Home of the Braves

by David Klass

  23

  Ed the Mouse vanished. So did his father.

  I didn’t expect Ed to come to school Thursday, but I did expect to see him on Friday, or for sure on Saturday afternoon, when we had a big soccer game. I also thought he might call me to curse me out for telling his dad, or that his father might call me with some news of what had happened. But no one called. The only thing I got from the McBean house was a strange silence.

  On Saturday afternoon we played our third-to-last regular-season game, against a very good and determined Greenwood team. It’s amazing what a front-page story and a couple of news clips will do to attract fans. I guess the small town of Lawndale was a little starved for big events. Also, I know there are towns all through northern New Jersey with large immigrant populations from countries that love soccer, and I guess some of those fans were curious to see a real live Phenom from Brazil.

  Hype feeds on hype. Buzz creates buzz. Believe it or not, we had five hundred people in the stands to watch our game against Greenwood—more people than I have ever seen at one of our home football games. The bleachers on both home and away sidelines were full. The mayor of our town was there. Deputy Police Chief Coyle showed up with Vice Principal Tobias. I saw them walk up together, and they gave me cold stares.

  We had to win this game and the two after it to make the county tournament. Before the game, Coach Collins made us kneel in a circle and gave us one of his less than great pep talks. I could tell how nervous he was, because he kept glancing around at the five hundred people. “You guys have a chance to do something special, but we have no margin for error. So let’s get the ball to Antonio and score some goals. Defense, play hard and get the ball to Antonio. Midneld, nothing too fancy, we want to work the ball up through Antonio. Antonio, don’t feel like you’re carrying the whole burden, but … just do your thing out there. Okay, let’s go!”

  It didn’t work out the way Coach Collins planned. The Greenwood team apparently had the same idea he had—that our only good player was Antonio. So they decided to shut him down, no matter what it took. They had two guys shadowing him all over the field, and every time he touched the ball, four or five of their players swarmed around him, kicking at his heels.

  I think Antonio had faced these tactics before, because he seemed to know exactly what to do. When a ball came to him, he held it just long enough to draw their players out of position, and then he cracked off a perfect pass to one of our forwards who was left completely unguarded. He set up more clear breakaways for Zigler and Murray and Cavanaugh than I could count. Even those jokers couldn’t miss forever. Zigler scored one, and then Cavanaugh, after missing what seemed like a dozen wide-open shots, finally converted. Our defense held firm, and at the half we were up two to nothing.

  I sat on the bench near Antonio during halftime, and saw him roll down one sock to check a bruise. He was getting pushed and hacked on every touch, but he wasn’t complaining. If anything, the rough treatment seemed to make him better. And I had to admire him for his unselfish play. Instead of getting angry and trying to take the Greenwood defense on all by himself, he was making the rest of our team look good.

  In the second half, things got even rougher. The Greenwood team seemed to have decided that if they couldn’t beat us with Antonio on the field, they would find a way to get rid of him. He was knocked down twice from behind, on tackles that should have drawn red cards but didn’t. The players shadowing him began shoving him even when the ball was on the other side of the field. Their strategy seemed to work. Soon Antonio’s uniform was so covered with mud you couldn’t even read his number, and Greenwood scored a goal on us. Two to one.

  But as quickly as the momentum of the game shifted, Antonio found a way to shift it back. He sprinted all the way back to our penalty box to collect a pass, opening up a little distance from the two Greenwood players who were shadowing him. And then he started to move the ball upfield. I sensed what was about to happen. I had seen him do it to our defense in practices. And that peculiar quality he had—the quality that would one day no doubt make him shine as a professional star—was practically radiating from him.

  The two players who were chasing him around the field caught up to him, and one of them tried to trip him while the other tried a vicious shoulder charge. Antonio jumped sideways at the exact right moment, and they missed him and hit each other, and went down in a tangle of arms and legs. He split two of their midfielders with a burst of pure speed and darted down the right sideline.

  Their left fullback tried to contain him near the sideline. He had been pushing and kicking and taunting Antonio all during the game, and I guess the Phenom had had enough. Antonio stepped over the ball twice to freeze him, and then kicked the ball right at the fullback’s groin. I would swear he was aiming. The ball hit their defender with a loud ZWAP and bounced perfectly back to Antonio, while their fullback crumpled onto the grass, holding his testicles.

  Their stopper was tall and gangly, and Antonio nutmegged him without breaking stride, shooting the ball right through his legs, and then running onto it. Now only their sweeper stood between Antonio and their goalie. Antonio slowed in front of their sweeper, and for a half second he seemed to consider what to do as he moved the ball from one foot to the other. Then came a series of lightning fakes, left-right-left, before Antonio finally went right, opening up enough space to take his shot.

  But their sweeper wasn’t giving up—he managed to grab Antonio’s shirt and hold on. He was willing to yield a penalty kick but he wasn’t letting go. Antonio dragged him half a step, and then reached down to the waistline of his own shirt and in one smooth motion yanked it up and over his head. Their sweeper fell on his butt in the mud, still holding Antonio’s shirt, while Antonio kicked a rocket shot past the Greenwood goalie, into the net, for a three-to-one lead.

  It was the most brilliant run I had ever seen. I think it was the most brilliant run anyone had ever seen on a New Jersey high school soccer field. The roar from the crowd went on for minute after minute. Antonio celebrated shirtless, pumping his arms, while the entire Greenwood team hung their heads. But that goal wasn’t the thing that impressed me the most that day.

  Greenwood didn’t give up. They scored to make it three to two, and with ten minutes left they attacked us with everything they had. One goal would tie the game. In those final few minutes Antonio ran all the way back to help our defense, and he personally broke up four or five clear scoring threats. Twice we ended up battling the Greenwood forwards side by side, and when it came to playing tough defense, he was a warrior.

  When the game ended, I knew what I had to do. I didn’t participate in the celebration. And I didn’t say anything to Antonio, who donned dark glasses, gave Kris a hug and a kiss, and then posed for pictures and did two interviews at a time, all the while combing his hair.

  Instead I waited for Coach Collins to have a free moment, and then I walked up to him and said very quietly, “Make him co-captain.”

  Coach looked at me. “It’s not necessary. You’re sure?”

  “Yeah,” I told him. “I’m sure.”

  24

  Sunday passed without any word from the Mouse. I worked a double shift in my father’s car wash, and for the first time in all the years I had worked there, I found myself watching everything my dad did, and imagining myself in his place. I watched him open up in the morning, and check all the equipment before turning it on. I watched him deal with his employees. I saw how careful he was with money. I watched him chat with customers, and when things got slow he thumbed through a Sports Illustrated. It didn’t look like such a bad life, but I have to admit, it also wasn’t the most exciting thing in the world.

  Mouse didn’t come to school on Monday. When he didn’t show up on Tuesday, I became very concerned. He had been gone a whole week. Had I destroyed our friendship by telling on him? Why didn’t he or his father at least call me? I wondered where they were, and if anything bad had happened to them.

  Tuesday even
ing was warm for late October—one of those fall nights when summer doesn’t want to give way to winter. About nine o’clock I heard guitar music, and then Kris’s voice drifted over. She hadn’t sung outside on her balcony in a long time, so I cracked open my window to hear better, and sat back to enjoy the free concert. She sang two or three of her favorite songs, and they brought back a lot of nice memories.

  Suddenly I heard a male voice start singing. I didn’t understand the words, but I knew who was singing them. In addition to all of his other talents, the Phenom was a pretty good crooner. She had brought him to her balcony to play for him, and now he was singing to her. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like a love song—an Italian love song.

  I closed my window, and the sound of his voice got fainter, but when the wind blew a certain way, I could still hear him. Normally, I’m the last person in the world to get insomnia. But long after the Phenom stopped singing, his voice echoed in my head. I tossed and turned and buried my face in the pillow, and finally I gave up. I lay on my back, staring at the shelves of sports trophies that had accumulated over the years, and at my fish in their tanks. I replayed over and over in my mind my last fight with Kris and what she had said about my needing to grow up.

  Some of my trophies were from grade school. Some were from sports I no longer even played. The cups and gold statuettes loomed on their shelves, glinting dully in the moonlight, a long parade of memories from sports seasons gone by. Why did I keep them there? Was I holding on to something that other people would have stored away in boxes in a closet long ago? Mouse had dug up the Rec League soccer picture from his basement—even he had put old memories away and moved on. What was wrong with me?

  In the moonlight, the eyes and scales of my fish glowed with a ghostly luminescence. I could see them swimming around the coral and through the seaweed, cruising endlessly through the late night hours. Even lying there, I was fascinated by them. I don’t know why, but I’ve always liked to watch fish swim. I like the way their bodies snake through the water, the small movements of dorsal and ventral fins. Was it a stupid child’s hobby? Should I have exchanged my fish tanks for something more trendy or mature years ago?

  And was I being a fool about my future? Had I tossed away an opportunity by not applying to college? Was Kris right, that I could do bigger and better things than help run a car wash? My father had a comfortable life, but not a very interesting one. I wouldn’t learn anything new by working with him. I wouldn’t travel to a new place, or learn a new skill, or meet new and fascinating people. It had been enough for him, but should it be enough for me? Was it another example of my holding on to something familiar and time-tested? Of not taking enough risks? Of not growing up?

  The sleepless night had an unexpected aftereffect in daylight. Mouse wasn’t at school Wednesday, and I wasn’t totally there either—I was bleary from lack of sleep, and the thoughts that had kept me awake kept running through my mind. Finally, at lunchtime, I did something I hadn’t planned on. Instead of going to the cafeteria, I headed to the Guidance Department. I hesitated outside, and nearly turned and walked away. Finally I opened the door and asked the secretary if I could make an appointment to see Mrs. Simmons.

  “She’s booked up solid with college application stuff,” the secretary said, glancing at her schedule. “But she’s here now, finishing her lunch. I could see if she’s done—”

  “Don’t bother her,” I said quickly, losing my nerve. “I’ll come another time.”

  Mrs. Simmons must have overheard this, because she poked her head out of her office. “No bother at all,” she said. “I’m done. Come on in.”

  The walls of her office were covered with pictures and brochures from different colleges, and posters from the Army and Navy. On one wall, I saw brochures from Harvard and Princeton, with photos of ivy-covered buildings and grassy campuses that looked like never-never land.

  I think Mrs. Simmons saw how out of place I felt. “Joe,” she said, “sit down. Congratulations on the soccer wins.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I tried to sit down, but somehow I managed to miss the chair and fall to the floor with a loud crash. It was about the clumsiest thing I had ever done in my life.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Never better,” I said, getting back to my feet. “Sorry. I really don’t belong here. I should go …”

  “Sit,” she commanded. “That’s an order. Sit carefully.”

  So I sat. And this time I didn’t fall.

  We looked at each other. She had kind but very penetrating eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I just … didn’t sleep so well last night.”

  She waited for me to say more, and finally asked, “What kept you awake?”

  “I … don’t know.”

  “Since you came here, after your sleepless night, and you’re a senior, let me take a wild guess,” Mrs. Simmons said with a smile. “Are you worried about the future?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I’m gonna work with my dad.”

  “That’s why you didn’t apply to college?” Somehow, my high school transcript had materialized on her desk. “You still have time, you know. You would have to take some tests, but many colleges accept late applications. Your grades are not great, but I’ve seen much worse. And you have strong extracurriculars, and—”

  “I don’t want to go to college,” I told her truthfully. “I’ve had enough of sitting in classrooms. At least for a while.”

  “Fair enough.” I had expected her to argue with me, and try to convince me I was wrong. But she didn’t. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I wish I knew. If I did I would tell you.”

  “I believe you,” she said. She scanned my transcript. “I see you’re in advanced biology That’s your only advanced class, and you’re doing well in it. That kind of jumps out at me.”

  “I like bio,” I said. “And Mr. Desoto’s a great teacher.”

  “What do you like about it?”

  Seconds passed. “Fish,” I finally said.

  “Fish?”

  “I like studying about animals, and plants, even down to the level of cells, but I like fish most of all. I have a lot of them.”

  She looked confused. “You have a lot of fish?”

  “Yeah, in tanks. I know this sounds stupid, but I’ve been raising them since I was little and … Look, I really got to go.”

  She tried to stop me, but I knew I was talking sheer nonsense and that I didn’t belong in that office with the posters from Princeton and Harvard. I made it out the door, hurried past the secretary, and ran off down the hall.

  That night I slept for two or three fitful hours. Falling asleep is a strange thing—the more you think about it, the less chance you have of doing it. My meeting with Mrs. Simmons haunted me. I remembered stammering out silly answers, and falling off the chair, and telling a sophisticated woman that I liked biology because I liked fish.

  When Mouse didn’t come to school on Thursday, I decided it was time to take aggressive action. A week is a long time for someone to vanish. I got the number for Dr. McBean’s chemical company from the operator, and tried calling him at work. When they connected me to his extension, I got a recorded message: “Hello, this is Dennis McBean. I’m sorry, but I’ll be out of the office for a while, and I won’t be checking messages. If you need more help, please call my colleague, Dr. Farnham.”

  I was surprised when he answered the phone on the first ring. “Farnham speaking.” I explained that I was a friend of the family, and was concerned because father and son had vanished.

  “I don’t know any more than you do,” Dr. Farnham said, sounding perplexed himself. “Dr. McBean has taken a leave of absence. He’s never done that before, and I don’t know when he’s coming back. He’s not even calling in for messages.”

  I thanked him and hung up. Mouse and his father had indeed vanished without a trace.

  We won our second-to-last socc
er game on Thursday afternoon, in front of a huge crowd. One more game to go and we would be in the county tournament for the first time ever.

  Thursday night I finally got a little sleep, but I had awful, violent nightmares, and awoke at five in the morning in a cold sweat. All Friday, I had an ominous feeling, like something bad or dangerous or violent was about to happen. But school was quiet, and except for Mouse’s absence, everything seemed to go normally.

  When violence finally did break out that Friday, it did so in a most unexpected place. It didn’t happen in school, or on an athletic field. The hard guys weren’t to blame, and none of my soccer teammates was the victim. The violence broke out in my house, in my living room, and the only victim was my father.

  It was getting late, and I was feeding my fish and dreading another sleepless night or more nightmares, when I heard a loud thud from downstairs. It sounded like someone had pushed over our dining room table. Then came two smaller crashes, like someone kicking chairs across the floor.

  I ran to the top of the stairs, and heard Dianne Hutchings’s outraged voice: “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, TONE IT DOWN? YOU HAVEN’T EVEN CALLED ME! WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO CALL ME?”

  “Well, I just think sometimes it’s better to take things slow,” I heard my father say.

  BAM! Something shattered, and it sounded like glass breaking—I figured it might be the ashtray on our coffee table.

  “WILL YOU QUIT DESTROYING THINGS?” my father shouted. Then, in his most reasonable voice: “I mean, for God’s sakes, Dianne. We only went out a couple of weeks, and I didn’t break any promises—”

  But he never got any further, because Dianne Hutchings exploded: “WHAT AM I? A TOY THAT YOU HAVE FUN WITH AND THROW AWAY? YOU SON OF A BITCH! I’LL BREAK EVERYTHING IN YOUR HOUSE AND THEN I’LL BREAK EVERY BONE IN YOUR BODY.”

  SLAM, BAM, WHAM, CRASH! I didn’t know exactly what she was doing down there, but I was pretty certain that if I didn’t go down and stop her, my dad and I wouldn’t have any dishes to eat out of, or any glasses to drink from. I edged down the stairs and saw a pitiful sight. My father—one of the biggest, toughest men you would ever want to meet—had crawled behind the tipped-over dining room table, and was holding a chair up as a shield.