asked me how the job was going.

  "It's good. I like it."

  She smiled. "I'm glad."

  I quickly settled into a routine. I'd get up around nine, clean up, eat a little, then jog to Bitter Lake. Once I was there, I'd lift weights until noon, when I'd meet up with Miguel. The bus would take us to Loyal Heights, Ballard, Meadowbrook, or wherever we'd been assigned for the week. We'd finish around four and be back at Bitter Lake by four-thirty. I'd run home, shower, and then eat dinner. After dinner I'd watch a baseball game on television or maybe a movie. By eleven I'd be asleep, and the next thing I knew the alarm clock would go off and it would be time to start over again.

  CHAPTER 2

  My days were set, but sitting around the house alone in the evenings got boring. You can watch only so many baseball games on TV, rent only so many movies.

  It was a Wednesday evening, and for Seattle it was hot—close to ninety. Mom was at work. Marian had made a new friend, Laura Curtiss. Along with Kaitlin, they'd gone swimming at Madison Pool. I had some money in my pocket.

  There was a mom-and-pop grocery store right on Greenwood, but for some reason I headed to the minimart where Lonnie and I had stolen the beer. When I got there, I stood at the door for a second and peered in. The Vietnamese lady wasn't at the counter, so I pushed the door open, walked to the coolers, and grabbed a Dr. Pepper. As I did, my eyes fell on a long line of Mickey Stouts.

  While I st
ood in line waiting to pay, I wished that Lonnie hadn't gotten kicked out of Whitman. Not that I was going to steal again—that was stupid. But sitting around and talking, hanging out with him, those had been okay.

  Outside the store, I looked in the direction of Lonnie's apartment building. Why not go see him? If he was drinking or doing drugs, that didn't mean I had to. I could hang out with him, talk, pass the time.

  As I came up to the crosswalk, the light turned red. It was a long light—the cars flew by me one after the other for what seemed like forever. Finally the light turned green, but I didn't cross. Who was I kidding? If I started hanging out with Lonnie, I'd be drinking again. Or smoking dope, if that's what he was doing. Maybe not the first night or the second, but eventually.

  I didn't want to go home, so I headed down 130th toward the Northwest Athletic Complex. Miguel played baseball there in the evenings. "You should come by. It's mainly Mexican guys, and Salvadorans, but there are some Anglos who play."

  "I'm done with baseball," I'd told him.

  He'd shrugged. "We'll be there if you change your mind. We play every night."

  Before I could see the field, I could hear the sound of a baseball game: the crisp snap of a well-thrown ball finding the pocket of a glove, the ping of an aluminum bat making solid contact, the voices of players. I climbed the steps from the street to the field, walked along a tree-lined path, and came out behind the backstop.

  I didn't spot Miguel at first, and for a while I wasn't sure I had the right game. Most of the guys were older than me, with mustaches or beards. I heard more Spanish than English. I couldn't have been standing there for more than a minute or two when Miguel's voice rang out. "Shane, over here."