Say It Ain't So

by Josh Berk

  Now, I mentioned before that I was not exactly a great baseball player. As a hitter, I was the type of kid who considered it a success if I managed a foul tip even when the coach pitched. You could tell he was trying really hard to hit my bat with his ball, but somehow the ball always jumped over my bat like a fly avoiding a fly swatter.

  In T-ball, I usually just hit the tee and in fact broke enough tees and delayed enough games that I was nicknamed “the Human Rain Delay” (my first of many bad nicknames). This got me briefly banned from a kindergarten league. Kind of impressive, sure. But once we moved up to actually hitting live pitching was when my true stinkiness really started to shine. I went entire seasons without managing so much as a foul tip. The greatest day of my life was when I was hit by a pitch and got to experience the vast beauty of first base.

  First base was so wonderful. So big. So white. So soft. Like a velvety pillow. I wanted to lie down right there on it and fall asleep. Of course what you’re supposed to do when you’re on first base is run to second, especially if someone hits the ball. But there I was, lost in my beautiful joy of standing on first. The next batter was a girl named Martha Spearman, who actually was a good hitter. She laced the first pitch into right-center. I didn’t notice and was immediately thrown out on a very rare putout from center field. Score it eight to four. Fielder’s choice. Martha Spearman was sort of obsessed with her batting average and was furious that I had cost her a hit. And I was pretty sad my time on the base paths was over. I never returned.

  So if you love baseball and stink at hitting, it makes sense to try to become a pitcher, right? That’s what I thought. But somehow I was even worse at pitching than I was at hitting, if you can believe that. I read lots of tips on how to throw. I studied the moves of all my favorite pitchers. I got lessons from coaches and parents and friends. I’d take my spot on the mound, wind up, and fire what I was sure was going to be a strike right down the middle. Nope. Each time I let loose a pitch, the ball would take on a life of its own. It would bounce ten feet in front of the plate. It would sail over the backstop. On occasion, yes, the ball would fly backward out of my hand and land somewhere near center field or perhaps South Jersey. My dreams of being a star pitcher were pretty much dashed before I logged an inning.

  So you can imagine that I was pretty skeptical when Mike called me up one Saturday to tell me about my role with the pitcher’s mound.

  “Dude, Len, you’ll never believe what my dad did,” he said.

  “Oh, I’ll believe it,” I said. I don’t know why I said that.

  “He built a pitcher’s mound in the backyard!”

  “Awesome!” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s just the thing I need to practice my catching.”

  “Well, it’s not just the thing,” I said. “Unless he also built a pitching machine.”

  “That’s where you come in,” he said.

  “I—I don’t know how to build a pitching machine,” I said. “Remember when we were supposed to build a car out of a mousetrap and I came in last place?”

  “You also almost killed Mr. Thurston when the car exploded and shot a screw at his head.”

  “Good old Thirsty Thurston,” I said. “I’m glad I didn’t kill him.”

  “So listen, Len, I don’t need you to build a pitching machine. I need you to be a pitching machine.”

  I saw where he was going with this. “Um, I think we know the only thing I’m worse at than building cars from mousetraps is pitching.”

  “Exactly why you’re the man for the job, Norbeck. Remember when you almost killed Mr. Antonucci in gym class? He wasn’t anywhere near home plate and your pitch knocked off his hat,” Mike said.

  “Man, I sure have almost killed teachers a lot of times. I’m, like, a stone-cold criminal. I don’t know why you’d want to be my friend.”

  “Like I said, Lenny,” he shot back. “You’re just the man for the job.”

  “I don’t get it. You want me to pitch to you because I stink at pitching?”

  “Well, I didn’t say you stink.…”

  “Let’s not beat around the bush, Mike,” I said. “I seriously hate it whenever people beat around the bush. I’m, like, totally anti-bush-beating-around.”

  “Well, see, here’s what I’m thinking: I’m never going to be great at throwing guys out because I have this stupid weak shoulder. My game is going to have to be mostly about blocking pitches. I have to be the best at handling pitchers, stopping wild pitches, smothering anything that comes near me. That’s the only weakness Davis Gannett has.”

  “You mean besides the fact that he’s a terrible human being?” I said.

  “Well, yes, there is also that,” he said. “So will you do it?”

  “You just want me to come over there and throw terrible pitches all over the place off the mound so you can practice blocking wild pitches?”

  “You got it.”

  “You want not just a pitching machine, but a lean, mean, wild-pitching machine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “Leonard Norbeck, it would be my honor to request your presence at this pitcher’s mound tomorrow. The pitcher’s mound in my backyard that my dad built needs you. Because you are the world’s greatest lean, mean, wild-pitching machine.”

  “I’m in, Mike,” I said. “I’m in.”

  Sunday morning I got up bright and early. I found my baseball glove. It was easy to find. I had nailed it to the wall. Even though I don’t really use it anymore, I convinced Mom to spare it from the carnage of Discardia. Things that didn’t make it through the carnage: Pokémon cards, a telescope, some video games, and a set of juggling balls. I never learned how to juggle, but I really missed that stuff. Well, not really the telescope, which I hadn’t used since I was about seven and briefly considered a career as an astronaut. Or astronomer? Astrologer? Something with astro—and not the Houston Astros. Anyway, I kept the glove just for, you know, sentimental reasons. That wasn’t enough for Mom, so I took a nail and hung it on my wall and called it art. Getting it off was a pain, but finally I was ready.

  Dad stuck his head in my room while I was pulling the glove off the wall.

  “I thought that was your art?” he said.

  “Yeah, well, surprisingly I need it to actually play baseball with.”

  “Good thing Mom didn’t throw it away,” he said. I was starting to guess that Dad wasn’t the biggest Discardia fan in the world either. “I should have told her my golf clubs were art too, nailed them to the ceiling.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “So what inspired the need for the baseball glove?” he asked. “I thought you retired from the game.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes the world needs a wild pitcher, and I’m the wildest pitcher that ever pitched a wild … pitch.”

  He looked a little confused. Like a man biting into a soft pretzel and finding it unexpectedly filled with cottage cheese.

  “Going out for the team?” he asked. “Gonna be the secret weapon that helps the Mustangs win it all?”

  “Nah,” I laughed. “Just helping Mike. He’s going to try out for catcher. I’m going to throw him some balls in the dirt, help him practice.”

  “Cool,” he said. “Have fun. And, hey—if you see Mr. Mike, tell him I guess I’m out for golfing this spring.” He sighed and shook his head glumly.

  “Discardia sucks,” I said.

  Dad didn’t say anything. He was honoring that unwritten rule that parents have to always stick together. But I could tell he agreed with me by the way he narrowed his eyes and rubbed his hand over his bald head. He walked down the hall staring at the ground. He looked like a toddler on the way to the naughty chair. Oh yeah, he agreed.

  I got my bike out of the garage and headed over to Mike’s house. This time I was not going to kick him in the crotch. This time I was going to throw wild pitches at him. The things we do for our friends.… It was kind of a chilly March day, the sky gray and hard. I rode quic
kly, pumping my legs, trying to get warm.

  When I got there, Mike was already in full catcher’s gear. He was standing in the driveway. He was doing that thing, banging his hands together to make them tough. It was weird, but at least he wasn’t kicking himself in the crotch.

  “Hey, Mike,” I said. He lifted the catcher’s mask. He looked pretty natural with that mask on, I had to admit.

  “Hey, Len,” he said. He spit on the driveway. “Come check out the mound.”

  I dropped my bike in the grass and followed him to the backyard. The pitcher’s mound was truly an impressive sight. It looked just like someone dug up a real baseball stadium and dropped it into suburbia. There was even a backstop, which was probably going to come in handy. There was no way Mike could catch my pitches.

  “Ain’t nothing to it but to do it,” Mike said. He slapped me on the rear end. He was taking this new persona as a catcher a little too far. Catchers were always doing that, slapping their pitcher on the tush.

  Mike’s dad had bought a whole bucket of balls, which Mike placed next to the mound. I picked one up, toed the rubber, and waited for Mike to take his crouch. It felt cool and I really wished that I was a good pitcher. It wasn’t that fun to be asked as a freak. A wild-pitch specialist. Eh, what else was I going to do with my Sunday? Mom got rid of all my toys anyway.

  “Are you going to give me signs or …?” I asked, shouting to Mike from the mound.

  He yelled through the mask. “Do you have a lot of pitches I should know about?”

  “Just the high cheese, the high cheese, and the high cheese,” I said. Calling a fastball the “high cheese” is, like, the funniest thing ever.

  “Then bring the high cheese,” he said.

  I started my windup, announcing the whole time in my head. Now entering the game is number thirty-three for the Philadelphia Phillies: Lenny Norbeck! Norbeck is known for his searing high cheese, of course, as well as leading the league in wild pitches by a wide margin. Here’s the windup, and the pitch!

  I uncorked a heater so wild that Mike didn’t even have a chance. I’m pretty sure Ramon Famosa, or any major-league catcher, wouldn’t have had a chance. Pretty sure Plastic Man wouldn’t have been able to snag it, and I don’t know if you know this about him, but his arms are made out of plastic. It bounced about one-third of the way to home plate and came to a stop somewhere between the neighbor’s yard and western Antarctica.

  “Just getting warmed up,” I said. “Keeping you on your toes.”

  Mike nodded his head and adjusted his mask. I grabbed another ball. I concentrated less on throwing it hard and more on just getting it near Mike. I took a deep breath and let it fly. It still hit the dirt, but only a few feet in front of the dish. Mike dropped from his crouch to his knees, and smothered the ball with his shin guards.

  “Nice one!” I said.

  He just nodded that helmet again and threw the ball back to me. I missed it, of course, and not only because my glove had a nail hole in it. But it didn’t matter. I had a whole bucket of balls. I picked up another and another and another. We did this for what seemed like hours. Pitch by pitch. Some were so high Mike had to jump like a basketball player leaping for a rebound. Some so low they kicked up tornadoes of dirt at his feet. Many flew past Mike altogether and slapped into the backstop with a thud. A few joined their friend in the neighbor’s yard. I really was the master of the wild pitch. But, hey, one or two even hit his glove. What’s the expression? Even a blind squirrel finds a nut some days. I really was about as good a pitcher as a blind squirrel would be. But as the day went on and my arm grew sore, it was clear Mike was going to be a pretty good catcher. A great catcher.

  As April drew closer, fewer and fewer pitches made that awful backstop-hitting sound. More and more smacked Mike’s glove. It wasn’t that my pitches ever became straight as arrows. It was just that Mike became crazy-good at blocking them. He’d leap to his left, dive to his right. He’d throw out a backhand to pick a pitch on the bounce. He’d kick out a leg to deaden a bouncer with his shin guards like a hockey goalie. He was ready. And okay, I did get better at pitching. My arm got stronger and my aim wasn’t quite so wild. It was fun. I was proud. Who would have guessed that being a terrible pitcher would come in so handy? I felt happy that I could help. Sure, I still felt a little jealous that Mike was going to end up making the team and living the good life.

  Yeah, I was sure that Mike was going to make the team. He was, you could say, not so sure. When the day of the Schwenkfelder Middle School baseball tryouts arrived, Mike was just about nuts. It was a Monday. Mike was so nervous he could hardly sit still all day. He was so twitchy and fidgety you would have thought he was Other Mike. He invited me to come to the tryouts, but I thought that would just be weird.

  We had spent the day before practicing—one last Sunday of wild pitches and impressive blocks. Every once in a while, I’d even throw a strike. Or, you know, something close enough to a strike that Mike could catch it without sprawling or diving like a fish. It made me feel good and it was good practice too. Mike wouldn’t only need to catch wild pitches. That night, Mike had called, and I knew what he was going to say so well that I could mouth the words along with him into the phone.

  “Lenny, think I’ll make the team?”

  “Of course,” I said. “You’re the best.”

  “Well, I’m not the best. I don’t even need to be the best, not really. I just need to be the second best. I know the starting catcher’s spot is Davis’s—I know that. I just want to make it as a backup catcher. Is that too much to ask?”

  I assured him that no, that was not too much to ask. It was a perfectly reasonable wish.

  “Good luck,” I said for the nine millionth time. “Break a mitt.”

  I decided to hang out with Other Mike after school during the tryouts. Our trio had been disrupted a little bit since I was spending so much time throwing wild pitches to Mike. I sort of missed Other Mike. He was never into baseball, but he was part of our crew since the beginning. He moved to Schwenkfelder from an even smaller town, if you can believe that. He was from the kind of place where a trip to a fast-food restaurant was a two-hour drive and a fancy night on the town. Mainly just farmland, I guess. I think his kindergarten class was mostly made up of cattle. So when he moved into our little neighborhood, he was thrilled to be in a place where, like, stuff existed. Where there were other kids around. It’s just a little suburban neighborhood, but to Other Mike it was like moving to New York City.

  I remember it well, the first day I met Other Mike. I don’t know how he even found out where we lived—little-kid radar, I guess. Or maybe our moms talked. We were, like, in second grade. Anyway, there he was, walking up the street, just thrilled beyond belief to see me and Mike on the lawn. We were, of course, playing catch. We had our baseball gloves on and were hurling a ball back and forth. I was not catching it most times. I was not doing a good job throwing it most times either. Enough about that. So Other Mike ran up to us.

  “Hi!” he said.

  “Hey,” Mike and I said in unison. We kept throwing the ball back and forth. We were too cool to stop. Except, you know, to pick up the ball because we were not catching it.

  “I just moved here! My name is Mike!” Other Mike said.

  “No it isn’t,” Mike said.

  “Yeah, it is!” Other Mike was standing on the curb, still grinning.

  “Nope,” I said. We thought we were so funny.

  “Okay, really it’s Michael, but—”

  “My name is Mike,” Mike said. “There can’t be two.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’re Other Mike.” (Note: If you hear Mike tell this story, he’ll try to take credit for being the one to make up “Other Mike,” but it was totally me.)

  Other Mike laughed. No one said anything else for a minute. “So are you into baseball?” he asked.

  “What tipped you off?” Mike asked. We were such jerks!

  “Yeah, we are into baseball,” I sa
id. “How about you?”

  “Uh, sure,” he said.

  “Where did you move from?” Mike said. “What team are you into?”

  Other Mike looked stumped for a minute. Stunned even. I saw him glance down at my Little League shirt. It had the team name on the front. That was the (one) year the coach let us pick our own name. We were the “Smashers.” I don’t know—it seemed cool at the time.

  “Um, I’m into the … Smashers.”

  “Really?” Mike broke up laughing but wanted to keep the joke going. “Who is your favorite player on the Smashers?”

  I doubled over with laughter.

  Other Mike read the back of my shirt. “Norbeck?” he said.

  “I like this kid already,” I said.

  He took it well. He admitted that he didn’t like baseball. And we didn’t care. He was fun, he was nice, and he was a good friend. Right from the beginning. He was Other Mike, but he was always himself. Can’t beat that.

  I was thinking about all this as I rode my bike over to Other Mike’s house after school. Plus the fact that there were no video games at my house, of course, and I really wanted to play some.

  Other Mike already was on the video-game machine. Before long we were having an epic battle in this really cool game Other Mike has where you’re a ninja. I was climbing walls and stabbing dudes and chucking throwing stars. I lost track of time. When you don’t play video games for a while, when you finally do it’s like the greatest thing ever. It’s like how when you’re really hungry, even the cafeteria food tastes great. Just kidding. That never happened. The cafeteria food always stinks. But my point is, I was totally in the ninja zone and totally forgot what was going on in the real world. So when my phone beeped and I saw it was a text from Mike, I was sort of confused.