Hothead

by Cal Ripken Jr.

  “No, it’s the right word,” Connor said softly. “My dad’s been laid off. I haven’t handled it real well.”

  He gave Jordy a CliffsNotes version of what his family had been going through, complete with the admission that all the worry had turned him into a walking powder keg on the baseball field.

  When he was done, Jordy shook his head. “Dude,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  Connor shrugged. “Too embarrassed, I guess.”

  “You are a jackass,” Jordy said with a smile. Then he got serious again. “But, um, how do we know you’re not going to freak out again? I mean, you’ve been like Jekyll and Hyde.”

  “I had a long talk with my dad and Coach yesterday. We hashed it all out.” Connor didn’t mention the crying part. “It helped a lot, and I feel better now.”

  Jordy looked at him warily. “You sure? Because here’s something that might make you feel worse again.”

  Connor sighed and sat down in the grass. “Okay. Lay it on me.”

  “It’s about Melissa Morrow.”

  Connor put his head in his hands. He knew what was coming next. It was like knowing how a movie was going to end before you actually saw it.

  “I ran into her after school today, and she showed me a video on her camcorder. It shows your meltdown in the Yankees game,” Jordy said.

  Connor groaned.

  “She’s thinking about putting it on the Tattler’s Web site, along with a story: ‘Are Young Athletes Under Too Much Pressure to Succeed?’ Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s an awesome video!”

  “Great,” Connor said dryly. “Glad it was entertaining.”

  “Oh, it was,” Jordy said. “One minute you’re Bruce Banner. The next minute you turn into the Hulk.”

  Connor tried to imagine himself going into such a rage that he morphed into a beetle-browed freak with a thickly-muscled green body who could toss cars around like they were matchboxes. Actually, his tantrums almost felt like that—well, without the benefit of superhuman strength. If he had that, at least his homers would go for miles….

  “The video lasts for, like, two minutes,” Jordy continued. “The camera’s on you from the minute you sail that lame throw over my head—sorry—until you leave the field crying.”

  “She got that too, huh?” Connor said, feeling worse by the minute.

  Jordy nodded.

  “Yeah, she must have some super-zoom on that camera, too, because she even caught you throwing the bat in the dugout. The one that almost kneecapped Robbie?”

  “No need for the blow-by-blow,” Connor said, holding up one hand. “I was there, remember?”

  “But here’s the strange part,” Jordy said. “She kept filming even after you left. And she kept the camera on one of our esteemed teammates. You’ll never guess which one. Okay, here’s a hint: his initials are M.L.”

  “NO-O-O!” Connor said.

  “Yes! Marty Loopus!” Jordy said.

  “But why?”

  “Don’t know. But the video has two minutes of you going thermonuclear, right? Then it has two minutes of Marty at shortstop not doing anything except swirling dirt with his spikes and blowing bubbles and swatting at a couple of butterflies. It’s really hysterical.”

  “What’s the headline there?” Connor said. “‘Are Young Athletes Too Bored to Succeed?’”

  By now both of them were laughing.

  “Actually, I have to hand it to Marty,” said Connor. “He’s always a good sport. Unlike me. I have to apologize to him, and the whole team. And I have to try to stop Melissa.” He stood up to leave.

  Just then Rex the Wonder Dog shot past them in a blur. They watched as he chased a squirrel that quickly scampered up a tree, leaving poor Rex howling in frustration.

  Nazi spies? Connor thought. Yeah, right. The dog has a nervous breakdown just tracking tiny woodland creatures.

  “Forget Melissa,” Jordy said, tossing Connor the basketball. “A little one-on-one? Game to eleven? Winner gets the other guy’s cookies at lunch tomorrow?”

  Connor grinned. “Prepare to be dominated,” he said. “And make sure your mom packs Oreos after your beat-down.”

  He dribbled to the top of the key and launched a pretty jump shot over Jordy’s outstretched arm. It swished through the net. “This’ll be even easier than I thought!” Connor crowed.

  Jordy was right—he’d worry about Melissa later. Right now he was playing hoops in the warm sunshine with his best friend, and a pack of Oreos, America’s finest cookie, was on the line.

  He hadn’t felt this happy in days.

  Connor tried to remember the last time he was a spectator at Eddie Murray Field instead of a ballplayer. Maybe it was back when he was five years old, when his dad would take him to watch the older kids play. The two of them would hang out behind the backstop, Connor perched on his dad’s shoulders, his dad calling out what kind of pitch had just been thrown and asking him whether it was a ball or strike.

  Back then he’d felt on top of the world. Today, as the Orioles prepared to face the Tigers and he prepared to sit in the stands with a big, fat suspension, he felt like the world’s biggest loser.

  Wait, wasn’t there a reality show called The Biggest Loser? That was about people trying to lose weight. If they ever came up with a show about wacko young ballplayers with anger issues, Connor was sure they’d call him. They’d probably send a limo to pick him up the same day.

  He walked over to the sidelines, where the Orioles were warming up, and Coach Hammond was filling out the lineup card. Everyone seemed happy to see him, which made him feel better. He gathered the team around him and quickly apologized for his meltdowns.

  “Yo, Connor,” said Willie Pitts. “When you do the mass apology thing, you have to say ‘I apologize to anyone whom I might have offended.’” Willie put his hand over his heart and looked reverent. “That’s what all the politicians and pro athletes and movie stars do.”

  “Yeah,” said Jordy. “And when you’re done, you have to look at the audience and say: ‘I will not be taking any questions. My family and I ask that you respect our privacy during this difficult time.’”

  Everyone laughed, including Coach Hammond. Connor looked down sheepishly. But he had to admit Willie and Jordan were right—that was how all those big-shot public apologies sounded. Totally insincere.

  Just last week, another major league ballplayer, Los Angeles Dodgers slugger Dean (Dream) Sanders, had tested positive for steroids and been slapped with a three-month suspension. And during a nationally televised news conference a few days later, a tearful Sanders had essentially mouthed—almost word for word—the same platitudes Willie and Jordy had just uttered.

  As the laughter died down, Marty Loopus walked up to Connor, put both hands on his shoulders, and looked him squarely in the eye. “Playoffs start next week,” he said solemnly. “Promise us you’ll control that famous temper of yours? Or do I have to keep carrying this team by myself?”

  Now the rest of the Orioles hooted and laughed and smacked Marty with their caps as a grinning Connor held up his hand and said: “I promise, I promise!”

  Finally Coach Hammond shouted: “Game starts in five minutes, gentlemen!” and the Orioles went back to their warm-ups.

  League rules dictated that suspended players couldn’t sit in the dugout with their team during a game, so Connor took a seat in the stands, which were already filling up.

  Jordy’s mom smiled and waved as he climbed the bleachers. So did Mr. and Mrs. Molina, Gabe’s parents; and Mr. Pitts, Willie’s dad. Mr. Zinno, Joey’s dad, who never said a word to anyone at these games, even came over, shook his hand, and said, “Gonna miss you out there, champ. Need you back in the lineup.”

  But there was something else about the way the parents looked at him. Was that pity he saw in their eyes? Or were they saying a little prayer to themselves: Thank God that spoiled brat isn’t my kid? Might as well be wearing a sign around my neck that says HEAD CASE, Conn
or thought, his mood darkening again.

  For once he was glad not to have his own parents here. Wouldn’t they be proud, watching their boy sit out for disciplinary reasons!

  As the Orioles took the field, Connor saw something else that didn’t improve his mood. Melissa Morrow, red hair swinging in a ponytail underneath a baseball cap, was clambering up the steps toward him.

  Instantly he felt a throbbing in his forehead.

  “The great Connor Sullivan! Thought I’d find you here,” she said, plopping her backpack down next to him. “This is the game you sit out, right? For going nuts against the Yankees?”

  That’s Melissa for you, Connor thought. As subtle as a punch in the mouth.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Not a problem,” Melissa said, pulling out a camera and notebook. “But it’ll have to be after the game. Just ’cause you’re not playing doesn’t mean I’m not working.”

  Quickly, she changed lenses on her camera, looped it around her neck, and went clattering back down the bleachers. For a moment, Connor fantasized about reaching into the backpack she left behind, pulling out Melissa’s camcorder, and deleting his big meltdown. No, he was too chicken. Besides, with his luck, he’d probably be arrested.

  That would be a nice phone conversation to have with his parents: “Mom, Dad, I’m in jail. How’re we fixed for bail money?”

  When she reached the bottom of the bleachers, Melissa turned, pointed the camera up at him, and began clicking away.

  Great, Connor thought. I can see the photo caption now: “Hothead ballplayer serves well-deserved suspension. Did this dope finally learn his lesson?”

  When she finished, she smiled, gave him the thumbs-up sign, and walked down the first-base line to shoot game action.

  And there was plenty of that—unfortunately, not the kind the Orioles wanted to see.

  Mike Cutko, their number two pitcher, made it through the first two innings without incident. But he gave up two runs in the third on a mammoth home run by Deon Mobley, the Tigers catcher, and two more in the fifth on two errors, a walk, and a double.

  Meanwhile, the Orioles bats were quiet. No, they were more than quiet—they were practically comatose.

  Jordy singled in the third inning, and Marty Loopus reached on a slow roller to second that the Tiger second baseman managed to trip over. Somehow it was ruled a hit by the official scorer, prompting Marty to do the kind of celebratory dance normally reserved for a walk-off homer. And that was it for the Orioles offense.

  You know you’re in trouble when Marty Loopus is your second-leading hitter, Connor thought.

  He cheered hard for his team the whole game, even though it felt weird to be clapping from the sidelines instead of in the thick of the action. But the final score was Tigers 5, Orioles 0. The Orioles had lost their second game of the season, which made him feel guilty and even more like a loser.

  The Orioles were still going to the playoffs—both the Yankees and Red Sox had lost a day earlier, which meant both teams had two losses, too. But now there was no margin for error. One more loss, and the O’s’ season would be over, thanks to a certain star shortstop who couldn’t control his emotions.

  As the two teams slapped hands, Connor grabbed Melissa’s backpack and hurried down to the field. He found her over by the Orioles dugout, taking photos of Marty Loopus in his batting stance as Marty recounted, with great enthusiasm and detail, his titanic roller to second base.

  “Connor!” Marty said when he spotted him. “Was I all over that pitch, or what?”

  “You owned that guy, Marty,” Connor said. “Now, uh, could you excuse us for a moment?”

  He took Melissa by the elbow and steered her to a spot a few feet away.

  “What’s up, hotshot?” she said. “Oh, that’s right, you wanted to talk.”

  Connor lowered his voice, not wanting the entire Orioles team, as well as parents, siblings, groundskeepers, and the folks who ran the concession stand to listen in.

  “I understand you have a video of my, um, unfortunate behavior against the Yankees,” he began.

  “Sure do,” Melissa said. “It’s a beauty, too. A classic study of anger and frustration, captured in astonishing detail.”

  “You make it sound like it’s up for an Oscar,” Connor said.

  Melissa beamed and nodded. “It’s some of my best work as a photojournalist,” she said.

  “Well, that’s…great, Melissa. But you’re not really, uh, putting it on the school’s Web site tonight?”

  “Oh, no,” Melissa said. “I couldn’t do that.”

  Connor breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  “But it’ll be up there first thing tomorrow,” Melissa said. “Soon as I get to school.”

  “What?!” Connor said. “But you can’t…!”

  Melissa rolled her eyes and shook her head, letting Connor know her infinite supply of patience was being sorely tested. “Remember the little chat we had about the First Amendment? Do we have to go over that again?”

  “No, it’s not that….” Connor said. He groped for the right words. “Look, I’m not a young athlete feeling too much pressure to succeed, or whatever you’re writing. I’m just a kid dealing with a family thing. And I…I let it get to me.”

  “You sure do blow up nicely for the camera,” Melissa said.

  It was a struggle for Connor to keep himself from blowing up right then. He took a deep breath and tried not to talk through gritted teeth. “But I’m better now, honest,” he said. Was his voice getting whiny? He couldn’t be sure. “It’s not going to happen again. At least give me a chance to prove it.”

  “That’d be good for you, but what’s in it for me?” Melissa said. “I’d be left without a story.”

  “What about the story you were going to write before? You know, the big profile? ‘Inquiring minds want to know,’ and all that?”

  “That was before you got really interesting,” she said. “Anger issues are so fascinating. Don’t you agree?”

  Connor felt himself blush. Or flush with anger—he wasn’t sure which.

  “Look,” he said, “you can interview me for as long as you want.”

  “How generous of you,” she said dryly. She took her backpack from him and carefully placed her camera and notebook inside. Then she zipped it up and slipped both arms through the loops.

  “So, do we have a deal?” Connor asked hopefully.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  “Oh, come on!” Connor said. “Give me a break!”

  “Uh-uh,” Melissa said, wagging her finger. “Temper, temper.” She started to walk away, leaving him standing there, slack-jawed.

  Then she turned to deliver one last zinger. “You know something, Connor? You’re cute when you’re stressed.”

  Then I must be a real knockout, Connor thought, because I’m majorly stressed right now.

  Billy Burrell’s default expression was a smirk.

  Once in a while, he could manage something that almost resembled a smile, especially when he was kissing up to teachers and parents, or trying to impress girls. But for the most part, Billy walked around looking as if he knew something you didn’t, because he was so smart and you were so dumb.

  When Connor ran into him in the hall at York Middle the day after the Orioles–Tigers game, Billy was wearing his A-1 smirk. He was also accompanied by two of his semi-thuggish Red Sox teammates—Connor recognized both as instigators of the “Psycho Sully” chant of a couple weeks ago.

  As always, Billy dispensed with the usual pleasantries. “We’re going to kill you guys in the playoffs,” he said.

  “Don’t keep stuff inside, Billy,” Connor said. “Tell us what you really think.”

  Connor was in a good mood, having just come from the computer lab, where, with his heart hammering in his chest, he had checked the Tattler’s Web site to see if he was a featured attraction.

  There was a story about the new science wing opening, and a piece abo
ut Ms. Peggy Jackman, who was retiring after thirty years of teaching English. There was a column titled “No Wonder Johnny’s Enormous!” that decried the lack of nutritious food selections in the cafeteria, and another titled “Down with the Fashion Police!” advocating that students be allowed to wear T-shirts with political slogans to school.

  But there was no story or video, thank goodness, about a head case twelve-year-old ballplayer under too much pressure to succeed.

  Connor had been so relieved that he’d actually lowered his head onto the keyboard and whispered, “Thank you, Melissa,” before signing off.

  Now here were Billy and his two creepy teammates, Kyle something and Marcus something, getting in his face about the playoffs. Any other time, he would have been irritated just by the sight of them.

  But today he was so thankful to not be an Internet laughingstock that he found talking to Billy to be almost, well, tolerable.

  Except now Billy was taunting him, getting right in his grille.

  “You plan to play the whole game this time, Psycho Sully?” he said. Then he grinned and elbowed Kyle and Marcus, who promptly started laughing as if this were the funniest thing they had ever heard.

  “Yeah, I think so,” Connor said. “Hope you throw that same pitch you did last time. Remember? The one I tattooed over your head?”

  Billy’s grin disappeared, replaced by a scowl, his second-favorite facial expression. Seeing Billy’s, Kyle and Marcus felt compelled to break out their best scowls, too. They looked like the Three Scowling Stooges.

  “You got lucky,” Billy said. “It won’t happen again. I’ll be throwing some serious heat this time.” He fashioned his thumb and index finger into the shape of the gun and blew on the barrel.

  “Ah, the famous smoking six-gun,” Connor said with a smile. “I don’t know, Billy. That thing was more like a squirt gun last time we faced you.”

  Billy was turning a lovely shade of red now, which seemed to confuse his two sawed-off associates. They wanted to emulate their leader, but how do you look embarrassed on command?