by Tim Green
Baseball Great
Tim Green
For my beautiful girls, Illyssa, Tessa, and Tate
Contents
Chapter One
JOSH WONDERED WHY EVERY time something really good happened, something…
Chapter Two
“I’M NOT,” JOSH SAID, his heart dancing in his throat.
Chapter Three
JOSH SAID NOTHING, BUT he began to back away. When…
Chapter Four
WHEN HIS FATHER FINALLY noticed Josh, his thick, black eyebrows…
Chapter Five
JOSH’S FATHER SLAMMED THE phone back onto its hook and…
Chapter Six
THE NEXT DAY, JOSH stuffed his baseball mitt, cleats, and…
Chapter Seven
JOSH SPRINTED OUT ONTO the baseball diamond, leaving the algebra…
Chapter Eight
“COACH, COACH, COACH,” BENJI said, stepping between Josh and Coach…
Chapter Nine
JOSH FELT LIKE A dog bone.
Chapter Ten
JOSH KEPT UP WITH the others. He fielded the ball…
Chapter Eleven
ROCKY’S OFFICE OVERLOOKED THE green plastic field. Rocky’s desk, like…
Chapter Twelve
“OKAY,” JOSH SAID.
Chapter Thirteen
JADEN LOOKED AT JOSH’S father’s face for a moment, and…
Chapter Fourteen
BART PITCHED HIS CIGARETTE down onto the sidewalk. It rolled,…
Chapter Fifteen
“I THOUGHT WE WERE all running,” Benji said with all…
Chapter Sixteen
JONES BUMPED INTO HIM hard, striking Josh’s sore shoulder and…
Chapter Seventeen
“NOTHING, COACH,” JONES SAID, stepping in front of the fallen…
Chapter Eighteen
JADEN STARTED SITTING WITH Josh and Benji at lunch every…
Chapter Nineteen
“NO,” JADEN AND JOSH said at the same time.
Chapter Twenty
AT LUNCH THE NEXT day, Josh got his milks lined…
Chapter Twenty-One
JOSH COULDN’T SPEAK. HE clamped his mouth shut, glaring at…
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE LAST BELL FINALLY rang, and Josh sprinted for the…
Chapter Twenty-Three
“BOBBY PERKINS,” ROCKY SAID. “Sorry, Perkins. You tried your best.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE TITANS GOT ON a bus at 2:30 the next…
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I’M TAKING THE WINDOW.” Jones was already laid out on…
Chapter Twenty-Six
BEFORE HE KNEW IT, Josh found himself on the baseline…
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE TITANS DUGOUT ERUPTED, and Josh’s heart swelled on his…
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THE BAT CRACKED. THE pitcher jumped as if he’d stepped…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
THE ALARM WENT OFF. Josh rolled out of bed and…
Chapter Thirty
“HI, JOSH,” SHEILA SAID, splitting open a carton of milk…
Chapter Thirty-One
JOSH FELT THE BLOOD return to his face, red hot,…
Chapter Thirty-Two
IF THE TITANS THOUGHT Rocky would ease up on their…
Chapter Thirty-Three
WITHOUT ANOTHER WORD, BART grabbed a handful of Josh’s sweaty…
Chapter Thirty-Four
JONES LOOKED DOWN AT the spray of blood on his…
Chapter Thirty-Five
THE COACHES BROUGHT THE team back to Mount Olympus Sports,…
Chapter Thirty-Six
JOSH POPPED THE KICKSTAND and walked his bike to the…
Chapter Thirty-Seven
JOSH GOT ON HIS bike and waved good-bye to Tucker.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
JOSH SPUN AROUND AND stared up at Jaden’s father, his…
Chapter Thirty-Nine
WHEN JADEN LOOKED UP, Josh could see that her eyes…
Chapter Forty
JOSH STARED AT HER. Mittens hopped down onto the floor…
Chapter Forty-One
“DAD,” JADEN SAID. “HI.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“JADEN?” JOSH SAID, ANSWERING the phone and seeing that it…
Chapter Forty-Three
“CRAZY?” BENJI SAID, OUTRAGED. “You’re the crazy one. Dude, that…
Chapter Forty-Four
WHEN HIS DAD PICKED him up for practice after school,…
Chapter Forty-Five
DURING DINNER LATER THAT evening, Josh’s father asked, “You take…
Chapter Forty-Six
JOSH LOOKED AT HIS watch—it was just after seven—and asked,…
Chapter Forty-Seven
JOSH REACHED OUT AND grasped Jaden’s hand.
Chapter Forty-Eight
JOSH HAD NO IDEA Jaden was that fast. He trailed…
Chapter Forty-Nine
THE NIGHT HAD ADVANCED far enough to show stars above…
Chapter Fifty
“WE’LL STICK TO OUR plan,” Josh said. “We have to.
Chapter Fifty-One
WHEN JOSH WOKE THE next morning, the idea didn’t seem…
Chapter Fifty-Two
THE YELLOW RUBBER BALLS in the batting cage zipped by…
Chapter Fifty-Three
JOSH’S STOMACH FLIPPED NOW, rising up, and he hurried for…
Chapter Fifty-Four
JOSH THREW OPEN HIS bedroom door and ran down the…
Chapter Fifty-Five
JOSH FELT NAKED IN the middle of the hallway and…
Chapter Fifty-Six
A VOICE WAILED INSIDE of Josh, a voice crying out…
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“ARE YOU HURT?” JOSH said, climbing through the hole, sliding…
Chapter Fifty-Eight
THE POLICE LET THE three of them sit together in…
Chapter Fifty-Nine
DR. NEIDERMEYER’S FACE WRINKLED in confusion and he asked, “Why…
Chapter Sixty
TWO MONTHS LATER…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
JOSH WONDERED WHY EVERY time something really good happened, something else had to spoil it. It had been like this since he could remember, like biting into a ruby red apple only to find a brown worm crawling through the crisp, white fruit. For the first time since he’d moved to his new neighborhood, he had been recognized, and his unusual talent had been appreciated. So why was it that that same fame had kicked up the muddy rumor that got a high school kid looking to bash his teeth in?
For the moment, though, riding the school bus, he was safe. The school newspaper in Josh’s backpack filled his whole body with an electric current of joy and pride, so much so that his cheeks burned. He sat alone in the very front seat and kept his eyes ahead, ignoring the stares and whispers as the other kids got off at the earlier stops. When Jaden Neidermeyer, the new girl from Texas who’d written the article, got off at her stop, Josh stared hard at his sneakers. He just couldn’t look.
After she left, he glanced around and carefully parted the lips of his backpack’s zipper. Without removing the newspaper, he stole another glance at the headline, BASEBALL GREAT, and the picture of him with a bat and the caption underneath: “Grant Middle’s best hope for its first-ever citywide championship, Josh LeBlanc.”
The bus ground to a halt at his stop and Josh got off.
As the bus rumbled away, Josh saw Bart Wilson standing on the next corner. The tenth grader pitched his ci
garette into the gutter and started toward him with long strides. Josh gasped, turned, and ran without looking back. A car blared its horn. Brakes squealed. Josh leaped back, his heart galloping fast, like the tenth grader now heading his way, even faster. Josh circled the car—the driver yelling at him through the window—and dashed across the street and down the far sidewalk.
He rounded the corner at Murphy’s bar and sprinted up the block, ducking behind a wrecked station wagon at Calhoon’s Body Shop, peeking through the broken web of glass back toward the corner. Breathing hard, he slipped the straps of the backpack he carried around his shoulders and fastened it tight. Two men in hooded sweatshirts and jeans jackets burst out of Murphy’s and got into a pickup truck; otherwise, Josh saw no one. Still, he scooted up the side street, checking behind him and dodging from one parked car to another for cover.
When he saw his home, a narrow, red two-story place with a steep roof and a sagging front porch, he breathed deep, and his heart began to slow. The previous owner had three pit bulls, and so a chain-link fence surrounded the house and its tiny front and back lawns, separating them from the close-packed neighbors on either side. The driveway ran tight to the house, and like the single, detached garage, it was just outside the fence. Josh lifted the latch, but as he pulled open the front gate, a hand appeared from nowhere, slamming it shut. The latch clanked home, and the hand spun Josh around.
“What you running from?” asked Bart Wilson, the tenth-grade smoker.
CHAPTER TWO
“I’M NOT,” JOSH SAID, his heart dancing in his throat.
Bart leaned up against the gate, blocking Josh’s path to the front door and folding his arms across his chest. He stood nearly six feet tall—no bigger than Josh, with arms and legs skinny as a spider’s—but his big, crooked teeth, shaggy hair, and snake tattoo crawling among the veins on his arm scared Josh silly.
“You think you’re something, don’t you?” Bart asked.
“No.”
“Then why you talking to Sheila? She’s my girl.”
“I’m not,” Josh said, his eyes flickering up at his house, half hoping to see someone to help him and the other half hoping to avoid the embarrassment of being bullied.
“She says.”
“She sat next to me at lunch is all,” Josh said.
“I’m here to kick your teeth in,” Bart said, standing tall and reaching out to give Josh a poke in the chest.
“I don’t want to fight,” Josh said.
“You have to,” Bart said, balling up his fists.
“No,” Josh said. “I don’t want to.”
“Come on,” Bart said, giving him a shove. “You’re gonna fight me.”
“No,” Josh said, shaking his head and looking down at his feet. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“You should have thought of that when you started going after my girl.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re some baseball hotshot, I hear,” Bart said. “You think you’re cool?”
“No.”
“’Cause you’re not.”
CHAPTER THREE
JOSH SAID NOTHING, BUT he began to back away. When he got to the corner of the fence, he sprinted up the driveway, away from the tenth grader and the fight. His mom popped out the back door and he ran smack into her at the side gate and spilling the bag of garbage she meant to take to the trash cans beside the garage.
“Josh!” she said. “What?”
Josh glanced back, expecting Bart’s menacing face but seeing only an empty driveway.
“Hi, Mom,” he said. “I’ll take care of that for you.”
“Thank you,” his mom said, but her voice sounded distant and her eyes swam with worry. She twisted her hands up in her apron. “I’ll…I’ll see you inside.”
His mom flung open the door and disappeared. Josh wrinkled his brow but sighed and bent down. He picked up the bag, stuffing the garbage back inside before taking it out to the trash can. Through one of the dusty square windows in the garage door, Josh noticed that his father’s car sat inside the garage. His stomach twisted into a fresh knot.
He took slow steps back toward the house, thinking of what it could mean.
The only other time Josh had seen his father home from work during baseball season had been to announce a move. Nothing but that or a game could take his father out of the daily routine of practice. In Josh’s twelve years they’d moved six times, and, despite Bart Wilson, Josh didn’t want to move again. He didn’t have a lot of friends, but he’d never had a better one than Benji Lido, and he expected once baseball season began tomorrow, he’d begin to have a lot more.
The screen door had no screen, but its metal frame still guarded the cracked wooden door that led to the kitchen. He swung them both open, one after the other, and stepped inside. In the corner, his little sister lay asleep in her playpen, rolled up in her favorite blanket with a thumb in her mouth. His mother sat at the small, round kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of her, still clutching her apron. Next to her sat his dad, a big, square-shouldered man with jet black hair who made the wooden chair and, in fact, the whole room seem smaller.
In his father’s ham-sized hand was the lucky baseball he’d used to throw the no-hitter in the Pennsylvania High School State Championship. It was the game, his father always said, that had made him the seventeenth player selected in the Major League Baseball draft, the game whose celebration led to Josh’s birth, and to his parents’ being married. As Josh watched the ball—worn smooth and shiny through years of worry—roll in his father’s huge, undulating hand, he also felt a pang of embarrassment that dwarfed what he’d felt on the school bus.
Neither of his parents noticed him. They both stared up at the phone on the wall beside the stove, waiting for news that Josh knew couldn’t be good.
CHAPTER FOUR
WHEN HIS FATHER FINALLY noticed Josh, his thick, black eyebrows gathered low over his dark eyes, adding to the stormy look on his face.
“Thought you had practice,” his father said in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder.
“Tomorrow,” Josh said, going to the refrigerator, pouring himself a glass of milk, and tearing open a pack of frozen Fig Newtons as if nothing was wrong.
“Well,” his father said, with a glance at Josh’s mother, “this is it. It’s got to be.”
His mother offered a hopeful smile.
“But we don’t know,” his father said, still rumbling with the ball now clutched tight in his fist. “We never know. It’s never in till it’s in, and it’s never out till it’s out; that’s the game.”
Josh nodded at the logic. He knew now that even though the call they waited for might take them away, it would also fulfill his father’s lifelong dream. Despite being the seventeenth overall pick of the draft and being heralded as the young lefty who’d save the Mets, Josh’s father had never thrown a single major-league pitch in his twelve years as a pro. Instead, he had bounced around from one small city to another, riddling the countryside with his left-handed prowess, up and down the minor leagues in four different organizations but never quite making it beyond Triple-A ball.
“Vasquez tore a hamstring,” his father said, biting back a smile and looking grim. “Soon as I heard that, I had to get out of the clubhouse. Wanted to get the news right here with my family.”
Josh knew his baseball, especially the players in his father’s organization. He could recite each player’s batting average and each pitcher’s ERA for the past three seasons. Armand Vasquez was the Toronto Blue Jays’ second left-handed relief pitcher, limiting hitters to a batting average of .209. Josh’s father threw for the Syracuse Chiefs, Toronto’s Triple-A farm team.
His father issued a nervous chuckle and said, “I mean, how do you not bring up last year’s MVP when he’s on track to do it again? When you’ve got an ERA of—”
“One-point-eight-seven,” Josh’s mother said in a burst of numbers, her high, round cheeks turning candy apple red.
His father nodded and said, “So.”
Josh bit into his cookie, nodding along with them, and, as if on cue, the phone rang.
His father jumped up, snatching it from the wall.
CHAPTER FIVE
JOSH’S FATHER SLAMMED THE phone back onto its hook and glared at Josh and his mom.
“Won’t tell me a dang thing,” his father said. “You believe that? My whole life in the balance and Simmons says he needs to see me in person. If I knew that, I wouldn’t have left the stadium. Come on, Josh. I want you to be there. I did most of this for you anyway.”
Josh opened his mouth to say it didn’t matter to him if his dad ever threw a pitch in the big leagues or not, but the look on his father’s face made him think better of it.
“I’ll get that,” his mother said, taking the empty milk glass from his hand and bringing it to the sink. “You go with your father.”
“Sure,” Josh said, and followed the big man out of the house and into the garage without speaking.
They rode in silence, his father chomping a wad of gum and changing the radio station every couple seconds and Josh biting his tongue to keep from asking him to stop. In minutes the street broke the rise and they could see the stadium spread out below, pinned in on all sides, by the highway, the train station, a swamp, and several blocks of abandoned warehouses. As they descended the hill and turned the corner, the central entrance of the stadium rose up like the tower of a fortress. A flag flew from its peak. An iron fence surrounded the players’ parking lot, and Josh’s dad pulled in to the mixed bag of cars. Some, like their Taurus, were late-model clunkers. Only the new rookies with signing bonuses drove shiny sports cars or gleaming SUVs.