by Tim Green
Brock positioned his foot on the mound, just like Coach taught him for a stretch windup. As a lefty, it was easy to make staring at first base part of his windup, and even though there was no runner on base now, Coach instructed him to do so to solidify the habit. He turned and looked at the plate where a batter had stepped into the box. Brock’s stomach clenched and his head swam in a dizzy soup. He hadn’t expected this. Suddenly, somehow, with a live batter standing there, everything was different. His mouth went as dry as the dust he scuffed with his shoe.
His lips trembled and his arm suddenly felt limp, his legs like rubber.
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Brock couldn’t help looking at Coach with desperation.
Coach’s mouth became an unfeeling flat line. He nodded his head, just once, and hard enough to hammer a nail. Brock knew he had to try. He looked at first base again, then the batter, then went into his windup.
The ball whistled with speed. The catcher leaped from his stance, reaching his glove for the sky. The pitch crashed into the chain-link backstop with a sound like cymbals. Dylan squawked out loud from second base. Behind him, and from the bench, laughter bubbled, then went out as the other boys choked back their mirth. Coach’s jaw quivered and his mouth stayed tight.
“Settle in, Brock. Just settle in.” Bella’s words of encouragement only confounded him more.
The catcher retrieved the pitch and tossed back the ball. Brock set his jaw and went into his windup again, this time trying to do it faster, hoping in his rush he’d just naturally fall into the rhythm he’d established in Coach’s backyard. The pitch came off his fingers too late. The ball hit the dirt in front of the plate, nicking its front edge and popping straight up into the air.
On its way down, the batter took an easy swing and hit it to Bella, who scooped it up and tossed it around the bases.
More laughter.
As the haze of humiliation cleared in his head, he realized with even more dread that Coach was on his feet and headed out to the mound.
Brock stood scuffing the dust with his toe and kicking at the edge of the rubber slab.
“Okay, what’s on your mind?” Coach sounded impatient.
Brock looked up and scowled. “Honestly? I’m thinking about BoBo.”
“Bo-what?”
“BoBo. He’s a turtle I used to have. And I miss him. I have no idea who’s feeding him. He might be dead.”
Coach screwed up his face and grabbed Brock’s arm, pulling him close. “Don’t toy with me. What are you doing?”
“It’s not working.” Brock growled. He really didn’t care if Coach was mad. He was ready to walk away. The whole thing felt ridiculous and his father was likely to squash it anyway.
“Do you want to quit?” Coach kept his voice hushed, but bursting with fury. “All the talent you have and you’d walk away because it doesn’t just fall into place.”
Brock wanted to tell him that nothing ever fell into place like that for him, and when things finally did fall into place, they were swept aside like a sand castle in the surf.
“It’s just not the same, Coach. I can’t explain it.”
“It’s the batter, right?”
Brock hesitated. “I think so.”
Coach turned away, muttering to himself. The other players stood still on the field because no one knew what was happening and no one knew what to do next. Coach marched right past the bench and out into the parking lot to his car. He flung open the door and bent down to remove something from the console between the seats. With whatever it was he picked up in his hand, Coach slammed the door and marched over to home plate. Coach Centurelli stood there with his black umpire’s chest protector, and with his facemask cocked up onto his head.
Coach steadied Coach Centurelli with his left hand, and with his right, he drew a large white chalk square on the black chest plate, then said something to Coach Centurelli no one could hear. Coach walked about ten feet away from the plate and turned to Brock.
“Try that!” he shouted. “Just try.”
Coach Centurelli squatted behind the catcher, the white square in full view except for the bottom edge. Brock laughed to himself, jammed his foot against the mound, stared at first base, then the batter, then wound up and threw.
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The batter swung and got nothing but air.
The ball hit the catcher’s mitt like a firecracker.
“Ouch!”
Brock snorted.
“Again.” Coach had his arms folded across his chest and spoke like he was daring Brock.
He snagged the ball from the catcher, wound up, and threw another burner.
SMACK.
And so it went.
No one could hit Brock’s pitches.
By the end of the scrimmage, the other players were cheering if someone just nicked his pitch. That was the best they could do.
Afterward, as the sun dipped behind the trees, Dylan Edwards stomped off toward the parking lot, but two other boys asked Brock if he was doing anything later that night. He gave them the answer he’d been taught over the years: Thanks, but I have stuff to do for my dad around the house. Work and a strict father scared almost everyone off.
Almost.
When everyone but the two coaches and Bella were gone, Brock wandered over to where she sat. Coach was having a mini conference with Coach Centurelli on the visitors’ bench, and Bella seemed to be waiting for him.
“So, teammates, huh?” Brock held out a hand and they bumped fists before he sat down next to her. “Although, Dylan doesn’t seem to think so.”
“You’re his worst nightmare,” she said.
“Me? Why?”
She nodded. “The best baseball players around all try out for the Titans. They win like . . . everything. National titles and stuff.”
Bella lowered her voice. “Liverpool Elite? I don’t know. Everyone blames Coach, and I know he has some . . . problems, but he can still coach. I think it’s the players. We get the guys who can’t make the Titans, and I think they think they’re losers, so they lose. You know what I mean?”
“Yup.” Brock did know. “So, why am I a nightmare?”
“Well, Dylan made the Titans team, but he was the last pitcher in their seven-man rotation, so . . .”
“He thought he’d be the ace pitcher for Liverpool Elite.” Brock scratched his scalp under the sweaty hat band. “The kid everyone would talk about.”
“Until he saw you today.” Bella patted him on the back. “Still, you got to try to get along. He’s your teammate.”
He nodded.
“Hey,” Bella said, turning to him, “my aunt Margaret says you eat her cookies like they’re popcorn.”
“Yeah. They’re good.”
“Want some?” she asked. “My parents went to visit my grandparents in Albany. I’m having dinner with Coach and Aunt Margaret. You can make it up to me for ditching me after softball practice.”
“I don’t get it,” Brock said. “Why do you want to practice baseball when you play softball?”
“Well, if you came to watch practice—like you said you would—you’d know a lot better.” She removed her glasses so he could see she was teasing, and not truly mad. “Do you know how easy it is to hit a softball after hitting a baseball? Or, snag a grounder in softball after a baseball? It’s like those guys who train for a marathon with twenty-five-pound packs on their backs. They take it off and . . . zoom!”
“How come you just stopped talking to me completely if you’re not really that mad?” Brock asked.
“How come you stopped talking to me?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Fair enough. I’ll have a cookie, or seven, or eight.”
“Yeah, that’s what I hear.” Bella let out a laugh that was like a loud hiccup, and it made Brock join in, just by its sound alone.
“I’m not sure about dinner, though,” Brock said.
“Who asked you?” Bella broke out her hiccuping laughter and Brock couldn’t help starting up again himsel
f. When they grew quiet, Brock just sat and stared out over the empty field. He spotted bees here and there in the fading light, clambering up on top of clover flowers. The sight of them and the warm pleasant breeze made him sigh. He looked over at Bella and saw that she, too, was simply sitting, enjoying the world.
“That’s funny,” he said. “Most people don’t just sit. They have to text or do Facebook or play a game or something on their phone, and I usually weird people out when I just sit.”
“I liked Ferdinand, too, you know,” she said.
“The bull?”
“What other Ferdinand do you know?” Bella turned her attention back to the field. “I love it when he sits there ‘just happy.’”
“Me too.”
“My mom must’ve read me that book a million times.” Bella sighed happily.
Brock said nothing, remembering his own mom for a minute.
Coach finished his meeting. Brock climbed into the backseat while Bella took the front and switched out her sunglasses for her regular ones, small and round. Brock realized that they actually magnified her eyes, just slightly.
“You liked that chalk mark on Coach Centurelli’s chest plate, huh?” Coach caught Brock’s eye in the rearview mirror.
“Did you see that done somewhere?” Brock asked.
“No. I guess I just kind of invented it.”
“Yeah, and boy did he throw some heat,” Bella said. “I was telling Brock that he’s Dylan Edwards’s worst nightmare.”
“Oh,” Coach said. “Why is that?”
“Because Edwards won’t be your star pitcher anymore.” Bella grinned at her uncle.
“What makes you say that?” Coach turned the car into his driveway and shut off the engine.
“Well,” Bella said, “Brock will be. Won’t he?”
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Coach glanced at Brock in the mirror again before climbing out of the car. “You gonna tell her, or should I?”
“Tell me what?” Bella asked, getting out of the car.
“I don’t even know if my dad will let me play on Liverpool.” Brock followed them up the front steps.
“But maybe some of the closer tournaments, right?” Coach swung open the front door. “Margaret! I’ve got two hungry kids!”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Bella threw her hands up.
“It’s just . . .” Brock thought about simply turning around and walking back out the door, but the smell of something—tomatoes? Garlic? Onions? Sausage?—made his mouth water. The idea of another frozen dinner dropped like a Clayton Kershaw slider. He didn’t answer Bella though, even though she kept staring at him with another question dangling from her lips. Brock ignored her and asked Mrs. Hudgens if he could help her in any way.
“You all just sit down.” She added an extra place setting at the table and returned to her preparation.
Coach took a brown bottle of beer from the refrigerator and popped the top off with a hiss. Mrs. Hudgens gave him a quick worried look, then returned to her dinner.
Coach took a long pull on the beer, then sat down. He put his napkin in his lap and stared at Bella until she did the same. Brock followed suit. Mrs. Hudgens put down a steaming bowl of spaghetti and meatballs with sausage, along with a bowl of broccoli dusted with cheese and a salad, then she sat too. Coach cleared his throat and said a prayer. Brock shifted in his seat, but the rest of them didn’t miss a beat. When Coach finished they started serving and passing the food as though someone had simply hit a pause button before resuming the action.
“It’s awesome, Mrs. Hudgens. Thank you.” Brock shoveled another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.
“So,” Bella said, after a few minutes of everyone enjoying the delicious food, “are you just going to ignore my question, the same way you ignored meeting me after softball practice?”
“Now, Bella.” Mrs. Hudgens patted Bella’s hand. “Brock is our guest.”
“Yeah, but this is Coach’s team. You should have seen him pitch, Aunt Margaret. This summer could be fantastical.”
“Fantastical?” Coach’s eyebrows shot up and he took another drink from his bottle of beer. “Now, I’d like to see that. But, family first. You know that, Bella.”
“I know.” She sulked a bit. “God, family, school, sports. But sports is important. It’s in the top four.”
“Family is number two.” Mrs. Hudgens dabbed her lips with a napkin and glanced at Brock. “Brock has family obligations. That’s all that needs to be said.”
Brock opened his mouth to thank her, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. It might be Nagel, but it could also be his dad, so Brock closed his mouth and looked at the phone. It was a text from his dad.
get home now!
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Brock jumped up from his seat.
“Brock?” Mrs. Hudgens set her napkin down and started to rise. “Are you okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Umm, I’m sorry.” Brock’s knife slipped to the floor, but he couldn’t stop to pick it up. “I have to go.”
Brock was halfway out the door when he heard Bella shout, “What’s wrong with you?”
Brock threw open the back door of Coach’s car, grabbed his bat and glove in one swift movement, and took off down the street. The neighborhood’s trees, houses, and mailboxes were a blur in the dim light of dusk. Brock reached his house and threw open the garage door and froze.
The emptiness of the cool dark space sucked up his mind like a vacuum.
“Dad?” He said the word aloud, wondering why his father wanted him home so urgently, when he wasn’t there himself.
His feet scratched the concrete as he shuffled to the door that led directly into the living room. The knob screeched despite his best efforts to turn it without sound, and he slowly swung it open, stepping inside. He closed the door.
“Dad?”
He tiptoed through the living room, up the two stairs that put the kitchen on a slightly elevated level. The sink was empty. He drifted through the tiny dining room around through a sitting room that looked out over the front lawn. A big bay window obstructed by a flimsy translucent drape let in nothing more than the light. He kept going, checking the little half bathroom and the coat closet, trembling now because for some reason, his skin crawled.
He went back toward the kitchen and stopped at the bottom of the steps. “Dad?” he whispered.
With great care, he moved silently up the stairs. At the top, he peered into his father’s bedroom through a half-open door. His instincts told him to run, just break out and make a tear for Coach’s house. In all the world, he felt like that was the only safe place and he barely knew the people. Sad.
He bit his lower lip, scolding himself for being a coward. It was an empty room. He stepped inside.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut and before he could spin around, a big hand was slapped across his mouth, and Brock’s feet left the floor.
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“Shhhhh.” The sound was nothing more than a whisper in his ear.
He could tell by the smell and the feel that the intruder was his own father. Still, tears streamed down his face from fright, and he wasn’t quite sure if he hadn’t leaked just a couple of drops of pee into his underwear. He said nothing.
His father held up an okay sign in front of Brock’s face and he shook it.
Brock nodded that he understood he was to make no noise. His father set him down, mashed a finger to his lips, and looked him in the eye asking the silent question if he understood.
Brock nodded again and his father nodded back, then motioned with his head for Brock to follow. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Brock’s dad took him by the hand and led him through the house and down into the basement. The clammy dark space made Brock shiver, partly because it creeped him out and partly because of the damp chill. On the cinderblock wall beneath the stairs a large square of plywood blocked a gravel-floored crawl space. Brock had seen it when his father showed him the house on their first day.
Moving carefully, his fat
her slid the plywood along the floor and motioned Brock to follow him into the black hole. His father switched the light on in his phone and shined the beam around the crawl space where he had to duck his head to move around. A pile of firewood slumped along one wall. Some old garden tools and a wheelbarrow took up one corner, a pile of boxes another. Brock’s dad sat on the woodpile and motioned for him to do the same.
Brock sat, his heart pounding now.
His father shut off the light. In the pitch darkness Brock felt his father’s lips brush his ear. “Have you seen a black Town Car?”
“Dad, what are we doing?” Brock knew to keep his voice very low.
“Answer me.” His father’s voice was soft but firm as steel.
“What do you mean?”
“A Town Car. It’s a big four-door car. Black. Like a small limousine. Did one drive by you, or just parked on the street? The parking lot at the school?”
“Not that I know of.”
His fathered sighed aloud in relief. He groped for Brock’s knee in the dark and gave it a pat. “Good. It doesn’t mean we’re safe, but that’s good.”
“Dad, my hands are freezing. Why are we down here?”
“I don’t know if the house is bugged. I got in without anyone seeing me, and they can’t know I’m here.”
“Why? Who?” Brock’s mind spun with the possibilities, and he wondered for the millionth time if his father was one of the good guys, or the bad guys. He’d never had the nerve to ask.
“No.” His father patted his knee again and continued to whisper. “I’m sorry. You have to trust me, Son.”
“So . . . we just sit here?” Brock shivered.
