Hardball

by Steven Barwin

  The batter for the Stingrays readied himself as my favorite southpaw on the team, Casey, wound up. Standing where the dirt met the outfield grass, I had Darren to my left at second and Carson at third. I also had the perfect view of every pitch. The batter swung and chipped the ball clumsily toward third. Carson seemed surprised. He grabbed the ball, fumbled it out of his glove and whipped it to first base, off target and late. Wade had to step off the base to get it, and the Stingray was safe on first.

  Carson looked upset with himself. Wade punched his fist into his glove. “Come on, Sharks, stay sharp.”

  The next batter stepped to the plate, his shoulders pressed back, ready to swing. The Stingray on first, giddy to score the go-ahead run, took a leadoff. Casey threw two strikes, but on the next pitch, the batter made contact. I could hear the ball slice through the air, soaring high over my head. Turning with it in my crosshairs, I stepped into outfield territory. The ball was caught too close for comfort at the warning track. The first-base runner tagged up and started toward second. I was the relay man, so the throw came to me. I turned sideways so I could see the play action. I snatched the ball just as the Stingray decided he wouldn’t make it and turned back to first. He was right. I whipped the ball to Wade, who extended his glove in an attempt to beat the runner.

  Dust shot up in the air. The umpire called, “Safe!”

  Wade immediately started to protest the call. “What are you talking about? He’s out!”

  As shortstop, I also had the responsibility of being captain of the infield. Wade’s hands were flailing in the air, and he was a second away from yelling profanities. I stepped in between him and the umpire. “We need you in the game.”

  He took a deep breath, and I thought he might reach out and slug the ump. Instead, he wisely stepped away.

  The Stingray was smirking at Wade, but I had another fire to put out. I stood on the mound with Casey and our catcher, Rafael. I covered my mouth with my glove and told him that the batter got lucky.

  “I let it ride too high in the box,” Casey said.

  “This next one’s weak down low, right? I asked.

  Casey nodded.

  “Go with your slider,” Rafael said.

  Back at my post, I watched Casey release the slider. There was a noticeable downward yank on the ball as it sharply broke left to right, somewhere between a curve ball and a fastball. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the guy at first start to run.

  “He’s going!” Wade shouted.

  The moment the batter swung and missed, I launched left. “Got it!” I yelled to Darren as I took second base. Darren covered me in case I screwed up. Rafael fired the ball to second base. The Stingray launched himself at me, determined to steal. All I could do was keep my eyes on the ball. The moment the ball landed in my glove, I dropped it down and smacked it against the sliding Stingray.

  The ump took forever to make the call. “Out!”

  I smacked gloves with Darren before sending the ball around the horn, first to Wade, who relayed it to Darren, and then off to Carson at third, who tossed it to Casey, completing the circuit. Throwing the ball around after outs was a great way to keep us infielders involved and our arms warmed up. Casey, in a great groove, delivered the last out without a hiccup, and I jogged to the bench.

  Carson was quick to find me after the inning.

  “I screwed up out there.”

  “No one scored. So don’t sweat it.”

  “Griff, I’m lucky to be playing infield with you guys.” He nudged me with his elbow to follow him. We headed to the far side of the dugout, next to a wooden utility closet. “Adrian and Travis haven’t even taken the field yet. They’re salivating and know that their opportunity comes from someone like me screwing up.”

  “The reason you’re playing is because you’re a natural. The coach sees that.” I checked over my shoulder for Wade. He was at the Gatorade cooler. “Carson, you worried about him?”

  His eyes traced Wade for a moment. “The guy’s a creep. He’s got a screw loose, but I can handle him.”

  “A lot of baseball’s about waiting, so it’s hard to keep focused a hundred percent of the time.”

  Carson nodded hesitantly, like I was just giving him an excuse.

  “You’re not the only one. When we were tanking last season, Coach brought in a guy who said he talks to major leaguers about staying in the game.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He talked about not focusing on winning. Paying attention to the moment. One batter, one pitch at a time. When we get a guy out and the next batter’s coming, take a second to drift—check out the crowd or something—then pull yourself back in.”

  “That actually makes sense.”

  “You know Wade’s crap is just a head game, right?”

  Carson nodded.

  Brigman’s voice rang out. “Hey, Griff, you’re on deck!”

  I grabbed my black-and-yellow Easton and headed out. I took a couple of practice swings with my $260 bat. It was the most expensive thing I’d bought since my car. I figured they were both worth it because they’d help me get to college.

  Rafael went down swinging, and I stepped to the plate, digging my cleats into the dirt. Letting the first pitch slide was kind of a rule of mine. I swung and missed on the second pitch. Not being much of a homerun hitter, I decided there was only one move to make. The pitcher, thinking I was trigger happy, threw an off-speed ball wide of the plate. I jumped on it, stuck my bat out and bunted the ball into the ground. I sprinted to first, beating the ball.

  Up next, Wade flexed his muscles on the first pitch and sent it high and far over the fence. Another one for the gators in the pond, I thought as I rounded second base. What college wouldn’t give this guy a baseball scholarship? He was a naturalborn slugger. Stepping onto home plate, I double-high-fived Wade and turned when I heard a disgusting sound. Adrian hurled, and the smell of dog food cleared the dugout. It took a ten-minute delay and a half can of air freshener, but we hung on to win the opener.

  Chapter Four

  As I was walking through the courtyard between classes the next day, Carson appeared from behind a curved palm tree.

  “Wade around?” he asked, eyes on the ground.

  “What, you’re not going to ask for permission first?” I said with a big smile. He didn’t react. “Carson, you can look at me.”

  “He’s gotta be somewhere.” He scanned the crowd and came up empty. “You don’t understand. Start walking.”

  I did and he kept pace directly behind me. “This is ridiculous.”

  “With Wade in charge, I can’t do this.”

  I stopped and Carson bumped into me.

  “Stop screwing around!”

  “I’m sorry.” I continued forward. “It’s just that it looks like I’m talking to myself.”

  “Not only am I done playing Sparky, but I refuse to be a piece of toilet paper on this guy’s shoe.”

  I turned to look at him, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

  “I signed up to play baseball. That’s it.”

  “I’m confused, Carson. I thought you were okay with all this stupid power-tripping.”

  “Never mind.” He turned and headed in the opposite direction.

  It took me a couple of tries to stop him.

  “Are you and Wade fighting or something?” he said.

  “No, why?”

  “At lunch, after you went to your science club, he forced me to sit on the floor while he fed me table scraps.”

  “Just you? Why?”

  “I don’t know!” Carson’s face turned redder than his hair. “Maybe you should talk to him.”

  “I’m happy to, but you know Wade. He doesn’t even listen to his friends. I could make it worse.”

  “How could it get any worse, coz?”

  By the time I got to work, the last thing I wanted to do was confront Wade. But Carson playing the family card left me no choice. Luckily for me, the change room was empty. Other than gett
ing through my shift, all I wanted to do was collect my As and play ball, both of which I was busting my butt to do. And even still, I needed a scholarship. My worst nightmare was getting into U of Miami and not having the money to pay for it.

  Wade was as serious about playing ball as I was, maybe more so. He was gunning for a sports scholarship, and he had done research, staying on top of every magazine, blog and scout Twitter account. He was great for the team, but that didn’t excuse him from picking on Carson.

  I heard the employee change-room door swing open and drew in a breath. It was only Adrian. He saw me and dropped his eyes to the floor. “Permission to speak, sir,” he said.

  I was shocked that Wade’s wrath was powerful enough to extend outside school. It’s not like he was in the room. “Permission granted. What’s up?”

  “Your homework.” He held out my blue-spiraled workbook, avoiding eye contact.

  “Thank you, Adrian—uh, Buster.”

  He seemed nervous, his hands fidgeting.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Adrian’s eyes never left the floor.

  “What?” I asked angrily. “I’m late for work.”

  “Permission, sir.”

  “Yes, you’ve got permission to talk and look at me.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He looked awful, dark circles around his eyes. “Grade-twelve math is really hard. I tried my best…”

  I flipped open my notebook and riffled through the pages to the previous night’s homework. A quick scan showed a number of errors.

  “Pythagorean identity is very confusing.”

  “You could have derived the trigonometric identities using an algebraic equation,” I said.

  He looked at me, still confused.

  “Look, you’re not supposed to get this stuff being in grade nine. Let’s go. We’re late for work.” Adrian followed behind me like a dog, and I didn’t have the energy to correct him.

  At the shed, without saying hello, Wade ordered Adrian to cover for him and then took off. The first cart came in and a couple stepped out. I told Adrian to start on it while I took care of the clubs. Covers for the woods were mismatched and the irons were out of order, but I still smiled and small-talked with the couple, fishing for a tip. Nothing. I dumped their clubs in front of the shed for Adrian. Then I drove the cart behind the shed, NASCAR-style, and plugged it in to charge.

  I raced back just as an old guy in checkered pants and a sweater vest drove up with his wife. I asked them about their game while signaling Adrian to join me behind the cart. “That’s the chairman of the Greens Committee,” I whispered. Luckily, I recognized him from a picture hanging in the main office. “Guys like him are looking for perfection, and they love pointing out mistakes. Any violation, from a wrinkled golf shirt to an untied shoelace, you’d get a white ticket.”

  Adrian nodded.

  “Now let me show you how to work a tip.” I turned to the chairman and his wife as they got out of the cart. “Let me guess. You reached the ninth green, with that slippery slope to the water, using only your driver. Am I right?”

  The chairman smiled, reached into his wallet and hesitated on a one-dollar bill before pulling out a fiver.

  I thanked him and turned to Adrian. “And that’s how you do it.”

  “That was amazing.”

  “Well, the way you need—”

  The sound of Wade arguing loudly with a man in the parking lot caught our attention. The man had thinning blond hair tied in a small ponytail, and he sported some serious muscles under his golf shirt.

  “They’re really going at it,” Adrian said. “Should we help him?”

  Before I could respond, they parted. The man stepped into the clubhouse and Wade started walking our way. I told Adrian to head into the shed.

  “You all right?” I asked Wade.

  “Not really. And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Two carts skidded to a stop and we each took one. Wade barely touched the clubs.

  “Fighting with guests is a new low for you.”

  He turned to me, looking angry.

  “I’m just saying. You know that guy?”

  “Yeah…that’s Uncle Jim.”

  “Your uncle’s a member?”

  Wade nodded.

  “You guys work out together or something?” I asked, half-serious.

  “He owns a fitness club and gives me a membership deal,” Wade said.

  We took the carts back for charging. “Listen, any chance you can lay off Carson for a while?” I said.

  “Did he ask you to say that?”

  “No. But I am.”

  “He’s being treated just like the others.”

  I wasn’t going to beg. “Forget it then.”

  “The problem with Carson is, he thinks he’s a better player than he is.”

  I nodded. Whatever.

  “And there’s only room for one superstar on the Sharks!” Wade walked off.

  “Hey,” I called out to him.

  “What is it, Griff?”

  “Nothing.” Now wasn’t the time to tell him his shirt was untucked.

  Chapter Five

  Coach Brigman, McKay and Santos entered the locker room just as our team was getting into uniform.

  “Can I have your attention?” Brigman said. “I have some bad news.”

  Everyone stopped and turned. This can’t be good, I thought.

  Coach cleared his throat. “Our junior player, Carson Miller, was just suspended for the mandatory thirty days.”

  The locker room buzzed with questions. All I could do was look down at my cell phone in shock. I sent Carson a couple of texts, but he didn’t respond. I fired off another one, like a flare gun.

  Coach continued. “Unfortunately, it seems as though steroids were found in his locker.”

  “What?” I shouted. “That’s impossible!”

  “It was reported to us by the principal.”

  “Who found the drugs?”

  “That’s all the information I have for you now. Let me just finish by saying that you all need to stay away from steroids. It might seem like every other major leaguer’s on them, but you won’t see any of them get into the Hall of Fame. Anabolic steroids are illegal. They cause liver disease, hair loss, high blood pressure, heart attacks…the list goes on.”

  That just wasn’t Carson. He couldn’t have gotten into steroids without my knowing. Could he?

  “And if that’s not enough for you tough guys, they also shrink your privates and make you grow breasts.”

  Everyone cringed.

  “We also found dog food on the basketball courts. Guys, I’ve been around the block. Just a reminder that we have zero tolerance for hazing. It is a crime, and if caught, you will be suspended.” He turned to the younger players. “You two being hazed?”

  Adrian and Tom looked at each other, then at the coach. “No,” they both said.

  As Coach Brigman did his best to turn the team’s spirits around, something in me snapped. I broke out of my state of shock and bolted from the locker room. I wasn’t going to take this lying down. As I passed the baseball field, I tried opening the gate leading to the school courtyard. It was locked. Of course—school was over a half hour ago.

  I started the long run through the side parking lot, making my way around the west perimeter of the school. I deflected stares as I raced by my teammates in uniform. It didn’t help that my plastic cleats were grinding on the pavement and sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. With every step, I was wearing them down. I came through the front doors and saw Carson in the principal’s office with his parents.

  I was sweating and panting. The secretary looked at me and asked if I was okay.

  Before I could respond, the principal led the Millers out of his office.

  “You okay?” I asked Carson as he passed by me. He kept his head down and didn’t say a word.

  I was on first base with a walk, and the Tigers were leading 2–1. My mind wa
s completely focused on Carson. The worst thing I’d ever seen him do was cheat on a math test. Even then, he’d confessed and demanded a lunch detention. I knew he was innocent. He had to be. People on steroids looked like bodybuilders, not string beans.

  The crack of the bat jolted me back into the game. Darren’s single into shallow right field forced me to get to second base before the ball. In full sprint, I heard the second baseman shout for it as I transitioned into my go-for-broke dive. I pushed myself forward to beat the ball, coming in with arms stretched out. I hit the ground sliding and sent a cloud of dust into the air. My right hand found the base and I held on to it with everything I had.

  “Safe!”

  The second baseman argued the call to no effect. I took a time-out to dust myself off and adjust my helmet. My foot safely on second, I gave a thumbs-up to Darren. Carson’s replacement, Tom, took some swings and dug himself a hole. He was down two in the count. On the next pitch, he got some aluminum on it, and the ball popped into the air. He was forced to run with two outs, and a Tiger caught it. I stopped in my tracks, annoyed that my diving play was for nothing. Thanks, Tom.

  Darren grabbed my glove off the bench and tossed it to me. “Carson was pretty skinny.”

  “Huh?”

  “So it makes sense that he’d want to bulk up.”

  “He loved baseball too much to risk screwing it up.”

  “Maybe he took them because he loved the sport,” said Darren. “Just saying.”

  Casey was having a hard time striking out Tigers. He was down in the count, so he let a ball hang and they homered it. The next batter made contact and drove the ball in my direction. It hit the dirt and jumped out at me. I gloved the ball, and when I reached for it with my throwing hand, I fumbled and dropped it. I scooped it up with plenty of time to still catch the runner. When I released the ball, I gave it some extra whip, but still, somehow, it arrived late.

  Tigers were on first and second now. I slammed my fist into my glove, angry that I was off my game. I got back into position and kicked some dirt into the air with my dulled cleats.