Jack Strong Takes a Stand

by Tommy Greenwald

  “That’d be just fine with me.”

  Ricky and I always joked around like that. Working there seemed like it would be an awesome job, so I always pretended I was going to get him fired and take his job, and he always pretended that I could have it.

  “How’s school going?” I asked him. Ricky was already in college.

  He shook his head. “Not going this semester. I’m just gonna take it easy and work for a while.”

  Wow. Working in an ice cream store and taking it easy?

  Some guys have all the luck.

  10

  At practice I managed to hit the ball out of the infield twice. Which was three fewer times than Baxter Billows hit the ball over the fence.

  “How’d it go?” asked my dad when he picked me up.

  “Really good.”

  About three traffic lights later, I said, “But, Dad? I don’t really think I’m cut out for baseball. I think this will probably be my last year playing.”

  My dad turned the radio down, which he did whenever he was stressed in the car. And he would get stressed in the car for two reasons: a bad traffic jam and a stubborn son.

  “I thought you just said it went really well.”

  “Yeah, by my standards. Which means that I didn’t trip over my own feet running around the bases. By those standards, today’s practice was a total success.”

  “Jack, listen to me,” my dad said. “I can’t tell you how important it is to be well rounded. It’s not enough to just be smart these days. You need to play an instrument, be involved in the community, do some volunteer work, and play a sport.”

  “Why can’t I just do karate? Karate’s a sport.”

  My dad shook his head. “Karate is an exercise that helps your coordination and stamina for the real sports, like soccer and baseball. Plus, you actually like baseball.”

  That was true. I did actually like baseball. As long as I was watching it on TV and not playing it.

  “Maybe it’s team sports you’re not crazy about,” my dad suggested. “What if I sign you up for some tennis lessons? Tennis is a great game.”

  I just wanted to end the conversation. “Whatever.”

  “Whatever yourself,” my dad said. “All I’m saying is, colleges look at all that stuff.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little early for me to be worrying about college? I have all of high school to deal with that.”

  “It’s NEVER too early to be thinking about college and finding that thing that will set you apart. Do you have any idea how competitive it’s gotten out there?”

  I was starting to get mad. “Actually, no, I don’t. Why would I? I’m in MIDDLE SCHOOL.”

  My dad turned the radio completely off. “Listen, Jack, I know you think I’m a crazy lunatic. Sometimes I think I am, too. But I’m the one out there in the world, not you. I’m the one who sees how hard it is to get ahead and how hard people have to work. I know you’re a kid. I get it, I swear. But if you don’t learn the value of hard work now, I’m afraid you’re going to fall behind. And these days, once you fall behind, it’s incredibly hard to catch up.”

  “You’re right about one thing,” I said. “You ARE a crazy lunatic.”

  I turned the radio back on, way louder than before, and neither one of us said another word until we pulled into the driveway. But as I was getting out of the car, I turned to my dad and said, “I’m twelve years old. I would appreciate it if you didn’t bring up college ever again until I’m sixteen. I just want you to let me live my life and do the things I want to do and be a kid. I don’t see what’s so bad about that.”

  Then I smacked the hood of the car with my hand before I went inside.

  It was the hardest hit I had all day.

  11

  Sunday, before the big game, I had a cello lesson and junior EMTs.

  I bet Derek Jeter never warmed up that way.

  Anyway, the cello lesson was fine, because I love my teacher, Dr. Jonas, and since he’s a big baseball fan, he took it easy on me. “After the season is over, though, I’m going to work you to the bone,” he said.

  Then I had to go to Junior EMTs, which was a volunteer organization where kids learned emergency medical procedures. My dad made me join because he was an EMT when he was younger, and I guess he helped save some guy’s life in college. And also, because supposedly it looked good on a college application, which I guess makes sense if you’re applying to college. I wasn’t. I wasn’t even ready to apply to high school.

  “Don’t worry about that part of it,” my mom would say. “Just think of it as a way to help people.”

  She had a point, of course. The only problem was—and I hate to admit this—helping other people wasn’t that high on my list. Especially on a Sunday morning between a cello lesson and the baseball championship game.

  The EMT class was at the fire department. “Tell mom to pick me up fifteen minutes early,” I said to Nana, who was dropping me off on her way to play golf. “I need to get to the field for early batting practice.”

  “Isn’t it a little late to practice?” said Nana, who wasn’t a very big baseball fan. “The game’s in two hours. Shouldn’t you know batting by now?”

  “You would think,” I told her.

  I walked into the firehouse, where there were four dummies—by “dummies” I mean fake bodies, not dumb people—laid out on the floor. We were learning how to do CPR, which basically means trying to get someone breathing again by pressing on their chest and blowing air into their mouths. There were only four of us in the class—me and three high school kids who totally ignored me—so we got a lot of individual attention from the teacher, Lieutenant Sniffen. This was not a good thing.

  I was busy pressing on my dummy’s chest, and trying to get up the courage to put my mouth on it, when Lieutenant Sniffen came over to inspect my technique.

  “You’re doing it too gently,” he said. “Our job is to save the person, not tickle them.”

  I shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “And what kind of resuscitation technique is that?” he asked. “It’s called ‘mouth-to-mouth’ for a reason.”

  The other kids laughed.

  “Hey!” barked Lieutenant Sniffen. “Saving lives is not a laughing matter.”

  He leaned down right over me. “If you were having a heart attack, would you want me to be the last person you see?”

  I looked up at his face, which had a big brown mole on the left cheek.

  “Not really.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Then he brought his mouth so close to my mouth, I could feel the hairs of his mustache. “And would you want these lips to be the last lips you kissed?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “I didn’t think so,” he said. “But if I didn’t do my job right, my ugly mug and my hairy lips would be your last memory for all eternity.”

  Finally he backed up. “Now get back over there and push and blow like you mean it.”

  With Lieutenant Sniffen watching my every move, I went back over to my dummy, pressed hard on its chest, and then somehow managed to put my mouth on its mouth. It tasted like wet socks. I blew. I saw the dummy’s chest rise and fall.

  “By George I think you’ve got it!” roared the Lieutenant. “Good work, son!”

  I think he was waiting for me to thank him, but I was too busy gagging.

  * * *

  When my mom came to pick me up, I still had the gross wet-sock taste in my mouth.

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “Completely disgusting,” I answered.

  “Well, I’m very proud of you, Jack. You never know when all this training is going to come in handy.”

  I got in the backseat. “I do know. It’s going to come in handy when I apply to some fancy college and I can say I saved a dummy’s life. Whoop-de-doo.”

  Then I changed into my baseball uniform to get ready for the big game.

  Where I could be the dummy.

  12

  I’m not
really sure why they call the Little League championship game in my town the “World Series,” unless you think the entire world consists of approximately sixteen thousand people.

  But that’s what they called it: the World Series, and it’s surprising how many people go to watch this game. Even people who have no immediate family connection to anyone involved. Which is just kind of weird, if you ask me.

  Anyway, my team—the Pirates—was playing the Astros. Baxter Billows was our pitcher, and he was mowing them down, like usual. But so was Kevin Kessler, the pitcher for the Astros. See, the thing about Little League is that on every team, there are always four or five kids who are way better than everyone else, and they’re always pitchers, and they always strike out everyone who bats sixth in the order and below. That’s just the way the world works. But these two guys, Baxter and Kevin, they were so good they were striking everyone out.

  After about forty-five minutes, we were already into the fifth inning, because nothing was happening except for strikeouts. The score was 0–0, and I was due up next inning for my one and only at-bat (everyone had to bat at least once). I glanced over to the bleachers where I saw Cathy Billows playing with a dog. My dog. Maddie was wagging her tail, and Cathy was laughing. Sometimes I wished I were a dog.

  Then I saw my parents sitting one row over. My mom was talking with somebody—I would say she watched about one pitch per game, the rest of the time she was yakking—and my dad was fiddling with the video camera, getting ready for my big plate appearance. In front of them sat Nana, who was wearing a big hat and reading the New York Times. It was adorable, how she still read the actual newspaper. Who does that?

  It was still 0–0 in the bottom of the sixth. I was due up fourth. The good thing was that Kevin Kessler had pitched an inning in his last game—and a kid can only pitch six innings a week—so they had to bring in a new pitcher.

  Who turned out to be Alex Mutchnik.

  As he took his warm-up pitches, he looked over at me and grinned. “You’re up this inning?”

  I ignored him, so he tried again. “I am so scared.”

  “Shut up, Alex,” I said.

  “That’s enough out of both of you,” barked the first base umpire, a scary old guy appropriately named Mr. Barker.

  We were toward the bottom of the order, where the lame kids bat, so nobody was expecting much. Sure enough, the first kid, Sherman Wexler, struck out on three pitches. The second kid, Pete Coluski, struck out on four pitches. But then Jeffrey Siffriani, who was famous for not having swung at a single pitch during the entire season, walked on a full count. The dugout stirred. The bleachers took notice. Even Nana looked up from her newspaper. Everyone seemed to realize that if I could somehow get on base, our lead-off hitter—the one and only Baxter Billows—would have a chance to win the game.

  I stepped up to the plate. Alex stared in at me and fired. The pitch was wild, but I swung at it anyway. Ugh. But the good news was that the ball got by the catcher, so Jeffrey was able to go to second.

  “Come on, Jack!” I heard my dad holler from behind his camera. “Only the good ones! Only the good ones!” Thanks, Dad. Easy for you to say.

  The second pitch was about a foot over my head, and I almost swung at it, but I managed to stop myself. Alex was getting wild, I thought to myself. Maybe if I just hang on I can work out a walk like Jeffrey did. How great would that be? To not make the third out would be so awesome—

  The next pitch was right down the middle and the bat didn’t budge from my shoulder.

  One ball, two strikes. Oh, great. Strikeout, here we come. So typical.

  But then the next two pitches were balls. Full count. I began to hope for a walk again.

  Alex wound up and threw. The pitch came, a little high, quite possibly ball four, but for some crazy reason I decided to swing anyway. I probably closed my eyes, because according to Dad’s pictures I always close my eyes when I swing. So I never saw the bat hit the ball.

  PING!!

  The sound of the aluminum bat hitting the ball may have been the most awesome sound I’d ever heard in my life.

  I opened my eyes. At first I couldn’t locate the ball, but suddenly there it was, on a high arc, soaring, flying, a towering shot heading right for … the second baseman.

  Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a monster home run.

  But here’s a little secret I’ll let you in on. A lot of little leaguers can’t catch a high pop. Especially during the last inning of a World Series game, when everyone is screaming “RUN!” and “GO!” and “OH MY GOD!!!”

  So poor little Michael Bostwick dropped the ball. Well, to be technical about it, it dropped about two feet behind him.

  After that, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I stood on first base and watched relatively chunky Jeffrey Siffriani motor around third and chug for home. It took Michael Bostwick a couple of seconds to retrieve the ball, and that was all the time Jeffrey needed. He slid … the ball came in … a cloud of dust …

  “SAFE!” hollered the umpire, a pimply tenth grader named Clay McLeod, who probably just wanted to go home.

  Game over. We won the World Series, 1–0. And I was the hero, thanks to my pop-up to second base.

  All of a sudden I was totally mobbed. A chant went up: “Jack! Jack! Jack!” Alex Mutchnik angrily threw his glove on the ground. Baxter Billows lifted me up and gave me a hug that may have broken several ribs. Cathy Billows was jumping up and down. My mom was jumping up and down. Nana was jumping up and down. Maddie was under the bleachers, scavenging for scraps. And my dad was filming it all.

  As I stood there, soaking it all in, I thought to myself: I could get used to this whole hero thing.

  13

  After the trophy presentation and the free cake, it was finally time to pack up our stuff and leave the field. On our way to the parking lot, Cathy came running over to me.

  “Jack! That was amazing!” The exclamation points were back.

  “Thanks. I just got lucky, but thanks.”

  “So listen,” Cathy said, twirling her hair with her finger “we’re going over to the Dirty Dog to celebrate! Baxter said it’d be fun if you wanted to come!”

  OMG. The Dirty Dog had the best hot dogs and root beer floats in the entire state. And Cathy was welcoming me back into her inner circle. This was too good to be true!

  But my dad was already shaking his head.

  “Well, this is lousy timing. I just signed you up for that tennis clinic that starts today.”

  You have GOT to be kidding me.

  “What tennis clinic?”

  My dad sighed. “We just talked about this yesterday! You agreed to start trying out some individual sports, so we thought we’d give tennis a try?”

  Was he kidding? Since when is saying “whatever” a sign of agreement?

  Nana interrupted. “Oh come on, Richard, let the boy have some fun. He just hit the game-winning home run, for God’s sake.”

  “It was a pop-up,” I corrected, “but thanks, Nana.”

  My mom tried to compromise, as usual. “Can we just go to the Dirty Dog for a little while before tennis?”

  My dad glanced at his watch. “Hmm. These lessons are pretty pricey, and every minute counts. Why don’t we just go celebrate after the clinic?”

  That was it. That was the moment I realized my dad would never, ever get it. I threw my glove on the ground.

  “THE POINT IS NOT TO CELEBRATE AFTER THE CLINIC! THE POINT IS TO CELEBRATE WITH MY TEAMMATES! THE POINT IS TO HAVE FUN LIKE A NORMAL KID!”

  Wow. I wasn’t sure where that came from. I’d never really lost it like that before.

  It felt good.

  “And I don’t like tennis,” I added softly.

  No one said a word. Everyone in the whole parking lot was staring at me, waiting to see what I’d do next. I was waiting to see what I’d do next.

  But it turned out I wasn’t quite brave enough to take a stand against my father.

  (Yet.)

&
nbsp; So after a minute, I picked up my glove and walked over to the Billows’s car.

  “I can’t go, but thanks anyway.”

  “No problem,” said Cathy, who looked at me as if I were a different, more dangerous person.

  Baxter smacked my arm. “Great hit, dude.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked back over and got in our car. I didn’t look at anyone.

  The only one who dared to speak was Nana.

  “I don’t like tennis, either,” she said. “I prefer golf.”

  14

  The day after my baseball triumph-turned-disaster, I found myself Leo-less at lunch (he was out sick) and looking for a place to sit. The only open spot was next to Lucy Fleck.

  “Can I sit here?” I asked.

  Lucy was staring at some weird healthy food thing that her crazy mom probably made her eat. “Yes.”

  We ate in silence for a few minutes. Then suddenly she said, “Congratulations on your game-winning hit yesterday.”

  I nearly dropped my fish stick. “You heard about that?”

  “Yes. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Well, cool, thanks. It wasn’t really a hit, though. I got kind of lucky.”

  She managed to look at me a little. “You made contact in a crucial situation. You put the ball in play, which is the main thing. After that, the burden falls to the team in the field, and as we all know, anything can happen in Little League. You did your job. Well done.”

  I looked at her, thinking: Who IS this person?

  She took a deep breath. I think she was exhausted by her speech.

  “So, do you play any sports?” I asked.

  “I fence.”

  That figured. Fencing was like squash, one of those completely weird sports that a lot of parents were starting to make their kids do, because no one else was doing it. Which, when you think about it, doesn’t exactly make sense.

  “Do you like it?”

  She put her fork down and looked directly at me for the first time. “Of course I do. It helps me learn dexterity and discipline. I also figure skate in the winter.”