New Kid

by Tim Green

  Brock followed, hesitant and panic stricken. He had no idea how much Coach had had to drink or what it might make him capable of. Obviously, Coach wasn’t as bad as the night before, when he’d been unable to even keep his balance. Coach was moving fast, now, even if he looked like a broken-down old man. Brock wanted to turn and just go home, but his newfound fondness for the man, his coach, wouldn’t let him do that.

  Brock swallowed his fear and followed, crossing the road and entering the series of streets that had been laid down like a grid between the lifeless brick apartments. Coach disappeared at the far end of the grid, going right, so Brock—who walked carefully with his eyes surveying the shadows all around—decided to cut through the buildings and intercept him on the next street over. It was in those shadows that he suddenly found himself surrounded by the dark shapes of boys. No, not boys. They were young men, with voices low and evil.

  One of them stepped forward and as he shoved Brock backward with a stiff hand, Brock smelled the smoke on his clothes and saw that it was Nagel’s older brother.

  “You looking for some trouble, you little punk? Well, guess what? You found it.”

  Brock’s stomach dropped to his shoes. Nagel’s brother gripped the front of his shirt and raised him up off the ground, grinning at him with jagged teeth lit by the moon.

  32

  “Jamie, stop!” Nagel appeared and clawed at his brother’s arm.

  Nagel’s brother sent him flying with a punch to the side of his head. Nagel sprawled on the grass, bawling. “No, Jamie. Don’t do it! Leave him!”

  Jamie shook Brock like a feather pillow. “He asked for it. He came after me. Right, guys?”

  Jamie looked around and the rest of the dark shapes agreed that if anyone asked, Jamie was only defending himself.

  “So, you need a little butt whipping to remind you to stay on your own side of the fence,” Nagel’s brother sneered.

  Brock couldn’t believe what was happening, and his eyes filled with tears at the inability to even move his legs from fear.

  “Hey!” The shout came from behind Jamie Nagel and it stopped him cold.

  From nowhere, a white streak whistled through the small crowd.

  THUNK.

  Jamie Nagel’s chest rang out like a bass drum. He dropped to the grass along with the baseball that hit him in the middle of his back. The boys scattered and their shouts faded into the yawning spaces between buildings. Jamie Nagel gripped Brock even tighter, tilted sideways and collapsed to the grass, gasping for air, then sobbing like a baby. Brock shook free and stood up.

  Coach Hudgens limped up out of the gloom, puffing, and scooped his baseball up off the grass. He stood looking down at Jamie as Jamie scrambled to his feet and ran off, still sobbing.

  “Oh, no. Hurts to get hit by a wayward pitch. I didn’t mean to hit him—just scare him.” Coach watched Jamie Nagel disappear into the night and sighed.

  Nagel sat there wide-eyed in the grass, clutching his knees, and sniffling. “My brother’s a jerk.”

  “What about you?” Brock glowered at Nagel. “Throwing rocks at us?”

  “I tried to get them to stop. I . . .” Nagel looked at Coach, swallowed his words, got to his feet and trudged off.

  When he was gone, Coach took Brock by the shoulder and looked him over in the moonlight. “You hurt?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Coach dusted some grass off Brock’s shirt. “You know, when you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”

  “He’s not that bad.” Brock figured he was but a few steps away from Nagel in the good or bad category, so his words were laced with hope.

  Coach squinted at him. “You like fixing things?”

  Brock shrugged. “I think his life is pretty rough.”

  “Who said it wasn’t?” Coach slapped Brock’s back and they started to retreat from the apartments. “I learned a long time ago, people are what they are. They don’t change.”

  Brock waited until they were on the main road under a streetlight before he replied. “Isn’t a coach supposed to change you?”

  Coach glanced down at him. “A coach is like a jockey. You ride the horse. Give it free rein when the time is right. Sometimes you give it the crop. That’s all coaching is, guiding. Steering. Trust me. A person doesn’t change.”

  When they got to the gate, Coach let Brock through before pulling it shut and clapping the lock in place. “You ever see an anthill? A big one?”

  Brock thought of a gray mound nearly a foot high on the other side of the right-field fence in Oklahoma and he nodded his head.

  “That’s how it is. Every day of our lives, every hour, is a grain of sand, one building on the next and so on. You can’t just change everything that’s come before.”

  Brock understood the comparison, and he ached to tell Coach why his life was such a mess. Every so often, everything just got wiped clean and he had to start over. What kind of an anthill was his life? It wasn’t. It was a scattered mess of sand that never got off the ground.

  As they crossed the lawn, Brock noticed that home plate, the bucket of balls, and Coach’s thermos had all disappeared. When they reached the back deck, Mrs. Hudgens met them with more cookies on her tray. “For home. In case you get hungry later.”

  Brock took two, but Mrs. Hudgens nodded again, so he took a third before thanking them both and saying good-bye.

  “See you tomorrow,” Coach said. “Let’s do this again.”

  “If I can.” Brock headed for the side yard.

  “And think about practice on Sunday. It’s at four in the afternoon. You don’t have to commit to traveling anywhere, but try to practice with us.” Coach crossed his arms and stood like a granite block in the back lawn.

  Brock gave a last wave, rounded the house, and headed home.

  33

  Bugs swam through the cone of pale orange light beneath the street lamp. Brock tucked the glove under his arm and marched home. At the top of his driveway, he looked back the way he’d come, at the houses on the opposite side of the street where the Hudgenses’ house was tucked into the corner between the apartments and the open fields. A single light winked at him through the trees. He turned back to his house, where he took a breath and walked inside. His house was dark but for the light above the kitchen table.

  His father sat cradling a cup of coffee in two hands and looked up from the steam at Brock. “Have fun?”

  Brock set the glove down on the arm of the couch and shrugged. “I got a good arm.”

  His father jumped to his feet. “Wanna go to the batting cages?”

  Brock’s dad might just as well have asked if he wanted to take a quick trip to the moon. He blinked at his dad. “What?”

  “You know, work on your swing.”

  “I . . .” Brock took a glance at the clock on the microwave. “Isn’t it late?”

  It was nearly bedtime, something his father was always strict about.

  “Well,” his father said, checking his watch, “it’s not far. We can go for a little while.”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” His father jangled his keys and headed for the door. “I put your bat in the car. Batting glove too.”

  Brock followed his father filled with a mixture of fragile joy and suspicion. His dad just didn’t do things like this with him, and Brock couldn’t help wondering if there was something else going on. Maybe his dad had some bad news to deliver. Maybe they were moving on again. Maybe his dad was sick.

  They climbed into the car as the garage door rumbled open. Brock secretly studied his father’s face for clues as they pulled out onto the highway. Less than two miles up Route 57 a halo of white light appeared. They pulled into the batting cages and got out, casting inky shadows against the blacktop.

  “Dad, is everything okay?”

  “Sure. Why?” His father swung open the gate to an empty cage.

  Brock felt some relief and he allowed himself a smile. Maybe it was just his dad doing something n
ormal with him, something fun.

  Brock removed his bat from the bag, tugged the cap down on his head, and used his other hand to shade his eyes as he stepped up to the plate.

  His father pumped some dollars into the machine and stepped back. “I set it for seventy. Good?”

  “I can hit eighty.” Brock’s heart swelled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the opportunity to brag to his father.

  His father rewarded him with a low whistle. “Eighty? Well, let’s see what you do with seventy and then I’ll turn it up. It says I can adjust it for curveballs. What about that?”

  “Come on, Dad. You know I can hit a curve.”

  The cage had a pedal Brock could step on to release the pitch. He hunkered down, then pressed on it and the pitch came zipping in.

  THWACK.

  The net danced up toward the sky. Brock snuck a glance at his father, who smiled and nodded. Brock grinned and stepped again.

  THWACK.

  “Nice,” his father said. “Try raising your bat just a bit more. You’re gathering for, like, a split second and I think if you get it back a smidge, you’ll be even quicker.”

  Brock tried and missed the next pitch. “Darn.”

  “Yeah, but you tried it. You did exactly what I asked.” His father sounded pleased and surprised.

  “That’s what I do with all my coaches. That’s why they like me.” Brock had so many other things he wanted to say to his father, but he kept his mouth shut because he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

  “Well, bear with me because it’s gonna change your timing a little, but it’ll help you in the long run. Get it?”

  “I get it,” Brock said.

  “Okay, again.”

  Brock tried again, this time, just nicking the ball so that it fouled off his bat and punched the fence right next to his father’s head.

  “You didn’t have to get mad at me.”

  Both of them laughed, and it was a strange sound, them laughing together. Brock couldn’t remember ever hearing that before.

  He tried again, without being told.

  THWACK!

  “See?”

  “Yeah!” Brock nodded vigorously. “I like it.”

  “Keep going.”

  Brock swung, connecting on pitch after pitch. His father loaded the machine with more money and turned up the speed. With his slightly new stance, he could hit the eighty-mile-an-hour pitches a lot more consistently than he had in Oklahoma. His father gave him other little pointers, the shift of a foot, letting his elbow drop just a bit, and Brock did them all. The night was warm and the humming sound of pitching machines, the clink and clank of aluminum bats, and the grunts of boys from cages all around was like a slice of heaven to Brock. He stepped back off the plate and closed his eyes, wishing it could go on forever.

  Then his father’s phone rang.

  34

  “How did you get this number?” Brock’s dad scowled and turned away so Brock had a hard time hearing the conversation.

  Only a word here or there could be understood: border . . . target . . . night . . . drop site.

  His father hung up and spun around. “Sorry. Gotta go.”

  The man he’d spent the last hour with was gone. In his place was the father Brock had grown up with. As he silently piled his things into the backseat of the car, Brock wondered how much of his joy at the sound of their laughter had been him just pretending there was a warmth between them, and if there really was a person inside the cold hard shell beside him. They drove home without a word and when they walked into the house, his father cast an accusatory look at him. “It’s past bedtime.”

  Brock didn’t argue, just scampered upstairs, got ready for bed, and turned out the lights. He lay there, trying to slow the beat of his heart and not having much luck when a crack of yellow light appeared in his bedroom doorway. The shadow of his father stepped into the room.

  “I’m going. You be good.”

  The door started to close.

  “Dad?”

  It stopped and the black shape that was his father hunched a bit. “What?”

  “Thanks.” Despite everything, Brock still had had fun, and he had loved being with his dad like a normal kid.

  The shape stood still. “See if you can find a summer league. No traveling. Just games around here. Maybe there’s something. I don’t know.”

  Then, he closed the door, and he was gone.

  35

  Brock finished out the week of school, fed himself every night at the lonely kitchen table, and spent another hour or so working on his windup and delivery with Coach Hudgens in the coach’s backyard. Brock would have stayed all night, but Coach insisted on the importance of not overworking his arm. No stones came over the fence. No shouts were heard from the other side. Nagel was still suspended and he didn’t show his face on Brock’s street. Bella ignored him entirely. Except for Coach and his wife, Brock might have been living on Mars.

  Still, even outside homework that had him preparing for final exams, which he’d now take for the second time in three weeks, he had lots to do. Coach didn’t just coach his throwing. On Wednesday, after practicing, he taught Brock how to study a baseball game, analyzing strategy, and taking away important tips to make his own game better. Coach gave him DVDs of old games where Barrett Malone pitched for the Tigers. Friday night, after pitching with Coach and receiving another DVD, Brock was halfway down the Hudgenses’ driveway before he heard his name being called.

  Mrs. Hudgens stood motioning to him from the front porch. Brock approached her and stood at the bottom of the steps. “Yes, Mrs. Hudgens?”

  “Shh.” She held a finger to her lips and looked over her shoulder before easing the front door shut. “Come up here, Brock. I’d like to talk to you.”

  Brock went up the steps and followed her across the porch to a swing wide enough for three people.

  “Sit for a minute.” She patted the seat next to her and kept her voice low.

  Brock sat.

  Mrs. Hudgens reached over and took his hand. Brock tingled with discomfort and sat straight up. His hand began to sweat and she let it go.

  “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s a habit I have. . . . I had. You see, Brock. We . . . it’s a long time ago now, but we had a boy, just like you.”

  Brock wanted to run, but he liked Mrs. Hudgens, and not just for her cookies. It was the way she looked at him, with kind blue eyes that seemed to twinkle like Christmas tree lights, and the happy lines on her face around her mouth and eyes that suggested a permanent smile. He liked her warm smell, full of spices so that wherever she went, she brought her kitchen with her. So, he stuck his hands under his legs to dry them off and stayed put.

  “I don’t want to scare you, or make you sad. Actually, these last few days have been the happiest time in a long while for us.” She stumbled on her words and sniffed and Brock looked at her face. Tears glittered from the corners of her eyes reflecting the pale orange glow from the streetlight. “His name was Mason. He was your age when we lost him. Coach blames himself, but it wasn’t his fault. Even the police said so. There was a car crash, and every night since that night he tries to forget. He drinks himself into . . .

  “Well, you saw him.” Mrs. Hudgens looked down at the wrinkled hands in her lap, then sighed and looked back up. “Then wakes up and lives the next day like a prisoner, going to work, punching the clock, even coaching baseball, but not really living, just going through the motions.”

  They sat for a minute or so with only the sound of the swing’s squeaking chains to fill the night.

  “So, is there something you need me to do?” Brock finally asked.

  This time she only touched his shoulder. “Just be here when you can, Brock. I wanted you to know how important it is to him . . . to me. I’m not asking you for anything you can’t do. I understand from Coach that your father has rules and there’s nothing wrong with that. That’s what good fathers do.�
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  Brock tried to read her face in the dim light, wondering what she meant by that, but getting no answer.

  “Okay,” Brock said.

  She patted his arm. “But, if you can be here . . . if you can work with Coach . . . well, it’s healing. Do you understand?”

  “I like working with him,” Brock said. “Did you like Barrett Malone?”

  “Oh, Barrett was a fine boy. He always remembered Coach. Came home from college to be at Mason’s funeral, all the way from Stanford. He even spoke. Mason worshiped Barrett. He wanted to be Barrett. Coach said that could never be, but he didn’t tell Mason that.”

  Mrs. Hudgens chuckled and shook her head. “He used to tell me, ‘Margaret, there’s no sense telling a twelve-year-old boy what he can’t be. Dreams are a precious thing, and you have no way of knowing what the future holds.’”

  She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex she took from her pocket. “He was right, wasn’t he?”

  Brock wanted to cry, but he felt like it was important that he keep himself together. Still, his voice came out all choked. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “All right.” She slapped his knee. “You get on home. I’m sure your father’s wondering what’s kept you.”

  “Oh, he’s not—” Brock’s insides froze. He couldn’t even swallow, or look at Mrs. Hudgens. He knew better than to talk to people, because this is what happened. He knew better.

  But, Mrs. Hudgens didn’t pry, she only rubbed his shoulder. “I’ll have oatmeal cookies tomorrow. Do you like raisins?”

  Brock stood. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good, then save some room after dinner tomorrow, and Brock?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please, if you’re comfortable with it, tell your father he is always welcome here. He could watch you and Coach, and I’ve never had a man turn down one of my cookies or not ask for another one. It might make him think twice about you joining the travel team.” She smiled.