Soar

by Joan Bauer

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

  But even without an official game to get ready for, the Eagles are practicing anyway. Benny still comes to practice, but he’s taking a new medicine and not talking as much. He is, however, out on the field, watching.

  He stands near first base and watches Franny take grounders.

  He stands in the outfield and watches as the Oxen catch flies.

  He runs laps with us. He’s a good runner—his problem is stopping. When he sees something interesting, like a butterfly or a bird, he stops.

  Danny Lopez is coaching Benny on running. “Okay, Benny Man, this is for real. This is the answer you’ve been looking for.” Benny looks confused. “’Cause it’s about taking all your strength and getting it in your legs. Ready?”

  Benny’s not sure.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Danny asks him.

  “A yes or a no,” Benny says.

  I’m leaving subtle reminders for Walt around the house.

  Ten days left?

  It would be helpful to know something!

  Can you believe it’s June already, Walt? It feels like we just got here. Nine days left?

  We are now at, possibly, eight days left and Walt has no information for me.

  “When does the school year end, Jer?”

  Every kid knows the answer to this. “June sixteenth. Two thirty-seven p.m.”

  Walt sighs. He deals with big concepts all day long. How hard can this be?

  It would be helpful to know if we will play another game this season, but the adults in charge aren’t saying anything about that either. I don’t know what to tell the team this afternoon.

  I know one thing—they’re getting restless.

  Terrell throws down his glove. “They’re just going to let us practice and do nothing, Jeremiah!”

  “We’re a joke to them,” Logo adds.

  I see El Grande walking toward us. Maybe he’s got news.

  “Look!” Terrell points.

  Across the street from the field, we see a group of guys moving toward us. They’re so far away, we can’t tell who they are.

  Benny runs toward them.

  I shout, “Not too far, Benny!”

  He stops, looks, and runs back to us waving his hands. “Baseball men! Baseball men!”

  What’s he talking about?

  But now we see them. Nine guys, big guys, with baseball gloves; some have bats over their shoulders.

  I look at El Grande. He takes off his glasses, cleans them on his shirt, and puts them on again.

  Terrell says, “It’s the Hornets.”

  And they’ve got their game faces on. They walk right onto our field.

  “You guys want to play?” the biggest guy asks us.

  “You’re Mac Rooney,” Terrell whispers.

  “Yeah,” the big guy says. “You want to play . . . you know . . . a baseball game?”

  We stand there.

  “You need to practice, right?” another guy asks.

  “And we haven’t played for a while,” another one adds.

  “You’ll kill us,” Logo mentions.

  Mac Rooney smiles. “Maybe.” He’s got that Baseball Is Life look as he studies the field.

  El Grande shakes their hands. “We’d be honored, boys.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  In the first two innings, only Franny can get on base for the Eagles. She hits a line drive into the left-field gap and gets on second. In a middle school game, she would have been fast enough to make it to third. I’ll tell you what—these guys are playing for real. But they’re adding something more.

  “You almost got a piece of that,” their pitcher says to Handro. “Don’t swing so hard.”

  At the top of the third inning, it’s 8–0.

  Guess who’s the zero?

  Mac Rooney says, “We need to mix it up.” He talks to his team, and five of their players come onto the Eagles team. Joey Fitz, another Hornet, waves our other players over and says, “The girl can come with us.”

  Franny’s face turns irritated purple as she marches over.

  At the top of the sixth, it’s 10–7. These are big numbers in baseball. El Grande tells Sky, “Make them go for the corners.” That means the slider—Sky’s big pitch. It looks like one thing coming at you and slides away before the batter can figure it out.

  He strikes out Joey Fitz. Franny’s up. She heads to the plate, snarling, “The girl can come with us.”

  She slices the first pitch, rams the second out of bounds. Benny is jumping up and down and clapping. “Franny’s mad. Pow!”

  The Hornets in the outfield move in closer like she can’t hit far. That really steams her. The pitch comes, she cracks the ball. Mac Rooney watches it sail over him.

  It’s a home run!

  Franny rounds the bases as Mac Rooney shakes his head.

  I clap for her as she comes in—all the Eagles do. “Head in the game,” I’m telling our guys. “Total focus. Tell me the numbers, Benny. Pitches?”

  “Six seven.” That’s sixty-seven.

  “Catches?”

  “One two.”

  “Misses?”

  “Six.”

  “Who do you think’s going to win, Benny?”

  “Franny!”

  And, you know, it’s too bad the town isn’t out here to see us play. Because they’d see what this game can be and how people need it.

  The Hornets are laughing—not all hyped up like they played at their stadium. They’re cheering for one another, they’re cheering for us.

  El Grande stands there shaking his head, saying, “Well, I’ll be.”

  I wish Mr. Hazard would come out dancing in his eagle outfit. I wish Dr. Selligman would watch and be amazed. I wish Chip Gunther could be here feeling totally guilty.

  Benny is right. Franny’s team wins. Franny goes three for three with a home run, a double, and a single.

  Joey Fitz is looking around the field. “I used to play here.”

  “Me too,” another Hornet says.

  “You’re welcome any time,” El Grande tells them.

  Joey grins. “We appreciate that, Coach.”

  Benny points to me. “He’s Coach, too.”

  Joey shakes my hand. “Later, Coach Two.”

  “Yeah, later.”

  The Hornets walk off.

  Pictures! I should have gotten pictures!

  “Wait a minute!” I shout. And we do a group picture. Terrell lifts Benny up on his shoulders—normally, Benny wouldn’t like this, but today, the miracle day, Benny raises his hands in the air and screeches like a baby eagle.

  All the Eagles screech.

  Click.

  El Grande gets the best sports shot of the season.

  “You guys are okay,” Joey says.

  “You guys, too.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Word gets around town about the great game that everybody missed. El Grande sends the picture to the Herald and it shows up on page one. Here’s what I’m hoping: page one will be hard to ignore!

  El Grande has a meeting with two coaches from the middle school league tomorrow. It’s killing me that I can’t be in that meeting. I think I could add a youthful perspective. I’m dying to know: “What are you going to tell them?”

  “Well, that depends. First, I’m going to listen.”

  Chapter

  40

  I NEED SOMETHING else to focus on, and Donald Mole still needs help. He’s trying so hard; he’s just . . .

  “Stiff,” says Danny. “I mean, he’s got to move more out there.” We walk over to Donald, who is tying his shoe. Danny says, “Mole. We gotta talk. We can make you into a great baseball player.” Donald looks up, surprised. “All you gotta do is one thing.” Danny holds up one finger. �
��One.”

  Mole waits to hear the thing.

  Danny looks at me; he’s moving around a little. “It’s about energy, Mole. It’s about—”

  “Hustle,” I say.

  “You leave it all on the field, every ounce you got.” Danny puts his hand on Donald’s shoulder. “You gotta practice it, not just on the field, but everywhere. Hustle.”

  “Hustle,” Donald says flatly.

  “Mole . . .” Danny makes a strange face. “We’ve gotta make a change. You can’t half-hustle. You need a little sauce. Here’s what we’re going to do. Your name, Mole? In Spanish it’s mo-lay. Same spelling. But it’s not an animal that digs underground—no offense. It’s the sauce of my country. It’s got some bite, some heat. From this day forward, you’re not Donald Mole. Okay? You’re Donald Mo-lay. And you’ve got bite and heat.”

  This might be more than Donald Mole can handle, but suddenly his eyes light up. He stands a little straighter. “That’s good,” Danny tells him. “Walk around. Get used to it.”

  Donald tries this.

  “Mo-lay, listen. You let this go down into your heart, now.”

  It’s clear that Danny Lopez is going to be a great coach someday. Now I see El Grande walking toward us, smiling. He gives a thumbs-up. I think we’ve got a game!

  The team gathers round. El Grande waits to speak. Then . . .

  “In four days, we’re playing the Millville Marlins.”

  What!

  “I worked it out with their coach. This will be our last game this season. League championship games start next week.”

  We didn’t play enough games to qualify for that.

  “The Marlins are a serious team,” Terrell says.

  “So are you.”

  El Grande looks toward the horizon. Actually, it’s the parking lot, but you get the idea.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  I know this much: we need support! I walk into the school office. Dr. Selligman, the principal, is talking to the lady at the desk.

  “The Eagles have one last game to play,” I explain. “Will you come?”

  The lady at the desk looks like she’d rather do almost anything than that. But Dr. Selligman grins wide.

  “Jeremiah, I promise you I will bring people to that game and we will cheer so loud, you might be embarrassed.”

  Chapter

  41

  DR. SELLIGMAN IS good on both her promises.

  1. She comes to our game and she brings people.

  2. She totally embarrasses me.

  Picture this: Dr. Selligman and her people sitting in the bleachers. So far, so good. Until . . .

  Everyone in that group holds up little grinning eagle stuffies and makes them dance in the air. Not proper eagle stuffies with the power of Baby—miniature ones that look like chickens.

  But the Millville Marlins have no one in their section holding up fish stuffies with long bills. They have nada for a mascot. They don’t have a rabbi, either. And I can tell, they’re nervous.

  There’s no prayer to begin this game, but Sky goes over to where Rabbi Tova is sitting. He leans down and asks, “Would you . . . you know . . .”

  She nods.

  “Don’t forget the umpires.”

  “Play ball!”

  And it’s like everything we’ve ever practiced—all the drills, all the fundamentals—never happened. The Eagles mess up again and again. I can’t believe what I’m seeing!

  Franny strikes out twice. Sky’s slider gets hit again and again. He walks two batters. The Oxen keep running into one another and can’t catch a thing. At the bottom of the second inning, it’s 4–0.

  We’re the zero.

  “Just kill me now!” Danny shouts.

  El Grande is saying, “It’s okay. We got a little rusty. Remember the fundamentals: Eye on the ball. Don’t swing at junk. Patience. Tire that pitcher out. Make him sorry you’re at bat.”

  This pitcher is so glad we’re at bat! I can feel the energy leaving us. What do I say to them?

  And then the words of the coach-speech-I-want-to-give-someday come back to me. I put it together last year from inspirational coach sayings. I practiced it in front of the bathroom mirror with hand motions. I practiced it in front of Jerwal. It’s the only speech I’ve got. I call a time-out and gather the team around me. I stand with my feet apart like coaches do, fold my arms across my chest, and drop my voice.

  “Look, guys, I know you’ve worked hard. It hasn’t been easy. But you’ve become—I’ve seen it—you’ve become a family. You look out for each other, and you don’t sweat the small stuff.” Everyone looks at Danny.

  “Hey, come on!” he says. “I care!”

  Back to me: “You haven’t had a lot of chances, I know, but I also know you’ve got what it takes to win. You’re Eagles, the kings—”

  Franny glares at me.

  “Sorry. The kings and queens of the sky. We’re playing Marlins—big fish with long noses. You play your game, not theirs. Do you hear me? You give your best to this team and to this game we all love.” I add, “This is your time.”

  Danny looks like he might start crying. This is the kind of emotion a coach hopes for. Too bad he can’t play.

  “This is your win,” I tell them. “Now get out there and take it.”

  I step back. They look at one another and do the eagle screech. They run on the field, except for Franny. “Fry those fish!” Danny shouts after them.

  Franny looks at me. “I’ve heard some of that before, Jeremiah.”

  “I adapted it. Okay?”

  She runs to first base. I have to sit down and stay sitting. But my Eagles keep the Marlins from scoring in the third inning. I’m clapping. “All right now!”

  Fourth inning—we get one run when Franny homers on a three-two pitch.

  “That’s the way Eagles play!”

  The Marlins get a run, too.

  It’s 5–1 heading into the fifth.

  We hold the line, but so do the fish.

  It’s the sixth inning—Rabbi Tova stands and shouts, “Be aggressive!”

  Now everyone in our section is standing. Every eagle stuffy is raised. Hillcrest parents are cheering. I look at Walt, who has one arm in the air and the other one around Dr. Dugan.

  Everyone is shouting, “Eagles, Eagles!”

  Mr. Hazard stands with his eagle arms in the air.

  Hargie Cantwell’s dad locks arms with four Hornets players and they holler, “Go Eagles!”

  Yes!

  “Eagles! Eagles!”

  And then it really hits me. If we lose, we let everyone down.

  And then we’ll really seem like—

  Wait a minute! That’s not right!

  I holler, “Eagles, remember who you are! Play your game!”

  The Oxen raise their gloves.

  Jupiter throws a two-two slider and strikes the batter out.

  Aiden catches a fly ball, and his brother lets him do it.

  Franny fields a grounder and gets the third out at first base.

  The cheers are rocking this place.

  Our turn at bat.

  “You already know how to connect with the ball,” El Grande tells them. “Don’t tell yourself you don’t. Hit the ball. Get on base.”

  Danny is standing on the bench, waving his arm that doesn’t have a cast. “We can do it! We can do it!”

  Jupiter’s up, drags a bunt, and gets on first!

  Yes!

  That surprises the Marlins pitcher. He throws balls after that. Benchant moves to first on a walk. Two men on.

  Terrell takes a full count, then hits a grounder to the shortstop. Jupiter is out at third, but Terrell is safe on first. Benchant is on second.

  One out, people. Only one out!

  “Eagles! Eagles!”<
br />
  I can tell the noise is getting to Benny. He’s covering his ears and rocking. I smile at him. Hold on, Benny. I motion for him to come sit with me. He does. “Good game,” I say.

  That’s when Benchant makes a tear to third base and steals it!

  I’m not kidding!

  He’s teasing the pitcher a little, too—jumping half on, half off the base. I hope his dad is here.

  Okay, okay, okay . . .

  Aiden walks past us to take his turn at bat.

  “No,” Benny says to me. He points at Donald, sitting on the bench.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Him.”

  “Donald?”

  Benny nods.

  “Benny, why?”

  He can’t tell me, but I can see in his eyes he knows something. And I’ve read about these things, when a coach has to make a hard decision on the spot. El Grande’s been listening. He nods and says, “Aiden, come back. We’ve got a substitution. Donald. You’re up.”

  Donald looks surprised, the team looks surprised, but Benny smiles. Danny hollers, “Olé, Mol-ay!”

  Donald takes a couple of swings, adjusts his batting helmet, crouches to hit. On the first pitch, he slaps one deep into center field for a double!

  I stand up. “Yes!”

  Benchant scores easily. Terrell tears around the bases and slides into home under a high throw to the catcher.

  “Safe!” the umpire shouts.

  We are now, people, 5–3! With one out! Danny’s dancing.

  “Talk to me, Benny!” I can see he can hardly hear with the noise. He’s covering his ears.

  “Eagles! Eagles!”

  Franny’s up.

  Benny studies her. “Pow,” he says.

  “Yeah, we want that, Benny!”

  He looks at me. “Franny mad!”

  “No, she’s not mad.”

  Franny puts her batting helmet on.

  Wait a minute. Benny is pointing at Franny. “Franny mad!”

  I look at him. “You mean . . . Franny hits better when she’s mad?”

  She does, all right. But who’s going to get her mad?

  Benny stares at me.

  Okay, okay. I raise my hand, make the time-out sign, and walk to her.

  I’ve got one-tenth of a second to say something that will totally enrage her.