by Tim Green
Barrett looked at his watch and his shoulders relaxed. “Two questions. That’s it. Then I got to go. Deal?”
“Deal. Thank you so much.” The reporter nodded at the cameraman and the camera’s light flicked on, dousing them in its brilliance.
“I admire your tenacity, Todd.” Barrett Malone motioned for Brock to come stand beside him. “We’ll do this together. This is Brock Nickerson. He plays for the Liverpool Elite. It’s the team I played for as a kid. Same coach, I mean, Coach Hudgens. You might want to get a shot of him too.”
A moment of fear coursed through Brock, but before he could do anything, he found himself next to Barrett.
Coach stood with his mouth open, Bella and Coach Centurelli at his side.
“Tell me why you’re here, Barrett.” Todd, the reporter, stuck a microphone in front of Barrett Malone.
“I came to help this young man. Give him some pointers. He’s got a hot arm and he just needed a little help with his control.” Barrett patted Brock’s shoulder.
“Are you doing this kind of thing—coaching—because you’re thinking about retiring after this season?” the reporter asked.
Barrett laughed. “Those are rumors. I’ll get with my family and talk about that after the season. Now, I gotta go.”
Barrett shook Brock’s hand and saluted Coach.
“One more question?”
“I said two.”
“Will it work?” The reporter didn’t seem to care about the deal.
“Will what work?” Barrett Malone stopped halfway to the car and wrinkled his brow.
“The kid. Did you fix his problem?”
Barrett grinned wide. “Stick around tomorrow and find out.”
The famous player disappeared and the car took off in a hurry.
Suddenly, the reporter and his cameraman turned to Brock. Another blip of panic set in as all his father’s warnings about keeping a low profile flooded his brain. He took a deep breath and reasoned that whoever was looking for his dad wasn’t looking for him. Also, who knew if this would ever make it on TV anyway. And if it did, who’d see it? Some snippet buried in six hundred channels of nonstop TV.
“Well,” the reporter asked, “how was it? How’d you like working with maybe the best pitcher in baseball?”
Brock blinked at the bright light of the camera. He was already on, whether he liked it or not. And didn’t he have to start to live his own life sometime? Maybe this was the time. Maybe his father was just going to have to deal with it.
Brock took a breath. “I liked it.”
“Can you tell us what he said?” the reporter asked.
Brock looked at Coach who frowned and stepped in. “Okay, he’s a kid. You got what you needed.”
“Coach, can you sit down with us, maybe tomorrow and talk about what it was like to coach Barrett and how maybe you see some similarities with him and this kid? It’s a great story.”
Coach held a hand up to block the camera’s light. “It’s only a story if it works. You know that and so do I. I’ll talk, but let’s see what happens first.”
“Super.” The reporter handed Coach his card and asked if he could get Coach’s cell phone number. “We’ll be around tomorrow, and maybe we can talk afterward.”
Coach gave Todd his cell number. They piled into the other Town Car while the ESPN guys got back into their van.
“Wow.” Bella sat in between Brock and Coach and she nudged him. “Famous. How about that? Right, Coach?”
Coach chuckled and kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Maybe. It all depends on tomorrow.”
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The next day started with an ESPN camera, which was the very last thing Brock needed to see, but there it was. The reporter stood beside his cameraman in a red ESPN polo shirt and sunglasses, directing him. The day was warm enough, but it was the camera that made Brock sweat. The camera and the batter.
They were playing a team in orange from Memphis. Their leadoff batter was tall and thin, but took a practice swing that looked quick and powerful. Brock looked over at Coach and Bella in the dugout. Bella gave him a thumbs-up. Coach’s mouth was as thin as a paper cut.
Brock stepped up onto the rubber. His eyes were everywhere, but he heard Barrett Malone’s voice in his mind and he focused on the dot that had been painted on his glove. Brock did as he’d been taught; he wound up, letting his eyes slip from the dot on his glove to the dot in the center of Charlie Pellicer’s mitt, and fired.
The pitch went right down the middle and the batter swung for all he was worth.
SNAP.
“Strike one!”
Brock grinned at the dugout. Coach wore a look of surprise, maybe shock, but Bella lit up like a Christmas tree. “Do it, Brock!”
Brock snagged the ball Charlie Pellicer tossed back to him. He kept his eyes on the dot, wound up, shifted his vision, and threw.
“Strike two!”
Right by him on the inside corner of the plate, right where Charlie Pellicer had positioned his glove.
In the batter’s eyes, Brock saw the doubt, and it flooded Brock’s heart with joy. He was so excited, he forgot about the two dots and let his eyes stray. The next pitch went high, a ball.
Brock chuckled to himself. He looked over at Bella and winked, then locked eyes on the dots, first his, then Charlie’s as he wound up, and threw it right down the middle.
The batter swung for the fences and missed, staggering out of the batter’s box and hanging his head.
“Strr-rike!” The ump jagged his thumb in the air.
Brock’s team let out a cheer. Charlie Pellicer sent the ball around the horn. Brock looked at the ESPN reporter and grinned.
It took him just eight pitches to close out the inning with two strikeouts, and fifty-two to finish the game. A no-hitter. The only one more excited than Brock might have been Todd Kimberly, the ESPN reporter. His face glowed and he put an arm around Brock after the teams had shaken hands. Todd talked so fast Brock could barely understand him. All he knew was that Todd believed his session with Barrett Malone and the resulting no-hitter was a sensational sports story that would get both Brock and him a lot of attention.
People in the stands craned their necks to get a look at Brock. Little kids holding their parents’ hands stopped to point as he, Coach, and Bella made their way out of the park with the ESPN guys close behind. For a brief moment, he thought about his dad, but the attention and the thrill of the game and ESPN being there warmed Brock from the inside out. Back at the hotel, Brock sat down with Todd Kimberly and talked about how he did what he did and how he knew that Barrett Malone and Coach were the reason for his no-hitter.
After that, Brock took a shower and changed into fresh clothes. There was a knock at the door, and Brock answered it.
“What?” He swung the door open and couldn’t believe who it was.
83
Dylan stood there, and extended a hand.
He wore an embarrassed and fragile smile. “Congratulations. Seriously. You were awesome.”
Brock shook Dylan’s hand. “Thanks.”
“And, I’m sorry for being such a jerk.” Dylan blushed.
“I didn’t win any awards for sportsmanship either,” Brock said. “We’re teammates. I knew better too.”
“Let’s just forget it, right?”
“Absolutely,” Brock said.
“You want to go eat lunch?”
“Yup.” Brock chuckled. “Wait till Bella sees this.”
Bella didn’t act surprised at all when they swung by her room. They picked up Charlie Pellicer in the lobby and headed down to the hotel restaurant for cheeseburgers. Coach saw the four of them sitting together and walked over.
“Good.” Coach nodded at Brock, then Dylan. “This is how you win championships. You pull together. We need to beat that team from Philly this afternoon and then—if it goes like I think—we’ll get a second shot at the Knights.”
“How can we play them again?” Brock asked.
; “They’re in the winners bracket and I don’t think anyone can beat them, but in a double elimination, we can meet them in the finals. Just how it works in these things. So, Dylan, you’re on the mound this afternoon. Brock, I’ll only use you if I have to. Otherwise, I want you ready to pitch tomorrow against the Knights in the championship game.”
That afternoon, Dylan did well on the mound, but Liverpool needed all its offense to eek out a 7–6 lead going into the bottom of the sixth. The Philly team was at the top of its order and Coach called Dylan and Brock into a huddle just outside the dugout.
“Dylan, you’ve done great, and I don’t want you to feel like—”
“You gotta put Brock in, Coach.” Dylan wore a pained expression. “I get it, Coach. I want to win this thing too. I want the Titans to eat their hearts out when they hear we won the Princeton Cup. We do and the joke’s on them.”
“Good.” Coach nodded. “You take second. Brock, take the mound.”
Brock did, and it took him just eight pitches to sit down all three batters and win the game. Dylan was the first one to the mound as the entire team swarmed Brock. Joy filled him like helium in a balloon and it was like he was floating. Back at the hotel they crowded around the big flat screen TV in the restaurant’s bar to watch the story Todd Kimberly had put together for ESPN.
When Brock saw his face on the screen, he went numb. He knew deep down his dad was not going to be happy. Bella nudged him in the ribs, taking him out of his thoughts. “How come you didn’t smile?”
Brock laughed. “I didn’t choose the picture they took.”
“Shh,” Charlie Pellicer said. “Listen.”
They all listened to the story they already knew. The story of a talented kid being guided to a no-hitter in a prestigious baseball tournament by the best pitcher in the game. The story ended with Todd Kimberly reporting from the Princeton ball field and a commercial for car insurance came on. Brock looked over at Coach and thought he detected a small smile.
Everyone congratulated Brock, and he actually began to feel a little uncomfortable. So, when Bella asked him if he wanted to take a walk—just the two of them—after dinner, he readily agreed.
Across the water, the small crescent of moon just above the trees was bright enough to paint the lake with a thin trail of sparkling light.
Bella took a deep breath and pointed at the water. “Beautiful, right?”
“This whole day has been like a dream,” Brock said.
“A dream come true, right?” Bella stepped in front of him.
Brock’s heart took off like a rocket in his chest, whiz-banging around the inside of his ribs.
She looked up at Brock and took a hold of his hand. “I like you, Brock. I really like you, and yes, there is something different between us. Something special.”
Brock didn’t feel a thing. It was like Novocain in his whole body except for the wild and crazy pounding of his heart.
“I . . . I like you too.” His words were a choking whisper.
When she moved her face toward his, he closed his eyes until he felt her lips on his cheek.
“I’m sorry I scared you.” She spoke soft, but kept a hold of his hand and turned so they could walk together down the path.
They reached the bridge before he could manage to speak. “You didn’t scare me.”
All she did was smile.
“But, Bella, I need to tell you something.” He knew this was the right thing to do. He knew he could trust her. “My name’s not Brock.” The words hung between them, and it seemed the sound of crickets and frogs grew louder than before.
“What? That’s silly,” she said after a pause.
He watched her eyes until he could see that she believed him.
“Then,” she asked, “who are you?”
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“I’m not anyone,” Brock said. He was relieved he’d told her, but at the same time, he was thinking maybe he should just stop talking. He knew the truth would ruin things. It always did. “I’m just the new kid, remember?”
“You have to be someone,” she said.
Brock shook his head. “As soon as I get close to being anyone, we move away and I’m someone new. I’m no one.”
“I just saw Brock Nickerson on ESPN after he pitched a no-hitter,” she said. “That’s someone.”
“But we won’t be here this time next year.” Brock picked up a stone and threw it so far that it could barely be heard when it hit the water.
Bella picked up a rock of her own and tossed it, underhand, so that it plunked down only a few feet away. “I’m not sure what you’re telling me, but whatever it is, things will be fine. I know it. My father says the only thing for certain is change.”
“Things always change for me. That’s a given.” He threw another stone, far.
She shook her head. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. Maybe the change will be no change. Anything’s possible, right?”
“I don’t know,” Brock whispered, suddenly exhausted. “Let’s go back. I’m really tired.” Brock took her hand and held it all the way until they entered the halo of light from the hotel.
At the door to her room, she touched his cheek, only this time, his heart stayed steady.
“I’ve been doing this for four years,” she said. “Traveling with Coach. He’s never won anything, but I think tomorrow, that’s gonna change too.”
“Good night,” Brock said, smiling wanly.
85
Clouds moved in overnight, so when Brock woke, only a thin gray light seeped into his room through the curtains. While he was dressing for the game, he heard a rumble of thunder.
On the way to the ballpark, the bus had to swish its wipers a couple of times, but no more. During warm-ups, the sky spit down on them. The same wind that churned the dark clouds above like a witch’s brew whipped grit and sand around the ball field, making the players blink and wipe their mouths with a finger every now and again.
They stood in a row for “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Despite the look of rain, the stands were packed with baseball fans, including the entire Princeton University baseball team. After the national anthem, Coach Centurelli put on his cap and looked up at the sky. “You think it’ll hold off?”
Coach looked up as well. “Never know.”
Before the game could begin, the Mustache senior insisted on a conference at home plate between him, the umpire, Coach, and Brock.
Coach plucked a blade of grass and stuck it in his mouth, then jammed his hands in his pockets as if to keep them from doing anything he might regret, and they ambled out to the plate. The Mustache glowered at Brock, then turned to the umpire.
“This kid hit my son with a beanball on Friday. He got ejected from the game.” The Mustache jagged his thumb at Brock.
“I heard that.” The ump was short and round like the Mustache. They might have been brothers. “I won’t tolerate it either.”
“Did you not see ESPN last night?” Coach waggled the grass blade from the corner of his mouth. “He was having a control problem. We got it fixed. Barrett Malone got it fixed.”
“I’m impressed.” The Mustache meant that he wasn’t impressed, or, if he was, he wasn’t admitting it. That much was clear. “Now we’ll know if anyone gets hit by a pitch that it was no accident, right?”
Coach looked at the Mustache with disinterest. “Oh, he won’t hit anyone, but when Brock’s done pitching, your whole team is gonna feel like it was in a . . . what’s the expression? A train wreck.”
The Mustache studied Coach’s face and started to bluster, then clamped his mouth shut, turned, and stomped off.
Before Brock took the mound, Coach pulled him aside. “I want you to throw it so hard his kid doesn’t even think about taking a swing. Can you do that?”
“You got it, Coach.” Brock clenched his teeth and took the mound.
Mini Mustache grinned at Brock and tapped his bat against the bottom of one cleat, then the other, before taking a vicious warm-up swing a
nd stepping into the box. As he did before, the Mini Mustache crowded the plate. Brock looked over at Bella sitting beside Coach and gave her a slight nod; then he found the dot on his glove. He took a few deep breaths, focusing on it, then started into his windup, found the dot in Charlie Pellicer’s glove, and rifled the ball home.
SMACK!
All Mini Mustache could do was blink.
“Strike one!”
Mini Mustache stepped out of the box and shot his father and coach a look of surprise and—was it fear? Brock nearly broke out laughing.
He sat Mini down with three pitches, only disappointed that Mini did swing at the last pitch, even though he missed it by a mile. Brock looked over at Coach, who barely smiled, but gave Brock a thumbs-up while Bella pumped her fist in the air.
And so it went.
Brock was on fire.
It would have been a storybook ending except for the fact that the Knights pitchers were nearly as good as Brock. They used three of them, and their arms were strong and fresh. Liverpool had just three hits in the first five innings, including a double from Brock in the third. Brock had a no-hitter going on defense, but his arm was beginning to ache. In the top of the sixth, he gave up a single to the first batter and was pretty certain it wasn’t going to get any better. It felt like a toothache in his shoulder.
He looked over at Coach and motioned for a conference. Coach came out to the mound. “Coach, I don’t want to let you down but—”
“You’ve thrown over a hundred pitches in these last two days, Brock. I feel bad I even let you go this far. If you’re gassed, let’s let Dylan try.”
“I hate these guys, Coach. I want to win.”
Coach smiled at him. “Then let’s let Dylan try to help you. It’s a team game, right? You saved him yesterday, maybe he can do the same for you today. Switch with him at second, though. I want you on the field.”
Dylan warmed up with a couple of throws. Brock took second. Three pitches into it, the runner on first stole second after a wild pitch. Dylan looked back at Brock with apology in his eyes.
