HURRICANE HEAT
STEVEN BARWIN
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2013 Steven Barwin
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Barwin, Steven
Hurricane heat [electronic resource] / Steven Barwin.
(Orca sports)
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-4598-0214-8 (PDF).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0215-5 (EPUB)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca sports (Online)
PS8553.A7836H87 2013 jC813’.54 C2012-907470-5
First published in the United States, 2013
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012952951
Summary: Years after Travis’s parents die in a car crash and he and his younger sister, Amanda, are separated, Travis sets out to search for her at the risk of losing an opportunity for a future baseball career.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover photography by Corbis
Author photo by Jenna Grossi
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
PO BOX 5626, Stn. B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4 PO BOX 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468
www.orcabook.com
16 15 14 13 • 4 3 2 1
To my grandmother, Ettie Nochomovitz,
who taught me almost everything I know
about baseball. You are greatly missed.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
chapter one
I watched the baseball swerve below the batter’s powerful swing and punch into the catcher’s glove with a loud thump. The score was tied 5-5 at the bottom of the seventh inning. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. It felt great to be distracted by a heated game.
The batter spat onto the ground. He was a right-handed hitter. Even though I didn’t know his name, batting history or anything else, with two balls and no strikes I knew the pitcher had to go with a fastball down low on the batter’s right side. Attack his weak spot, where he couldn’t swing the bat around fast enough to make contact. The pitcher wound up and released the ball. It started up high and then broke, falling down and to the right. I shook my head. He might as well have fed the batter the baseball on a silver tray. It arrived in the bottom left side of the batter’s box. The batter stepped into the pitch and made contact, with a loud crack. I watched the ball rip through the air and land deep in right field. The go-ahead run made it safely to third base with a triple.
Someone in the stands said, “Let’s go! You can do it!”
The next batter took a few practice swings and stepped to the plate. The pitch crossed the plate too high, but the batter swung, nerves probably getting the better of him. The foul ball popped up high in my direction. I had it in my crosshairs and watched it reach the top of its arc and begin a fast descent. In the row ahead of me, a young girl no more than ten years old shrieked and buried her head under her mother’s arm.
I stretched out my bare hand and felt the ball wallop into it, just above the little girl and her mother.
The mother looked at me for a moment, her eyes wide. “Thank you.”
She and her daughter weren’t the only ones in the crowd surprised by my catch. People started to clap. I smiled, half embarrassed, handed the ball to the girl and made my way out of the stands.
I crossed the parking lot and headed toward the high school. That’s where I was going before the game lured me over. I needed to stay on task, keep moving. My palm still stung. When I looked at it, it was red, but I could move my fingers.
I got to the front of the school and tried the doors. They were all locked. Banging on them didn’t work either.
At the side of the school, I found a scratched-up metal door. I knocked on it with my shoe. To my surprise, it jarred opened. A large unshaven janitor appeared, wearing blue uniform pants and a matching button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He had a suspicious look on his face. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for a girl,” I said.
He smiled and moved to close the door.
I wedged my foot in the doorway. After all the people I’d approached, questioned and bugged in the last two weeks, “I’m looking for a girl” wasn’t my best opening line. “Her name’s Amanda, and she’s my sister,” I added. “I think she goes to this school.”
“Sorry.”
“People used to say we look alike. She’s got the same black hair as me, but obviously hers isn’t buzz-cut. There’s Hispanic blood on my mom’s side, so she’s a little dark like me.”
He caught a glimpse of my watch. It was gold with a steel band and black face. I figured he was probably wondering what a teenager in a hoodie was doing walking around with a gold watch. He didn’t know that it was my dad’s watch. It was vintage, and the only thing of his I got after the accident.
The caretaker shrugged his shoulders. “Exams ended today. No one around but me.”
“Is there any way I can take a look inside?”
“What for?”
“I might see her picture on the wall or something. She was into sports. I’d guess on the swimming team.” I knew it was a long shot.
“Sorry, kid. Wish I could help you, but I can’t.”
I was frustrated. I had come to California to find Amanda. My younger sister. Five years ago, our parents died in a car accident. I was only eleven and she was nine. We didn’t exactly get along back then. The social worker tried to find someone to take both of us, but he couldn’t. Amanda went to one foster home, and I went to another. When her foster family announced one day that they were moving to California, that was it for Amanda and me. I never heard from or saw her again.
Five months ago, I found a postcard sitting on top of a pile of mail in the kitchen. The postcard had a picture of the Hermosa Beach Pier on the front and my name on the back. I knew it was from her because Amanda was in California. But I still didn’t know exactly where, because except for my name and address, the postcard was blank.
When summer holidays arrived, I convinced my foster parents to allow me to go look for her. They were nice enough to drive me the six and a half hours to Hermosa and set me up in a room at a family friend’s house. They even helped me get a job as a dishwasher. I’d do anything to find Amanda. She’s my only real family. Blood. That’s gotta be worth something. And maybe, just maybe, she will feel the same.
A loud cheer erupted from the baseball diamond. When I rounded the school, the field had almost emptied. By the time I reached the parking lot, there was nobody left in
the stands. I considered taking a shortcut home across the field. But I hadn’t stepped on a baseball diamond in a long time.
I must’ve looked funny just standing in front of the empty field staring at it. I stepped across the first-base foul line and entered the diamond. I thought about my last baseball game, five years ago. I knelt down and brushed the perfectly manicured grass with my fingers.
The unmistakable shape of a baseball caught my eye. It was lodged under the home bench. I walked over, picked it up and dusted it off against my shorts. When I centered myself on the pitching mound, I could still feel the tenderness in my palm from catching the foul ball barehanded.
The last game I ever played was in Phoenix. I had been in a neighborhood league. My coach told me baseball would take me far in life. He said dreaming about major-league baseball was not dreaming too big. I pictured myself in that last game, holding the runner on third to make sure he stayed put. Beyond him, the tip of Camelback Mountain stretched up in the distance—it actually looked like a camel’s hump. I turned my attention back on the batter and wondered where my parents were. They came to all my games. Their absence distracted me enough to hang one over the plate and not only lose the inning but also the game… I still missed baseball, after all these years.
I placed my index and middle fingers across the ball’s seams. My thumb rested on the white leather. Lifting the ball over my shoulder, I whipped it angrily at the plate.
It smashed into the backstop, and I realized two things. First, I still had a really good pitch. Second, there was a guy watching me. And clapping.
chapter two
“Nice pitch. Where do you play?” he asked. The guy wore a number eleven jersey with Hermosa Hurricanes written across the front. “My name’s Ethan.”
“Travis,” I said.
He had a windblown look, blond hair jutting in every direction. His bangs ran down to a straight edge stopping just above his eyes, framing his black Wayfarer sunglasses.
“Is that your ball?” I was about to get it for him, but he stopped me, saying he’d just come back for his sunglasses.
“You’re the guy who caught that fly ball in the stands with one hand.”
I nodded and held out my palm, half expecting it to still be red. He asked again where I played. When I told him I didn’t play anywhere, he gave me a puzzled look.
“I’m a catcher with the Hurricanes. We’re an eighteen-and-under select team. I’ve worked with a lot of pitchers, and you have a great arm.”
I smiled. It had been a long time since I had thrown, and I’d wondered if I still had the touch.
“I’d like to see it up close. Want to throw me one?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Just one pitch, I told myself. I stepped on the mound while Ethan retrieved the ball. He grabbed his catcher’s glove from his bag, tossed me the ball and squatted behind the plate. My fingers rolled the ball in my hand, and I decided to throw a fastball.
I stood at a slight angle, one foot on the rubber and the ball in my hand, chest high. I started my windup, extending the baseball behind me with my left hand. I felt how rusty I really was. I released the ball, and it smacked into Ethan’s glove.
“Wow, I felt that through my glove!” He approached me. “Do you live in Hermosa?”
“Sort of.”
“You should try out for the team.”
“I don’t really have a lot of time for baseball.”
“But you’ve played before. I can tell.”
I nodded.
Ethan spent the next seven minutes trying to sell me. He told me about the league and some of the tournaments. He also mentioned that scouts were always coming by, looking to hand out college scholarships.
“But your season’s already started,” I said.
“Our roster isn’t frozen. Come out, show the coach what you have, and you’ll make the team. Trust me.”
I fantasized for a moment about getting a scholarship so I could quit my dishwashing job and go to college. I let my mind wander to getting picked up by a major-league team. Then I thought about Amanda, and it all vanished. I needed to find her first. “I’ll think about it.”
Dirty dishes overflowed the sink when I arrived at work the next day. Washing pots and pans in the back of a taco restaurant wasn’t exactly my dream summer job. Hola Tacos was a low-key, no-thrills, notch-above-a-dive kind of restaurant, but the food was good, and it was always busy. I used a tap hose to spray and scrub down plates and cups before they went into a dishwasher. No matter how many I cleaned, the pile never seemed to go down. It was no wonder my boss called the area where I worked the dish pit. The important thing was, I had a job. And it came with one big plus. Jessie. She was a waitress who didn’t often get to the deep bowels of the kitchen where I spent my shift. But I had a clean sight of her when she picked up her food orders. She had bleached blond hair almost always tied in two braids and was pretty enough to not have to wear makeup. My interest in her wasn’t just physical. I knew there was a lot more to her behind those turquoise eyes.
After the lunch rush, I noticed her reaching to untie her apron. So I asked my boss if I could take my fifteen minutes. He wanted to know if all the plates were clean, and I tried not to laugh. All the plates would never be clean—it was a never-ending pile—but I nodded, and he let me go.
I darted out the back, crossed Pier Avenue and headed toward the Hermosa Beach Pier. I approached my favorite— well, Jessie’s favorite—smoothie shop, the Pineapple Hut. She was already on the patio, in black Lululemon pants and a white T-shirt, talking on her cell and sipping a smoothie. I got a drink and found a table outside. The afternoon was balmy, and seagulls circled overhead. I pulled out the postcard and placed it on the table. I stared at it and thought about what Ethan had said. It had been a long time since I had played baseball, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. A college scholarship would have made my parents proud. My dad had wanted me to ride baseball all the way to the majors. This could be a new beginning.
“How’s it going?”
It took me a moment to realize Jessie was talking to me. I never expected to have a conversation with her. I smiled awkwardly.
“What you looking at?” she asked.
I covered the postcard with both hands.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No, it’s okay. Just a long story.” But I didn’t want my conversation with her to dry up. “You from around here?” I asked.
“Yup.”
“You been working at Hola Tacos long?”
“Just summers. I work so I can surf. Now you know everything about me, and I know nothing about you.”
“Oh.”
She laughed. “It was a joke.”
I laughed, even though the joke had passed. I told her I had just moved to Hermosa from Phoenix, leaving out the complicated stuff about my family.
“I’ve been there. It’s a great city.” She played with a silver medallion hanging from her neck. “That part of your long story?”
I didn’t know how to respond. “Want to hear it?” She smiled. “Is our break long enough?”
This time I laughed on cue.
Jessie picked up her drink and took a seat at my table.
“I’m out here looking for my sister.” I held out the postcard. “She sent this, and I think it’s a clue.”
Jessie examined the picture of Hermosa pier on the front and then flipped it over. “Except for your name, it’s blank.”
I nodded. “This is all I have to go on.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen.”
“My sister’s the same age. I think she knew an Amanda.”
I looked at Jessie and thought, There are a lot of Amandas out there.
“I’ll ask her,” Jessie said. “What’s your cell?”
I took a deep breath. Not only did I have a lead on an Amanda, but Jessie would now have my cell number.
chapter three
Anxious about my first game, I wasn’t able
to sleep the last two nights. When I arrived the Saturday morning, pregame warm-up was in session. Hurricanes players did laps around the outfield. I spotted the back of Ethan’s jersey, number eleven. When he saw me, he waved me over. I slipped in behind him and jogged with the team.
“Glad you showed,” Ethan said between breaths.
I nodded and tried to keep up. I knew the other players were wondering who the new guy was. This field wasn’t as groomed as the one by the high school. At the 375 marker in center field, homes of all shapes and sizes filled the horizon. While one home looked like a college bunker, another had white stucco, large windows, balconies in the front and back and a rooftop terrace that must’ve had a perfect view of the Pacific.
“I have this for you.” Ethan handed me a folded-up piece of paper. “For later.”
I slipped it into my pocket.
The coach waved everyone in to grab their gloves.
“That’s Coach Robert,” said Ethan.
I nodded.
“Quick practice for the pitchers,” the coach said.
Ethan motioned me over. “Follow me.”
While the infielders threw the ball around the bases and the outfielders practiced throwing long balls, a pitcher tossed the ball to Ethan behind home plate. I stood next to another pitcher, number seven, just off the mound. He didn’t take any notice of me, and I didn’t feel like starting small talk. He eventually stepped onto the mound to throw some pitches. Behind him, I noticed the other team starting to arrive. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Coach Robert. He smelled like coconut suntan lotion. His hair was speckled grey and cropped almost military style under his hat. He wasn’t tall, but the muscles defining his jersey told me he was tough.
Coach Robert asked us to switch again. Number seven placed the ball firmly in my glove—a glove I had bought the day before at an outlet store. Bleachers rose in seven levels behind home plate. At the top of the bleachers, two announcers prepped for the game in a small green wooden hut with a rolled-up window. I released the ball from my left hand with a lot of power, and it found the strike zone.
Hurricane Heat Page 1
