Dream’s ears stiffen and freeze forward. She arches her neck and nickers.
I look up and see Ethan walking toward us. He waves.
Before he reaches us, he signs, I heard about you and Colt. You okay?
I’m more okay than I was an hour ago, I sign.
He sits next to me on the stump. For a few minutes, he doesn’t say anything. Like Dream, Ethan listens in his own way.
After a while, Ethan stands up. I need to get going. We have practice before the game.
I’d forgotten about Ethan’s baseball game. You think Coach will let you pitch tonight?
Ethan’s coach is a pretty nice guy. But he’s like a lot of people we know. He’s sort of afraid of my brother. Coach tends to avoid Ethan. He doesn’t give him much of a shot, even though Ethan’s a good pitcher. My brother practices all the time. Mom helps when she can. She’s good—she played softball in college. And Colt helps Ethan too. Or at least he used to.
Ethan shrugs. He never complains about not getting put into games. But even Colt says it isn’t fair. Want to come with me? Ethan signs.
I shake my head. I’ll just go to the game later with Mom and Dad. Okay?
Dad has to pick somebody up at the airport. He said he’ll have to miss most of the game.
Really? I think this will be the first game Dad has missed.
If you come to practice before the game, Ethan says, maybe you can talk to Colt.
Colt’s coming to practice with you?
Ethan nods. He’s going to help me with my curveball. Colt thought if Coach sees us practicing, maybe he’ll let me pitch an inning.
In all my fuss about Colt being my best friend, I forgot that Colt is Ethan’s friend too. Colt has spent a lot of time with my little brother. Not many fourth-grade guys would help a second grader. Or learn sign language either.
Okay, I sign. You win.
* * *
An hour later, Ethan and I are at the Hamilton ballpark. Three or four of Ethan’s teammates have shown up early to warm up. The game starts in an hour.
Did Colt say what time he’d be here? I ask Ethan.
Ethan shakes his head.
Fifteen minutes pass, and still no Colt. Colt knows that Ethan always shows up early. Ethan loves to pitch. He just needs somebody to help him throw something besides a fastball.
Throw to me, Ethan. I put on his glove and toss him the ball.
Ethan throws his fastball and a few slow pitches for the next ten minutes. I’m not a bad player. I can catch. But I’m no pitcher. Colt’s great at pitching and hitting.
I keep looking for Colt, hoping he’ll turn up. And each time I glance toward the park entrance and he’s not there, anger burns another hole inside me.
Finally I see Mom. She comes running up to us. “That pitch looked faster than greased lightning!” Mom glances around. “Colt didn’t make it?”
“No,” I say, trying not to explode.
“Sorry, honey,” she says to me. Then she signs to Ethan, I’d have hustled over here earlier if I’d known.
Ethan’s coach hollers for his team to gather around. Ethan, of course, doesn’t hear him. So I sign the message to my brother, and he runs to join his teammates.
“You look like you’ve been chewing bumblebees,” Mom says.
“I can’t believe Colt stood up Ethan! He promised to help him with his curve. Coach will never let Ethan pitch now.”
“Don’t be too hard on Colt, Ellie,” Mom says.
Colt shouldn’t be too hard on my brother. That’s what I’m thinking. But I keep my thoughts to myself.
Mom and I sit as close to the dugout as they let us. Ethan’s Hamilton Hornets are playing the Polo Panthers. It should be an easy win. It would be the ideal game for Coach to give Ethan a chance at pitching.
I watch our team take the field. Ethan and three other Hornets warm the bench. The two on Ethan’s left are acting up, elbowing each other and squirting water from their water bottles at each other. Then one of them says something to Jason, the boy on Ethan’s right. Whatever he said gets all of them laughing and talking back and forth.
All except Ethan.
To be fair, I don’t think Ethan’s teammates are trying to be mean to him. They almost never make fun of him. It’s just that they act like he isn’t there. They talk through him, as if he were invisible. They’re careful not to touch Ethan—they don’t slap him on the back or give him high fives. Like they think being deaf might spread.
Watching this scene play out—a scene I’ve watched many times—can make me sad or mad. Tonight, I choose mad. And even if it doesn’t make sense, I blame Colt. If he’d shown up for Ethan like he promised, maybe Ethan’s teammates would treat him better. The second-grade Hornets look up to Colt, the baseball star. Maybe they’d be nicer to Ethan if they could see that Ethan and Colt were friends.
Some friend.
It’s the bottom of the third inning when I think I hear him. I look over to the basketball courts, and there he is. Colt Stevens. He’s laughing with a couple of guys from our class. They’re shooting a mini basketball into the hoop.
“What’s got you so catawampus, Ellie?” Mom asks.
“That!” I’m off the bleachers and halfway to the basketball court before Mom can stop me.
“Hi, Ellie,” Brooks calls.
I don’t answer. I’m headed straight for Colt. “Colt Stevens, how dare you do that to my brother!”
“I didn’t do anything,” he says.
“No kidding!” I shout.
“Oh.” He’s quiet for a minute. I think he’s going to say he’s sorry or maybe go tell Ethan how sorry he is. Instead he shrugs.
“You think that’s okay? Don’t you know how much Ethan wants to pitch? He was counting on you.”
Colt doesn’t look at me. “With Mr. and Mrs. Perfect Parents, your brother counts on me?” He bounces his little ball and shoots. He misses.
I’m out of words. I could try to live with Colt being mean to me. But not to my brother. Ethan would do anything for Colt. And Colt knows it. “You are a lousy friend. No—worse than that. You’re no friend at all.”
For a second, I think I see him wince, the way you do when a doctor gives you a shot. It hurts, but the pain is over so fast it’s as if there never was a needle.
“You’re probably right,” Colt says. “I’m no friend at all.” He picks up the ball and shoots again.
I must have imagined the flicker of pain on Colt’s face.
I turn and walk back to the bleachers. When I let myself look back, Colt is gone.
6
The Bear
Two innings left, and my brother hasn’t moved from his spot on the bench. Our team is up by eight runs. Mom and I clap for Ethan’s teammates. But I’m pretty sure she’s thinking what I’m thinking—why won’t Coach put Ethan in to pitch?
“There’s your father,” Mom says. She stands and whistles through her teeth. “Lenny! Over here!”
Dad waves and walks toward us. A really old guy is following him. It would be just like my dad to pick up some hitchhiker.
“Look!” A man sitting in our row of the bleachers stands and points at Dad. “That’s him! Barry, look!”
The man next to him stands too. I recognize him as the father of one of Ethan’s teammates. “Oh, man!” He yells to his wife, “Get me something to write on! Hey! Anybody got a baseball?”
Other people are looking at Dad now. A buzz moves through the bleachers. Some of the Panther parents have left their seats to come to our side.
“Hey, Bear!” shouts a kid who might be in high school. “Can I have your autograph?”
Other people yell and wave pieces of paper and magazines and baseballs.
Bear? The Bear?
“Mom, that old guy can’t be the Bear, can he? He sure doesn’t look like a baseball star.” He looks like he could be knocked over by the breeze of a fastball. His gray pants are a couple of sizes too big, held up by a skinny leather belt. His arms l
ook like scrawny twigs poking out of a short-sleeved white shirt.
“Use that great imagination of yours, Ellie,” Mom whispers. “Picture the Bear about fifty years ago. Your granny had quite a secret crush on him, you know.”
Dad makes his way toward the bleachers next to us, and immediately we’re surrounded. People shove to get close to the Bear. I could be wrong, but I think he growls. Some guy sticks a baseball in front of the Bear’s face. The old man bares his teeth like he might bite it.
The umpire calls a time-out.
“Everybody, please!” Dad shouts. “Go back to your seats. Let the man have some air, okay? He’ll be signing autographs at Bear’s Used Car Lot next Saturday night. Right after his new TV ad airs. I’m sure the Bear will be happy to sign for you then. Thank you.”
With groans and grunts, people go back to their seats. Mom and I scoot over to make room for Dad and the Bear. Dad introduces us.
“The Bear heard I had a son in a Youth League game tonight. He insisted on stopping by with me,” Dad explains. “Looks like our side’s up by eight runs, eh?”
The Bear has ended up sitting beside me. He stares into my face. His eyebrows are too long, and he’s a little scary. “Why aren’t you cheering?” he asks me.
“Because they still won’t let Ethan play. And he’s a decent pitcher.”
“Says you,” the Bear mutters.
“He is! A friend of mine . . .” I stop because I’m not sure I can call Colt a friend of mine anymore. “Well, a kid in my class who’s a really good pitcher says Ethan has a good arm. He just needs to learn how to pitch something besides a fastball. And he needs game time, which this coach never gives him.”
“Every kid thinks he can pitch and blames the coach if he can’t,” the Bear grumbles.
“Ethan doesn’t complain. And it is too Coach’s fault. He won’t play Ethan because he’s afraid to coach him. Ethan can’t hear or talk. Coach doesn’t know what to do with that. So he doesn’t do anything. And my brother just sits there on the bench.”
The Bear frowns at Dad.
Dad nods.
“You have a talk with that coach?” The Bear says it like he’s accusing my dad of something.
“Several,” Dad says.
Mom chimes in. “Me too. I’ll be hog-tied if I haven’t done everything I could to make this coach straighten up and fly right. But Ethan has never gotten to throw a single pitch.”
The Bear coughs. He takes a hankie out of his pocket and coughs into it for a full minute. Finally he stands. I don’t know why, but he looks taller now. He takes a deep breath and sticks out his chin. I think I can see the baseball legend in him.
“The Bear will return,” he announces. Then he walks onto the baseball diamond and stands on the pitcher’s mound next to our pitcher. The game comes to a standstill. It’s the top of the last inning. The Hornets are in the field with one out on the Panthers. Paul Metzer is still pitching, like always.
The crowd grows quiet as the Bear crosses the diamond again and walks right up to the Hornets’ dugout. He shakes Coach’s hand, says a few words to him, then walks back over to us and sits down. I don’t think anybody’s breathing.
At last, Coach shouts, “Time! Ethan James in for Paul Metzer!”
I can’t believe it. “How did you . . . ?” I start to ask. Then I remember. Ethan wouldn’t have heard Coach.
“Ethan James!” the umpire shouts.
I look at Ethan. He’s still sitting on the bench, swinging his legs.
“Ellie, go!” Mom shouts.
I tear down the bleachers and run all the way to Ethan. Out of breath, I sign, Ethan, you’re up! It’s your turn to pitch!
I have to sign three times before Ethan hops off the bench. He hasn’t really warmed up. I wish he’d worked out with Colt. I wish Colt were here now.
Ethan may be the tallest boy on his team, but he looks tiny as he steps onto the mound.
The umpire shouts, “Play ball!” He waves his arm using the universal baseball sign, so I don’t have to translate that one.
I stay down by the dugout, where Ethan can see me sign if he needs to. It’s loud here. Kids and parents on both sides are screaming.
“Swing, batter, batter!”
“Wild pitch coming!”
Maybe it’s a good thing my brother can’t hear.
From the bleachers, one voice stands out. My mother’s. I don’t turn around, but I know Dad will be trying to calm her down. It won’t do any good. She has been waiting all year to see Ethan pitch. She’s stored up a year’s worth of game chatter. It explodes from her now.
“This kid can’t hit, Ethan! He couldn’t hit the water if he fell out of the boat!”
Only the kid does hit. He hits Ethan’s first pitch all the way out to left field.
Mom hollers, “He’s off like a herd of turtles! Throw him out!” But the throw doesn’t make it in time, and the kid winds up with a triple.
After that, I manage to blot out everybody except Ethan. A kid from the Polo Panthers who hasn’t gotten a hit yet slugs Ethan’s fastball so hard I’m sure it’s a home run. But the outfielder catches it at the fence.
Before Ethan gets the last out, he hits one batter with a wild pitch and the Panthers end up scoring four more runs.
The Hornets win. But nobody goes to the mound to congratulate Ethan.
I meet him halfway. Congratulations, I sign.
Ethan smiles at me, but he doesn’t look happy.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and look up. The Bear is towering over me. “Will you tell your brother he’s got talent?”
“That’s nice of you, Mr. Bear,” I say.
He growls at me. “The Bear doesn’t say things to be nice! The Bear says the kid has talent!”
As fast as I can, I sign it to Ethan.
Ethan signs, Thank you, and I pass it to the Bear.
“Don’t thank the Bear!” he roars at Ethan. “You’ve got an arm on you. The Bear could make it throw strikes.”
* * *
Dad brings the Bear to our house for ice cream after the game. Ethan and the old man act like they’ve known each other forever. Somehow the Bear is able to “talk” to Ethan without my help half the time.
“What did you say to Ethan’s coach that made him put Ethan in?” I ask over our second bowl of chocolate chip.
The Bear almost grins. “I told him I was Ethan’s pitching coach.”
That night before I go to bed, I try to get Dream to stick her head in my window. She nickers good night to me, but she still doesn’t come in. I tell her it’s okay. And I tell her good night.
I lie in bed and say my prayers. I imagine God grinning at the way Ethan and the Bear have become friends.
And I wonder if it makes God sad that Colt and I aren’t friends anymore. I fall asleep imagining that we are.
7
Whoa!
Saturday morning I’m up before dawn. I open my window and let the cool air finish waking me up. “Dream! Here, girl!”
Dream trots up to the window and stops. We go through our “window dance,” with me trying to coax her to stick her head in. She gets close, but she stops short of doing it.
“That’s okay, Dream.” I reach out and scratch behind her ears. She lowers her head for me. “This is a big day for both of us, girl. Our first horsemanship lesson together.”
Over the past three years at 4-H, Mr. Harper has taught me how to ride Western and English. This past year I’ve ridden English every week, riding one of the three saddle horses he doesn’t show.
Colt has never been interested in anything except quarter horses. He likes riding Western. And he’d love to barrel race. That’s when a rider competes against other racers and the clock, weaving a pattern around barrels.
For a second I remember the crack Colt made about Dream being one of the barrels. But this time I hear something different behind his words. Colt isn’t mean like that. He can act weird, especially when his buddies are around. But he’
s not mean. I try to picture Colt the last few times I saw him. I think there was something else in his face—sadness.
Colt is sad—really sad—about something. Why couldn’t I see that before?
I finger-comb Dream’s forelock. “We’ll make it up to Colt today. We’ll get him out of whatever has him down.”
I get dressed and head out to brush Dream. Mom makes me eat breakfast before I go outside, even though I’m not hungry. I scarf down two pieces of toast with peanut butter.
“I should get going,” I tell Mom.
“Ellie, it’s early yet. The roosters are still dreaming.”
“It’s going to take me a while to lead Dream out to the fairgrounds.” For the three weeks I’ve owned Dream, I haven’t ridden her because I wanted her to fatten up first. I don’t want to risk straining her in any way. But I’m hoping Mr. Harper will give me the go-ahead to ride today. “I’m thinking I’ll stop by Colt’s to see if he wants to walk with me.”
“Good idea,” Mom says. She’s wearing a blue-and-orange shirt with her red jeans. “I’d better get to the fire station.” She slips on her red vest that says Hamilton Fire Department Volunteer.
Mom leaves, and I bridle Dream. My horse stands perfectly still and even lowers her head for me. I’m so short, I couldn’t reach her ears if she didn’t help out. I tell myself that even if Mr. Harper doesn’t think Dream is ready for me to ride yet, I can still have fun leading my horse.
But I’m itching to ride. I’ve imagined riding English on Dream in the Hamilton Royal Horse Show. I’d post up and down at the trot and stick to the saddle like Velcro at the canter. And I’ve imagined racing barrels with Dream, leaning in so far I could touch the ground. I’ve imagined riding bareback, too. Mr. Harper doesn’t let Ashley ride bareback, but Rashawn and Cassie ride bareback all the time.
I snap a lead rope onto Dream’s halter. I leave her halter on in case I have to lead her back home instead of riding her. I’ve practiced leading Dream every day. Standing on her nearside, the left side, I take hold of the rope with my right hand, about eight inches from the snap. My left hand holds the end of the rope. I know better than to loop the rope around my hand. I just fold it a couple of times and grab the center of the fold.
Cowboy Colt Page 3
