And Diego came through.
Today in every class, I peeked inside my books, where I’d hidden a printout of some field hockey guidelines Diego had drawn up over the weekend.
There was a personal note on the top:
I know it sounds great to be surrounded by adorable monkeys all day but let me tell you, it’s not. Monkeys are not all that nice. Not one monkey has climbed up sweetly on my shoulder and nuzzled my ear, like monkeys do on TV. But you know how you’ve heard they throw poop? Yeah, they definitely do that.
The note made me feel a little better because I felt a little like poop had been thrown at me since I got here. Only it was Piper Bell Penguin poop and also not actual poop. Okay, fine, maybe Diego has it worse. Actual poop was definitely worse than poop of my imagination.
But his FIELD HOCKEY BASICS were:
•Eleven players on the field (usually in arrangements of three forwards, three midfielders, four defenders, and a goalkeeper)
•A lot of running and a lot of “fluidity” (which means, that, unlike in baseball where a first baseman stays at first base, a forward might end up defending, etc.)
•Carry the stick to your right side at all times
•Can only score from within the striking circle
•Basically ice hockey but on grass and more fancy
He sent me a bunch of videos and guides online that I watched and read last night, but you can watch and watch and read and read and watch and it is no substitute for playing. Diego himself is truly the biggest sports expert I know but he’s TERRIBLE at sports. (Sorry, Diego, but you won’t see this: it’s a super-secret playbook, even to you.)
So I was extra-nervous when I walked out onto the field hockey pitch where I was told to try out. I’d never even been on a “pitch” before.
It was weird that I pitched on a baseball field but would play field hockey on a pitch.
Anyway!
I also sensed the little Gabbys getting fired up about things. All of them were more nervous than I was.
What if I made a complete idiot of myself out there?
But when I got to where I thought I was supposed to go, I just found a bunch of kids doing yoga. Not even the kind of yoga you could confuse for rigorous stretching but, like, “sit with your legs crossed and eyes closed and breathe deep” yoga.
I looked around for Coach Raddock. Maybe practice got moved.
It was mesmerizing, all these students so quiet and still. I recognized a few. Katy Harris, who was in my bio class and was a singer who performed her original songs on a hit YouTube channel. (Also the subject of the untrue rumor that I got her sick on my first day here.) And this girl Molly Oliver, an eighth grader who always carried around books that weren’t schoolbooks. I heard she wrote a novel. And Colin Reedy, a very quiet boy from my social studies class—or a boy who would be quiet if he didn’t wear his tap shoes everywhere.
I was definitely in the wrong place. This must have been Yoga Club.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. Coach Raddock.
Thank goodness! She was here to take me to the right place.
“Hi, Gabby,” she said. “How are you? I’m so glad you’re here.” She was talking in a soft, peaceful voice. A much more Zen voice than she was using in algebra yesterday, but maybe it was because she was surrounded by the yoga fest. It was so calming. Like watching a sheep’s fur grow.
OTHER CALMING THINGS
•Koalas nibbling eucalyptus
•Very organized store clerks folding sweaters
•Steam rising from boiling pots of noodles
•The first blob of ketchup flowing out of the bottle
“Where am I?” That was what I said, and my voice sounded odd, like someone asking an alien life-form what planet they’ve woken up on. But I kind of felt that way.
“You’re on the field hockey pitch.” Now it was Coach Raddock’s turn to sound odd. She even answered like she was the leader of beings from another dimension.
“Is this field hockey?” I must have spoken too loudly because she held a finger up to her lips for me to be quieter. Then she nodded.
“Game tomorrow. We like to take it easy the day before a game. We need to be quiet as the team gets into the proper head space.”
Okay, so taking it easy the day before a game wasn’t that strange. But this seemed beyond easy. It was like sleeping. And from what Johnny Madden said, the team needed work, not sleep.
“So maybe I should practice with the team before playing in a game?”
She waved her hand through the air like this was the craziest suggestion she’d ever heard. “Nah, why wait? You look like you’re a size small. I’ll get you a uniform. You can play tomorrow.”
What? Was my garbage-can goal enough to just get on the pitch? And, wait, if I thought about it, Coach Raddock didn’t say I should try out for field hockey. She didn’t even say that I should play field hockey. All she said was that I made the goal “like someone who plays field hockey.”
But, looking around at her team and based on what Johnny said, I wondered if she’d ever seen anyone actually play field hockey.
“So I’m on the team?”
She nodded. “You’re welcome to sit in on the last of yoga. Or you can just watch.”
It was the weirdest tryout or practice or whatever I’d ever been to. But at least she didn’t have reservations about me.
I looked around for a hidden camera.
Or a portal to another dimension.
Maybe I was already in one?
I guess I “made” the team, so . . . WIN?
WINS: 3
LOSSES: 6 (if I keep this up, I’ll be close to .500!)
LAST CHANCE
Goal: Be a field hockey player?
Action: Quit the baseball team.
April 29,
Part Two
Okay, I made the team. But I hadn’t really made the team. Is it really a tryout if you don’t have to try?
Still, I just stopped to write this in the sweaty atrium after wandering the halls, carrying around a brand-new field hockey uniform after a supportive pat on the back from Coach Raddock and instructions to be ready for tomorrow’s game. When I asked how to be ready, she said, “You are probably already ready. Readiness comes from within.”
But doesn’t readiness also come from having some idea of what you’re going to do?
It’s all very confusing. I’m very disoriented. Suddenly, I’m unsure I WANT to be on the team.
If it was that easy to get on, is it a good place to be?
Sure it is. Coach Raddock is nice and there’s nothing wrong with yoga. Something doesn’t have to be competitive to be worthwhile, or to put me back on my win streak. (And that makes me think about an assignment about irony that I keep putting off in English class.)
At any rate, I’m on the field hockey team and will have to quit the baseball team. I’ve never really quit anything before. I’m not even sure how you do that. And now I’m sweating for more reasons than just the atrium.
I’m probably already on Coach Hollylighter’s Poop List for being so late for practice. Or maybe—
What if I make the competition about ME?
A play is taking shape in my brain.
New Goal: SEEM like I am going to be a field hockey player.
New Action: Quit the baseball team while announcing my field hockey plans.
Secret Goal: See if Coach Hollylighter will ask me to stay on the baseball team.
It’s just like when Peter complains that he doesn’t want whatever my dad makes for dinner and my dad offers to make him something else that Peter REALLY wouldn’t want and then Peter admits that he’s fine with what was originally offered. (The mind games required to keep Peter in the family are really troublesome.)
So here I am, starting to think I don’t want to play field hockey. But I also don’t want to go back to a baseball team that doesn’t want me and thinks I’m a jinx. So, maybe, if the baseball team BELIEVES I want to
leave, they’ll be upset to lose me, and ask me to stay??
I think it’s a great plan. I just need to change into this field hockey uniform.
A win is coming soon.
THE TAKE-ME-OUT FAKE-OUT
Goal: Get baseball team to admit they want to keep me by making them think I am leaving.
Action: Convincingly act like I really want to quit the team to be a field hockey player.
Post-Play Analysis:
April 29, continued, AGAIN
With my new play in mind, I put on my new uniform in one of the school bathrooms. I looked in the mirror to check my face. I wanted to look serious and concerned and like I felt just TERRIBLE about this hard decision but that I knew it was the RIGHT MOVE. For EVERYONE.
Here is the face I settled on:
No one could not believe the deep spiritual crisis of a face like that. I mean, if I really thought the baseball team was just going to let me leave, the spiritual crisis would have been 100 percent real, so it wasn’t too hard to fake it. Because I REALLY didn’t want to leave baseball.
So I kept that face and that mood as I headed to the baseball field. I was anxious that Coach Hollylighter and the team would be worried about me or upset with me for missing practice. But when I got there, they were just on the field, practicing like I wasn’t even gone. Or maybe like I was, and like they didn’t even miss me.
Was I imagining things or did they look really happy?
They probably WERE happy, to be rid of a jinx.
Suddenly, standing there in my field hockey uniform, I knew I would rather be out on the field. The baseball field, not the field hockey pitch. I mean, how many hours had I spent on baseball fields? How many innings? How many baseball moments had I logged? A person didn’t just let that kind of thing slide through their hands.
BUT . . .
I wanted the baseball team to be happy when I was actually on the field with them, not just on days I didn’t show up for practice.
I stepped up behind Coach Hollylighter, who was standing on the first baseline talking to Coach Tommy, a college student who sometimes comes to practice as a batting coach.
I cleared my throat with one of those “hmmmh-hmmmh” noises and they both turned to look at me. Alongside the fence, Johnny was doodling some kind of ball-arc diagram that looked complicated but potentially interesting. He looked up and made a squinchy face when he saw my field hockey uniform.
“Gabby,” Coach Hollylighter said. “We were wondering why you weren’t here.” I guessed that was nice, to at least be wondered about.
But everyone on the field kept playing as usual. Lee Castle, one of the other starting pitchers, who was only okay, was on the mound with Devon at bat. Ryder was at catcher. Coach Tommy headed to home plate to help Devon with something and left me with Coach Hollylighter.
Besides her and Johnny, I wasn’t sure anyone else even registered my presence.
“Oh, yeah, about that,” I started, wanting her to see my uniform and to say the rest so I didn’t have to. And then I wanted her to say, “We don’t want you to leave! You’re gonna be great!” Pretending to quit the Piper Bell baseball team might have been worse than really trying to get on it. “Well, you see, I . . .”
All of the sudden, my dark-night-of-the-soul face felt very real. There was so much hinging on this moment: I needed to know that I wasn’t a jinx and that the baseball team wanted me to stick around and knew I was a winner. But Coach Hollylighter was looking irritated and staring at me like she wished she had a tool to pull words out of my mouth. (And wouldn’t that be a pretty helpful tool?)
“Have you joined the field hockey team?” she said, pointing at my uniform.
I looked down. I’d forgotten it was on. That probably was not a good sign for my enthusiasm. But, any minute, Coach Hollylighter would make sure I stuck with baseball.
“Yes,” I started, trying to think of the very fancy way a big sports star would leave a team that had been very dear to him or her. Granted, the Penguins weren’t exactly dear to me, or vice versa, but maybe I should have prepared a statement.
“It became clear at this juncture . . . ,” I started, thinking that—WHOA, I definitely sounded important! “Well, this juncture made it clear that . . . okay, it was suggested that I might be good at field hockey team, so I tried out and I made the team. I think they see me as a valuable addition to their lineup and, even though baseball is the sport I’m meant to play, I felt this was a good decision.”
My voice was shaky and I was looking at Coach Hollylighter hoping yet again for ESP, or whatever I needed so that she knew that I didn’t really want to leave. Readmymindreadmymindreadmymind, I thought.
I caught Johnny’s eye and he mouthed, with a crazed expression: “What are you doing??” But I ignored him. If it worked out, and it had to, he’d understand.
“I see,” she said, and it was definitely in that grown-up way that sort of lets you know that the grown-up knows that maybe you are not telling the whole truth. But she didn’t continue or say anything about me staying on the team or even hint that maybe things would get better. I was hoping for at least an “Are you sure about that?” But nothing.
“I’ve really enjoyed my time playing baseball,” I tacked on, and it was such an understatement! Really enjoyed my time playing the sport that gives my life meaning? NO, I live and breathe baseball! Jinx or not, it was my game. But I didn’t know how to say that. It didn’t feel very winner-y.
And having started the whole thing, I didn’t want to suddenly say, “Wait! I still want to play baseball! Even if you all hate me!”
And that part did stink. I wanted to be APPRECIATED.
The whole thing was a mess of words and thoughts and ideas and plays and strategies piled up in a jumble of wrong in the pit of my stomach. But I wasn’t just going to take it all back!
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy your days as a field hockey player, then, too,” Coach Hollylighter said. “Of course, we all wish you the best of luck.”
Huh? THAT WASN’T WHAT SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO SAY!
I felt myself shrinking into my new uniform, for a sport I’d never played. I heard the crack of the bat and saw Devon hit a nice line drive up the middle of the field. I almost clapped and cheered her on as she ran past me to first.
And then I remembered, I wasn’t on the team anymore. So here I am, a baseball player without a team, with a field hockey uniform crumpled in a pile on her bedroom floor, writing about what might be the worst day of her life. The NEW worst day of her life.
Definitely a LOSS.
WINS: 3
LOSSES: 7
THINGS MY PARENTS SAID WHEN I DECIDED TO QUIT BASEBALL
•“But baseball is your first love!”
•“Was someone mean to you?”
•“Do you feel okay? Do you need something to eat?”
•“Would chocolate help?”
•“Baseball is your sport! Are you sure about this?”
•“Let me take your temperature.”
•“But you’re such a great pitcher. You belong out there!”
•“Transitions are hard. Are you sure? Maybe you should give it more time.”
•“Maybe it’s puberty.” (The official reason parents give for anything they can’t explain once you’re over twelve years old.)
•“Why field hockey? Have you ever PLAYED field hockey?”
•“You don’t feel peer pressure, do you?”
•“Are you sure you’re not just hungry?”
•“Maybe you should sleep on it.”
•“Does she look flushed?”
•“I thought she looked pale.”
•“Something’s wrong. Where’s the doctor’s number?”
•“Okay, if you’re really sure, we absolutely support you.”
•“You can always go back to baseball, though.”
•“Adolescence can be difficult. Lots of changes. Just give yourself room to breathe.”
•“You can
tell us anything.”
•“Field hockey, huh? Well, it’s never a dull moment with you.”
•“I’ll fix you something to eat.”
FIRST GAME
Goal: Try to be awesome at my new sport, impress my new teammates, and single-handedly save the field hockey team.
Action: Get my team psyched. Talk plays, try to get a feel for my new sport, be the athlete I know I can be and AM.
Post-Day Analysis:
April 30
Okay, so this playbook is about GOALS.
ACTIONS.
RESULTS.
But the results I expect are never quite the results I get.
It’s been driving me kind of nuts because, as a pitcher, I’m almost always able to think about what I’m going to do and do it.
So I’m frustrated because I keep planning ways to be awesome at Piper Bell and get my record-settingly awesome life back, then they don’t work out. It all counted on the baseball team thing as the center of the plan, but that team didn’t want me.
THINGS THAT HAVE NOT WORKED OUT
•Getting a C in History (yup, progressive grades were just a rumor! I’d give anything for that sweatpants grading system now)
•Haven’t made any friends except maybe a cute-type boy in a tie but it’s weird, so . . .
•Not on the baseball team
•Shark-fin hair still not going away
•Somehow on the field hockey team (not necessarily a bad thing, but odd, definitely odd because IT’S NOT THE BASEBALL TEAM)
I would never have thought this outcome was possible. Me not playing baseball is weird. In my mind, me playing baseball is like a law of the universe. Like the ice cream truck showing up after you’ve just eaten ice cream.
Me quitting the baseball team is even stranger, like some alternate universe where instead of ice cream trucks, kids run up to trucks selling kale smoothies.
Quitting isn’t something I do. But I haven’t really quit, I don’t think. Because I joined something else, and I am still in the game of life and I am going to win. I have to look at it that way, or I’ll just be sad about not playing baseball.
Gabby Garcia's Ultimate Playbook Page 7