After the workout, I saw a few of the boys talking to each other by the pull-up bar. One of the taller ones was shoving another guy in my direction. Oh, great! Now what? The kid headed toward me. I pretended to tie my sneakers and not notice him. He sat down on the bench next to me.
“Hey,” he said.
I answered suspiciously, “Hi.”
“So, what are you doing here . . . exactly?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Well, why aren’t you on the softball team?”
Because Sacamore’s framing me—can’t say that, though. I quickly came up with some feminist bull. “Because I don’t play softball, I play baseball. Is there any law against girls playing baseball, or is this America?”
He looked shocked. He was speechless. I was shocked myself that I’d actually said that.
I stood up, grabbed my towel, and headed back to the locker room, trying to hold back the tears. When I reached the locker room, I went into the last bathroom stall, sat down on the floor, and cried. How was I going to play on this team? Not one of these guys wanted me here.
I stayed in the stall until I heard the softball girls filtering back in to take showers. I stood up and brushed myself off, wiping my face with my sweaty shirt. Toughen up, Dresden. I punched the stall door as hard as I could—with my left hand, of course. Stop acting like a girl. I held my head up and walked bravely out of the bathroom.
On Friday, I had another meeting with Sacamore. He was on the phone when I walked in, so I just wandered around the room looking at his weird collection of pictures. Some were in frames, and some were just laying there, their edges beginning to curl. I was still feeling bummed out about the weight room incident on Monday, but I didn’t want Sacamore to know too much. I felt like less of a loser if I made it hard for him to drag information out of me.
I picked up a photograph of a bunch of kids and an older man sitting in a boat docked on the beach. I figured it must be Sacamore and his family when he was a kid. The side of the boat said “OCBP.”
“Okay, thanks for calling. Talk to you soon,” Sacamore said and hung up the receiver.
“Is this Ocean City?” I asked, walking toward him with the picture.
He took a peek. “I don’t know. Could be, I guess.”
“You were too young to remember?”
He stood up and moved toward the wall of photographs. “No, I’m not in that picture.”
“Oh, who are they?”
“You got me. I just like the picture.”
I placed the picture back on its shelf. “Okay,” I said, waiting for him to say something more while I shook my head. This guy got weirder and weirder. “So why do you have it?” I said after a long stretch of silence.
He straightened a few of the pictures that were about to slide off the shelves. He smiled at one of them. “This one’s cute,” he said, showing me a picture of a black puppy.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “So why do you have these pictures?”
“Students like to look at them, and I can tell a lot about the kids by the ones they ask me about.”
I was still holding the boat picture. “Oh yeah, like what?” I asked, putting the picture back down.
He immediately picked it up. “Well, what was interesting to you about this picture?”
This guy was sneaky. But I played along. “I guess they look like they’re all having fun,” I said, walking over to take another look at it. “A group of kids and the dad enjoying the day.”
“How do you know the man is the dad?”
“Just assumed. You know, kids on the beach . . . usually a parent would be there.”
“Do you have any pictures like this?” he asked.
I sighed, sitting down in the brown corduroy chair. “Not that I know of.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Umm, ’cause we never go anywhere together as a family, and I don’t have ten friends,” I said, feeling pissed. “Is that what you wanna hear?”
He paused for a while and looked at me. “Taylor, I’m not your enemy. We’re just talking . . . Did something happen this week to upset you?”
“Just boys giving me some sh—” I cleaned up my words quickly, remembering I was in school. “Just guys on the team, asking what I was doing there and why I wasn’t playing softball. You know—typical macho guy stuff.”
He nodded. “Just remember, they’re as confused and afraid of you as you are of them.”
“Yeah, I bet,” I said sarcastically.
“It’s true. It’s easier to say you don’t like the new person than to take the time to get to know what they’re all about. That’s why in movies, aliens are always bad guys. Unfortunately, humans tend to fear differences instead of embracing them. You’re different, Taylor, but eventually, that’s what you’ll find comfort in.”
Huh? My brain was swelling—Sacamore and his philosophies. Maybe someday I’d know what the heck he was talking about. But, for now, the bell was ringing and I said my goodbyes. As I closed the door behind me, I had to swallow the lump in my throat. It seemed as if I’d had the same lump stuck in there since I first met Sacamore.
The next week flew by. I practiced with the team every day after school and met with Sacamore again on Friday to “talk.” I wasn’t sure if the talking was helping, but all the practicing made me too tired to think about how crappy my life was, so that was good. I stuck mostly with one catcher during practice—Louis. He didn’t really have a choice about catching for me, and he was low on the boys’ popularity scale, so he wasn’t a complete jerk to me. The coaches kept watching me closely, and I often saw Sacamore monitoring me from the dugout, casually questioning the coaches.
On the last practice day before our first game, I was in the locker room, packing up my gear, when Trudy Harris started talking to me again as if we were best buddies. It was probably because I was the only one left in the aisle, and she needed a warm body. Trudy was a little on the chubby side, and she was at least a foot shorter than I was. She was reaching up to her locker while trying to put her shoe on with the other hand. It was kind of a circus act.
“Hey, Taylor, right?” she asked.
I looked up from the bench and said sarcastically, “Yeah. Trudy, right?”
“Uh-huh. Good memory,” she said. “So is that guy Justin your boyfriend?”
This was amusing. “Justin?”
“Yeah, the guy with the longish hair, who’s really sweet?”
She thought Justin was sweet. Wait until I told him that. “You think Justin is sweet?”
“Oh, sure. I mean, he’s one of those guys who looks kind of scary, with the dark grungy clothes and all, but in chemistry class, he always helps people out. One time, when we were lab partners, he cleaned my whole station.” She moved closer to me and sat down. “I always see you with him, so I figured you were a couple.”
A couple? I’d never thought about Justin that way. He was just a great friend. Was she asking me to hook her up with him? I hated when Justin had a girlfriend. The last girl he went out with was a real pain, and I hardly ever got to see him when they were dating. I couldn’t let that happen again. “Are you interested in him?” I said.
Shaking her head, she answered, “Oh, no way. He’s not my type. I’ve got my eye on this guy who’s on the student council, actually. I was just curious about the two of you.”
I responded quickly, “Well, we’re just really good friends. We’ve known each other all our lives.”
She fiddled with her lock. “Too bad,” she said as she got up to close her locker. “I think you guys would make a cute couple.”
Did she just use the words “cute couple” and me in the same sentence? This girl was a loon.
“Well, I have to get going,” she said, throwing her bag over her shoulder. “I’ve got to feed my new kitty. He’s so adorable,” she squealed. “Do you like cats?”
I thought about the kitten I’d found in the yard a couple weeks ago. “
Sure. In fact, I found a stray a few weeks ago, but I haven’t seen him since. My dad wouldn’t let me keep one anyway.”
“It wasn’t an orange tabby, was it?”
“Yeah, actually,” I said, surprised.
“One white foot?”
“I think so.”
She laughed and nodded her head. “That was definitely my Trixie. He runs away like every other night. I think your house is only a few blocks from me.”
I nodded, though I had no idea where she lived. I was happy that the kitten was okay, but kind of pissed that it belonged to Trudy.
“You should come over and see him sometime,” she suggested.
Leaning down to tie my shoes, I gave my usual response. “Maybe.”
“Remember, next week after games, we do pizza at Lou’s Place.”
I just nodded. Sure.
After she left, I thought about what she’d said. Justin and I a couple? Funny. I considered telling Justin about the conversation, but I figured nothing good could come of it. Either he’d laugh and say, “Yeah, right? Me and you, a couple?” Or he’d say . . . What would he say? Was the idea that crazy?
CHAPTER 7
Evansville High School’s varsity baseball team was famous for only one thing—losing. They hadn’t had a winning record for the past ten years. It was one of those losing streaks that seemed to last forever. Today—the first game of the season—we were playing Highland Regional. Though it was still April, it was a hot, humid day.
I was hanging out in the locker room before the game, dressed in my uniform, staring at myself in the mirror. Uniforms didn’t lie. I really was on the baseball team. And I was afraid to go out to the field.
“Looking good, Taylor,” Trudy Harris said as she pulled her hair into a ponytail. “Your uniform is so much better than ours. You have real jerseys. All we get are these cheap t-shirts. I’m so jealous.” She pulled on her t-shirt. “Why’d you pick number 8?”
I slapped my hand against my glove and answered, “Eh, no reason. Just a number, I guess.” But I did have a reason. I had been eight years old the last time I’d played baseball on a real team. And I was eight the last time I’d felt sure about myself. I’d give anything to be eight again. Of course, I couldn’t throw like this when I was eight.
I started to feel a small thrill run through me. Though I wasn’t scheduled to pitch today, I felt it—the feeling that made you all of a sudden run as fast as you could . . . the feeling you got when your favorite team scored that winning run . . . Okay, now I was ready to venture out of the locker room.
Trudy and the softball team were also heading out. “Wait up,” I yelled to Trudy. I figured I could walk out with them and not look so lonely.
I jogged to the dugout on our field.
“Okay, everybody get in here and sit down,” Coach was yelling. “Time for the first game talk.”
I was trying to squeeze onto the bench, but no one was making room for me. The coach, standing with his hands on his hips, was eyeing me impatiently. Every time I’d try to sit, someone would move to block the space. It was like a bad game of musical chairs, and I was the only one still standing.
“Dresden, find a seat,” Coach said quickly.
My efforts to get onto the bench were still being blocked by the boys.
“Whatever it takes, Dresden. Get a seat,” said a very frustrated Coach. “Do it!” He was raising his voice now.
I was so embarrassed. I had to get a seat before my face turned purple. I spotted Joey Zeigler. He was a really short kid who lived next door to Justin. He reminded me of my little brother. I aimed right for him.
“Excuse me,” I said and shoved his leg over with my glove, forcing him sideways. All the boys cracked up.
“Hey, Zeigler, she played you!” someone yelled.
The coach was pissed. “I don’t know what you guys are laughing at! You think that’s funny? No one here has proven themselves to me yet. I don’t care if you’re male or female, or blue or green. This is a team, and if we’re going to turn this team around, then you’d better start acting like one. If anyone has a problem with that, please speak up now.”
No one said a word. I thought I’d stopped breathing. I knew they didn’t like me. They looked at their feet and gloves. No one looked at me. I’d never felt so uncomfortable. For a moment, I wished I was on the softball team—but just for a moment. And then the game began.
Watching from the dugout was a thrill. I could hear everything the players said on the field. The “tink” sound the aluminum bat made when a player hit the ball was ringing in my ears. Just the thought I was going to pitch the next game was keeping me interested.
The team’s performance, however, was disappointing. By the middle of the second inning, we were already down by two runs. Carlos Fiero was pitching for us and came into the dugout cursing and kicking at things. I remained quiet and sat at the very end of the bench. Rick Bratton was up at the plate, and he actually got a hit—our first of the game.
“All right, Rick,” the guys yelled as he rounded first.
I didn’t feel like I was allowed to cheer for any of my teammates. But I wanted us to win. Unfortunately, we lost 6-3. I walked back to the locker room in my clean uniform. I knew that if we were going to win the next game, I’d have to be really good. Obviously, this team wasn’t good at scoring runs, and because of the lack of quality pitchers, I was in the regular rotation. When I pitched, I’d just have to keep the other team from scoring any runs.
CHAPTER 8
The Friday after our first home game was another Sacamore day. When I got to his office, he was sipping his herbal tea and fooling around with the CD player on his computer. The herbal tea smelled like honey and apples, and it made my stomach growl. I eyed the dish of chocolates on his desk.
Sacamore took another sip of tea. “Thirsty, Taylor? I could make you a cup if you’d like.”
I still wasn’t sure about this guy. “No thanks,” I said. “But can I have a piece of candy?”
“Of course,” he said, pushing the dish toward me.
I gulped down a piece and wished I could take another. But I didn’t want Sacamore to think we were buddies or anything.
As usual, he was chipper. “So, I hear you’re pitching the next game.”
“Yeah.”
He finally stopped fiddling with the computer and turned toward me. “Are you nervous?”
I was so nervous I hadn’t slept in days. “A little,” I said.
“Hmm. Well, how about I tell you a story? It might make you feel better.”
“Sounds good to me. I always feel like I’m the one who has to talk in here.”
He laughed and pushed the dish of chocolates toward me. “You just sit and relax.”
I took another piece of candy and settled myself comfortably in the overstuffed couch.
“I grew up in Michigan—East River, a little town by the lakes. The only good thing about the town was that it was so cold, the lakes were always frozen over.”
“That’s a good thing?” I chimed in.
“I thought you were just listening,” he said, pretending to be annoyed.
“Sorry.” I rolled my hand for him to continue and then unwrapped another piece of candy.
“Anyhow, it was good for me because I loved to play ice hockey. My older brother was always on the lake with his friends, and I was always begging him to let me play with them. But he said I had to be at least ten before the guys would let me play.”
I put my feet up on the coffee table, trying to see how much Sacamore would let me relax. “Thrilling story so far, Mr. Sacamore,” I said sarcastically.
He got up from his desk and sat next to me on the couch. “I’m getting to the point. Take a chill pill.”
He was so corny, but I was entertained and comfortable.
“So, finally, the day came. I turned ten on February 18th—in the dead of winter. As usual, the lake was frozen. I suited up, taped up my stick, and followed my brother ou
t the door that morning. He warned me about certain guys I should stay away from, and told me to always keep my head up. That was his phrase—‘Keep your head up, Luke.’ I can still hear him saying it.”
His first name was Luke. Weird. “So, what happened?” I asked.
“Oh, so now you’re interested?”
I smiled and tested him with, “Come on, Luke.”
He pointed his finger at me. “Watch it, sister.”
“Sorry. Go ahead, Mr. Sacamore,” I said and bowed in his direction.
“That’s enough candy for you,” he said, sliding the dish away from me. “So, I got down to the lake. The guys let me play on my brother’s team. As soon as they dropped the puck, I skated like a madman toward it, but I forgot what my brother had said, and I didn’t see Wayne Bracco coming at me from the right. Blam!” He stood up and pretended he was checking me into the boards. “I fell flat on my face. My front tooth went sliding across the ice, leaving a thin trail of blood.”
“Ooh, that must’ve hurt,” I said, wincing.
“You bet your butt it hurt.”
“So, then what happened?” I asked. “You played anyway and scored the winning goal?”
“Nope. I started crying, and my brother had to take me home,” he said, leaning back on the couch.
I was confused. I’d thought this story would have some great moral that was going to help me with my game. I shook my head and asked, “That’s it? That’s the whole story?”
“Pretty much.”
“I don’t get how this story is supposed to help me with my pitching today.”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I learned something that day.”
“What?” I asked, waiting for the big lesson.
“Even though I lost my tooth and only played for ten seconds, it didn’t change the fact that I loved hockey. Messing up out there couldn’t take away the thrill of finally getting the chance to play. It couldn’t take away the feelings I had all those years of wanting to get out on the ice. And that’s what sports are all about—the desire to try, not whether you win or lose.”
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