Biggie

by Derek E. Sullivan

  If I had asked Mom to write a legitimate note, she would have turned me down and asked, “Why don’t you want some exercise?” or “Why don’t you want to lose a little weight?”

  Mom doesn’t understand me. Both her former boyfriend and current husband are standout baseball players and were all-state football, basketball, and baseball athletes in high school. That’s another reason why the football coach used to call me into his office a lot—my pedigree.

  Do I have breathing issues that keep me from participating in school-based physical activities? Hard to say. I’m exercise-challenged—as in, I never exercise so I don’t know if playing dodgeball or kickball would cause me harm. But thirty minutes of school-based physical activities isn’t going to make me look like Killer or Jet either. Those two love PE because it’s the only way they can make girls fall in love with them.

  I know my limitations and my domains. While Killer and Jet can run and catch better than I can, they aren’t as intelligent, savvy, or quick-witted. Their skills fit perfectly in Coach Phillips’s gym class. Am I jealous of jocks? No way in hell.

  When I climb out of bed on the first day of my junior year, I calmly and quietly pull the zipper open on my backpack and see the envelope containing my forged letter to skip PE for this year safe and secure. After getting dressed, I head downstairs for breakfast.

  Mom makes me two English muffins with low-fat marmalade and pours me a glass of puke-colored grapefruit juice. For the past few years, Mom has made sure I eat only healthy foods. The problem is that the muffins and juice don’t give me the energy I need to tackle school. Only a Starbucks Doubleshot and Molly’s breakfast sandwiches do the trick. Mom’s healthy food plays the role of morning appetizer. I’ll eat my real breakfast in fifteen minutes.

  After swallowing the two muffins, I stand up and search for my backpack. I always set it by the door, but I notice only my shoes sitting there.

  “I ripped up the note,” Mom’s voice says behind me. I turn to see her holding my backpack. “Saw Coach Phillips at the store and he told me in not so many words that I’m a horrible mother for not letting you participate in gym.” A small did-you-think-you-could-get-away-with-this? grin slowly switches to a look of pure disappointment: glazed-over eyes, head hanging down, lips circled for sighs of breath.

  My heart stops and a little bit of grapefruit juice reemerges on my tongue.

  “I told the three girls in your class that babysit your younger brother to email me when you skip gym. The first one that contacts me gets a hundred dollars.” She tosses the backpack at me. “Henry, I don’t know what else to do. I don’t. Everything I’ve tried, you have battled and battled me on, and I don’t know why. Tell me, please tell me why, because I’m at a loss. ”

  A lump in my throat keeps me silent. I can’t even force an apology past my dry lips.

  “Well, maybe you can write it down—as your handwriting or mine, I don’t care.”

  She doesn’t understand. I’m trying to be valedictorian. I’m trying to get college scholarships. There is a method to my madness. If I could just open my mouth and speak, tell her why I do what I do, she would understand.

  “I hate gym” are the only words I can sneak through my dry lips.

  “You …” She goes silent. I can see her tongue lick her teeth as she searches for words. “Just please go to school and be normal.”

  Everyone stands in a semicircle around Coach Phillips on the makeshift Wiffle ball court in the corner of the school’s parking lot. Phillips, who coaches football and baseball, considers Finch’s football and baseball fields sacred ground. No one who hasn’t earned the right to step on them is allowed to step on them. So gym-class Wiffle ball is in the parking lot. Man, I hate him.

  For three years I’ve avoided this moment. Three years! While I should be thinking about how I’m horrible at sports, how I didn’t bring gym clothes, and how Annabelle is in my PE class this year, all I can really think about is how pissed I am at Mom. This disaster is all her fault.

  Phillips tosses up a Wiffle ball and catches it.

  “Biggie, welcome,” he says. “Glad to see you’re going to join us this year. Technically, I’m not supposed to let you play in school clothes, but I’ll make an exception seeing as how you already owe me a bunch of classes.”

  His smirk is so pretentious that I want to slap him. What’s he all proud about? He didn’t find the note. He’s the idiot I fooled.

  My breathing and sweating pick up. My T-shirt tightens and my jeans, already two sizes too short, bite my ankles and suffocate my knees. My hair starts to itch, making me scratch the center of my head, which only accelerates the sweat dripping down my forehead, cheeks, and chin.

  “Can I be excused?” I finally spit out, knowing it’s a waste of words.

  Coach Phillips grabs my wet hand and places a Wiffle ball in it. “You can pitch, all-time pitcher. All you have to do is stand there and throw the ball. No running at all. You should barely sweat. All right?”

  I grab the ball and notice Killer and Annabelle talking to each other on the pitcher’s mound. Killer tosses another Wiffle ball up and down, and Annabelle tries to steal it from him. Every time she misses, his laugh gets louder, and she shoves his shoulder.

  “Killer, put the ball in the bucket. Biggie’s pitching today,” Coach says.

  “No, Coach, I got it.” Killer turns his head and Annabelle swipes the ball and jumps up and down like a two-year-old after cake and ice cream.

  “Killer, play short; Biggie’s got it,” Coach Phillips orders. “Go get the ball from Annabelle.”

  I’m a statue. Every ounce of my body freezes, even under the ninety-degree heat. Nothing moves, not my hands, feet, or knees. My eyes won’t blink and my lungs don’t pump air. I suddenly feel light-headed. Any moment now, I am going to pass out and land face-first on black asphalt. My head will crack open and blood will surround me like an ocean around a peninsula. In five, maybe ten minutes I will be dead from blunt force trauma and blood loss. The newspaper will run the headline: Boy Dies Playing Wiffle Ball.

  People that are too lazy to read the article will be confused. How does a Wiffle ball kill someone?

  “Biggie!” Annabelle screams. “Are you pitching or not?”

  I nod and she heads to right field. I can’t help smiling as I watch her run away. Her butt looks amazing in those shorts. The grin disappears when I remember that I’m the center of attention. I hate the center; I prefer the back of the room.

  The Wiffle ball has eight oblong holes, each one the width of a dime. To be honest, I have no idea how to throw a Wiffle ball. My hand is sweating so much that I can’t hold the plastic ball tightly in my palm.

  Jet steps up to the plate and pounds the tip of the plastic bat on the asphalt. He sticks his tongue out like a thirsty Labrador and jiggles his elbows.

  What do I do? Should I put the tips of my fingers in the holes? If so, how many fingers? Do I fire the ball like a baseball or flip it up there like a Frisbee? Should I lob it overhand or underhand? Am I supposed to let everyone hit it or should I try to strike everyone out?

  “Biggie, PE is only an hour. Let’s go,” Coach Phillips shouts.

  “Let me pitch, Coach!” Killer yells from shortstop. “He has no idea how to pitch.”

  Jet smiles as he stands near the plate. He knows what’s going to happen. I’m going pitch the ball and he’s going to launch it over the fence. I can already hear all the girls chanting, “We love you, Jet! You’re so amazing!”

  “Today, Biggie!” Coach Phillips yells so loud that the command quiets the chants in my head.

  I decide to fire the ball with two of my fingertips on top of holes. I step forward and throw the ball as hard as possible. The ball flies halfway to the plate and bounces off the black asphalt.

  “Don’t throw it so hard, Biggie,” Jet says. “It’s just PE. Put it right h
ere.” He sticks the bat out to a point where it looks like it’s jutting out from his hip.

  “It’s only PE to the stud athletes. To the rest of us, it’s hell,” I whisper.

  I decide to toss the ball hard again, but with three fingertips on the holes and my thumb on solid plastic. I lift my leg an inch or two off the ground before I throw. The ball flies toward Jet like a drunk bird and then, as if the bird has suddenly died, drops straight toward the ground. Jet leans forward, his shoulders dropping with the plastic bat. Almost falling forward, he hits a ground ball to Killer, who scoops it up and throws him out at first.

  Nice. Three fingers is the way to go. Michelle, junior class president and an awesome softball player, comes up to the plate. She stares out and waves the bat at me. Wow, someone is taking Wiffle ball seriously. She squints as rays from the September morning sun burn her brown eyes.

  I stare at the ball and try to remember where I put my fingers last time. Which holes were they? How much pressure did I place with each finger last time?

  I look at Michelle, lift my leg, and fire the ball. Once again, it looks like a strike, but it dips near the plate. Michelle swings and misses. Chuckles fill the air, along with heckles of “Way to hit air” and “Was the sun in your eyes?” Which is actually a dumb one because it is. In gym there is no catcher, so she has to retrieve the ball and throw it back to me. She fires it with a grunt and the ball flutters like a bee stalking a flower.

  I spin the ball again and put on the fingertip pressure points. The ball seems smaller now, softer. At first, it felt hard, tight, with no bend or give. Now, it fits perfectly in my fat fingers. I toss another pitch and, once again, the ball drops. Michelle doesn’t swing, but Coach Phillips calls the pitch a strike. I smile.

  “Michelle, quit being nice to Biggie and hit it,” says her boyfriend, Kyle, from first base.

  She isn’t being nice as much as she’s being schooled by the Wiffle ball master. I throw another pitch and Michelle hits a high fly ball to right field where three girls stand and text. Becky, whose dad is my boss, sees the ball coming and drops her iPhone. She flinches, closes her eyes, and uses her forearms to trap the ball up against her flat chest. Her elbows snare the ball like two cob holders securing a hot ear. Becky stands there frozen as Annabelle pulls the ball out from between her arms and throws it back to me.

  Batters come and go, and every one either swings and misses or hits a harmless groundout or fly ball. No one reaches first base. Standing on the sidelines in between innings, I’m feeling my confidence grow and I start to fiddle with an extra ball, changing pressure and release points. During the third inning, I even start throwing the ball sidearm. The more I fiddle with my windup, the more freaking stuff the ball does in the air. After a while, I notice that just moving my bottom finger to the left or to the right will make the ball sink or slice or dart to the left or to the right.

  After he grounds out a second time, Jet says, “Is Biggie throwing a perfect game?”

  I am.

  When the first couple of innings ended and my team came to bat, I sat down. I was hot and tired and still mad at Mom. Now, after the third inning, I’m pacing, impatiently waiting to get back out there. My teammates cheer as Killer and Annabelle smack base hits, but I feel frustrated. Inside, I cheer for outs. I want to get back out there and continue my perfect game. Somehow I am excelling in gym just like I would in history or English or science. Now, I’m on a quest. I have to get everyone out or this whole exercise has been a major waste of time.

  After we score five runs, I’m back on the mound. The pacing was a bad idea. I struggle for breath under the blazing sun. My wrists perspire, and the sweat travels down my palm. The ball is wet. I consider acting like a big leaguer and asking for a dry ball. But I keep quiet, dry the ball on my jeans, control my breaths, and ignore the sweat stinging my eyes and concentrate on the task at hand—throwing a perfect game.

  Michelle steps back in. I remember her swinging and missing at a pitch near her aqua-green tennis shoes. She doesn’t like the ball low. I place the pressure points, pressing down on the plastic at the top, bending the globe-shaped ball ever so slightly, and placing my thumb on the very bottom. I only want the ball to drop, no other movement.

  Damn, I wish I had rested during the last half-inning. My legs ache. “Man up,” I whisper. I ignore my body and concentrate on perfection. I lift my leg as high as I can—maybe three inches—and snap my wrist when I release the ball, causing the pitch to spin instead of drop. I let it go wrong. The ball just hangs there and I stop breathing. Michelle swings and hits a line drive to left field. My neck snaps as I follow the line drive.

  Killer reaches out and catches the ball with his right hand. He slides on the asphalt and rolls over with skid marks busting open down his leg. I can almost hear the sizzle like bacon bouncing on a skillet as he slides on the hot surface. He jumps up, shakes off the pain, and screams to Jet, “No one on your team’s going to reach base today.” He flips the ball back at me and gives me a nod. I see blood mixed with small pebbles of gravel on his forearm. He takes a deep breath, rolls his neck, and ignores the little pieces of parking lot trapped in the sticky red substance escaping from a series of tiny cuts.

  “Last batter!” Coach Phillips yells.

  Justin Martinson steps up to the plate. If not for me and my lard ass, he would be the biggest kid in school. But while I say nothing and stay invisible, he’s the class clown. He shakes his big ass to make the girls laugh and invents new sound effects for fake farts to get the guys to applaud and shout. I don’t know what to expect. He might strike out by taking an overexuberant swing or hit a home run.

  Knowing Justin’s the last batter calms me, and I get a second wind. I’m able to take a deep, relaxing breath. I stand upright, feeling confident. I squeeze the Wiffle ball with precision like a nurse taking a pulse. I toss the pitch, releasing the ball just above my head. The ball drops, slices, and hovers in space. Justin swings as hard as he can and yells as loud as he can, but the ball barely bounces off the bat.

  Like a raindrop, the ball drops straight onto the asphalt, bounces twice, and stops just a few inches in front of home plate. With no catcher, I run toward the spinning ball. As I get within stretching distance of the ball, a sharp pain shoots through my chest. My knees buckle, my neck stiffens, and my eyes slam shut. I don’t fall as much as tip over, landing on my right elbow and rolling onto my belly.

  Killer grabs the ball and throws out Justin as the hot asphalt leaves grill marks on my forehead. My breaths become choppy as I try to roll over onto my back. Everyone must be looking on in horror as I vibrate like a fish out of water.

  “Biggie, you okay?” Coach Phillips says and helps me sit up.

  My forearms have stingy pains, and I can’t take a long breath or close my mouth without a lump forming in my throat. As the pain in my chest lessens, the sting from my tears mixed with warm sweat intensifies in my eyes.

  Why did Mom rip up the note? I struggle to get air. I am dying. Right here in the parking lot, right after throwing a perfect game. Why did Coach make me play? He knows I shouldn’t be doing school-based physical activities.

  “You’ll be all right,” Coach says. “Just too much heat.” He rubs my shoulder and Michelle brings me some water. She bends down like a World War II nurse and pours the cold liquid into my mouth.

  As she leans over me, Michelle places her hand on my chin, and I start to feel better. How do I know? Because I start getting turned on. I know it’s sad, but this is the most action I’ve ever gotten from a Finch girl. She pours some water down the back of my neck. The water feels like razor-blade slivers of ice cutting my neck. “That’ll cool you down,” she says.

  My breathing slowly returns to normal and I feel comfortable enough to close my mouth. Coach and Killer help me up. “Everyone hit the showers,” Coach says.

  I sit there with my hands on my knees and try
to take deep, long, consistent breaths.

  Kyle, Michelle, and Annabelle surround me, and Kyle offers a hand to help me up. His Popeye forearms pull me up with little effort.

  “Hell of a game,” Michelle says. “Hey, Coach Phillips, is there room for Biggie on the baseball team this year?”

  “Yeah, I wanna see him pitch!” Annabelle yells.

  “Really?” I whisper so quietly I’m not sure anyone heard it but me.

  “C’mon, guys, you’re going to be late for class,” Coach Phillips says. “Biggie, you can have a few more minutes of fresh air, but don’t take too long.”

  “Coach,” I say. I want to add, Annabelle said I should pitch? But the words settle in my throat. Instead I say, “Thank you. I won’t be long.”

  Chapter 4

  The Baseball-Playing Son

  I lie on my bed and wait for my younger half-brother Maddux to get home from spending the summer traveling with my step-dad. Maddux and I get along pretty well. He’s a cocky little thing who thinks he’s gonna hit seventy home runs in the Major Leagues by the time he’s twenty, but for the most part, he’s all right. My step-dad is a different story.

  In 1990, Jim Kaczor changed the pronunciation of his last name from Kass-sore to Kazer, so that he could go by the nickname Jim “the Laser” Kaczor. He stole thirty-three bases as a senior at Finch High School and helped the Yellow Jackets win a state title, one of ten Finch has won. He has now played professionally for three organizations, including the San Diego Padres, who called him up for four days in 2004. His lifetime batting average is .100: 1-for-10, a single against the Los Angeles Dodgers on September 29. After singling to right field, he was thrown out trying to steal. So the self-proclaimed Laser has the worst possible stolen-base percentage in major league history: .000

  Laser never talks to me. I’m not complaining, just stating a fact. Is it possible for a step-dad to be embarrassed by a child he didn’t procreate? All of the Kaczors are baseball players. They’re royalty in this town. When I was younger, I always thought Laser would adopt me, but he never has. I guess only baseball players in this town can have the last name Kaczor. If he doesn’t want to be my dad, so be it. I don’t care.