Everyone turned and looked at him. “Kidding,” he said, realizing how obnoxious the comment had sounded.
“Gordon, if you’d pitched today, the score might still have been fourteen to two,” Coach Birdy said. “They just had a very good day, and we had a bad one. We’re one-and-one in conference now, and we go to Haverford Station on Tuesday. They’re likely to be as solid as these guys.” He looked Matt right in the eye. “You’re pitching, Gordon,” he said. “We’ll find out what you’ve got. For the rest of you, let’s make Monday’s practice a productive one. I’ll have some things for us to work on.”
The bus ride back to school was very quiet. As usual, Alex sat near the back with Jonas. When the bus was stopped at a light, Matt came and sat right across from Alex.
“You know what I said wasn’t directed at you, right?” he said.
Alex really wasn’t sure. “Well, it was directed at least in part at me, wasn’t it?” he said. “I was the one who got us down by six runs after two innings.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Yeah, but,” Jonas interrupted. “You need to stop thinking you’re Madison Bumgarner or something. We all know you’re good. We see the scouts and the agents. But you don’t need to rub our noses in it. Where’s the Matt Gordon we’d have all run through a wall for during football season?”
Matt stared at Jonas, and for a moment, Alex thought the two of them were going to really get into it.
“I don’t know where he is,” Matt finally answered. “Maybe he decided that winning’s more important than being Mr. Nice Guy.”
“We won twelve football games,” Alex said. “A lot of them because of you.”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “And lost the last one. Without me.”
This time, he didn’t wait for the bus to stop before getting up and walking back to his seat.
Alex was left feeling like he’d been punched in the gut all over again.
Jonas mumbled under his breath: “Intervention time, for sure.”
The plan for Saturday morning was for everyone to meet in the school parking lot at nine-thirty. Alex had asked for Jonas to be included too, and Stevie had arranged for it. After what had happened on Friday, Alex wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. In fact, he wasn’t sure if the whole outing was a good idea. He’d never felt so tense about going to a ball game.
Alex, Christine, and Jonas had all ridden their bicycles and were waiting by Stevie’s car when Matt pulled up shortly after nine-thirty.
“Sorry, everyone,” Matt said as he locked his car. “I hit every light. Least it felt that way.”
As they drove toward Citizens Bank Park, Stevie explained to them how things would go.
“We’ll all go into the clubhouse, and I’ll introduce everyone to Bryce. I told him I was bringing several people in addition to Matt. Then, Matt, we’ll leave you to really talk with Bryce, and I’ll take everyone else to the Phillies’ clubhouse. I thought you might want to meet some of the players.”
“No autographs, right?” Jonas asked.
“Right,” Stevie said. “You’re in the clubhouse with a media credential, so you have to behave like members of the media. They aren’t allowed to ask for autographs.”
“Why not?” Alex asked, curious.
“It’s unprofessional,” Stevie said. “Fans can’t go in there to ask for autographs, so the presumption is that if you’re there, it’s because you have a job to do. If you aren’t doing a job, you shouldn’t be there.”
“In other words, we shouldn’t be there,” Alex said.
“I told the Phillies exactly what we were doing when I asked for the credentials, and I promised that no one would get in the way,” Stevie said. “If I’d wanted to bring you in after a game, with writers on deadline, they’d have said no. But before a game, especially a day game, it’s a little bit looser.”
Stevie had managed to get a parking pass in the media lot, which was directly across the street from the media entrance, but a long way from home plate—at least as far as Alex could see. The guy at the door waved them through when he saw their credentials. That surprised Alex a little. They didn’t exactly look like reporters.
They walked down a long hallway that led past the Phillies’ clubhouse and finally came to the clubhouse marked VISITORS. They had to sign in there, and then Stevie led them into the biggest locker room Alex had ever seen in his life.
There were several couches in the middle of the room, and a card table and chairs nearby. A number of guys were playing cards, and several others, in varying degrees of undress, were sitting on the couches reading newspapers. If Christine’s presence bothered them, they didn’t show it. Alex noticed a female reporter standing at Gio Gonzalez’s locker chatting with the left-handed pitcher.
Bryce Harper was sitting in an armchair by his locker, headphones on, when they approached. He must have seen them coming, because he took the headphones off and stood to greet Stevie.
They shook hands, and Harper nodded at Stevie’s four companions. “Which one’s the hotshot pitcher?” he asked. He smiled at Christine and said, “I’m betting you’re the hotshot reporter, right? The next Stevie Thomas?”
“The next Susan Carol Anderson, I hope,” Christine said, giving Harper her dazzling smile.
“Oh yes, I’ve met her,” Harper said. “She and Stevie are quite the team.”
Stevie introduced them all, saving Matt for last. “He’s the hotshot pitcher,” he said.
“Okay, hotshot,” Harper said. “How about if you and I take a walk out to the dugout. No BP today, so it’ll be quiet out there.”
He picked up his phone, which was in his locker, and held it up. “I’ll text you when we’re done,” he said to Stevie.
“We’re going to go by the Phillies’ clubhouse,” Stevie said.
“Good,” Harper said. “Tell their pitcher to go easy on me.”
As luck would have it, Matt Harrison, the Phillies’ pitcher, was standing in front of his locker talking to Dick Jerardi when they walked into the home clubhouse, which was about twice the size of the visitors’ clubhouse.
“You could put a hundred guys in here,” Alex murmured to Jonas as they walked in.
“Easily,” Jonas said.
Seeing a friendly face, Stevie made a beeline for Jerardi, who looked a little surprised to see the four teenagers walking in his direction.
“Hang on—is this the World Series?” he said with a laugh. “I thought Stevie Thomas only showed up for the big events.”
“Just visiting,” Stevie said. “I think you know these guys from Chester Heights.”
“I do,” Jerardi said. “Two three-sport stars and a future Pulitzer Prize winner.” He turned to Harrison and said, “Matt, when you’re ready to write your book, this”—he pointed at Christine—“is who you want to write it.”
Alex noticed that Christine had turned bright red. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her look embarrassed before. Angry, yes; embarrassed, no.
Harrison put out a hand to Christine. “When the time comes, Dick will know how I can reach you, right?” he said with a smile.
Christine was trying to talk but not doing very well. Finally, she managed to stammer, “Um, sure, yeah….I think he’s just joking.”
“Couldn’t be more serious,” Jerardi said. Then he introduced Alex and Jonas. It occurred to Alex that he had never before been in the presence of someone who was paid more than thirteen million a year. The thought made him a little bit dizzy.
“So, what brings you guys out today?” Harrison said. “It isn’t to see me pitch—I’m injured.”
“Yeah, I know,” Stevie said. “Harper says to tell the other guys to go easy on him.”
Harrison laughed. “If we go easy on him, he’ll hit three bombs today instead of just one or two.”
Stevie explained the real purpose of the outing. Harrison turned serious.
“How good is he?” he asked.
It was Jerardi who answered. “I’ve
seen him once, Matt. He’s very good—for sixteen. Hits ninety-four, ninety-five on the gun pretty regularly. Good control. If you didn’t know how old he was, you’d figure him for eighteen, maybe nineteen.”
“What’d you hit on the gun when you were a junior in high school?” Stevie asked.
“Never hit ninety,” Harrison said. “But I grew kind of late. Sometimes it’s better that way. You put a lot of pressure on your arm throwing in the mid-nineties that young. That’s why so many young pitchers end up having Tommy John before they’re twenty-five.”
Alex knew that Tommy John was a kind of elbow-repair surgery that had first been performed in the 1970s on a very good pitcher named Tommy John. The doctor who invented it, whose name Alex couldn’t remember at the moment, had taken a tendon from John’s other arm and used it to replace a torn ligament in his pitching elbow. The surgery had now become almost commonplace among pitchers, and in many cases, they actually threw harder after the surgery than they had before.
“That’s one reason we thought it would be a good idea to talk to Bryce,” Stevie said. “Even though leaving high school early didn’t hurt him, he went through some growing pains along the way.”
Harrison nodded. “That was about maturing as a person more than as a hitter, probably,” he said. “Plus, he’s a once-in-a-lifetime type of talent. Pitchers should never be rushed.”
“Matt’s a good hitter too,” Christine said.
Harrison smiled. “I was a good hitter in high school too,” he said. “We were all good hitters in high school.”
“So what would you tell him to do?” Jerardi asked.
“Go to college,” Harrison said. “Enjoy being a kid. Once you turn pro, you’re living the life of an adult, even if you aren’t an adult. And the minor leagues are rough. Small towns, cheap hotels, bars where you can smell the cigarette smoke before you walk inside. Tell him not to be in a rush.”
“You signed out of high school,” Christine said—not surprising Alex by knowing Harrison’s history. “And you turned out all right.”
“Yup, I did,” Harrison agreed. “I wasn’t quite eighteen when I signed, and I struggled for a few years and I’ve had a lot of injuries along the way. I could have gone to college, had a good time, and still been here today.”
“So do you regret signing early?” Alex said.
Harrison shook his head. “Regret it? No. Like my future biographer said, I turned out all right. But if I had it to do over again…” He paused and shrugged. “I would like to know somebody’s fight song by heart.”
Stevie’s phone buzzed.
“It’s Bryce,” he said. “They’re done.”
They thanked Harrison for taking the time to talk to them and shook hands with Jerardi. As they walked back down the hallway, Alex asked Stevie if he knew the name of the doctor who had invented Tommy John surgery.
Before Stevie could answer, Christine, who was doing her best Hermione Granger imitation, answered, “Frank Jobe. I think he died just a couple of years ago.”
“He did,” Stevie said, nodding assent.
“I wonder why the surgery is named for Tommy John and not for Frank Jobe,” Jonas said, echoing Alex’s very thought.
“Good question,” Stevie said. “One that I don’t have an answer for right now.”
They found Matt waiting for them in the hallway.
“They’re having some kind of team meeting, so they kicked everyone out,” he said. “Bryce said he was sorry he didn’t get to see you guys again.”
“So you liked him?” Christine said.
“Oh yeah, good guy,” Matt said.
Before he could say anything more, the security guard stationed in front of the clubhouse door walked over to where they were standing.
“You kids need to get out of the hallway,” he said. “How’d you get down here anyway?”
Alex realized this was a different guy from the one who had checked their credentials when they walked in. The first guy had been young, African American, and friendly. This one was older, white, and decidedly unfriendly.
“We have credentials,” Stevie said, pointing to the badge dangling around his neck and to those the rest of them were also wearing in very plain sight.
The security guard took Stevie’s credential in his hands and looked at it closely. Disappointed that it was legitimate, he said, “Okay, then, but don’t loiter out here. The clubhouse is closed. You need to move along.”
“Actually, we don’t,” Stevie said. “But we will, since there’s no one here we want to talk to anyway.”
With that, he turned, saying, “Come on, guys. Let’s go upstairs and eat.”
Alex could hear the security guy muttering as they walked down the hall. “You ever mess with me again, kid…”
They didn’t stop to hear the rest.
It cost them ten dollars apiece to eat lunch in the press box. The food was reasonably good, and sitting in the dining area, surrounded by various media members, seemed like a very cool thing to Alex. After they all were settled with lunch, Matt filled them in on his conversation with Bryce Harper.
“We got interrupted a few times,” he said, biting into a hamburger. “Some publicity guy wanted to make sure he’d do a TV interview before tomorrow’s game. Then someone else brought some kids to meet him and get autographs.”
“I thought that wasn’t allowed,” Jonas said.
Stevie jumped in. “They were probably with someone from the marketing department and had dugout passes because they know someone or paid extra money or something. That goes on all the time.”
Matt nodded. “That’s what Bryce said. Their passes were definitely different from ours.”
“Cut to the chase,” Christine finally said. “What’d he say?”
“He said what I guess you guys thought he’d say,” Matt replied. “He said if I was really good enough to make it to the majors, I would, no matter when I come out of high school or whether I go to college or not. He said he was really lucky because he only spent a year in the minor leagues, but most of the time pitchers need longer than that. And that college is a nicer place to develop as a pitcher than the bush leagues.”
“That makes sense to me,” Alex said.
“Yeah, I guess,” Matt said. “I asked him how long Stephen Strasburg was in the minors, and he said it was less than a year but that he’d gone to college for three years.”
“So, are you convinced?” Stevie asked.
“I’m convinced that you guys are trying to steer me in what you think is the best direction,” Matt said. “But I’m not convinced you really know what’s best for me.”
“Do you think Bryce Harper knows what’s best for you?” Christine answered.
“Honestly?” Matt said. “No.” He smiled. “But I do think he’d make a great teammate someday.”
Stevie told Matt what Harrison had said about wishing he’d gone to college. Matt listened and nodded. “But signing out of high school did work out for him, right? Look, I’m not a dummy, I’ve done some homework on this. There’s no guarantee one way or the other.”
“Yeah, but if you go to college, you’ve got a backup plan,” Jonas said.
“And if I’m drafted in the first round and I get a bonus of a million dollars, I’ll have plenty of money to go to college if baseball doesn’t work out.”
“Who told you that?” Stevie asked.
“A bunch of people,” Matt said.
“Agents,” Christine said, pointing a finger in an accusing way at Matt.
“And scouts,” Matt said calmly. “Look, I can put my name in the draft if I graduate from high school. If I’m not offered a lot of money, I can still say no and go to college.”
“Not if you sign with an agent,” Stevie said.
“I don’t have to sign with an agent,” Matt said. “They’re allowed to be ‘advisors’ until you sign a contract.”
“Only if you haven’t taken any money from them,” Alex said.
F
or the first time, Matt’s answer wasn’t quick and easy. He looked at Alex as if deciding how to respond, then said, “Right you are, Goldie.”
There was a long silence. Alex saw Tom McCarthy, whom he recognized as the TV play-by-play voice for the Phillies, walking in the direction of the table.
“Stevie Thomas is here?” McCarthy said in the same tone Jerardi had used in the clubhouse. “Did we release Ryan Howard? Have we fired another manager? Is the ballpark on fire?”
“Just a day at the park with some friends,” Stevie answered. He was apparently used to famous people not only recognizing him but also knowing of his reporting exploits. Alex thought it must be unbelievably cool to be Stevie Thomas.
Stevie introduced them all to McCarthy, noting they were all from Chester Heights High School.
“Of course,” McCarthy said. He pointed to Alex and Jonas. “The freshman hotshots, right? Quarterback and wide receiver.” He turned to Matt and said, “And you’re the comeback story, right? Fallen quarterback turned pitching phenom.”
If the “fallen quarterback” reference bothered Matt, he didn’t show it. “I’ve been watching you for years, Mr. McCarthy,” he said, shaking hands.
McCarthy turned to Christine. “And you’re the student reporter. I’ve read you in the Daily News. I didn’t realize how pretty you were. If you ever decide you’d prefer TV to writing, let me know.”
“I prefer writing,” Christine said, smiling.
“Understood. Good for you,” McCarthy said. “Of course, if Dick Jerardi can do both, anybody can.”
Jerardi had just walked up to the table carrying a tray. “The only thing I’ll say about you, Tommy, is that no one can accuse you of making it in TV because of your looks,” he said without missing a beat.
McCarthy nodded, laughed, and looked again at Matt. “I read in the paper the other day that you’re thinking of graduating this summer and going in the draft?”
“Thinking about it,” Matt said.
“Well, just remember, it gets mighty hot in Clearwater in July.”
Someone was calling McCarthy’s name. He waved a hand at everyone to say goodbye and walked off.
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