Post-Day Analysis:
September 18
Piper Bell was hanging in there in the charity tournament. Even after the loss to Luther, they were looking pretty good when I got to the field today. Or they looked good compared to how I felt, because after my double losses over the weekend, I was impressed by people willing to show up to try at anything. Even if you were doing your best, it could all be taken away from you and moved to Seattle!
But, okay, I’d shown up. So maybe I was rallying, too. There had to be a way to prove I needed to stay at Piper Bell, in Peach Tree. I just had to find it.
“Coach is pitching Nolan today,” Devon muttered when I found her on the bench.
“The King Prep Royals are so good,” I said, knowing exactly what Devon was thinking. She had the experience against tough teams, and yet Nolan was getting the start. I wasn’t anti-Nolan anymore, but he was still new. “Is he ready?”
“Yeah, Coach says she’s conserving my energy in case we need a reliever,” she said. “Do you think she knows my secret? I’m starting to worry it’s showing in my game.”
“Huh?” I said. Devon had a secret? “What secret?”
Of course Devon had a secret. Devon probably had dozens of secrets! I tried to imagine what kind of secret would affect Devon’s ability to be the starting pitcher.
POSSIBLE DEVON SECRETS
She was part of a set of twins who were taking turns being Devon?
She was a movie star researching a role for a baseball film?
She was actually a thirty-five-year-old woman posing as a middle schooler?
She had an extra index finger that gave her an unfair pitching advantage and no one had noticed it until now? (But there was no rule that said you couldn’t pitch if you had extra fingers. Not one that I knew of.)
“I’ll tell you later,” Devon said, flexing her hand as she examined her fingers. Ugh. I wanted to know! “But I think Mario needs to talk to you. He was in the atrium when I saw him last.”
Another player in the atrium, I thought. Gabby to the rescue!
When I got there, Mario was in a weird spot. Like, literally a weird spot. He was hiding behind a plant. Mario is a big guy so hiding isn’t really the right word for it, but he was doing his best.
“What’s going on, Mario?” I asked, trying not to sneak up on him.
He peered out from behind a large leaf. “I can’t go out there,” he said.
“I can’t carry you,” I told him, holding up my arm.
“Haha,” he said, not laughing. I think it’s unfair to say “haha” when you don’t laugh. “But I think it’s something like what Nolan had . . . the yaps.”
“You mean the yips?”
“Yup.”
Our conversation was bound to become confusing quickly. And the team needed him on the field. So I asked, “Do you wanna talk about it?”
Mario nodded. “I think so.”
Dr. Gabby, Dugout Therapist, was in session! The goal? Get Mario to the dugout. “What seems to be the problem?” Asking Mario to explain his woes felt good, mostly because they were proof that I wasn’t the only one with woes.
“I’m worried about my batting,” Mario said, and I did a Devon-style blink at him because I thought he had to be joking.
“Your batting? What, you’re tired of hitting home runs?”
He smiled, just a little, like he was remembering his last homer. The smile quickly turned to a frown. “That’s exactly it. The home runs,” he said. He’d come out from behind the plant, which seemed like a positive step. A step TOWARD the baseball field. “What if people only see me as a home-run hitter?”
“They don’t see you that way when I’m pitching!” I said. I couldn’t help it.
“Very funny,” Mario said. Like his “haha,” the comment wasn’t followed by a real laugh. Rude.
I had to be in therapist mode, though, so I nodded thoughtfully and began walking slowly toward the field, getting Mario to join me. “Do you not like hitting home runs?”
“I LOVE hitting home runs,” he said. “But don’t I need more to me than a superpowerful swing?”
He heaved a sigh and looked at me with his shoulders kind of slumped. Back when he was my opponent, I might have WANTED to see him look so devastated. Now that I knew him, it was terrible to see him so miserable.
“So, maybe you want to develop your game so you can develop yourself,” I told him. It sounded good but even I wasn’t sure what I meant.
Mario’s eyes lit up. “You’re a genius,” he said. Then added, “What does that mean . . . develop myself?”
Darn. I had to figure that part out. We were outside the school now, walking the path toward the baseball fields. I knew if I could get him near his bat, everything would be fine. Mario was meant to be on the field, like me. “Maybe you need to be more strategic and look at the whole field. Like, you could work on your opposite-field hitting. Or maybe sometimes you could hit a sacrifice fly.” (OLD ME, you might have forgotten some things and be asking, “Why wouldn’t a batter ALWAYS go for a home run?” but the truth is, sluggers like Mario get more home runs than other batters but they also strike out more. If he could be more versatile, Mario could make his whole game better.)
“So, I have to reprogram myself . . . to not be so great?” He nodded seriously.
(Home-run hitters like him and great pitchers like me can be a little full of ourselves.) I was tempted to remind him he struck out plenty. Yet I couldn’t, because Mario being full of himself right now was crucial to eliminate the yips.
“Maybe it’s that you have to know when to be great, and when it’s better to be GOOD,” I told him as we arrived at the dugout.
Devon and Coach Hollylighter looked relieved to see Mario. “How are you feeling now, Salamida?” Coach said.
Mario took a deep breath. “Like I don’t want to hide behind a plant.”
“That’s probably the first time anyone’s said that in a dugout,” Devon said.
Mario and I laughed, and I handed him his bat. “Think you can do it?”
“I hope so,” Mario said. “But thanks for listening.”
Mario seemed more like his old self as everyone got ready for their at bats. When he was up, I clenched my teeth, worrying the yips would attack again, but Mario tapped his bat on home plate, like usual. And he swung away, as usual. I didn’t know if he’d take my advice to try some other at-bat tactics, but at least he was in the game.
Why was I able to help Nolan and Mario but not find a good next phase for staying in Peach Tree? What if my play was a loser? What if breaking my arm was a bad omen? My cast stinks. (Literally stinks.)
THINGS A CAST SMELLS LIKE AFTER A WHILE
A sock that you wore to practice, dipped in milk, and then left in the sun
A fishbowl that’s been neglected for a long time
That Tupperware container at the back of the fridge with an unknown origin
A sweatshirt pocket where you’ve left some cheese and forgotten about it for twelve years
The Penguins took the field. Devon waited with me in the dugout while Nolan took the mound. She was staring at the field in her glinty-eyed way, and I thought maybe I could give her dugout therapy, too. Or at least find out her SECRET! I got up and stood next to her. “Are you going to tell me your secret?”
Devon paused. I couldn’t see her face but I knew she was blinking as she decided what to say.
“I didn’t tell Coach I started taking archery lessons. My arm’s sore. I’m worried Coach somehow knows and that’s why she didn’t start me today.”
“Archery?”
“Yeah, I tried it out at a Renaissance faire and liked it and now I can’t stop.”
“You go to Renaissance faires?”
“Yeah, I like to dress up and enjoy a turkey leg while I watch a joust. No big deal.”
Wow. These were secrets on top of secrets. I would have been less surprised if Devon had been a thirty-five-year-old pseudo eighth grader.
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“Well, how do you feel about this? Are you confused? Worried about what this means for you? Do you need me to help you get in tune with yourself?”
Being the team’s therapist was growing on me.
“Sometimes, I feel almost too in tune with myself,” Devon said. “But I’m not too worried about it. I just want to play.”
I should have known Devon wouldn’t need my help. We turned back to the game to see how Nolan looked on the mound. His parents were in the crowd today, and Nolan seemed calm about it. His first few innings were a little uneven—he struck out some of the Royals’ better players, but he let a few batters that could have been easy outs get by. Still, he didn’t seem in danger of a case of the yips.
Mario’s case of them was making a return, though. He struck out in his next at bat, but not because he was swinging—he let three great pitches pass him by! Later, on first base, he missed one of Nolan’s throws because he seemed deep in thought.
By the ninth, we were down by two, 6–4. Then, Nolan nailed a line drive to center that brought Ruby Garland and Tommy Aiello in for runs. A tie score, 6–6. Nolan was on second. Ryder Mills was on third. We only needed Ryder to score to get the win. Otherwise, we’d go to extra innings. Mario was up.
“He’s due for a homer,” Devon said.
“All we need is one run,” I said. “Not a whole homer.” I didn’t tell her that I’d told Mario not to go for homers.
Devon chuckled. “Like Mario would ever not try for the homer,” she said. “It’s who he is.”
Maybe she was right, and it was too hard for Mario to take his swing down a notch. My stomach clenched. What if my advice to Mario ruined the game?
Mario took a few practice swings and walked to the plate. He was doing everything more slowly than usual, and he didn’t get into his stance right away. On the first two pitches, he swung huge, and the ball blew right by his bat.
“We’re going to go into extra innings,” Coach Hollylighter said. “DeWitt, I think Nolan needs some relief out there.”
Devon started to get ready to go to the bull pen, but she whispered to me, “Sure, I have to go in when all the pressure’s on.”
Until Mario did something very un-Mario. On the next pitch, he slid his hand down the bat and just barely tapped the ball.
Mario bunted!
A perfect bunt that plopped itself down midway between the pitcher and the catcher. An even more perfect bunt because it was the most surprising thing a batter like Mario could do. The pitcher was so confused, it took her a second to remember to go get the ball as the catcher covered home. Ryder, who must also have been surprised, was charging for home plate, trying to beat the throw.
I wasn’t breathing—a squeeze play can do that to you—but Ryder slid into home just before the ball hit the catcher’s glove. He’d scored! We’d won!
“I can’t believe he BUNTED,” I said.
“I know. One more game and then we’ll be in it for the trophy,” Devon said.
The tournament was almost over? My stomach jumped. I needed a bunt-level surprise for the All-Pros Play before my Peach Tree life was over, too.
THE MOJO MISSION
Goal: Get back on track to find the Peach Tree sweet spot
Action: Remove extra worries and focus
Midday Analysis:
September 20
When a coach or a star player promises his or her team they’ll be winners and then it doesn’t work out, I wonder if the coach or player hides out from their team because they feel lousy about failing to deliver on their promise.
I was definitely doing that with Peter. This morning at breakfast, while Dad and Louie were in the other room, Peter had caught my eye and said, “Have you thought of anything?”
“I’m working on it, but I can’t talk about it now,” I lied, even though I had ZILCH. NOTHING. NADA. Then, hoping he was asking because HE had a great idea, I said, “What about you? Any new ideas?”
Peter stirred his cornflakes. He likes to make them as mushy as possible before he eats them. It drives me nuts. “No,” he said. He wasn’t lying to me, which only made my lie feel worse.
“I’ll fill you in later,” I told him and was relieved when Louie came into the kitchen, meaning I had to stop making promises to him I didn’t know if I could keep.
I had no time to think about the All-Pros Play at school because Katy had called an emergency meeting of the talent squad so that I could rehearse my president speech. I spent most of my classes scrawling notes (I’ve gotten better writing with my right hand but I’m still messy!) of what I wanted to say. Nothing I wrote was working. None of it had pizzazz. I even tried writing a presidential poem.
The thing was, I felt more and more like I was going to move and shouldn’t be giving this speech. Maybe Yogi Berra was wrong and things were over before they were over.
It didn’t help that Katy seemed to think I was right about that. “Whoa, this could be the grand finale of your talent squad life,” she said when I got to the auditorium, which she’d reserved for so-called official business. “The squad is going to be poetless.”
I almost told her not to worry, like a reflex. But I WAS worried. After weeks of telling my friends I was going to figure this out, I hadn’t!
So instead I said, “I’m really not ready to give a speech.” It was the truth.
“We’ll help you,” Katy said. “They don’t call us the talent squad for nothing.”
I wanted to ask WHY she was saying two totally different things—a. that this could be my last talent squad meeting; but b. that she’d help with a speech to make me president of a school I wouldn’t be going to.
To add to the mixed signals, Johnny arrived with more notes and stats. “The students really like your informal style,” he said. “So don’t make your speech too speech-y. And don’t bring up that you might move.”
SEE?
“That won’t be a problem,” I said and showed him my pages of crossed-out ideas. “This doesn’t even resemble a speech.”
I stood behind the podium and looked at the small cluster of talent-squadders. I read my scribbles as I tried to think of something to say.
I started, “Hi, my name is Gabby Garcia and I’ve had the honor of talking to some of you over these past few weeks.” I realized I sounded like someone who was about to resign, not run for president.
“I can’t hear you,” said Rachel, the new talent-squadder.
“Speak up!” That was Arlo Cole, a champion speechmaker.
I projected my voice as best as I could into the microphone, but it was flat. As I looked out over the faces of the talent squad, and Johnny and Katy, I didn’t think I could leave them. But I couldn’t LEAD them, either. Running for president was a big deal, and so was the All-Pros Play. I was a GABBY DIVIDED.
I stepped off the stage. Then I did something sort of bunt-like: I handed the mic to Johnny.
He looked at it. “Is there something wrong with the mic?”
I shook my head and then, remembering Mario’s play and how it showed that game winning didn’t mean you always got to be the big star, I said, “I know I started the campaign, but you should be the one to finish it.”
The talent squad gasped. Arnold Kapoor, an actor who loved all things drama, said, “OH. MY. GOD. WHAT IS HAPPENING?”
Johnny looked at me with the same kind of expression. Although his was less astounded and more concerned.
I said, “Think about it. You know the issues and you know the students and you CARE.”
“But my polls show . . .”
I looked him in the eye. “Exactly! Your polls! You know this stuff. And you’ve been doing a lot of the work.”
Johnny looked at his feet. “It’s easy to do the work when there’s a candidate I believe in,” he said. “I like doing the data for someone I want to vote for.”
“Awww,” said Grace Chang, the talent squad’s resident street artist (and lover of romance novels). She was totally right. “Aww�
� was exactly what I was thinking. But there was no time for heart-eyes; I had to convince Johnny.
“And I want to vote for you,” I told him.
The entire talent squad was watching us like we were characters on a soap opera.
“This is really adorable and inspiring, but also I have some illusions I need to work on, so can we wrap it up?” Lisa Clover said.
“Shh!” Sophia Rodriguez told her.
“You have my vote,” Rachel said to Johnny. “If Gabby endorses you, that’s enough for me.”
I had a fan. Johnny looked at his clipboard and then at me. “Did you find out you’re for sure going to move or something?”
“Yeah, is there something you’re not telling us?” Katy was giving the kind of stern look I thought only moms could do.
“NO,” I said. “But I don’t think now is a good time to run for office.” NOT running would give me more time to figure out how to stay in Peach Tree, was what I didn’t tell them.
“I don’t have a chance,” Johnny said. “I haven’t made any posters and Piper Bell has never elected a boy.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Katy and I said at the same time. Then Katy gave me a long look. “But you were really into this, Gabs. Are you sure you want to give it up?”
I didn’t want to give anything in my life up. Especially being president. But, because of everything else, my heart wasn’t in giving speeches and shaking hands and being a great candidate. It wasn’t right to run if I was only sort of jogging.
“I don’t, but I should,” I said. “I need to sacrifice something.”
And then, a PLAY came into my head.
THE YOU’RE-RUINING-MY-LIFE SACRIFICE
Goal: Make my parents realize how they are derailing my entire life!
Action: Give up my presidential run (CHECK!) and blame the possible move to Seattle
Post-Day Analysis:
September 20 (cont’d)
Gabby Garcia's Ultimate Playbook #3 Page 10
