Thrown a Curve

by Sara Griffiths

  “So, you’re out of practice. You can brush up after a little time playing.”

  “I don’t want to play!” I screamed. “I hate the game, and I’m not doing it!”

  “Why, T? What’s the big deal?”

  I was getting more and more upset. “You don’t understand, okay?” I was practically screaming at my best friend.

  He moved closer to me and put a light hand on my arm, trying to calm me down. Suddenly, I felt strangely weak and female, and pulled my arm away nervously.

  “So, explain it to me, then,” he said. “From what I remember, you’re pretty good. You played when we were kids and—”

  “Forget it,” I said, heading toward the staircase. “I’m going to lie down. I feel sick to my stomach.” I began to go up the stairs. “I’m not playing. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Taylor, I don’t think you really have a choice,” he said, sounding concerned. “Sacamore handed you a gift with this, so accept it. I mean, really . . . consider the alternative.”

  I didn’t answer him, but I did consider the alternative, which would make life with Dad even worse, if that was possible.

  Justin watched me walk up the stairs before letting himself out.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next few days were total torture for me. All I could think about were the tryouts on Thursday. I couldn’t sleep or eat. I couldn’t decide if I should blow the tryouts or actually try to pitch my best. Would Sacamore know if I wasn’t trying? He did see me throw at the carnival.

  I didn’t want to play, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of the coaches and students. Being on a team again wouldn’t be too bad—it forced people to kind of be friends with you—but Rick would probably make sure no one talked to me.

  By late Wednesday night, I still hadn’t made a decision. I was wandering around the kitchen about ten o’clock, and my dad, as usual, was in the den reading. I munched on a piece of bread with peanut butter and stood outside the room, silently watching.

  Dad always looked tired. In fact, I almost never saw him sleeping. He was up in the morning before me, and stayed up late into the night. I wasn’t sure if he slept at all. He probably wasn’t even human.

  Dad was sitting at his desk with his reading glasses on the tip of his nose. He was forty-five years old, and he still had a full head of hair, but it was almost all gray, with only a few streaks of brown left. To me, he looked cold and mean—and he was. No matter what good things I did, nothing was good enough for him. Maybe this time he would be impressed with me. Baseball was the one thing he actually seemed to enjoy.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said, walking into the den.

  “You still up?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the book.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Uh-huh,” he mumbled.

  A few moments passed, and I could tell he wasn’t going to ask me why I couldn’t sleep. I figured I had to tell him about the tryouts, in case I ended up playing on the team or dying from humiliation.

  “I’m trying out for the baseball team tomorrow,” I said quietly. “Pitcher.”

  Still engrossed in his reading, he said, “Don’t be silly, Taylor. It’s late. Go to bed.”

  “But Dad, I’m serious. I—”

  “Taylor, it’s late. I have a lot to finish here.”

  Throwing my hands up in frustration and slumping up the stairs, I went into my room and sat down in front of the mirror. I stared at my long, stringy brown hair. Dad never listened to me. He never said anything when I got good grades. He never said anything when I cleaned around the house. He never hugged me goodnight. He didn’t care if I played baseball.

  I reached into my top desk drawer and pulled out the scissors. I began chopping off chunks of my hair—big chunks. He cared when my brothers played. More hair fell to the floor. Hot tears streaked down my face. He didn’t love me. No one even cared that I was alive.

  By this time, my hair was sticking out in every direction, like a punk weirdo’s. Oh well, I had to wear a baseball cap anyway. I suddenly felt exhausted as I stared at my mowed hair in the mirror. But I felt better. For some reason, I fell asleep that night as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  Thursday morning, I got up early and stuffed some gym stuff in my book bag. I didn’t own a baseball glove, so I slipped into Brian’s old room to find one. He was a freshman in college now, and Dad kept his room the way he’d left it. Brian came home only on the holidays, mostly to add to the laundry piles. Brian didn’t play ball any more, which I thought made Dad mad. I peeked under the bed—nothing but dust bunnies.

  I headed for the closet and opened the door, smelling the musty leather. I dug through the dingy sneakers and crumpled baseball cards. At the bottom of the mess, I unburied an old glove. It was as flat as a pancake and faded with age, but I picked it up and held it like it was a priceless vase. I slipped it onto my left hand and felt the soft bumps of the worn leather inside. This will do, I thought as I slammed my right hand into the glove’s pocket.

  I hurried down to the kitchen and grabbed a cereal bar from the cabinet. At the counter, my younger brother Danny was eating a large bowl of fruity cereal while Dad sipped coffee and looked out the kitchen window.

  Danny stared at me, his mouth wide open. “Taylor, your hair is crazy!”

  Dad turned his head to look at me.

  Laughing, I said, “Yeah, Danny, maybe I could borrow one of your baseball hats.”

  “I don’t know if that’s gonna help,” he said, “but I’ll get you one.” He scooted off his chair and loped toward the hall closet. Danny was always able to smile through anything. He didn’t know Dad hated me, and I never had the heart to tell him. Dad was his hero, and sometimes I thought I was the second person he worshipped. Now that Brian was out of the house, everything I did was the coolest. My biggest fan was a ten-year-old kid.

  Dad took a long look at me. He reached into his pocket and handed me a few bills. “For lunch . . . and a little something extra for a new hat,” he said, shaking his head as he walked into the den.

  I smiled as I looked at the money. At least he noticed. “Forget the hat, Danny. I’ll buy my own,” I yelled, running out the back door.

  I hurried toward town so I could buy a new hat before school started. Along the way, people gave me some odd looks. I must’ve looked insane. I shuffled into the Sports Depot store that had just opened. I stood in front of the wall of baseball hats, trying to decide which one to buy. I’d never been a fan of one team in particular, though my dad and brothers were hardcore Yankees fans. I moved along the wall. Tigers? Giants? There were also hats with silly pictures and phrases, like “Number One,” and “Over the Hill.” Then I saw it—the perfect one for me. I reached up, pulled the pink hat from the wall, and took it to the register.

  “Would you like a bag?” the cashier asked.

  “Nope, I’m gonna wear it,” I answered, pointing to my hair and making the man smile and nod.

  I bent the brim, folded the hat in half a couple times, plopped it on my head, and walked toward school. On the way, I passed a couple of fourth graders. They pointed to my hat and read the logo aloud, “Girls Rule.”

  When I got to school, Justin was waiting for me at my locker. I took off the baseball cap and shook my head.

  He looked at my hair and smiled. “Love the hat. And please, I must have the name of your stylist.”

  We both laughed.

  “I guess you’re ready for the tryouts then,” he said.

  “I’m nervous as spit, actually,” I told him.

  Trying to lighten the mood as we walked to first period, Justin said, “I didn’t know spit got nervous.”

  I laughed. “Oh, it does. It certainly does.”

  “Well, I’ll be there to cheer you on,” he said, jumping around like a cheerleader. “We’ve got spirit, how ‘bout you?” he yelled, pointing at me and getting kneed in the stomach by someone passing through the hallway. It always amazed me that Justin never got embar
rassed. And it seemed as if he was immune to people bullying him, too. I wished I could be more like him.

  I pulled him to his feet and dragged him away from the group of students who’d stopped to watch his performance. “Justin, knock it off,” I whispered, my face hot with embarrassment.

  “Relax. I’m just warming up for later.”

  I shook my head. “Justin, you’re not really coming, are you?”

  “Abso-frickin’-lutelty,” he answered. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t, okay? I mean, it’s not that big a deal. I’ll be fine. It’ll make me more nervous if you’re there. Besides, I don’t exactly know what I’m going to do yet.”

  “What do you mean do?” Justin asked.

  “If I suck, then Sacamore can’t force me to play, so maybe I’ll just kind of blow it on purpose,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  Justin looked disappointed. “T, that’s dumb,” he said. “Why would you do that? Geez, for once in your life . . .” He stopped talking and quickened his pace to get ahead of me.

  I hurried to keep him from passing me. “For once in my life what?” I asked.

  The bell for first period rang. We were standing outside my Bio class, but I waited for his answer. He sighed and looked up, keeping his eyes away from me. “For once in your life, stand up for yourself, and do something to make yourself happy. Sometimes, I just don’t get why you keep yourself in this dark hole, and, uh . . . I don’t know, Taylor . . .” He stopped and tried to find the words. “I have to go,” he said as he walked away with a sullen look on his face that I’d never seen before.

  I sat down in class and wondered what that whole thing was about. I’d always thought Justin was against school sports and school spirit. What had gotten into him?

  After eighth period, I hurried to the girls’ locker room. No one was there because softball tryouts were on a different day, but I saw tons of boys pushing into the boys’ locker room. Some of them were big and looked a lot older than me.

  I walked into the locker room and found the locker I usually used for Phys Ed. I pulled on a pair of black sweats cut off below the knee, a soft, gray sleeveless t-shirt, sneakers, and, of course, my new hat. I stared at myself in the full-length mirror. I looked like an eight-year-old. The hat that had seemed like comic relief this morning now felt embarrassing. I turned it backward, then frontward again. Then I tossed it in an empty locker.

  Maybe Mr. Sacamore wouldn’t show up. He hadn’t talked to me since Monday, so maybe he’d forgotten. But as I exited the locker room, my glove in hand, I saw Mr. Sacamore in the gym talking to the coaches. He remembered, all right.

  When I entered the gym, I felt a lot of eyes watching me. The head varsity coach, Mr. Perez, was yelling, “All students trying out, sit on the bleachers. Come on, people. Let’s move it!”

  I sat a few rows up, a good distance away from the boys. I felt safer being able to see everyone. I kept my head down, so if people were looking my way, I wouldn’t see them.

  It was obvious that Sacamore had talked to Mr. Perez about me. The coach started off by saying, “Okay, people, none of you are on the team yet. This is tryouts, and everyone’s allowed to at least try out.” He probably said that to keep anyone from asking, “Why is that girl here?”

  Mr. Perez paced in front of us on the gym floor. “Some of you may make the junior varsity team, or, if we’re really impressed, the varsity team. We’re going to start with a warm-up run around the field, and then we’ll have a short practice game. If I give you a red shirt, you’re on the red team. No shirt, you’re on the white team. I think we’ve all done this in gym class, so you know the drill.”

  He called out names and tossed out red shirts. “Banno, Shratter, Cominski . . .” I didn’t get one. “Everyone else is the white team.” Coach Perez then gave a little speech about trying our best and all that stuff. Finally, he said, “Let’s head out!”

  We sounded like a herd of elephants as all the boys, and me, hustled toward the gym doors. When we got to the fence, we all lined up against it. The coach pointed to the field. “Two laps around, and it’s not a race. Just get yourselves warm!”

  Warm? I was already sweating like a pig. As we ran our laps, I tried to keep up with the middle pack of boys. I wasn’t going to sprint ahead like the three showoffs in front. One of the boys in the lead pack yelled back, “You all run like a bunch of girls!”

  “Real original,” I said, loud enough for a few boys running near me to hear. One laughed, but the others just picked up the pace.

  As they trotted ahead of me, I heard one of them say softly, “What’s she doing here, anyway? Everyone knows girls can’t play as well as we can. It’s like a scientific fact.”

  He was probably right. Why did I agree to try out? Most likely, I was just going to humiliate myself.

  After the laps, we were directed to the dugout area. There were probably forty boys trying out, so we couldn’t all fit on the bench. I got stuck outside the dugout, and had to crouch down to see Coach Perez as he explained our next activity.

  “This is my assistant coach, Coach Jefferson. He’ll be in charge of the white team. I want everybody on the white team to head over to the visitors’ dugout. He’ll ask you what position you want to play, and you might or might not get it today. Not everyone can play first base. All positions are important, so take what you get.”

  “All right,” Coach Jefferson said, “let’s go.”

  All of us on the white team took seats in the visitors’ dugout. I was still avoiding contact with everyone, and they seemed to be doing the same with me. The only kid who sat near me was Glenn, an overweight kid who was the last one to finish the laps around the field.

  “I’ll come by and give you an armband with a number to wear,” Mr. Jefferson told us. “Please tell me what position you’re trying out for, and then find someone to warm up with.”

  I watched Mr. Jefferson coming down the line. He gave out numbers and assigned outfield to everyone who didn’t know what position they wanted. He was a tall, dark-skinned man with a Jamaican accent. Or at least I thought it was Jamaican. He was a lot younger than Coach Perez, and he gave me a huge smile when he got to me. It seemed like he was genuinely impressed I was sitting there, the only one wearing a bra in the whole group. “Okay, you’re number ten. What position?”

  “Pitcher,” I stammered, reaching for my armband.

  “Pitcher? . . . Okay. Uh, Fields!” he yelled at one of the guys heading out to the field. “You’re up for catcher, so warm up with number ten here.” He looked back at me. “Go warm up with Fields. You’ll pitch the second inning—maybe more. We don’t have many pitchers. Good luck.”

  Great. Dave Fields—Mr. Popularity, good-looking, smart, athletic. I sat behind him in Bio, where he never talked to me. I’m sure he was dying to play catch with me, the crazy-haired girl. As I walked toward him, his buddies snickered and turned their eyes away from me.

  Fields was always the polite, kiss-ass type, and was probably trying to get on Jefferson’s good side. Handing me the ball, he said, “I’ll go down by the fence, and you can throw a few.” He jogged off toward the fence, making a cross-eyed face to his friends as he went. I felt like a circus act.

  All right, just get it to him. Don’t try to throw fast, just straight. I paused a bit to focus on pitching.

  “Okay, ten, I’m ready. Pitch one in!” Fields yelled.

  I didn’t wind-up—I just lightly tossed the ball to him. I felt so uncomfortable, I was tempted to run away and never come back to school again. But the ball made it to the catcher. Fields, looking bored and unimpressed, tossed it back. This time I wound up, still not trying to throw hard. Just get it in his glove, I kept saying to myself. My second throw was a little outside, but it was close. Throwing hard was easy for me, but hitting targets was a little trickier.

  Just when I was starting to feel comfortable, Coach Perez yelled, “Okay, let’s get started. White team, you’re up
. Reds, take the field.”

  I jogged into the dugout and took a seat. Jefferson had said I’d pitch second inning. Great! I’d thrown two whole pitches. I was so not warm. I stuck my arm underneath a pile of towels. Maybe that would get the blood flowing.

  Wait a minute, I thought. I want to blow this tryout. Why am I taking things so seriously? All I have to do is look like I’m trying my best for Sacamore, and then I can get out of here . . . and go home . . . to my empty room . . . and to my dad, who ignores me.

  The first inning went by quickly. My red team scored a run on an error by the shortstop. When we were up again in the second, luckily, I didn’t have to bat—Jefferson had said the coaches wanted to see as many players as possible, so pitchers wouldn’t bat. I love American League rules!

  But our team went three up and three down in our half of the inning. The red team had a pretty good pitcher. Now it was my turn. As I jogged toward the mound, my legs were shaking—I hoped no one could see that.

  As I reached the mound, the first batter, Jon Dunn, was heading to the plate. Breathing heavily, I turned away from him, glancing toward the bleachers and wondering what to do. Should I throw my curve or hang a meatball? And then I saw my answer.

  Despite what I’d said, Justin had come to watch. He was standing on the top row of the bleachers, wearing an Evansville High sweatshirt.

  “Let’s go, white team. Kick some butt!” he yelled and clapped, smiling right at me. I sucked back a smile. Even though I’d told him not to come, I felt better with him up there. At least people would know I wasn’t a complete outcast. I did have one friend. Justin was the best guy in the world. He knew exactly how to make me feel better in any situation.

  “Batter up!” someone yelled.

  I turned to face Dunn and just sort of let the ball go. It was fast—really fast—but sailed way over the catcher’s head.

  Oops. Dunn shook his head, looking impatient.

  I took a deep breath. I thought about the old days of league baseball—when I cared about nothing but having fun, when I was thrilled to get that jersey with my number eight on the back. I remembered after the games, waiting in the snack bar line with the whole team, still in uniform, so we could get our free snow cones. I really loved everything about baseball back then. As I wound up for the next pitch, I tried to be that girl—the girl with guts who was too young to know she had any.