by Joan Bauer
Franny takes Benny back to the bus.
Walt stands on the field, all six foot one inch, 237 pounds, and hollers, “Myerson Middle School! If you continue to boo our team, you will forfeit this game for unsportsmanlike conduct.” People get really quiet now. “What,” Walt shouts, “would you like to do?”
Danny whispers to me, “Is that a rule?”
“It is now.”
The crowd gets quieter.
“What would you like to do?” Walt shouts. “Play for real or boo? You decide.”
Their coach runs up. “Listen, guy, sorry ’bout this. People are working through things. Your town hasn’t exactly—”
Walt rises up to his full wingspan. “My town, guy, is dealing with a bad thing. These boys had nothing to do with that. You either provide visiting teams with a welcoming atmosphere or you forfeit.”
The man puts his hands on his hips. “We’re not going to forfeit.”
Walt takes out his phone. “Fine.”
“Who’re you calling?”
“The press. They love a nice, juicy story. All kinds of lessons to be learned in this baseball season.”
“Whoa, we don’t want any bad publicity.”
A few more boos are starting. The Myerson coach shouts, “Knock that off!” The people quiet down. He turns to Walt. “We’re playing.”
“That’s what we came to do.”
Walt sticks out his hand; the coach shakes it.
“Spit,” I tell my guys.
The ground gets wet.
I tell Benchant, “You need to be more irritating than you’ve ever been. Drive that pitcher up a wall.”
“Yeah, Lopper, yeah . . .”
Walt nods to me, walks to the bench, and sits down.
Terrell looks at Walt. “Your dad’s cool, Lopper.”
Tell me about it.
Have you ever seen an eagle fly? I mean really fly?
Everybody at the Myerson Middle School game did today. Saw him lock his wings and fly higher than the storm.
◆ ◆ ◆
I think this game was more about what happened before the game started than how it ended.
We didn’t win according to the scoreboard. But we won every other way.
Benchant stole two bases, and I’m pretty sure by the end of the game the pitcher had a nervous twitch.
Aiden Oxley bunted and advanced a runner.
Alvin Oxley caught three fly balls in the outfield.
Sky struck out three in a row in the third inning. That Myerson team was getting nervous. I put Donald in left field because everybody needs to play.
“Look scary out there,” I told him.
Not one ball headed his way.
And that GO, MUSKRATS! sign was held high for the entire game.
Benny is waiting on the bus for us with Franny. “Yay,” he says quietly as we climb on.
Benchant actually smiles. “Thanks, Benny.”
Sky says, “You’re the best, man.”
“Best,” Benny whispers.
Chapter
25
I FEEL TIRED, more tired than usual. Like someone turned on a tap and all my energy ran out.
I’m late for school. I needed to sleep longer. When I get there the word is out about the booing.
Mr. Hazard calls the team into his office. He still has the HAZARD sign on his door. Casey, who spends a lot of time in Mr. Hazard’s office, shouts, “We’re innocent. We have alibis!”
Mr. Hazard’s face is red as he paces in front of another sign that says HAZARDOUS CONDITIONS. “I can promise you, boys, what happened yesterday at Myerson is not going to happen again.”
“My dad took care of it,” I tell him.
“He kicked it,” Sky agrees.
“And we’re grateful for that.” He pauses in front of HAZARDOUS MATERIALS—HAZARDOUS WASTE (that’s on his trash can). “Your father won’t be the only one kicking, Jeremiah, I assure you. I’ve heard from many baseball parents who are not going to let this go.”
“My mother was there,” Sky says. “She was mad.”
“Yes. We’re serious about supporting you.”
Casey raises his hand. “Can we have cheerleaders?”
I elbow him. “We appreciate your support, Mr. Hazard.” I stare at the guys until they all say thank you.
“We’d like to honor you in the next assembly,” he says.
Alvin raises his hand. “We haven’t won yet.”
“Not yet.” Mr. Hazard smiles. “There will be more to come on this, boys.”
Casey asks, “Can we have a parade through town?”
Mr. Hazard sighs.
I say, “Thank you, sir. We’re totally grateful. Any games you can get us, I promise you, we’ll play like maniacs.”
“Yes!” Casey shouts. “We are total—”
Terrell and I push Casey out the door.
◆ ◆ ◆
I’m in English class. The kid behind me is coughing. Not just randomly coughing—he’s aiming it at me. I look at him; he coughs deep, doesn’t cover his mouth. Covering your mouth is the number one rule of being a responsible cougher.
I can’t get sick!
I have low immunity because of my transplant and the medication I have to take. That means I can get sicker than regular people.
And I usually do!
The girl across from me is sneezing. A pile of used tissues are on her desk, like she’s proud of the collection.
You should put those away. They’re crawling with germs.
“I want you to think creatively,” Mrs. Ogletree is saying. “Because writing a poem captures special moments in life. Be expressive! Let your thoughts flow.”
We’re supposed to write a poem now. Aunt Charity had me do a lot of this.
I let my thoughts flow . . .
I’m surrounded.
Every virus known to man is in this room
Landing on me.
It’s like an invasion.
Germ armies marching
Wearing matching helmets
Carrying weapons
Shouting a germ war cry.
I drink chicken soup for lunch because of the
electrolytes.
I wash my hands dozens of times.
I squirt antiseptic lotion onto my hands and rub
it on my neck.
“Time’s up,” Mrs. Ogletree announces. “Anyone want to read their poem?”
I’m not done with mine. I keep writing:
I’m sneezing now
And coughing.
I fought the good fight, but I lost.
I write “The Cold” at the top of my paper and decide not to read it, even though it’s good.
◆ ◆ ◆
I don’t feel well. I go home right after school, tell Terrell to run practice.
I go to sleep at eight at night—I’m not kidding. And I get sick anyway. Really sick.
Sinus infection, headache, dripping nose, bad cough.
“I’m sorry, Walt.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
He looks so worried, because the last time I got like this, I got bronchitis, which took weeks and weeks to leave my body.
I’m cold, too, and wearing two sweaters plus heavy pants.
I can’t go to school. I can’t help the baseball team. I have a pillow on the couch and an electric blanket. I’m reading my coaching books, listening to the game, shouting at the game.
I point to the TV. “You’ve had the bases loaded twice and you can’t make it happen? I mean, you’re making trillions of dollars. How hard can this be?”
Walt is working at home. He puts SARB on the living room rug. “Find Jeremiah, SARB.”
I raise a weak hand; SARB rolls to me,
but I have a coughing fit, and I choke from my own coughing, which is so pathetic. SARB can’t cope with this and rolls back to Walt.
Walt adds this to his list of things to fix for SARB.
There is no known list of things to fix for me.
I take two pills. I just wanted to come to Hillcrest and be regular—go to baseball games, have a friend. You know, normal.
I look at Walt, who hasn’t had a normal day, probably, since he adopted me. And I wonder: was I too much trouble for my mother?
Is that why she . . .
I shake that thought from my mind. There are things we all think about that are guaranteed to make us miserable, and this is one of the big miserables for me.
I attempt laughing, have another coughing fit, and half choke.
I look out the front window. I want to be out there living strong.
I remember those two years when I couldn’t do much. I’d look out the window and picture the life I wanted to have. It always involved running and baseball.
Well, I’ve got the baseball part now—sort of.
Franny and El Grande are by their garage, fixing the rocking horse Bo wanted to throw out. El Grande is tightening the springs with a tool as Franny holds the horse in place. Then El Grande runs his hand over the horse and begins to use sandpaper on it. Franny is smiling and sanding, too. She must have had this rocking horse when she was a kid.
It’s good they’re restoring it.
A few years ago, Baby lost her left eye when she was attacked by Gerald Cosmo’s parakeet, Twinkles. I was so upset, I cried. But Walt got a new eye that almost matched the other one and sewed it onto Baby.
“There,” he said. “Better than before.”
When I woke up from my surgery, and a million doctors and nurses asked how I was, I told them:
Better than before.
Chapter
26
I WAS IN the hospital for two days and had to miss school. Dr. Dugan’s team made a big deal about watching me because I have a sinus infection and they wanted to make sure it didn’t turn into something else, like pneumonia. I mentioned there are staph infections that people can only get in hospitals and they should let me go home before things get worse.
I’m home now. I have even more pills to take—you should see my collection—laid out across the kitchen counter in groups based on when I need to take them. My phone is dinging reminders; Jerwal is beeping backup reminders.
And Aunt Charity calls, in case I forget.
“My goal next year is to develop superhuman strength, Walt.”
“It’s good to have goals. For now, let’s take your temperature.”
I stick the thermometer in my ear. More beeping. “It’s a hundred point eight, Walt. That’s hardly anything.”
“It indicates infection.”
“It’s all my energy having no place to go!”
He brings bowls of soup to the table. Benny’s mom brought it over. “She made biscuits for us.”
I sit down. She’s so nice. I reach for a biscuit. These are good.
I’ve got baseball on the TV and radio day and night. St. Louis had the bases loaded three times and couldn’t score a run.
“When you look in the mirror tomorrow morning,” I say to the Cardinals on TV, “what do you want to see?”
CORRECT ANSWER: A winner, Coach!
Terrell calls and says that practice is going okay.
“Okay” is not acceptable.
“Mr. Darko is doing drills with us, but they’re more like soccer drills. We’re mostly running.”
“What about hitting and throwing and catching?”
“He’s not into that as much.”
This is unbelievable!
Lopper, there comes a time when you must summon the strength within you and press forward to your ultimate goal.
I feel a little weak, so I sit down. Actually, lying down is better.
I cover myself with another blanket and watch SARB try to go through the maze I built with my baseball books. SARB stops at The Science of Hitting by Ted Williams.
I tell him, “It’s a little slow at first, but then you can’t put it down.”
SARB backs into The Boys of Summer and gives up.
“He might not like the classics, Walt.”
◆ ◆ ◆
My fever broke last night. I am wrapped in a blanket when Franny comes over.
“This looks like a blanket,” I tell her, “but it’s actually giving me a powerful electrical charge that will transform me into—”
“You look pale.”
“I’m still charging.”
I let her in. Then I realize this place looks like a hospital room! My pills are on the table, the humidifier is pumping steam into the room, and Baby is on a chair in her bag.
“Wow,” she says. “You were sick.”
I try to pick things up—take all my pill bottles off the table along with the supersize Lysol spray disinfectant.
“You should see our house when I get sick, Jeremiah. I have four teddy bears out, and they’re not as good as . . .” She looks at Baby. “What is that?”
“An eagle.”
She smiles. “Benny drew this for you.” She hands me a painting of balloons and squiggles:
bY
Be
nn
Y
She points to the top. “It’s a bird.”
“That’s nice.”
It looks like a canary—small and yellow. But it’s flying. Of course, there’s a big difference between flying and soaring. Soaring happens when you don’t have to flap your wings—you’re carried by the wind.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
I point down the hall. Franny heads there. I throw a towel over my pill collection.
I hear, “Uh, Jeremiah . . .” I look and see Franny standing in front of the bathroom door, confused.
“That’s the door,” I tell her. She doesn’t move. Then I remember the NO ROBOTS IN THE BATHROOM BY ORDER OF THE MANAGEMENT sign.
“You’re not a robot, Franny; you can go in.”
Jerwal stands by the door to greet her when she comes out.
Not everyone could live in this house.
Chapter
27
I’M NOT LISTENING to the news anymore. Nobody is getting it. Baseball, they say, is dead here.
Hello!
We’re playing baseball here.
We have bats and gloves and everything!
It’s Monday morning, I’m in school, and we now have thirteen players. I’m not kidding! Terrell recruited another pitcher, Jupiter Jetts.
“He can’t pitch long like Sky,” Terrell says. “He’s a closer.”
That means he pitches the last few innings and makes sure we win. Middle school teams don’t usually have a closer, but we’re here to change that. Middle school teams don’t usually have trouble finding other teams to play them, either.
But it’s always something. By Monday afternoon, we’re down to twelve players again. Casey Bean, our relief pitcher, quits. His brother, Rick, was a Hornet.
“My dad says I have to run track, Jeremiah.”
“But we need you.”
Casey shakes his head sadly. “It’s not happening. I’m sorry. All the stuff got to be too much . . .”
Benchant walks up. “You’re not quitting,” I tell him.
“My dad’s giving me a hard time about baseball, Lopper.”
“You can’t quit, Benchant. We’ll work it out.”
I find Mr. Hazard in the cafeteria.
“Sir, we have a problem, and I know you’ll want to help.”
“What’s going on, Jeremiah?”
“The baseball team is shrinking, sir. We’re down to twelve players and we might lose Benchant
. Parents want their kids to play another sport because of the Hornets.”
Mr. Hazard paces in front of the salad bar. I don’t mention it’s crawling with bacteria and if he gets too close—zap!
I let him pace a little longer. Vice principals usually need extra pacing time. “I was wondering if you could talk to the parents and encourage them, as you are so good at doing, sir. Inspire them about the power of baseball and how this middle school team is important. Not quitting is a great lesson for us all to learn right now.”
Mr. Hazard stops. “How old are you again?”
“Probably twelve. Possibly older.”
He gives me a strange look, which I’m used to. “I’ll call the parents. I’ll see what I can do. Do you want me to talk to the team?”
“At some point, yes. That would be great.”
“We’re going to get this team the help you need. That’s a promise. I wasn’t sure about baseball fitting in here, to be honest, but now . . .”
“Baseball fits everywhere, Mr. Hazard.”
His eyes get that Baseball Is Life look. “You know, I was a catcher in high school.” He crouches down by the napkin dispenser like a catcher. This is a big moment for him. It takes him a while to stand back up, but it was a great effort. “We want to keep this team together, Jeremiah. We want to support our—”
“Muskrats.”
“I wonder who picked that name.”
“It’s unclear.”
It didn’t help that we had our worst game yet against the Brownsville Badgers, who ruled the seven long innings, twelve to nada. Danny kept asking, “Can we go home yet?”
And the Badgers had these smirks on their faces like we were jokes.
It was Jupiter’s first game, too. He kept throwing junk. Roy Nader missed umpteen catches. I’ve never been happier when a game was over.
We are quiet on the bus, except for a few groans. Misery does this. But as the bus rolls past the Hornets’ Nest, we see a crowd . . . then we see why.
CHEATERS
It’s written in black spray paint across the front of the stadium.
A TV crew is filming. Our bus driver actually stops! A reporter faces the camera. “The investigation into the role of steroid use at Hillcrest High is now going back six years. Will six years of championship wins be in jeopardy? What will it mean for this little town once fueled by baseball glory?”
