Hardball

by Steven Barwin

  At our next game against the Lions, Coach Brigman came into the locker room looking disappointed. He stared down at his clipboard until everyone else noticed too.

  “This isn’t how I like to lead into a game. I have someone here who’d like a few minutes of your time.” He stepped aside. “Mr. Tom Martino.”

  Martino came in and put down a large cloth shopping bag. I recognized him but couldn’t place him. At least six feet tall, he wore circular horn-rimmed glasses, and his short hair was parted perfectly at a forty-five-degree angle. “I’m the assistant principal of attendance and discipline. Sharks, it saddens me to be here, because I know you’re all focused on winning this game. You make the school proud.” He looked at each of us, studying our faces. “I’ve been running an investigation into the use of performance-enhancing steroids on all of our school’s teams.”

  I took a deep breath. Finally! If I could have jumped up and cheered, I would have.

  “Boys, at this time I’m not accusing any one of you specifically. But you need to know that we have a board policy that states zero tolerance when it comes to drugs, including anabolics. They are illegal, and Florida state schools have made drug testing mandatory. I take full responsibility for letting the testing slip by in the past, but not anymore.”

  Wade raised his hand and got the nod from Martino. “As captain of this team, it makes me really angry that someone would stoop to taking drugs. We’re just trying to play baseball and win games. This is the last thing we need.” He slowed his words down, stressing every syllable. “Whoever’s doing this should just confess.”

  I rolled my eyes, hoping they wouldn’t buy into his act.

  “I appreciate what you’re saying,” Mr. Martino said. “But that doesn’t change what we have to do.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small see-through cup with an orange lid. “I need everyone to fill one of these up.”

  “Drink up if you need inspiration, boys,” Coach Brigman said. Wade pulled a bottle of Gatorade out of his locker. Martino started to read the names on each cup, handing them out. I joined a line leading to the urinals and hoped I’d get into one of the two stalls. At least there was no way for Wade to get out of this. Ahead of me in line, he looked strangely confident.

  The line moved slowly. As I reached the door to the small restroom, Wade turned from a urinal to leave. When he walked past me, he winked, and I knew we couldn’t have nailed him. I looked around, wondering if he’d switched cups with someone. Then I got a nudge from behind. It was my turn.

  Mr. Martino wished us a good game and headed out with a bag filled with urine specimens.

  “Get your heads in the game,” Coach Brigman said, “and let’s go win this one.”

  Sharks started to follow him out until Wade blocked the exit to the field. “Who called him?”

  There was no answer.

  “Come on, you bunch of rats. Who’s trying to destroy this team?” Again, no answer. “How are we supposed to focus and have a chance of making it to the finals when we have a witch hunt going on?” He walked past Tom and Adrian, patting them each on the head. “One of my dogs already went down. I guess the question is, who’s going to be next?”

  I started to worry about him planting steroids again. Was he slipping them into players’ water bottles? Did he do it to me? I hadn’t felt any side effects, but I guessed even the smallest trace could be detected.

  “Come on, guys. Better to come clean now. Maybe the school will show mercy.”

  I was a little confused. I figured Wade would want to lay low. Becoming the antisteroid spokesperson made him stand out. I guess the best defense is a good offense.

  “If any of you are doing ’roids, then just come out and say it!”

  No one stepped forward. Wade spun around and took off to the field.

  We were tied 1–1 in the top of the ninth inning in a complete sleeper game. There’s nothing like a steroids allegation to bring down team spirits. Still, I didn’t regret what Carson and I had done. I wasn’t going to feel bad for trying to take down someone who was cheating, conniving and abusing people to land himself a baseball career.

  The Lions called up their heavy hitter.

  “Let’s get this guy out!” I yelled, trying to wake the team out of its slumber.

  The hitter stepped to the plate, crowding it. While he took some practice swings, I took a quick scan of the infield. Darren was in position on second, Tom was standing too close to third base for this hitter, and Wade didn’t seem to care. I signaled for Tom to take a few steps toward me.

  Casey sent the pitch fast and low, but in the strike zone. The hitter swung behind it, still making contact. The ball traveled low and hit the grass to the right of the pitcher’s mound. I leaped forward, not waiting for the ball to come to me. Before it could bounce again, I got my glove on it. Quick with the catch and release, I whipped it to Wade while still moving forward. It was on target but low. I knew he’d accuse me of doing it on purpose.

  As he stepped forward, the ball hit the dirt and took an unpredictable bounce, left and up.

  It landed in the grass. Not being able to watch, I dipped the brim of my hat to block the action.

  I was relieved to hear applause. The runner was out. One more out to go and then we would be up to bat.

  The next player stepped to the plate and swung at the first pitch. He made contact and punched the ball over the outfield fence. In an instant, we were down by one run.

  We entered the bottom of the ninth and Coach Brigman gave us the quick all-or-nothing talk.

  “How bad do you want it?” he asked.

  “Bad!” we shouted back.

  I sat at the front end of the bench with my batting glove on. I tried my best to ignore Wade as he complained about my throw. Our first at bat, Darren, went down swinging. I grabbed my bat and stood in the on-deck circle. Tom marched to the plate. I took a practice swing and made sure to wind my bat all the way back. I raised my leading foot and then stepped into the imaginary pitch.

  Strike one.

  I focused on being straight as an arrow, reminding myself not to swing down on the pitch.

  Strike two.

  I imagined the path of a ball and tried to accelerate as deeply as possible into it.

  Strike three.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tom blew past me with his head slung low. With two outs, the pressure to keep this game alive was on my shoulders. In the batter’s box, I dug my cleats into the dirt and stared down the Lions’ pitcher. I knew he wasn’t in a hurry to throw anything over the plate. I watched the first pitch land outside and low. The second pitch started high, and I made the split-second decision to make the most of it. My bat made contact. It wasn’t the kind of hit that would bring the people in the stands to their feet, but I wasn’t going for that. The ball arced over the second baseman, and I arrived safely at first. It felt good to have the pressure on someone else until Coach Santos, who was first-base coach, patted me on the shoulder.

  “So there are two outs and no one else on base. Rafael’s up to bat, and we need to generate a run. Here’s what I want you to do…”

  The Lion covering first base started to listen, and that’s exactly what Coach Santos wanted him to do.

  “I want you to make sure the bunt hits the ground before you run.”

  The Lion heard the word bunt and took a step farther infield. I took three steps off the bag. The pitcher reached the top of his throw and I took another quarter step away from first. Crouched down, I waited for the pitcher to start his windup and then took off. I barreled forward with second base in my crosshairs. The ninety-foot sprint seemed to take forever. I got low and extended both my arms, sliding headfirst.

  I looked through the settling dirt to see the umpire doing a sweeping motion with his arms. “Safe!”

  I stood and called for time. The crowd cheered, the umpire nodded, and I stepped off the base to dust myself off. I got back on base, Rafael stepped to the plate, and I took a sma
ll leadoff. He was caught watching the first two pitches roll in as strikes. The third pitch was an obvious ball. Then came a failed attempt to pick me off at second.

  “Let’s go, Rafael!” I called out.

  Next pitch came in low and outside. Rafael stretched for it and made contact. The ball flew over my head and I took off. I was almost at third and running at top speed when Coach McKay threw both hands out to stop me. Believing that I was the tying run and visualizing myself as the team hero, I blew past his double stop signs and around third toward home plate. Then, over my shoulder, I spotted the baseball flying to the catcher.

  I hit the brakes halfway between third and home.

  Both fielders tried to make the tag on me. With each throw, they got closer. I was under attack and had to make my move. I faked forward to entice the catcher. He finally bit. I backpedaled to third and dropped. The catcher reached out to tag me and I speed-crawled, touching third base with no time to spare.

  Coach McKay tried to let me have it, but it was hard to hear him over the applause.

  I looked down at myself and could barely make out the white of my uniform.

  “Rafael’s on second, so only take a small leadoff,” Coach McKay said.

  I nodded and turned my attention to home plate as Wade stepped up. He watched the first pitch go down the middle for a strike. I wondered if he’d sabotage a possible win just to leave me hanging.

  The next pitch came in. Strike. Wade turned to look at me.

  I couldn’t believe it. After everything it took to get me here, he was going to make sure I didn’t make it home.

  Third and fourth pitches were balls. With the count two and two, he swung late and dropped his bat on the ground like he was upset with himself.

  I left third for the lonely walk to the dugout. I had a perfect view of the stands emptying out.

  As I got to the parking lot, I spotted Wade standing next to Darren’s car. Wade didn’t seem too upset by the loss at all. He and Darren actually looked like they were going out to celebrate. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Carson. “What’s up?”

  “Where have you been?” He sounded agitated.

  “Baseball.”

  “While you’ve been doing that, guess who showed up at my support group?”

  Darren and Wade were laughing and making enough noise to distract me.

  “Can I call you back?”

  “The drug dealer!”

  “Who?”

  “Wade’s drug dealer.”

  I lowered my voice. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense. Can you think of a better place to reach buyers?”

  I opened the car door. “I’m on my way.”

  “The session just ended.”

  “When’s the next one?”

  “Tuesday after the long weekend.”

  I endured a Friday baseball practice and a three-day weekend with my dad in Tampa. The whole time, I couldn’t stop thinking about confronting the dealer at Carson’s next session. When class ended Tuesday, I jumped into my car with Carson and was the first out of the parking lot. He directed me west along Immokalee Road. I parked in front of a two-story building with a sign that said Business Center.

  “You going to wait here?” Carson asked.

  “No, I want to see this guy in action. What’s his name?”

  “Derek.”

  The waiting room of the Department of Children and Families—Receiving Facility looked like it belonged in a doctor’s office. Past the secretary and into a room, there were about ten teens, all with their heads down, focused on their phones.

  Right behind Carson, a silver-haired woman with kind eyes stopped me.

  “I don’t have anybody new on my list for this afternoon.”

  “I thought I’d just try—”

  “You do realize that this is a drug and alcohol group-therapy session.”

  “Yes,” I said, pausing for a moment. “I do drugs. Well, steroids.”

  She examined me suspiciously.

  “And a little alcohol.”

  “Are you still in school?”

  “Yes.” I wasn’t sure if she was buying my story.

  “I’m not here to judge or criticize you, but I do need a referral from your guidance counselor and a note from your guardian.”

  I gazed down, trying to look as sad and confused as possible.

  “Since you’re here, you can watch. My name’s Lisa.”

  “Griffin.”

  I grabbed a chair and placed it in the circle.

  Lisa stood in the center of the group and began her introduction. I let my gaze drift around the room, quickly spotting Wade’s dealer, Derek.

  “Addicts have secrets, shame and guilt,” Lisa continued. “You need to open up and let it out. I promise that you won’t be judged here.”

  I stood with everyone else as they formed a football huddle. Like the others, I repeated Lisa’s words. “I am important. I value my life.” I looked up and made eye contact with Carson. “I have a bright future. I am loved.”

  The group huddle broke up and Lisa told everyone to pick a corner of the room based on what color they were feeling right now.

  I joined Carson and we followed Derek to the blue corner.

  “Tell the people in your color group why you chose it,” Lisa continued.

  I turned to Carson, keeping my voice low. “I have to say, this guy is brilliant. Everyone here is a possible customer.”

  “So, what now?”

  “We can follow him for two weeks and build evidence or we can just talk to him.” Again, Carson was happy to let me take the lead. When Derek’s partner moved to someone else, he turned to me.

  “So why blue?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I chose it because it reminds me of the ocean.”

  I nodded. “So, listen, can you hook me up?”

  “What? You’re joking, right?”

  “Derek, I know you’re dealing—”

  Carson stepped forward. “Yeah, we saw you with Wade.”

  He looked at us and smiled. “You two are morons. I’m not the dealer.”

  “You’re not?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Wade is.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was shocked.

  How long had Wade been dealing?

  Lisa asked everyone to stop, and she pointed at me. “Griffin. Please share with the group why you chose your color.”

  “Uh, I picked blue because of the ocean.”

  The group looked at me, confused.

  “Never mind.”

  “No, please explain.”

  “Well, sometimes I feel like I’m underwater, and when I look up I feel the pressure of the world on top of me.”

  “Very profound,” Lisa said.

  I was impressed that I was able to spit that out.

  “Now, I want everybody to pick a different corner. Your options are”—she pointed as she named the corners—“fall, winter, spring and summer.”

  I followed Derek to the spring corner. “So how did he pass the drug test?”

  He paused. “There’s a little rule in this world that I like to follow. Trust no one.” He changed corners, and I stayed with him.

  “Maybe he switched the labels,” I said.

  Derek ignored me.

  “Or does he have someone on the inside who can help him?”

  He looked at Carson. “Tell your friend to leave.”

  Lisa interrupted. “You guys seem to be deep in discussion. Derek, please share.”

  “I picked fall because I feel like I’m falling. Like, you know, leaves controlled by the wind.”

  The group clapped.

  “Help me and I’ll leave,” I whispered to Derek.

  He sighed. “It’s not that hard to cover up drugs.”

  “Like how?”

  “Maybe he had a clean sample on him.”

  I thought back to the Gatorade bottle in Wade�
��s locker. His smug smile waiting in line.

  “Look, Wade is not the type of person you want to mess with,” Derek continued. “I know someone who didn’t pay up and Wade put him in the hospital.”

  The next day after school, Carson and I followed close behind Wade’s Jeep. “Keep your phone out and be ready to take pictures and video.”

  “Gotta admit, I’m a little worried about what Derek said.”

  “You know, Carson, at some point you need to man up. Otherwise, why are you here?”

  Carson nodded, focusing on his phone.

  Wade pulled into a small plaza. He parked and walked into Club 21 Fitness. I spotted a burger dive on the corner and decided that it offered the best cover. We got out and walked past the fitness club. Through the window, I saw rows of red punching bags hanging from the ceiling. Next to that was the weight-lifting area. A boxing ring stood far in the back.

  “What now?” Carson asked.

  “I’m not going in there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Neither am I. Burger?” Carson asked.

  “Sure.” At a table with a perfect view of Wade’s Jeep, I sipped on my drink while Carson worked on his combo meal.

  “This is the longest I’ve gone without playing baseball.”

  “I know—it sucks,” I said, not offering much hope. “How much time left?”

  “Two weeks.” Carson played with the straw in his drink. “I was thinking, even when I come back, this steroid thing is going to be on my record and everyone’s mind. So maybe it would be better if I switched schools.”

  “Let’s just stay positive.” We were starting to wear out our welcome at the burger dive. I couldn’t take another dirty look from their crew. After two hours, I was happy to get off the plastic seat and back into my car. We kept the windows down and the music up as we watched Wade’s Jeep for activity. Sleepiness started to set in around the three-hour mark.

  “What is Wade doing in there?” Carson asked.

  “What if he’s working out? At three hours, if he’s doing this a few times a week, maybe he’s not doing steroids.”