Strike Zone

by Mike Lupica

  “Are you okay?” he said.

  “Coach,” Nick said, “we won big, and I was four-for-four.”

  “I’ve just never seen you this fired up before,” Coach said. “I know how much you want to win, but you rarely show it on the outside.”

  “Sometimes,” Nick said, “you gotta cut loose and let everybody know how much you love the game.”

  Then Coach announced he was taking the team for ice cream again, and the parents were invited to come along. Nick’s mom said she wanted to get home to Amelia. So Nick and the rest of the Blazers led the way to the new ice cream shop next to Stan’s Sports World on River Avenue, while a handful of parents tagged behind.

  At the end of the night, Nick and Ben dropped Diego at his building, and then Nick dropped Ben off at his.

  As Nick turned for home, Ben put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait,” he said. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

  “Make it something good,” Nick said. “Can’t handle any more bad news right now.”

  Ben stood there, trying to find the right words. Finally, he lifted his shoulders and let them drop, blew out some air, and said, “If anything happens to your dad, my mom says you can live with us.”

  Nick started to say something, but Ben held up a hand.

  “Amelia, too,” he said.

  “You told your mom?” Nick said, a little embarrassed.

  “Didn’t have to,” Ben said.

  Of course, Nick thought. Everyone knew by now.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Nick said. “Except that’s about the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”

  Ben shrugged like it was no big thing. “You’d do the same for me.”

  “Still,” Nick said.

  Ben told him to call or text, no matter how late, with any news about his dad. Good or bad.

  Nick walked up the Grand Concourse, deciding he wasn’t ready to go upstairs yet, and crossed the street into Joyce Kilmer Park. He found an empty bench and plunked himself down. In front of him, two boys who looked no more than five or six were chasing a soccer ball, giggling and out of breath, while their mother looked on, snapping pictures. Nick envied them: carefree and innocent.

  He watched them and occasionally checked his phone for any messages from his mom or Amelia or Mr. Gasson. But there were none.

  Nick didn’t know how long he sat on that bench, but it was getting dark fast, so he got up and made his way toward the park exit. He was cautious to look both ways before crossing the busy two-way street on a light. Just one of the many things he was taught to be careful of.

  Not that being careful had done any good.

  He didn’t see Marisol standing in front of his building until he nearly knocked into her.

  He made no attempt to hide his pleasure at seeing her, though.

  “I know you,” he said. “You’re the tennis girl.”

  Marisol cut to the chase. “I know,” she said.

  “About my dad, you mean,” Nick said.

  “Yes,” she said, her lips pinched. “Nick, I’m so sorry.”

  The words were simple, yet they said so much. Sorry about his dad, sorry about the way they’d left things hanging, sorry about the misunderstandings.

  “Me too,” Nick said.

  Then Marisol threw her arms around his neck and leaned her head against his shoulder. Nick was overwhelmed. He’d never hugged a girl other than his sister. And he’d never been this close to Marisol, but it felt right. He locked his arms around her waist and they held each other for a good few seconds.

  When they broke apart, she said, “If you still have those tickets, I’d very much like to go with you to the Michael Arroyo game.”

  34

  Mr. Gasson called the home phone the next morning when Nick was getting ready to meet Ben and Diego at the field. Graciela was working and Amelia was over at a friend’s, so it was just Nick alone in the apartment.

  Nick asked Mr. Gasson if he could accompany him to New Jersey the next time he went to visit his dad.

  “Your dad doesn’t want you to see him there,” Mr. Gasson said. “He’s been pretty firm about that.”

  “I just want to be there for him.”

  “You are,” Mr. Gasson said, “even if you’re not there physically.”

  “Are you making any progress?” Nick asked.

  “I’ve got a plan, put it that way,” Mr. Gasson said. “Doing everything I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Mr. Gasson said. “I haven’t done anything. If this were a baseball game, we’d only be in the early innings.”

  Then Nick changed the subject and told Mr. Gasson he was going to Yankee Stadium to watch Michael Arroyo pitch against the Red Sox.

  “Wow,” Mr. Gasson said. “I’m jealous. Good seats?”

  “Really good.”

  “Who are you going with?”

  Nick felt a smile come over him.

  “A friend,” he said.

  * * *

  • • •

  Marisol’s parents and Nick’s mom arranged for Nick and Marisol to walk to the Stadium alone on Tuesday night. The first pitch, as always, was scheduled for a little before seven o’clock. After the game, Officer Pérez, who was working at the Stadium, would walk them home.

  On the way to the game, Marisol said to Nick, “I want to apologize again for the way I acted.”

  She was wearing the new Yankees cap her dad had bought her, her dark-brown hair tied in two long braids.

  “I was wrong,” she said. “I understand now why you had to keep your dad’s secret.”

  “In the end, it didn’t help him,” Nick said. “ICE still came, and now he’s stuck in jail for the next few months, at least.”

  “It’s not right,” Marisol said, shaking her head.

  “Which part?”

  “Every part,” she said. “But I’ve had a lot of time to think about what happened between us. I know you were just trying to protect your family. That’s why I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

  “But I hurt yours first by not trusting you with my secret,” Nick said.

  “It wasn’t only your secret to tell,” she replied. “I should have respected that.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s just agree to keep it real, okay?” Marisol said.

  Nick nodded. “Deal,” he said, and smiled. “Real deal.”

  “Good, so it’s settled,” she said, and looped an arm through Nick’s like he was escorting her into a grand ballroom. Nick had to admit, he didn’t mind.

  They made their way down the hill on 161st from Grand Concourse, crossing Walton and Gerard, going past an electronics store and the McDonald’s on River Avenue, then passing underneath the green subway platform until the Stadium came into view.

  “What does your dad think about all this?” Nick said.

  “You want to know the truth?” Marisol said. “He thinks what’s going on is terrible.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it,” Marisol said.

  Then they were swept along by a sea of Yankees fans as they inched closer to one of the Stadium’s entrances.

  Nick’s dad had promised they would see Michael Arroyo pitch in person at least once during the season. Now Nick felt a little guilty, knowing it was due to Marisol’s dad that he was seeing Michael Arroyo pitch. But the tickets had come from Michael himself, albeit indirectly, and Nick knew his father would have gotten a kick out of that.

  The seats were amazing, as Nick knew they would be, having checked out the view from the virtual seat map of Yankee Stadium online. He knew his dad would never have been able to afford the crazy price for seats like these. Few people could.

  Here he and Marisol were anyway.

  That’s the crazy part,
Nick thought. We’re here.

  Then all of the anticipation that had been building inside Nick reached its peak when a great roar emanated from all corners of the Stadium. The cheers were for Michael Arroyo, who had come jogging onto the mound, preparing to throw his first pitch to the Red Sox leadoff hitter.

  When Michael threw a fastball past the guy for strike one, the noise only got louder.

  “This is awesome!” Marisol screamed into the crowd.

  “No,” Nick said, in awe. “It’s way better than that.”

  Michael struck out the side in the top of the first. When he came off the mound and walked toward the Yankee dugout, the fans behind the dugout, including Nick and Marisol, stood and hollered and waved to get his attention. Michael looked up into the stands and tipped his cap as a way of acknowledging the cheer.

  “Oh my God!” Marisol said. “It’s like he looked right at us.”

  “I know,” Nick said. It was the closest he ever felt to Michael Arroyo.

  For the rest of the game, Nick watched every move Michael made. He saw him set up for each pitch on the third-base side of the pitching rubber. He observed how Michael shortened the stride with his front leg whenever there was a runner on base, not that there were very many, even for a powerhouse batting order like the Red Sox had.

  Nick noticed when he threw breaking balls ahead in the count. He saw how many fastballs Michael threw at ninety-eight and ninety-nine miles per hour, and even a few that clocked in at a hundred. He also saw how Michael wasn’t afraid to throw his changeup, even when he was behind in the count.

  “It’s even better watching him in person, isn’t it?” Marisol said.

  “Oh yeah,” Nick replied.

  Nothing could compare to this.

  “I don’t know what’s more fun,” Marisol said. “Watching him, or watching you watch him.”

  It turned out to be a great game, as the Red Sox starting pitcher matched Michael scoreless inning for scoreless inning. Finally, though, the Yankees broke through with two runs in the bottom of the seventh. At that point, it looked as if Michael would get through the top of the eighth. But when he gave up a two-out single and walked his second batter of the game, the Yankee manager came out to get the ball, and signaled for the Yankees’ closer to come in and try for a four-out save.

  Michael walked into one more ovation as he came down the dugout steps, waving his cap to the crowd before disappearing from view.

  The night had been everything Nick imagined it would be. For the past two and a half hours, he was able to escape from his own world and live inside Michael Arroyo’s for a change.

  Marisol had been taking most of the pictures, while Nick zoned out, entirely focused on the game. The last one she took was of Michael waving his cap. She showed it to Nick and said, “Found your new laptop screen.”

  With two outs in the top of the ninth and the Yankees still leading 2–0, Nick turned and saw Marisol’s dad kneeling in the aisle.

  “Soon as our closer gets one more out,” Officer Pérez said, “you guys need to come with me before everybody starts to leave.”

  Nick felt a twinge of disappointment. He wanted to stay through the final play of the game. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  Officer Pérez smiled, and looked more like Marisol than ever.

  “There’s somebody who wants to meet you,” he said.

  35

  As they walked quickly up the aisle from Section 114, Officer Pérez handed them credentials with “Yankee Guest” written on the front, and told them to hang them around their necks.

  “I feel like we’ve got backstage passes at a concert,” Marisol said.

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “A baseball concert.” Whatever is taking us away from the game will most definitely be worth it, Nick thought.

  Finally, the game let out, and hordes of people came flooding from each section. It felt as if they were swimming upstream. Officer Pérez pulled them through a door in the area behind home plate, past an elevator, and down some stairs that opened into a long hallway. They could still hear echoes of all the people above, but it was much quieter where they were. Along the way, Marisol’s dad pointed out the interview room and the Yankee clubhouse right across.

  They walked past the clubhouse and continued down the hallway before Officer Pérez told Nick and Marisol to stop.

  “What do we do now?” Marisol asked her dad.

  He grinned.

  “We wait.”

  “For who?” Marisol said.

  Nick thought he knew. Was hoping he knew. But was afraid to ask.

  Don’t tell anybody your wishes.

  “Just wait,” Officer Pérez said.

  Then he walked back in the direction of the Yankee clubhouse, leaving Nick and Marisol tingling with excitement.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Marisol said.

  “Yes,” Nick said.

  “But I shouldn’t say it?”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  They waited in the hallway for what seemed like forever, and were startled by the sound of a golf cart whizzing by with two men sitting inside it. Nick’s heart raced at the sight, but then the cart was gone and the area underneath Yankee Stadium where they were standing was quiet again.

  Nick’s chest was easing back to normal when he saw Marisol’s eyes go wide. She stared past his shoulder, and Nick heard a pair of voices.

  Officer Pérez was coming back down the hallway.

  With him, wearing a gray Yankees T-shirt and his uniform pants, was Michael Arroyo.

  36

  When Michael reached them, he spoke to Marisol first.

  “Heard a lot about you from your dad,” he said, reaching a hand out. “You’re the tennis star.”

  Marisol took his hand and shook it. “I don’t know about that,” she said shyly.

  Nick thought, At least she’s able to talk.

  “Your dad certainly does,” Michael said, lightly elbowing Officer Pérez.

  Then Michael turned to Nick. “And you must be Nick García, the star pitcher.”

  Michael stuck his hand out and Nick shook it firmly, hoping Michael wouldn’t notice how clammy and shaky it was.

  “And I don’t know about that, Mr. Arroyo,” Nick said, riffing off Marisol’s answer. Thank goodness she went first, Nick thought.

  “Call me Michael,” Michael Arroyo said.

  “Okay,” Nick said, looking up at his idol.

  Michael smiled. “I hear you can really bring the heat,” he said. “You know, they used to say the same thing about me when I was your age.”

  “I do know,” Nick said.

  I know everything about you.

  Nick thanked Michael for the tickets and congratulated him on the game he’d just pitched against the Red Sox. Tonight’s win put the Yankees a game ahead of them in the standings, with not much of the season left in the American League East.

  “I was hoping to go the distance tonight,” Michael said. “Get myself another complete game.”

  He looks taller in person.

  “I thought the home-plate ump squeezed you a little bit on that walk,” Nick said.

  Just standing here talking baseball with Michael Arroyo.

  “Right?” Michael said.

  Then Michael shocked Nick by asking him how the Blazers were doing. Maybe Marisol’s dad had clued him in to Nick’s team’s name, but either way, it was nice of him to take interest. Nick told Michael they were still undefeated, moving up on the championship game.

  “Which I hear you’re going to pitch,” Michael said.

  “Hope so.”

  “Man,” Michael said, “is there anything better than pitching the big game in Little League?”

  It wasn’t lost on Nick that the Yankees’ starting pitcher was nostalgic for his Littl
e League days. Even with all the fame and success that came with being a professional baseball player, there was still nothing that compared to playing with your buddies under the lights.

  After a bit more chitchat about the Blazers and the Dream League, Nick was thinking Michael probably had somewhere else to be. He was about to thank him again for the tickets when Michael turned to Officer Pérez and Marisol. “Could Nick and I have a moment alone?” he said. “I want to talk to him about his letter.”

  “My letter?” Nick said.

  “The one Officer Pérez gave me,” Michael said. “About your dad, and pretty much your life story.”

  “But I didn’t—” Nick stopped there, then tried again. “How . . . ?” He turned and looked at Marisol.

  “You go talk to Mr. Arroyo about the letter,” she said. “We’ll talk later.”

  Michael placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder, and they walked far enough down the hallway to have some privacy. “I want to figure out a way to help you,” he said finally. “What you wrote was really powerful.”

  Nick’s brain was working overtime. How did his hero, Michael Arroyo, get ahold of his letter, the one he’d never shown a single person?

  “It hit home with me,” Michael said, “because I remember what it was like for my brother and me to grow up scared. And that’s a lousy way to grow up, at least when you’re not playing ball.”

  “It’s gotten lousier since I wrote it,” Nick said. Michael listened as Nick explained how the rest of the story had played out for his dad.

  “Do you have a phone?” Michael asked when Nick finished.

  Nick reached into the back pocket of his jeans and sheepishly handed his phone over to Michael. He was embarrassed by how outdated it must have looked to him. But all Michael did was take it from Nick and quickly punch out a number, holding it to his ear until it was clear somebody on the other line had picked up.

  “Carlos,” Michael said. “I’m with Nick García, the boy who wrote the letter.” Nick knew Carlos was both Michael’s older brother and his manager. “In the morning, I want you to start figuring out what we can do to help Nick and his dad.”