Hothead

by Cal Ripken Jr.

  Connor tried to block out the dad’s ridiculous instructions. It reminded him how lucky he was to have a dad who was patient and made learning baseball fun.

  Before he lost his job, Bill Sullivan had always come with Connor to these Saturday batting sessions. Connor missed having him at the back of the cage, quietly offering tips. Now that his dad was spending so much time looking for work, he hadn’t come to Sports in weeks.

  Connor was working on hitting curveballs today—this was one of the few places that had a pitching machine that threw breaking balls. He held his hands high, moving the bat in small circles, trying for a sense of rhythm and timing and the short, compact swing Coach Hammond recommended for his players.

  Of course, that was assuming he still was one of Coach’s players. The odds were great that that was no longer the case. Coach was a patient man. But how many of Connor’s crazy tantrums could he reasonably be expected to endure?

  And who knew if any of Connor’s Orioles teammates wanted him back, either? He’d seen the embarrassed looks on their faces when he’d slammed the glove down, stomped back to the dugout, and thrown the bat, accidentally hitting Robbie. And they were definitely ticked at the way he’d exploded at Jordy.

  After hitting some fifty balls in the cage and concentrating on driving the ball to all fields, Connor’s whole body was tired. Unfortunately, the chubby kid was still being tortured by his dad. The dad had jumped in the cage now and was demonstrating possibly the ugliest baseball swing Connor had ever seen. He looked like a man trying to beat a snake off a tree branch with a hoe. Justin, the chubby kid, was trying hard not to laugh. So was Connor.

  Now Justin was taking some cuts, but still without much luck. Finally the dad gave up in disgust.

  “I’ll wait for you in the car,” he said with a wave of his hand as he stormed out.

  Connor watched the boy throw the bat down and slump dejectedly in a chair.

  He walked over and said gently, “Hey, Justin.”

  The boy looked up warily.

  “You don’t know me—my name’s Connor. I overheard your dad….”

  Justin didn’t answer; but his face said it all: he was mortified.

  “I was wondering…” Connor went on. “Could I show you something that might help? My treat.”

  Justin just sat there, watching suspiciously as Connor fed some tokens into the batting machine and borrowed the boy’s bat.

  “Keep your head still when you swing,” Connor said, taking his stance as the machine whirred to life. “You’re doing this.” He took a big cut and missed, pulling his head off the ball with an exaggerated motion.

  Justin winced.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it—you’re still learning. I just don’t agree with your dad’s teaching technique.” Connor chuckled a little, and Justin cracked a smile.

  “What you want to do is this,” Connor continued. This time he kept his head still and his eyes locked on the ball and hit a sharp line drive. “Now you try it.”

  The boy hesitated a moment, then took the bat and got in his stance.

  He did as Connor instructed and, after a couple of misses, hit a shot up the middle. His eyes widened and he turned to Connor, laughing with delight.

  “Try it again,” Connor said. And again the boy hit it solidly, a shot to left field.

  “Wow!” the kid said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Keep it up, and you’ll give your dad the surprise of his life.”

  Justin nodded, his face beaming.

  My work here is done, Connor thought. Why can’t everything in life be this easy to fix?

  Justin was now happily taking more swings, so Connor went off to buy a drink from the vending machine. Helping the kid had taken his mind off his own troubles for a few minutes. But now he was back to full-time brooding.

  He’d been too ashamed that morning to tell his mom and dad about his latest blowup with the Orioles—not that they would have had time to listen.

  His mom had gone off to work early, saying all the ER nurses were taking a special training course that would probably last up until her regular work shift. And his dad had left right after, bound for a job interview with a car dealership on the other side of town.

  Brianna had been home. She’d even gotten out of bed before her customary Saturday rise-and-shine time of noon. But this wasn’t the kind of thing you talked over with your big sister.

  Connor knew how she would react: a dramatic shake of her head, the requisite rolling of her eyes, followed by her standard advice to “just grow up!”

  So Connor had spent a sleepless night and now an anxious day with dozens of questions running through his head. Why did he keep losing his temper? It was getting scary now, this feeling that he couldn’t control himself whenever he screwed up on the ball field.

  What was Coach going to do? Would he give him one more chance? Or was he just waiting for him to chill for a day or two before dropping the hammer and kicking him off the team?

  Connor couldn’t imagine a spring without baseball, the game he had loved since he was a little kid. He couldn’t imagine the Orioles going to the championship game—they were 12–1 now, almost sure to make it—and him not being a part of it.

  Draining the last of his Snapple, he stared out the window. The sky was as gray as dishwater. Low clouds hung as far as the eye could see, and a steady rain had begun to fall. The ride home on his bike would be a wet one.

  A thought popped into his head, and he smiled ruefully: Maybe I’ll catch pneumonia and not have to worry about baseball for a while.

  Then he caught himself and shook his head softly.

  Nah, I don’t have that kind of luck.

  It was a gorgeous spring day, the dreary rain of twenty-four hours earlier having given way to a dazzling blue sky and white puffy clouds that looked low enough to touch. Connor and his dad were outside painting the garage door when the black Ford pickup roared up the driveway, spraying gravel in all directions.

  Connor took in the polished chrome, the fog lights, the Yosemite Sam “Back Off!” mud flaps, and the burly figure in sunglasses behind the wheel and instantly arrived at a conclusion: My life is over.

  The driver’s-side door opened, and out stepped Coach Hammond. Connor saw that Coach had ditched his usual Windbreaker and khaki pants for his snappy off-duty coplook: baseball cap, polo shirt, jeans with a big, silver belt buckle, and snakeskin cowboy boots.

  “Hi, guys,” Coach said cheerfully. “What’s going on here, a little father-son bonding project?”

  “Hi, Ray,” his dad said. He glanced over at Connor. “Sunday afternoon, and my son’s baseball coach is visiting us instead of keeping America safe. This can’t be good.”

  Connor could feel his heart race. His hands were starting to sweat, too.

  Coach smiled broadly and clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he said, “think I could talk to your dad alone for a few minutes?”

  Connor nodded blankly. He laid his paintbrush atop the can of white exterior latex at his feet and wiped his hands with a rag as the two men went inside. Then, feeling like he was moving in slow motion, he went into the backyard, picked up his glove, and began mindlessly firing balls at the bounce-back net.

  Okay, he thought, I’m definitely getting kicked off the Orioles. Coach didn’t drive all the way over here to talk about the weather. Or about all the bad guys he’s tossed in the slammer.

  No, Coach would come right to the point with his dad: “Bill, your son’s a head case. A certified nut job. His meltdowns are killing the team. I have to cut him loose.”

  Five minutes went by, then ten, then fifteen. Connor could feel himself getting more and more anxious as he took ground balls off the bounce-back, then line drives, then fly balls.

  From time to time, he stole a glance at the sliding glass door and saw the two men sitting at the kitchen table, talking. Actually, Coach was doing all the talking. His dad was doing all the listening, occasionally shaking his head.r />
  Connor groaned inwardly. That head-shaking was not a good sign. He could almost see tiny puffs of steam coming out of his dad’s ears, like in Road Runner cartoons, when Wile E. Coyote was outsmarted by that crazy bird.

  More time went by. The waiting was killing Connor now.

  He thought back to a movie he’d seen a few weeks earlier. It was about an English nobleman in the nineteenth century who was falsely accused of a crime and thrown into a dungeon, where he spent hours wondering if they were going to hang him or shove him in front of a firing squad. Connor could relate to the feeling. The English nobleman eventually escaped, but there didn’t appear to be any way out of this mess for Connor.

  Finally, the sliding glass door opened and his dad shouted: “Connor, come on in here.”

  Connor fired one more ball against the bounce-back and jogged to the back door. Then he slowed and thought: Why am I hustling? Who rushes to his own execution?

  When he got to the kitchen table, his dad and Coach Hammond had big mugs of coffee in front of them. Both men looked grim as Connor took a seat. No one said anything for a few seconds.

  Finally his dad cleared his throat. “Ray filled me in on your latest temper tantrums. And the league suspension.”

  Connor started to say something in his own defense, but Coach held up his hand. “I didn’t come here to snitch, Connor,” Coach said. “That wasn’t my intention.”

  Connor nodded, immediately thinking, Here it comes. Bye-bye baseball. The room suddenly seemed very still. Very warm, too.

  “I’m disappointed in you, son,” his dad said. “Didn’t we just talk about this the other day?”

  Connor’s mouth was so dry, he felt like reaching over and taking a swig of his dad’s coffee. But he’d probably end up spitting it across the table, like a sitcom character who’d tasted something weird. And that wouldn’t exactly earn him any points with the two men.

  “Coach seems to feel there’s something bothering you,” his dad said in a gentler tone. “I told him things have been a little tense around here. So you didn’t tell Coach I lost my job?”

  Connor shook his head.

  “Well, he knows now,” his dad continued. “I never wanted that to be a big secret. Like I told you: Lots of people have lost jobs in this economy. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Connor looked at Coach, who nodded in agreement.

  “Is that what’s been bothering you, buddy?” his dad said. “You never lost your temper like this before. Your mom and I were so proud of how you—”

  Connor couldn’t hold back any longer. Now it all came pouring out: how scared he was that his dad might not find another job; how there never seemed to be enough money to do the fun things they used to do as a family; how worried his mom and Brianna were all the time; how the news on TV was always about the high unemployment rate; how Dana Petrillo’s dad had been out of work a year now and still couldn’t find anything….

  His dad came around the table and wrapped his arms around him, but still Connor couldn’t stop, he’d been carrying this inside for so long.

  “I heard…when the two of you were talking the other night…Mom said we could lose the house,” he said through tears. “I don’t want…I needed something to go right…and when I messed up, I got so mad….”

  “It’s all right, buddy,” his dad said, rocking him gently. “We’re not losing this house—or anything else.”

  Connor didn’t know how long he sat there blubbering. A minute? Two? Finally he straightened up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He was embarrassed to have Coach see him cry. Although, what difference did it make now? Coach would probably never want to see him again, anyway.

  “Connor, can I tell you something?” Coach said now in a soft voice. “I know exactly what you’re going through. Your dad, too. See, I was laid off once. Years ago, before I became a crime-fighting superhero.”

  Connor managed a weak smile as he tried to imagine Coach in your basic superhero costume: tights, knee-high boots, cape, maybe a mask. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

  “One minute I’m a truck driver for a parcel delivery service,” Coach continued; “the next minute the boss is handing me a severance check and saying, ‘Don’t bother coming in Monday.’ Robbie and his sister Jackie were babies at the time. Mary was pregnant with Ashley.”

  Connor was hanging on every word now, fascinated to learn that Coach had ever been anything but a cop.

  “At first you think it’s the end of the world,” Coach said. “But it’s not. You have to tighten your belt for a while, go without a few things, but you also have to stay optimistic. Nasty surprises like this have a way of turning out for the best. Look at me—if it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have joined the police force. Your dad’s a good man. He won’t be out of work much longer.”

  “Got two interviews lined up right now,” his dad said, patting Connor’s arm. “And both are promising.”

  Connor was starting to feel better. Just talking about this after so many months was a relief. Then he looked at Coach and felt his spirits sag. What would he do without baseball, the game he lived for, the best game in the whole world?

  Coach seemed to be reading his mind. “You want to know if I’m kicking you off the Orioles.” He propped his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “To be honest, I thought seriously about doing just that. But I wanted to talk to your dad first, see what was going on. And I’m glad I did.”

  He leaned forward. “Connor, you and your family are going through a rough time. But losing your temper on the baseball field won’t make things better at home—you know that, right?”

  Connor just hung his head, afraid to hear more.

  “You’ve been under a lot of stress. It explains why you haven’t been yourself lately. So I’m willing to give you another chance.”

  “Yes!” Connor said, jumping up. He let out a whoop. “Thanks, Coach!”

  Coach quickly held up both hands. “But here’s the deal,” he said. “One more blowup, and you’re off the team for good. And next time there’ll be no discussion about it. Understand?”

  Connor nodded happily and looked at his dad, who was smiling now.

  “First thing you have to do is apologize to your teammates, especially Jordy,” Coach said. “But I have a feeling you’ll be just fine from now on.” He stood and took his coffee mug over to the sink. Then he smiled.

  “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me,” he said, “I’m off to work. Bet the bad guys are quaking in fear already.”

  While Connor’s dad walked Coach to the door, Connor slumped forward and put his head down on the table. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired—or so relieved.

  Coach was giving him one more chance. This time he really couldn’t blow it.

  The Connor Sullivan Apology Tour—Connor even thought about having T-shirts made up, orange and black, for every kid on the Orioles—began with a visit to Jordy Marsh the next day after school.

  Jordy lived in a big, rambling Colonial not far from Eddie Murray Field. The house was ringed by a white picket fence that was patrolled endlessly by a hyper sheepdog named Rex. Jordy’s dad called him Rex the Wonder Dog, after a comic-book hero that fought crime and rooted out Nazi spies. Connor thought Rex was too dumb to root out anything except maybe an old tennis ball from under the porch. But Connor had to admit that Rex was impressive as a watchdog. He could hear you coming a mile away, no matter what side of the perimeter he was sniffing around at that particular moment.

  Sure enough, as soon as Connor opened the front gate, Rex came tearing around the corner, barking like a demon.

  “You’ve still got it, Rex,” Connor said, patting him on the head and setting off a frenzy of tail-wagging. “Still the unanimous choice for Guard Dog of the Year.”

  The commotion caused Jordy’s mom to stick her head out an upstairs window.

  “Oh, hi, Connor,” she said. “Jordy’s around back somewhere.”

  Connor foun
d Jordy shooting baskets at the portable hoop his parents had given him last Christmas. He could feel himself tense up, wondering what kind of greeting he’d get from his old friend.

  Or maybe ex-friend was the better word now.

  “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Anger Management himself,” Jordy said.

  “Ohhhh-kay,” Connor said. “Guess that answers that.”

  Jordy’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Answers what?”

  “Whether you’re still mad at me.”

  “Me?” Jordy said with a snort. “Why should I be mad?” He took a jump shot that clanged off the back of the rim. “Let’s see,” he said, chasing down the rebound. “First, you airmail a throw over my head in a big game. Then, when I can’t catch it—and Yao Ming couldn’t have caught that throw if he jumped on a trampoline—you yell at me for not trying.”

  Connor felt his face redden.

  Jordy took another shot from the foul line. This one grazed the front of the rim and bounced back to him. “So you have another of your stupid temper tantrums,” he went on, “and we lose our first game of the season because we’re missing our best player.”

  Connor opened his mouth to speak, but Jordy wasn’t finished.

  “Now you’re suspended for the Tigers game. And guess what? If we lose that, we’re no lock to play for the championship.”

  He took a jump shot from the corner that swished through the net, then turned and looked directly at Connor. “This might be a news flash to you, but you’ve been acting like a real jerk.”

  Connor hung his head and kicked at some loose gravel, searching for something to say.

  He and Jordy had been best friends since third grade. But he’d never seen his bud this angry—not that it wasn’t for good reason.

  Neither boy spoke for several seconds.

  Finally, Connor took a deep breath and said, “You’re right. I’ve been a jackass. I came here to say I’m sorry.”

  Now it was Jordy who seemed uncomfortable.

  “Well, maybe ‘jackass’ is a little strong….” he said, trying to lighten the mood.