by Carl Deuker
“Maybe he’ll st-stick around this t-time.”
Antonio stared at me for a moment. Then he pushed his chair back and headed for the front door.
“You g-going out?”
“Yeah.”
“You want some c-company?”
“I’m good,” he said, and the door closed behind him.
I finished the pizza and dumped the box in the trash. Curtis’s TV was ten times nicer than Mom’s, but instead of following the game, I kept picturing those TV shows where families reunite after years apart. Everybody hugs and cries and they’re all happy.
That wasn’t going to happen with Antonio and Curtis.
Around eleven I went to bed. I couldn’t sleep, so I channel-surfed FM stations until I found a murder mystery full of creaking doors and howling winds. It was fake-y, but it was okay.
Around eleven thirty, Mom and Curtis returned. I could hear them moving in Mom’s bedroom, and I panicked. Then an idea came to me. I rooted around in a drawer until I found my earbuds. I plugged them into my radio and turned up the volume. I followed the story for a while, but then I must have fallen asleep, because I don’t remember the ending. The next morning, jazz was playing when I awoke.
A wave of relief broke over me. All I had to do was sleep with the radio on and the earbuds in, and I’d never hear anything from my mom’s bedroom.
When I came out that morning, Antonio had already left for his job at Home Depot. Mom was in the kitchen drinking coffee, and I could hear Curtis walking in her bedroom. He was a big man, way over two hundred pounds, and with every step the floorboards groaned.
“You want scrambled eggs?” Mom asked.
I heard the shower go on; Curtis would be a while. I could eat and get out without seeing him.
“Okay,” I said.
As Mom scrambled the eggs I put two slices of bread into the toaster.
“This can work,” she said when she put a plate in front of me a few minutes later, “if we all make an effort.”
She wasn’t eating—I guess she was waiting for Curtis—but she sat with me. “What are you thinking?” she asked when I was about done.
“N-Nothing.”
“Something’s on your mind. Laz. Tell me.”
I used a crust of the toast to push the last of the egg onto my fork. I kept my head down. “What was my d-dad like?”
I hadn’t planned on asking. I’m not even sure I knew I was thinking about him until the words came out.
Mom sat back. “Your dad was just a boy, Laz. Just a boy.”
I kept my eyes on my plate. “Do you ever t-try to g-get in touch with him?”
“No.”
“Do you think he m-might—”
“Laz, your dad is gone, and he’s not coming back. I’m sorry.”
Seventeen
We had a game a couple days later. Antonio had missed two of the last three games, and when it was time to head over to the community center, he was missing again. Whenever he didn’t play, the team was flat, the effort not there. If he kept skipping games, other guys would skip, too.
I texted him. Game. North Acres. 1 hour. U there?
I stared at the phone, waiting for a reply. It came ten minutes later: try 2 b
As I warmed up, I kept looking for him.
Then, as the game was starting, Garrett’s Subaru pulled into the parking lot. The passenger door opened, and Antonio stepped out. He made it to the bench as Dawit, leading off, strode to the plate. The guys on the bench all called out to Antonio, glad he’d shown up, but I was angry.
“Where were you?” I asked.
He picked up on my irritation. “I’m here, Laz. Okay?”
We were playing Bitter Lake, a team not even close to the Seattle Marauders in talent. If I’d been on my game, I would have dominated, but I couldn’t get settled. And I was unlucky, which made everything worse. They hit some balls hard, but even their weak hits seemed to find holes. We lost 10–0.
During our last at bat, I’d seen Antonio on his phone. And while the rest of us were shaking hands with the Bitter Lake guys, he was driving off with Garrett.
* * *
When we got back to the community center, I helped Mr. Leskov unload the equipment, got Pushkin out of his orange shirt, and then walked to Jet City. Inside the trailer, Curtis was sprawled on the sofa, his feet up, watching SportsCenter on his big TV. I headed into the kitchen, where I made myself a peanut butter sandwich, and was just sitting down to eat when Curtis appeared in the doorway. “Where’s Antonio?”
“I d-don’t know.”
“He wasn’t at the game?”
“He was there. “
“So why didn’t he come back with you?”
I shrugged.
“You two don’t hang out?”
“Not t-too m-much.”
I took a bite of my sandwich, hoping Curtis would go back to the sofa, but he stayed. “So, are you kind of the nerdy older brother? Is that what I’m seeing?”
He was smiling, as if he were making a joke, but I felt a sting.
“I g-guess.”
“His friends. They’re okay, though. Right?”
Just then the front door opened and Mom stuck her head in. “Hey, can somebody give me a hand with the groceries?”
“You got it,” Curtis said. Within minutes, grocery bags were on the kitchen table and I was in my room.
Eighteen
I had another rotten start against the Kirkland Owls, maybe because Antonio had skipped out again. In the van, Dawit said he’d seen him and Garrett heading downtown on Aurora Avenue. “Did he quit the team?” Dawit asked. “Because if he quits, I think I’ll quit, too.”
“He didn’t quit.”
My mind wasn’t on baseball when I took the mound. I walked the first two guys and then threw a wild pitch to the third hitter, allowing the runners to move up to second and third.
Then came something I wasn’t expecting. Mr. Leskov, for the first time all season, called time and strode out to the mound. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “Your head in sky.”
“I’ll do better.”
“We get new pitcher? Maybe Dawit. Maybe Nelson.”
“N-No. I can p-pitch.”
He glared at me. “You pitch then. You strike three these guys or someone else try.” With that, he stomped back to the bench.
I turned and looked out at my teammates, comical in their bright orange T-shirts. They didn’t know Joe DiMaggio from Joe Montana. Still, they were doing their best, just like Leskov—who knew nothing about baseball. With or without Antonio, I needed to do my best.
I didn’t worry about painting the corners. I poured pitch after pitch across the plate, trusting my stuff. And it worked. I struck out Kirkland’s three-hitter and their cleanup guy. I thought I’d strike out the side, but the number-five batter looped a soft line drive toward short right. Ivan Burgos raced back and then dived. The ball stuck out of the top of his glove like a scoop of vanilla ice cream, but he hung on for the third out. The guys came in from the field excited, pounding Ivan on the back and giving me knuckle bumps.
We scored twice in the second to take the lead. In their half of the inning, I got the first two outs quickly. With two strikes on the next hitter, I threw a curve that sat in the middle of the plate like a pumpkin.
The Owl batter swung from the heels and caught the ball in the sweet spot, sending a towering drive to center. I was sure it was over Dawit’s head, but that guy can fly. At the last moment he reached up and snagged the ball before tumbling head over heels to the ground.
Dawit grinned as he ran in. When he reached second base, he stopped and did a little dance on the bag. The infielders, who’d all waited for him, gave him high-fives. We ended up winning 8–0—the first game we’d won without Antonio.
In the van going back to North Central, with Pushkin’s paws digging into my thighs, I texted Antonio, giving him the score and a couple of highlights. No response. I held the phone as the miles c
licked away. Where was he? What was he doing?
Finally it vibrated.
C grats.
Nineteen
Back at the community center, I helped Mr. Leskov put away the bats, balls, and gloves, then headed to my job. When someone called my name, I turned and saw Coach Kellogg walking toward me. None of the teachers or coaches at North Central High lived near the school. Why was he here?
“Laz, good to see you. How’d your game go?”
“P-pretty good.”
“Did you win?”
“Yeah. Eight to zip.”
“Shutout. That’s more than pretty good.” He motioned to a couple of chairs by the window that looked out at the jungle gym. “Got a minute?”
We sat, and he tugged at his scruffy beard. “My wife just had a baby, a little girl. I’ve taken a teaching job at Lake Stevens High, which is close to my home, so I can help out more. I wanted to tell you in person and to thank you for all you’ve done for the baseball program at North Central.”
I paused, trying to figure out what to say. “I’ll m-m-miss you, Coach,” I said, the right words finally coming. “The whole t-team will.”
It wasn’t true. Kellogg’s practices were boring, and he really didn’t coach. Most guys wouldn’t care when they heard he was leaving.
His eyes went sad. “That’s the hard thing about moving on. Cutting those bonds. You tell the guys that I’ll miss them.”
“Sure.”
An awkward silence followed before he spoke again.
“Did you hear you’ve got a new principal at North Central?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Mrs. Park. And she’s not a big fan of team sports. She had me give her the number of kids who participated in the baseball program, and asked about the cop thing at Oak Tree Cinema. Then she started going on about how intramurals get more kids involved.”
I didn’t understand why he was telling me all this, and my confusion must have shown. “Long story short. Mrs. Park wants to eliminate the baseball program and use our field for Ultimate Frisbee, kite flying, rocketry. With me gone, she’ll get her way.”
My blood ran cold. “You mean North Central won’t have a b-baseball t-team next year?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” Then Mr. Kellogg leaned toward me and spoke in a whisper. “But Laz, North Central dropping baseball could be a good thing for you.”
I felt dizzy. “How? If there’s no t-team, I’m done.”
He slid his chair closer. “There’s a rule about this. If your high school doesn’t offer a sport, you can go to any Seattle high school and play for them. Broadview High is closest, but they’re no good. Laurelhurst High is only a mile farther away. I called their coach and told him about baseball being canceled at North Central. At first he was bored, but that changed when I mentioned your name. A parent who coaches a select summer team had told him about you. The point is—Laurelhurst wants you.”
I swallowed. “M-Me? They want me?”
Kellogg’s smile grew wider. “Yeah. And they don’t mess around. They’ve got an off-season program that starts soon. I checked on the buses. One goes down Thirty-fifth right after school lets out, so getting there will be easy. I don’t know how you’ll get home afterward, but you’re a North Central kid, right? North Central kids figure out a way.” He paused. “Interested?”
I was so excited my voice squeaked. “Yeah. I’m interested. A-And thank—”
He cut me off. “Nothing to thank me for. North Central wasn’t doing right by you, not with the talent you have. I’ll call their coach tomorrow and tell him you want in.” He looked at the clock above the main desk. “I need to go. My wife and I are going to her parents’ for dinner.”
He stood, shook my hand, and headed out. “Coach—” I called out before he reached the door. “Way to go. With the baby I mean.”
He laughed. “Thanks, Laz. I appreciate it.”
I stood stock-still for a long moment, until I remembered the driving range. As I hurried to work, the excitement slipped away and fear took its place. The Laurelhurst kids would have designer clothes and smartphones and money in their wallets. Some would have their own cars. Even my duffle bag would suck compared to the ones they had. I wouldn’t know anyone, so my words would get stuck. I could see my head tilting sideways as I repeated some sound three, four, six times while the Laurelhurst players exchanged half-hidden smiles.
Going alone would be miserable, but I’d be okay if Antonio tried out, too. He had the talent to make the Laurelhurst team; all he had to do was put in the effort. Yeah, he was skipping out on Leskov’s games. But Laurelhurst was different. It was a real team—he wouldn’t be ashamed to play for them. He’d be in my corner, and I’d be in his, and together we’d show them.
Twenty
Once Curtis moved in, he was after Antonio to do things with him, but Antonio always put him off. Can’t—going to Green Lake. Can’t—meeting friends at the arcade . . .
Finally, one morning in late August, Curtis laid a Mariners schedule in front of Antonio as he was scarfing down a bowl of Cheerios. “You point to a day you can go to a Mariners game and I’ll buy tickets. And once I buy them, you’re going. No backing out.”
Antonio looked to Mom, and she looked right back at him. “Laz is coming with us. Right?” he said.
Curtis didn’t even glance at me. “Sure, Laz can come. Now pick a game.”
Antonio looked at the calendar. “Tonight’s fine.”
* * *
The Mariners were playing the Angels. Curtis tried to get Antonio talking as we drove to T-Mobile Park, but all he got were grunts and a few yeahs and nahs and maybes.
Curtis had used StubHub to get the seats, and he hadn’t cheaped out: third level, right behind home plate, four rows up. Antonio tried to make it so I’d be sitting in the middle, but Curtis didn’t let that happen.
In the early innings Curtis would say normal stuff to Antonio. Trout has one sweet swing . . . The air is dead in this park . . . You got to wonder if the Mariners will ever make it to the World Series.
Antonio gave him nothing back.
“Give the m-man a break,” I whispered to Antonio in the bottom of the fourth.
He got up. “I’ve got to take a leak,” he said as he pushed by me.
Half an inning went by, then an inning. Curtis kept looking at the aisle. Finally he stood and scanned the entire area. “He didn’t get himself lost, did he?”
I shook my head. “N-no way. We’re directly behind home p-plate.”
Right then he spotted Antonio working his way toward us. “Here, Son,” he called out, waving his hand. It was the first time I’d ever heard him call Antonio Son, and Antonio flinched.
The Mariners rallied to win on a two-out ninth-inning hit by some guy just up from Triple-A. Around us, fans went crazy, but the three of us were zombies. We returned to the car in silence.
As Curtis drove back to Jet City, I could feel his fury building. I was waiting for him to lash out at Antonio, but instead he went after me. “Laz, has your mom ever told you about your dad? How he ended up in prison?”
My throat went dry. I hadn’t known my father was in prison.
He chuckled. “She hasn’t, has she? It’s some story. Your old man stole something like thirty-eight dollars from a 7-Eleven over in Spokane. When he came out with his loot, he discovered that his partner had panicked and driven off. So your genius dad decided to—”
“Stop it,” Antonio interrupted.
“What?” Curtis said.
“Leave Laz alone. He hasn’t done anything to you.”
There was a long silence, and then Curtis spoke in a steely voice. “All right. You don’t want me to talk to Laz, then you talk to me.”
“Okay,” Antonio said. “I will.”
And he did. For the rest of the ride home, they talked about the game, about Jet City, about movies and food and Husky football. “Was that so bad?” Curtis asked when he pulled up in front of
the trailer.
“No,” Antonio said as he opened the door and stepped out. “It wasn’t.”
Twenty-One
Our last summer game was on August 31 against the Green Lake Gophers. Leskov spread the word that after the game he’d pay for us to go out on paddleboats in Green Lake and then have a pizza lunch, so everyone showed up.
Since the Mariners game, Curtis and Antonio had been getting along. When Curtis heard where our final game was being played, he told Antonio he’d be there, which meant Antonio had to be there too. “We’re cutting down a couple of old cedars in Woodland Park,” Curtis said, “so I can stop by during my lunch. You’d better do something good. You hear me?”
At noon, when the game started, gray clouds were heading our way from Puget Sound. Trees were swaying in the breeze, dropping the first leaves of fall; some of the walkers circling the lake were wearing long-sleeved shirts.
I’d found my rhythm against the Kirkland Owls, and I’d stayed in the zone after that. Against the Gophers, I threw easy—so easy—yet the ball shot across the plate. They had no chance.
Curtis arrived as I took the mound to pitch the bottom of the third. As he walked from his pickup truck toward the diamond, he waved. For an instant I thought he was waving to me, but his eyes were on Antonio. That threw me off for a few pitches, but then I rediscovered my rhythm. Three up; three down. Two pop-ups and a groundout.
In the top of the fourth, Dawit razzed me on the bench. “This is boring, Laz. Let them hit. We want some action.”
“Make some action f-for yourself,” I joked, looking down the bench. “Get some h-hits; score some r-runs.”
And they did, banging out three singles and a double. Two runs had already scored when Antonio stepped to the plate with two on and two out. He worked the count to 2-0 and then smoked a line drive into right center that plated both runners and brought Curtis to his feet. “Yes! Yes!” His voice boomed from behind me as Antonio slid safely into third.
