by Todd Hafer
“Well, maybe I can say something to him, if that’s okay with you.”
“I guess so. I do wish he knew that I wouldn’t make an error like that, not under normal circumstances.”
Cody stood to go. He felt a flood of words pressing to escape from his mouth. But which ones could he release, and which ones needed to be held back? He remembered all the well-intentioned but stinging clichés people peppered him with in the weeks after his mother’s death—“At least she’s not suffering anymore.” “She’s gone to a better place.” “It was God’s will, and you must not question his sovereign will, young man.” “Cody, you must be grateful for the time you did have with her—some children grow up without a mother.” Or his least favorite—“Your dad is young and quite handsome—he’ll find a new wife soon. Just you wait and see!”
The only guy who always seemed to know the right words to say was Blake.
Blake. Cody smiled as the name flashed in his mind. “Hey, Murph,” he began tentatively, “I don’t want to go giving you advice, because you’re probably getting a lot of that, but can I suggest something?”
“I guess so. I mean, you’re probably the only person in the whole town who knows what this is like.”
“Well, there’s this guy, Blake Randall. He’s cool, and he really helped me when my mom died. He’s still helping me, in fact. He’s the youth director at Crossroads Community, my church, and—”
“Church?”
Cody didn’t like the way the word sounded, coming from Murphy’s mouth. “Uh, yeah.”
Murphy wagged his head slowly. “Look, I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but I don’t need God, man. I need my mom to be well again. I need my mom back.”
Cody nodded. “I understand what you’re saying. When I had to watch my mom die slowly, there were times I didn’t want anything to do with God. Other times I was mad at him. But I found out that when it all went down, I needed him more than ever. So think about talking to Blake. He comes to all our games. He’s the skinny guy with the Yankees baseball cap and the ugly gray shorts. Maybe I can at least introduce you to him?”
“I guess so. But I’m not joining any church or anything.”
“Nobody’s asking you to. I just want you to know that there are people who care. Blake’s one of them. So am I.”
“Thanks, Cody. Now, if you don’t mind—”
Cody headed up the dugout steps. “You need some time alone. I understand.”
The Rockies earned their first win of the season against a team from Maranatha Christian School’s summer program. Brett Evans scattered five hits—all singles—over seven innings in a 7–1 victory. Pork Chop launched his third homer in as many games, and Cody smacked his first extra-base hit of the season, a line drive over the shortstop’s head that led to a stand-up double.
Murphy committed his second error of the season, overrunning a dribbler down the third base line. Cody sprinted in from the outfield to console him when the inning ended. “Those slow rollers are a bear to field,” he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I think in the majors they would have scored that as a base hit.”
After the win at Maranatha, the Rockies dropped a pair of road games, and Coach Lathrop quit talking about getting a win in postseason play. In fact, he quit talking about much of anything.
In the second road loss, the Rockies faced the Braves again. This time their pitcher was Rollins, a lefty with devastating stuff. He repeatedly handcuffed Pork Chop with a wicked backdoor slider and shut down the rest of the Rockies with a missile of a fastball. For good measure, he plunked Cody squarely in the ribs during his last at bat.
Great, Cody thought as he trotted gingerly to first base. The only thing I’m going to lead the team in is bruises.
Chapter 4
Scared to Death
Cody studied the calendar on his bedroom wall, marveling at how fast baseball season was whizzing by—just like a Madison fastball. August 3 was only three days away. Even under normal circumstances, he would have dreaded the date. After all, Lincoln was coming to town. But it also marked one year since his mom spent her last day on earth.
“It’s just a day,” he muttered to himself. “Why be so afraid of it? I mean, why not worry about August second or fourth? What is it about the one-year mark that has me so freaked out?”
He stared at the calendar some more. He thought about finding a black marker and completely filling in the square for that day. “Yeah,” he whispered sarcastically, “like that’s really going to help.”
He grabbed the phone from his nightstand. “Blake,” he said when he heard the voice on the other end of the line, “I gotta see you, because I must be trippin’. I’m scared of my own calendar!”
“Code,” Blake said, putting down his legal pad and stepping from behind his desk, “tell me what’s going on with you and your calendar. I know something’s wrong. You look like you just ate cat food or something.”
Cody drew in a deep breath. “It’s just that I’m dreading something.”
“What?”
“This Saturday.”
“What—you got a big game coming up?”
Cody gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Please, God, he prayed. No more crying. It just takes too much out of me.
Blake was saying something. Cody had missed the first part of it, but now he heard, “I’m sorry, Cody. I just realized. About Saturday. It’s August third. That’s what’s bothering you.”
Cody stared at the ceiling. “Yeah. The one-year anniversary of Mom’s death. I’ve been dreading it for, like, months. ’Cuz I know it’s all going to come back—all the emotions. Especially the sadness I felt when she died. The kind that seems like it’ll totally crush me sometimes. And I know I’ll remember how awkward and painful it was to be around the team, even the people at church.”
Blake smiled sadly. “They treated you differently.”
“Some of them did. It was like I had leprosy or something. Then, with the guys on the team—they didn’t know what to say. I remember Alston and Gage joking around in the van on the way back from this tournament in the Springs. And I’m thinking, How can you be laughing and joking around, you idiots? My mom’s dead! Dead! I wasn’t just mad at them. I was mad at the sun for shining and the birds for singing. I wanted to smack anybody who was smiling.”
Blake nodded. “When my dad died of the heart attack, I wanted to puke every time some bubbly pop song came on the radio. And for the first time in my life, I noticed how fake those laugh tracks on old TV reruns sound. The truth is, I was mad at life simply for going on. I just wanted everything to stop—at least for a while. What I needed was a National Month of Mourning.”
Cody plopped down in a metal folding chair and looked up at Blake. “You know, you’re, like, the only one who seems to understand the way I feel.”
Blake shrugged. “I try.”
“So, it’s been two years since your dad died.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you smiling, B?”
“Because you said the word died. You know, it seems like lots of people are afraid of that word. They say ‘passed away,’ ‘went to his reward,’ or ‘found his rest.’ As if softening the words will soften the pain, alter the reality of what happened.”
“Yeah. But in the end, you die.”
“True. But then you live again.”
“My mom was so sure of that. I have my doubts sometimes. But she knew. She told me that. And she was always honest. When I start to question heaven and everything, I remind myself that my mom would never lie about something that important.”
Blake nodded solemnly.
Cody stood and backed toward the door. “So, I have practice in a few. Before I go, are you going to tell me how I’m going to get through this Saturday, or not?”
“I don’t know, Cody. But I believe God will show you a way. Just as he did for me.”
“How did you do it?”
Blake pointed to the doorway. “That’s a
story for another day. Go to practice. You don’t get to practice much once the season starts, so take advantage of the time. By the way, sorry I couldn’t make your last game. How’s the rib? I heard you got beaned last week.”
Cody shrugged. “It only hurts when I cough. Or laugh.”
Blake nodded.
“Or breathe.”
Blake smiled paternally. “Just stop doing those things and you should be fine.”
“Thanks for your compassion, B.”
“Hey, seriously, I can tape those ribs for you if you want. Remember, I was a trainer for my high school basketball team one year.”
“Aw, I don’t know, man—”
Blake popped to his feet. “Sit down, dude. We have some tape and stuff in the first aid kit. Prepare to be mummified.”
Even with Blake’s “mummy special,” practice brought agony for Cody. He winced every time he threw the ball, and the first time he swung during batting practice, the pain almost robbed him of his breath. It felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into his side.
Coach Lathrop probably would have yelled at him, but he seemed more intent on reading an auto racing magazine while he sat sullenly in the dugout.
Pork Chop approached Cody after practice and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. “Dawg, are you sure you shouldn’t get those ribs X-rayed or something?”
Cody carefully drew in a breath. “Nah, it’s okay. They’re getting better. Yesterday the pain was devastating. Today it’s only excruciating. Besides, I think Dad’s too busy to take me to the doctor. If he’s not working crazy hours, he and Beth are off doing something. Dates or whatever.” Cody sighed heavily. “Date. I hate that word.”
Pork Chop nodded understandingly. “I know that’s gotta be weird to you, my brother. But I bet it’s helping your dad deal with his pain. Love’s good for pain, man.”
The words rang in Cody’s ears.
“Code—dawg,” he heard Pork Chop saying now. “Are you okay?”
Cody blinked. “Huh?”
“Where did you just go in your mind, man? You got this far-off look in your eyes.”
“I guess I was just thinking—wondering.”
“About what?”
“Lots of things. Like why Murph wasn’t at practice today. I’m worried. His mom is sick. Really sick.”
Cody checked phone messages as soon as he got home. The fourth one was from AJ Murphy. His voice was weak and hoarse. “Cody, I just felt like I should call you. She’s gone. My mom’s gone. Would you mind telling Coach? My dad, he’s not doing well. I don’t want to ask him to do anything right now. Anyway, thanks for everything. I gotta go now. Bye.”
Cody burned up the phone lines for the next two hours. Blake was the first call. He promised he would reach out to the Murphy family and work with the people at the funeral home to make arrangements for the service.
Then he tried to call AJ, but no one was answering at the Murphy home. The next day, with the Lincoln game and the Dreaded Anniversary only two days away, Cody learned that the service would be held Sunday afternoon, the day after the game.
That night as he lay in bed, praying for comfort for the Murphys, an idea formed in Cody’s mind. If it hadn’t been 11 p.m., he would have put the plan into action right then. But he knew it would have to wait eight hours.
Cody was stretching out after a five-mile afternoon run with Drew when the doorbell rang. After checking to make sure it wasn’t a guy in a suit peddling some kind of religion, he opened the door.
“Oh, hi, Beth.”
She smiled at him. She smiled too wide. “Hey, Code! Is Luke back from work yet?”
Cody cleared his throat. “My dad isn’t back yet.”
Beth shrugged. “Uh, can I come in?”
Cody stepped back from the door. “Sure. I’m kind of busy, so…uh—”
“It’s okay,” Beth said, stepping across the threshold. “You don’t have to entertain me. I think SportsCenter is on. But what are you so busy with? I thought you’d be watching ESPN.”
Cody looked around, as if seeking a place to run and hide.
“Well—”
Beth giggled. “Well, what? What are you up to that you don’t want to tell me about—something illegal?”
Cody tried to laugh. All that came out was a cough. “No, see, this guy on our baseball team, AJ Murphy—”
“Third baseman. Decent glove. Great arm. I know him from the games I’ve seen. Is he okay?”
“Not really. See, his mom died yesterday. Cancer, you know.”
It looked to Cody that Beth might try to hug him. He crossed his arms across his chest so she’d know not to try.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” she said quietly. “So, what are you busy with—it has something to do with AJ?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Not really. Thanks, though, but I got this one covered.”
“Okay, but you let me know if you think of something I can do.”
Cody shrugged. “Well, I might need a ride to the funeral Sunday afternoon.”
“Done. You just tell me when you need to be there.”
Cody headed for the stairs, then glanced back. “If you and Dad end up having something planned, don’t worry about it. I’m sure I can find a ride somehow.”
Beth shook her head. “We have no plans. And if we did, we’d break ’em. This is important to you. So it’s important to your dad. And to me, too. And it’s not just important to me because of your dad—it’s important to me because of you.”
Cody nodded and bounded up the stairs, three at a time, nearly crying out in pain with each step. He spent another hour on the phone. After making his last call of the day, he hung up. “It’s coming together,” he whispered hopefully. “Please, God, let this plan be what I think it can be.”
Saturday, the one-year anniversary of Linda Martin’s death, brought the Lincoln Lancers to town. “The bad news,” Coach Lathrop told the Rockies before the game, “is that we have to play Lincoln today. The good news is that Madison isn’t pitching. I guess he’s gone the distance in his last two games, and they’re resting his arm for the postseason. He’s gonna play shortstop. So Lincoln will send Locke to the hill instead of Madman.”
“Locke’s no slouch,” Pork Chop whispered to Cody. “I hope he doesn’t remember how you hung that bagel on him during basketball, or he might throw you some chin music.”
Cody rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Chop. I was just feeling good that I wouldn’t have Madman head hunting me today, and now you go and ruin it.”
Locke was no Madison, but he mixed his pitches well, keeping the Rockies off balance with a fastball, slider, curve, and changeup. No one got a hit off him for the first three innings.
For the home team, Bart Evans started off erratically—surrendering two runs in both the first and second innings. But he settled down in the third, sitting the Lancers down in order. Then, after giving up a leadoff walk to open the fourth, he struck out Locke and Madison. He wrapped up the inning by catching the runner at first taking too big a lead. He picked him off, and the Rockies headed to their half of the inning only four runs behind.
Grant quickly closed the gap to one. Gage Mc-Clintock hit a bloop single, advanced to second on Locke’s errant pickoff attempt, stole third, and scored on a sacrifice fly off the bat of Mark Goddard. Locke walked the next batter he faced, and then Alston hit his first homer of the season, a rainbow shot to left.
Bart kept the Lancer batters in check the rest of the way, and the Rockies headed to the bottom of the seventh still trailing only 4–3.
Cody led off the inning, resolving to keep his swing compact to protect his aching ribs. Locke’s first pitch was in on his hands, but he chopped at it anyway, hitting a bouncer to third. As he chugged to first base, he saw the ball take a bad hop and leap above the third baseman’s glove—into his Adam’s apple.
Alston swung on the first pitch he saw, swatting a hard grounder that
looked like it might escape the infield. However, Nelson, the Lincoln first baseman, chased it down, and Locke did a great job of hustling over to cover first. Alston was out by a step, but Cody advanced to second on the play.
Come on, Brett, he pleaded silently as he caught his breath. Just get a base knock and I’ll tie this game for us. A double would be nice. With these ribs, I’m not sure I can score on a single.
Locke’s first two pitches were down in the strike zone, and Brett, not a good low-ball hitter, watched them both without so much as twitching his bat.
“Come on, Brett,” Cody heard Pork Chop holler from the on deck circle, “you gotta go down and get those!”
Locke’s third pitch was low and hard, and Brett, looking more like Tiger Woods than a baseball player, golfed it toward third.
Cody bolted from second the instant he saw Brett make contact. As he labored toward third, he saw Madison standing directly in his way, posed like a statue. Gardener, the Lancer third baseman, was charging forward to snare the ball, but Madison wasn’t moving over to cover the bag for him.
Cody knew a collision was inevitable. He veered slightly to his right, trying to avoid hitting the other player without leaving the base path. He felt his hip strike Madison’s. Madison hit the ground. Cody was knocked off balance for a moment, but he quickly found his stride and dashed to third.
Madison bounced up as if he were made of rubber, and marched toward third. “What was that?” he screamed, his head so close to Cody’s that the brims of their caps almost touched.
Cody shrugged. “I was running a straight line from second to third, and you were planted right in my path. You interfered.”
“What?!”
Cody glanced over his shoulder and saw Gage’s dad, who was coaching third, striding toward them. Then he returned his focus to his opponent. “You heard me, Madison,” he said, fighting to keep his voice from shaking—or shooting up two octaves. “You can’t interfere with the runner. I’m sure you didn’t mean to. After all, you’re more used to pitching than playing short. But still—”
