by Kris Hui Lee
When I recount this to Sara at the lunch table, she says, “Focus on what’s important: playing well, not stupid high school gossip. It’s unavoidable and doesn’t matter.”
She’s right, of course. It’s not the student body I have to convince that I belong. It’s the team. They’re the ones I have to play with. They are the ones who have to trust me. Hopefully the guys’ initial shock will wear off fast, and they’ll objectively remember that I threw as well as any of the other guys at tryouts. Well, threw as well and better, if Chizz’s choice reflects the truth.
In the meantime, I’ll have to make sure I don’t choke at the first practice. Owning at practice will show them that me owning tryouts was not a fluke.
Because it wasn’t, I tell myself.
After school, I find myself stalling in the girls’ locker room, taking my time French braiding my hair over my right shoulder and changing into my softball pants. Normally I’d join the other after-school sports girls in joking around, but I want to be alone.
I tie up my cleats and get nostalgic like I did this morning when I pulled them out of my closet. It was like bringing them back from the dead. Hello, old friends.
They’re also a reminder of all the reasons I quit playing on an organized team in the first place.
With a deep breath, I grab my mitt. Time to go.
Outside, a cool breeze hits me. And so does Cody.
“Oh, hey, there you are,” he says with a gentle slug to my shoulder. “I was looking for you. I thought you chickened out or something.”
I look behind him for Sara, who said she would come watch practice.
“Sara had to go,” Cody says, reading my mind.
“Where?”
“Emergency at the dog shelter. Moose escaped and took three accomplices with him. She had to split.”
Normally I love hearing about the great adventures of Moose and Co., but today I couldn’t be less interested.
“You’re nervous,” Cody says with an amused grin on his face.
“Why are you even here?” I ask. “Come to gloat? Tell me you were right?”
“I’m not Joey,” he says. “Chizz asked me to be present for practice to talk you through some stuff, and anyway, I thought it wouldn’t be so bad if I walked out there with you.”
Thank God. But what I say is “I don’t need a babysitter.”
We stand there, me watching from afar as the team starts gathering on the field, trying to convince my feet to start moving. The sun peaks in and out between clouds, which means it shouldn’t get in my eyes during practice. At least the weather is in my favor.
“You know, you don’t have to pretend you’ve got all your shit together,” he says. “At least not with me.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Then how come you’re still standing here?”
“Because I’m…” Nervous as hell. Afraid of fucking up. Desperate for approval. “I’m fine.”
“It’s okay to be scared. And it’s okay to say that.”
I’m not ready to say it out loud, but he gets my silence. When I don’t reply, he gives my braid a gentle tug. “You’ve got this. Come on. Before they start thinking you’re AWOL.”
We start walking, and I have an overwhelming urge to cling to his right arm, like he’s a lifeboat as the current is pulling me into a tidal wave. But I refrain. The game is in three days. I can’t afford a lifeboat. I need to trust my ability to swim.
My old softball coach used to say, “Ten percent game, ninety percent brain.” So I tell my nerves to get lost.
The guys are gathered on the infield—all wearing the same light gray baseball pants and their gym shirts. They slowly turn their attention toward me as I approach. Let me tell you, it is intimidating to have fifteen tall, muscular, testosterone-y (and okay, yes, attractive) guys staring me down like I’m a rabbit wandering into their wolf den. Forget the fact that I know some of them. Standing in a pack like this, I feel like I’m about to get eaten alive.
Then I spot Chizz, who will eat them if they try to eat me.
I don’t have to decide whether to keep to myself or try to be friendly because Chizz is quick to put us all to work. He makes us run warm-up laps, and then he throws me in the bullpen with Davis and Cody so I can learn their signs.
Davis launches in. “So what exactly are your credentials?”
“I didn’t know this was a job interview,” I say. “Would you like me to print you a résumé and cover letter?” Beside me, Cody stifles a laugh.
“Who taught you how to pitch?” Davis asks.
He’s on a mission for a serious answer, so I say, “My brother, my softball coach, YouTube.” And then as an afterthought, I point at Cody and add, “Also, this guy.”
“So you’ve never had a real pitching coach?” Davis asks skeptically.
“Well, my brother is Nick Locke,” I remind him, hoping this will win me some points, but Davis says, “Yeah, so you better be real good.”
Instead of gaining his confidence, I’ve raised his expectations. Good job, Marnie.
“Man,” Davis says, stepping into the bullpen. “I remember watching that state game freshman year. That last inning…” He grins at the memory.
I know exactly what he’s talking about.
In the top of the seventh, the score was three to three. This guy Zak was up at bat, and Jiro, who was a freshman then, was on second. There were two outs. Zak hit a line drive straight between right and center field. He made it to first, and Jiro was going for the double—going home. And then the worst thing that can happen to a runner happened: he got stuck in a rundown between third and home. The third baseman, the shortstop, the pitcher, and the catcher were all on him, but Jiro is a frigging cheetah on two legs. He was weaving in and out, back and forth—at one point, the third baseman and the shortstop collided trying to get him, and by some miracle, Jiro made it home safe.
So, it was up to Nick to defend the team’s one-run lead in the bottom of the seventh. The first two batters made it on base before there were any outs. The crowd thought Nick was choking. The third guy hit a pop-up that was nearly a home run, but this kid Drew caught the ball with a flying leap. Then Nick struck out the last two batters.
It was epic.
And now Davis is going to expect me to live up to that.
If only.
I listen intently as Cody and Davis explain their signal system to me. They have three different systems that they cycle through during a game. When they’re finished explaining, they make me repeat it all, like, ten times to make sure I got it.
And then we start the real work: the pitching.
This part isn’t so bad. It’s like tryouts. I just have to throw my best, let Davis know he can trust me, and let him learn how I pitch and where those pitches land. He catches on quick. Cody throws in a few tips to fix the so-called “bad habits” I’ve picked up over the years.
When Chizz calls us back to the field so we can do some full-team drills, Davis seems neither disappointed nor impressed. He walks out of the bullpen without a word to me.
I pull off my mitt and shake out my hand. “He hates me.”
Cody laughs. “Nah. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up.”
“What’s it gonna take for them to like me?”
“Since when have you cared if people like you or not?”
“It may have been a while, but I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be on a team. It’s not enough if everyone is good on their own. You have to be good together. And that only works when you trust each other and when you like each other. With me on the team, neither of those conditions is met.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Cody says. “Jiro and Carrot thought it was a great idea. And everyone else, like Joey, will learn to deal. He’s not the best at coping, but he’ll figure it out. In time
.”
“We don’t have time,” I say. “We’re T minus three days away.”
Cody plays with the end of my braid, which he seems to be doing a lot this afternoon. “I think you’re a lot more likable than you think you are.”
I look up to meet his gaze. As always, I’m surprised at how tall he is, and I’m tall for a girl. The sun hits his face, making his eyes that light brownish-orange color with streaks of gold.
Damn. He could hypnotize a person with those eyes.
Or maybe I’m just a sucker.
After Chizz confirms that Cody has passed on our signals to me, he dismisses Cody, who decides to hang out with Sara and the dogs. As I join the guys around Chizz home plate, I force myself to focus. That seems to get harder and harder when Cody is around. I don’t have the capacity to deal with him and pitching.
“Have you given him what he wants yet?” Ray hisses in my ear, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I instinctively take a step back from him. “What?”
“You and Kinski? He got you your spot. You do him yet?”
“Fuck off.”
He snickers. “Don’t think we all didn’t see you having eye-sex with each other just now.”
I take back my theory about teamwork. Maybe you don’t have to like everyone. How can the other guys put up with him?
“You’re an ass,” I tell him. I step away from him, crossing my arms, pretending to focus really hard on what Chizz is saying.
The next part of practice involves me pitching to the guys. I knew this was coming, but it’s no less daunting. But this is my chance to show them my game. It’s one thing to have seen me pitch at tryouts. It’s another to experience what my arm can do firsthand. Like Cody said, I’m not one to give up a chance to show up a bunch of guys.
Chizz splits up the fourteen players, putting seven in the field behind me, Davis behind home, me on the mound, and the rest in the batting lineup.
I throw some pretty good strikeouts, but one of them was against Carrot, so I have a suspicion that he let it happen.
With ten minutes left to practice, Ray the Menace is up at bat. He’s been in the field, so this is my first time pitching against him, and he’s the last person I want to get a hit. I don’t even want him to make contact with the ball. I’m so intent on making sure this doesn’t happen that I wind up throwing three balls. One more and he walks to first. That would be as embarrassing as if I let him get a hit.
On the fourth pitch, he smacks it clear over the fence.
A home run.
Shit.
Ray runs the bases, and when he gets home, he’s not smiling triumphantly or gloating. No, he’s scowling so hard, his face might permanently get stuck like that. His message is clear. You suck, and I want you off my team.
I don’t even get a chance to redeem myself because Chizz calls the end of practice. The guys start gathering the equipment up to take back inside. I try to scout out Carrot and Jiro, thinking at least they will offer me positive words. But it’s like they’ve forgotten I’m here, already on their way back to the locker rooms without even a glance my way. I’m about to call to them when someone snarls in my ear, “I wouldn’t get too comfy with Cody. I don’t think he’ll be happy with you defiling his position.”
It’s my pal, Ray.
My hand clenches so tight I almost draw blood from my palm.
“Better get your shit together, Locke,” he says. “We do this all over again tomorrow.” And then he jogs ahead to catch up with the others.
Literally everything about him—his voice and face and shitty attitude—boils my blood. I forget about seeking out my sandlot friends. All I want to do is get my hands around Ray’s neck and squeeze until his face turns purple. And here I thought it wasn’t possible for anyone to hate a person more than Cody hates Santino.
Chizz and I are the last two on the field. He comes up to me and says, “You were a trooper.”
“I sucked,” I say, defeated.
He laughs. “Nah, you didn’t. You’ll get into a groove.”
“They think I sucked.”
“Hey, I saw what you did out there today. And yesterday,” Chizz says. “You’ve got it in you. You just play well and play smart and keep your chin up, and soon enough they’ll see you’ve got a reason to.”
“By soon enough do you mean in the next three days?” I ask. “Because that’s really all the time I’ve got.”
“A lot can happen in three days.”
Yeah, right. Three days is nothing. Three days is like three seconds.
“Now get out of here,” Chizz says. “Go home. Tomorrow is another practice.”
I nod and trudge back to the girls’ locker room, where I find a few softball girls are closing up their lockers. I used to hide from them, too embarrassed about quitting to face them. Now we’ll say hi and exchange smiles, but it’ll never be like it used to. No more joking around, no more after practice fro-yo trips.
“Marnie!” Carlie Burns shouts across the locker room. She’s a senior and now the captain of the softball team. “We saw you pitching today! Lookin’ good!”
“Oh…” I say. “Thanks.” I’m afraid someone will make things awkward by asking why I won’t pitch for them, but I’ll pitch for the guys.
“Yeah,” Carlie says, “Coach moved our practice to Saturday so we could see the game. Can’t wait to see you kick some ass!” Her friends, some underclassmen I don’t recognize, chime in their agreements, and then they grab their duffel bags and head out, leaving me alone.
I change fast into my street clothes and get the hell out. As I make it to the parking lot, I see the guys piling into cars. I catch up to Jiro.
“Are you walking home?” I ask, hoping to have some company.
“Nah, we’re hitting Cecil’s Grill House,” he says.
“Oh…”
“Hey!” he shouts to the other guys. “Who’s giving me a lift?”
“I got you, bro!” Joey opens the driver side door of his car.
“Cool!” I half expect him to ask if I want to come too, but he only waves and says, “See you!”
Soon they’re all in their vehicles, zooming out of the parking lot. For a brief second, I catch Joey’s eyes as he drives past me. It would be too much to expect him to invite me.
So I’m left standing there all alone.
I wish I could say that I can do perfectly fine without their approval or friendship or even acknowledgment. But damn. It hurts to be shunned.
9
When my mom is mad, she nitpicks every little thing. Once, Nick forgot to close the garage door when he came home from hanging out with his friends, and my mom’s bike got stolen. For days, all she did was criticize every last move any of us made. My hair wasn’t combed. There were breadcrumbs on the table. The TV was too loud. Dad’s footsteps were too clunky. Someone put a fork back with spoons.
So when I come home to her nagging Nick for not putting the car keys back in the key dish, I know one of us—me, Dad, or Nick—has done something wrong.
It makes me want to do a U-turn. But where would I go? The dog shelter? Sandlot? Sara’s or Cody’s? Not that I have time. I’m already in the kitchen. Mom’s attention turns to me. “Marnie, how come you haven’t gotten a dress for Abram’s wedding like I asked you?”
I make myself look super exhausted from practice, so maybe she’ll take some pity on me, but no such luck.
“Why is this so hard for you?” Her hair is in a messy bun, another sign she’s wound real tight. “It’s not like I’m asking you to pick a college.”
Burn. Another task I’ve been avoiding, which has been ticking her off lately.
“I’ve got time,” I say.
“For the dress or for college?” she asks. “Because as far as I can see, both are coming up real fast.”
Oka
y, yes, the wedding is around the corner, but college applications don’t need to be done until the end of this year.
Nick, who’s sitting at the kitchen table, throws me a look like, Thanks a lot.
“How do you know I haven’t gotten my dress?” I ask her, dropping my backpack under the island counter.
“You’d better not leave that there,” she says. “And I checked your closet.”
“I’ll get it done,” I mutter as I pick up my backpack and slip past her.
When I get up to my room, I’m greeted by a stack of college mail spread across my bed. Brightly colored envelopes with university logos scream, “Discover yourself!” and “Say yes to success!” and “We want you!” No doubt Mom laid them out so I wouldn’t miss them.
Nick had no problem getting into college. No problem with the transition to college. He was Ready with a capital R. He was ready to put away his cleats, ready to pack up his shit, and ready to move into Northwestern’s dorms. He made peace with the fact that he wouldn’t be seeing his high school friends every day. He and his girlfriend of three years had the smoothest breakup known to mankind. The fall of his freshman year, he left our small suburban town with all his loose ends tied up, ready to study computer science.
I’ve still got a year to go before it’s my turn, but I can’t imagine I’ll be nearly as ready as he was. The thought of being away from home, the sandlot, and my friends makes my stomach knot. By now I should be getting sick of our baseball gang, sick of spending weekend after weekend throwing a ball around. Getting away from parents and starting fresh are what all the other juniors are talking about.
I scoop up the envelopes and shove them in the bottom drawer of my desk with the rest of their despicable brethren. Normally our family eats dinner together, but with mom aggravated with me, I think tonight we’re each on our own for food, so I pull out my emergency stash of granola bars, crackers, and dried fruit, and then I surf the vast ocean of the internet for pitching videos.
I’m not normally one to spend hours on my computer, but I end up in a YouTube spiral, starting with videos of female baseball pitchers, to videos of Little Leaguers face-planting at home plate, to videos of successful sidearm and underhand pitchers.