Gabby Garcia's Ultimate Playbook

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  I jogged up and waited expectantly to hear how happy she’d sound.

  “Hi, Coach! Team looks great out there, doesn’t it?” I was kind of exaggerating. They were pretty slow.

  “So I have some reservations,” she said, not really answering my question. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Johnny watching the conversation. I couldn’t read his face but I wondered if this wasn’t what he’d expected to hear, either.

  Reservations? About what? I didn’t say this out loud but my head wanted me to.

  “We all know you’re a good player,” she said.

  That was more like it.

  “But . . .”

  But??

  “But our team has a good rapport, and I’m concerned about your ego,” she said.

  Ego? What ego? I have almost NO EGO. If you could look at me in an x-ray and actually see things like egos, mine would take up less room than my appendix. I’m not sure how big my appendix is but I know I don’t need it for survival, so I’m guessing it’s small. And my ego—if it even exists—is way, way smaller than my very unnecessary appendix.

  OTHER THINGS WAY BIGGER THAN MY EGO

  •A flattened dime

  •A pencil eraser

  •A sea monkey (no, I’ve never even seen one and that’s my exact point)

  •A baby’s eyelash

  •Molecules of small things

  “I have lots of rapport. I can make rapport wherever I go,” I started saying, really fast. I wasn’t sure exactly what “rapport” was but I was sure I could make it. I wanted to play baseball so badly and BRING more winning BACK to my life that I was sure I could make an APPENDIX if I had to. And then throw it away because no one needs them.

  “We’ll have to see,” Coach Hollylighter said as she patted me on the shoulder, like she felt really bad for me. Like I had to get my appendix and my ego removed with painful surgeries. “Let’s see how it goes.”

  This all sounded so sad to me that I said, “See how what goes?”

  “You, on the team,” she said. “With reservations.”

  I knew what she meant, but to me, reservations are something you make in advance and have to wait for. And I’m sick of waiting.

  WINS: 1

  LOSSES: 4

  I’m on a streak all right. Just the wrong kind . . .

  PRACTICE MAKES IMPERFECT

  Goal: Have rapport with my new team. (I looked it up and it means “a close and harmonious relationship in which people or groups understand each other and communicate well.” I can do that!)

  Action: Be the opposite of movie-moment/expert Gabby and instead be kind/ego-free Gabby who accepts her new role with grace and reaches out to her new teammates with love and understanding.

  Post-Day Analysis:

  April 24

  Framing. I decided that was what I needed to do with myself. The way a catcher frames a pitch can mean the difference between whether an ump calls it a strike or a ball. It’s the same pitch, but it’s all about perspective.

  And the way I framed myself mattered. I thought showing my superstar side was the way to go, but that’s not the case with Coach Hollylighter.

  Nope, this transition to Piper Bell had not been easy. I really thought that because I had a rep for being a GREAT BALLPLAYER, I’d just click into place, like a Lego or a missing puzzle piece or something. The baseball team would ask me to be on it, the other players would become my friends, and everything else would just start to work out. An easy win. “No problem,” as my dad liked to say when he had to throw together an extra plate of food if someone just dropped by and he invited them to stay for dinner.

  I mean, when Michael Jordan, my dad’s favorite basketball player, came out of retirement and went to the Washington Wizards, that team was really excited. When Babe Ruth got traded from the Boston Red Sox to the Yankees, the Yankees were beyond excited. (And the Red Sox were so wrong to let him go that they were CURSED for years!)

  I’d been having such a PERFECT year at Luther that it seemed like I would have the same momentum—that I would come to Piper Bell and just pick up where I left off at my old school.

  But it hasn’t been like that at all.

  At Luther, I was a leader. I was the person you came to for help. I was a big deal.

  And even though I have what’s called a “big personality,” I feel like it’s not working for me here.

  Sure, I’m on the team, but with RESERVATIONS.

  I didn’t expect a parade or anything, but I don’t think anyone has ever had reservations about me, either. (And this time, by “reservations” I mean those feelings a person gets that mean they’re not quite sure about you. Which might be worse than the reservations you make and wait for—because at least you get to stay at a hotel or eat food at the end of those. These reservations were just . . . yucky.)

  And they were giving me a case of the yips. Old Me, in case you don’t remember, the yips are what you call it when you get so nervous or so in your head about the game that you forget how to play, or at least how to do certain things. Like maybe you just start not being able to make the throw to first base. Or you try to throw a pitch you’ve thrown a million times, and you just hurl the ball at the dirt.

  Or you realize that you had rapport with your old team all along but now that you learned what it means, you’re not sure you’ll have it with another team ever again.

  And that means the yips just get worse, and you will probably forget how to even walk out onto the field.

  I didn’t think it had gotten that bad yet, but when I woke up this morning, I couldn’t remember what arm I throw with. That would be like if you were an awesome speller or something and you suddenly forgot how to spell your name, or CAT. Or you’re normally great at math and someone asks you what 10 plus 10 is and you say, “8,000” or “orange.”

  I had to do better today.

  So I was going to go to practice and be just what the Coach and my teammates needed: humble, helpful Gabby. Rapport Gabby. No Reservations Gabby.

  Reframed Gabby.

  In the locker room after school, I put on my Piper Bell Penguins practice jersey for the first time in my entire life. In the mirror, the red and black colors looked strange. Luther Lion colors are gold and brown.

  Devon and some of the other girls didn’t wait for me after they changed. I was feeling down enough on myself that I didn’t totally blame them. The sporting thing to do (“sporting,” the old-people way for saying “nice”) was to welcome your new teammate, but maybe that would be weird for them after I gave one of them a bloody nose and tried to boss everyone around. Neither of which I’d meant to do, but it didn’t seem like anyone cared to learn my explanations.

  But even though I got it, when the other girls left me alone in the locker room, I was in full yips mode.

  And they were the worst kind of yips. Not just sporty yips, like how to throw or what hand I used; yips like “Is my shirt on right?”

  I finally made my feet work and got out to the field. I checked the stands for Johnny but he wasn’t there today, which made me feel even worse because he’d been the only person to say I belonged there. I knew I belonged there, but it was nice to have backup. And thumbs-ups.

  But then Coach Hollylighter actually told me to go to the mound for the catch drill. Devon and the other pitchers stayed in the bull pen to practice. I was surprised Coach would let me lead stuff on the field.

  It was what I wanted, but all of a sudden I wished I could be doing something else. It seemed like it would have been better to be part of the bull-pen festivities. The mound felt lonely.

  Reframing wasn’t working. I already felt so far outside the strike zone that I didn’t think they could make a frame big enough to find me.

  Three in-and-out breaths. A hand clap. My thing.

  I kicked off the drill, throwing the ball first to Ryder at catcher, who was supposed to throw to first, who’d then throw to second, who’d throw to left, who’d throw to third, and on and on. Catch
drills are usually fun and easy.

  Except today when the ball came back my way, I saw it, but my arm stopped moving. I said, “Got it!” But then I didn’t lift my arm and it sailed right over my head.

  Oh.

  No.

  THE YIPS.

  If they looked like anything, they’d be little monsters with mean faces, pinching me.

  Or maybe just a bunch of little hyperactive Gabbys running around inside my head, all freaking out about a different thing.

  But I picked up the ball and threw it to the next player. I told the yips to go away. Somehow, I made it through the rest of catch even though my stomach felt twitchy and I was pinchy all over with the yips. Then Coach Hollylighter said I could pitch to batting practice.

  Okay, PITCHING, my specialty. I could do this. I would do this. I pitched great yesterday. Just, today, I wouldn’t boss anyone around. I’d just pitch like the pitcher I knew I could be. The pitcher I know I am.

  Yips, begone!!

  When Madeleine stepped up to bat first, though, and she had a big pink Band-Aid across the top of her nose, I got shaky again. The little Gabby-yips went crazy: “What if I hit her?” “She’s going to think I have it out for her!” “There’s going to be more blood!” “The school will think I’m a serial killer, not just a Luther Polluter.”

  I threw a fastball that wasn’t even fast. The way I threw it, it didn’t even seem like much of a ball.

  Also, it was chin music—high and inside. And to be honest, I’m unsure it was even a pitch. It was like trying to throw a feather. They’re so light, they just kind of give up and blow back with the wind. It was close to being that. If a ball could shrug, mine did that.

  But still, Madeleine jumped away from the plate.

  “What, are you trying to kill me? What did I even do to YOU??”

  She was being a little dramatic, since my pitch had all the force behind it of a marshmallow, but I understood why she was skeptical.

  Ryder tossed the ball back to me and I was relieved to catch it. Which was all wrong, since I usually didn’t even think about catching. Catching is like breathing. You just do it. You don’t get excited when it happens, just worried when it doesn’t.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said to Madeleine. She was staring at me like she was trying to memorize my face for a police sketch. “Let me try again.”

  But Madeleine stepped away from the plate.

  “Coach, permission to skip batting practice?”

  Coach Hollylighter shook her head. “It was one pitch,” she said. Ah, thank goodness, my coach has faith in me! “Stay at bat. Gabby needs the practice.”

  Needs the practice????

  Okay: I’ve heard plenty of things about myself. “Gabby practices hard!” or “You can tell she practices a lot.”

  But “needs the practice” was new. Just like someone “having reservations” about me. She knew about my Luther stats! I didn’t need the practice. Ugh.

  Suddenly, I felt extra-twitchy all over. But I had to prove that I was worth having around. And I definitely didn’t want to argue with Coach Hollylighter.

  So I didn’t say anything. And I told the little Gabby-yips, who were kicking up dirt and making a lot of noise about that practice comment, to CALM DOWN.

  I threw another pitch. It was a good one. Humble, needs-the-practice Gabby could still pitch.

  Madeleine bunted. To me. Who bunted in batting practice????

  But I grabbed the ball and tossed it to first, where Mario Salamida was waiting.

  It didn’t matter that he was there, though, because it went sailing right over his massive head.

  “What was that, Gaggy?” Mario yelled. “Are you sure you’ve ever even played this game before?”

  “Salamida, we don’t talk to our teammates like that!” Coach Hollylighter said, making me feel a bit better. Then she blew the whistle and called me in. She told the players on the field to keep playing. I thought Mario, who was not being very rapport-like, should have gotten benched for a bit, but I wasn’t the one in charge.

  I jogged over to Coach Hollylighter, trying to look yips-free.

  “You okay, Garcia?”

  I nodded. “Yes, just getting used to things.” Over her shoulder, I could see Devon and the other players in the bull pen slowing down, probably trying to overhear us.

  I thought she looked concerned when she said, “I know you have skills. We’ll give it some time so you can adjust.”

  One of my little Gabby-yips was happy that she commented on my skills. But the rest were wondering what she thought I needed to adjust.

  Has anyone ever had a case of the yips for their WHOLE LIFE?

  Another LOSS, with a side of YIPS.

  WINS: 1 (with reservations)

  LOSSES: 5

  April 25

  Replay: Game One

  How can I say this without sounding negative?

  My first game as a Piper Bell Penguin was THE WORST GAME OF MY LIFE.

  WORST.

  GAME.

  OF.

  MY.

  LIFE.

  I refuse to write an inning-by-inning summary because I hated every inning.

  “Hated every inning” are three words I never thought I’d put together. But there they are. And they are TRUE.

  It was an out-of-conference game against the Dalton Dynamite, so not as crucial as if the team had been in Piper Bell’s conference. But I’d played the Dynamite earlier in the season with Luther, whose conference they were in. Now, since Luther had no team because there was no school until the asbestos thing got fixed, all the teams in Luther’s conference were playing these out-of-conference games. But all this is to say, I know the Dynamite aren’t very good. We’d won easily.

  Piper Bell should have won easily, too.

  I was pretty excited going in to the game. Practice the day after my yips practice had gone better. Not rapport better, but I didn’t make any major mistakes. Devon and I both spent time in the bull pen, and we even talked a little.

  Devon: Do you ever feel like baseball is your real life and the rest of your life is just the game part? Or like when you win a game, you win at everything?

  Me: That is how I feel all. the. time.

  Devon: Yeah, I can tell that about you.

  Then she blinked and stopped talking and lobbed a fastball at Ryder. She was like one of those cowboys in old movies who say just the perfect thing and then get glinty-eyed and go back to their horse. Personally, I think those movies all seem the same, but Peter and my dad love them and claim each one is very special. But they all have the glinty-eyed cowboy.

  Anyway, even if she was a little scary, it felt something like rapport to be talking to Devon.

  So, after that more promising practice, game day. All the signs were there that this would be the true, official start of my NEW WINNING STREAK. The winning streak I just kept waiting for.

  THE SIGNS

  •Sky: Clear.

  •Ponytail: No shark fin.

  •Breakfast: Chocolate chip pancakes.

  These things were all signs of a universe that wanted me to be happy. And a WIN would make me very happy.

  Plus, the win would be at BASEBALL! I was due.

  That’s kind of superstitious but I did the math: I’d been denied the rightful win I had coming on asbestos day, and that’s when everything started going downhill. So a baseball win now would put the cosmos in order and make things okay.

  The stands were full, the field was mowed. Everything would be great.

  Maybe a little part of me thought I would be pitching. So when Coach Hollylighter told Devon she was starting and I might be called in as a reliever, well, I admit it, I wasn’t in love with the idea.

  I think Coach saw my pouty face because she said, “That a problem, Garcia?”

  “No, that’s great! Of course, it’s perfect!” I was really overselling it but since my ego was a concern, I had to.

  And instead, I decided to be SUP
ER-SUPPORTIVE. If I could get Devon to really like me, I could win Coach Hollylighter over, too. So, in the bull pen while Devon warmed up, I tried to be helpful.

  Me: You know, I played these guys before. Their best batter can’t hit a slider at all.

  Devon: Oh, really? That’s interesting.

  But she said it like it was not interesting at all. Maybe it wasn’t to her. Or maybe Devon, in addition to her scary-cowboy talk, was a total game-face athlete. My hero, Mo’Ne Davis, is like that, too: sometimes even when the game is going totally her way, you can’t tell from her expression.

  I’m a little more like Julie Johnston, a defender on the U.S. World Cup soccer team: when a game is going good, she’s all smiles. Both ways work. But I thought Devon could at least crack a small smile.

  Why did I have to do all the work building rapport? What about everyone else? And why did it seem like just when rapport got started, it stopped?

  So I tried again as Devon headed for the mound and I sat in the dugout. “Go get ’em, DeWitt,” I said, and I smiled really big. Not in a fake way, either, even though on the inside, I REALLY REALLY REALLY wanted to pitch. (Because I REALLY REALLY REALLY wanted to win.)

  “Thanks, dude,” she said, and slapped me five as she headed to the mound. Dude. She called me dude. Things were moving back in the right direction.

  Or so I thought.

  HIGHLIGHT (BUT REALLY LOWLIGHT) REEL

  Inning 1: Normal enough. Devon was throwing good stuff. The team was playing fine, maybe not Luther Lions fine but good enough.

  Inning 2: The opponents scored a run when their best hitter got Devon’s curve. And then another couple. (She should have tried a slider.) But we scored a few runs. Tie.

  Inning 4: Devon asked me for advice: “So the slider, you think that will work? I wanna bust this guy.” She had total game face. I had total happy face because she was asking me for help: “Yeah, there’s no way it won’t work.”

  Inning 4, a few minutes later: The guy homered off Devon’s first pitch. Her slider. THIS WAS NOT GOOD.