Painting the Black

by Carl Deuker

  Once we’d all broken a sweat, Wheatley laid some orange traffic cones on the outfield grass. “All right,” he shouted. “Time for windsprints. Form groups of six. Come on! Get a move on!”

  Every day when I’d worked, I’d told myself that my goal was to get myself to where I had average speed. But as my group worked its way to the start line, average wasn’t on my mind. I wanted to win. I wanted to cross that finish line first.

  “Ready . . . go!”

  I almost slipped on my first step, but I quickly regained my balance, churned my legs, and worked my arms. I passed one guy, and then another. Maybe I caught another guy, but that was it. At the finish line I was right in the middle of the pack—either third or fourth.

  Josh gave me the thumbs up sign, like I’d really accomplished something. And since I hadn’t come in last, I guess I had. But it’s hard to celebrate being mediocre.

  Wheatley didn’t let us rest. It was back to the end of the line for more windsprints, more finishes right in the middle of the pack.

  Mr. Cliff, an assistant coach with a bushy mustache and long straggly hair, was checking with guys in between races, asking questions and writing stuff down. Finally, he came over to me. “What’s your name?”

  I told him.

  He looked over his roster. “It says here you’re a senior, but you’ve never played before. How come?”

  “I played Little League,” I said. “Center field. Then I hurt my ankle and kind of quit.”

  “So what made you kind of ‘unquit’?” he asked.

  “I thought I might be able to catch.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Have you ever caught before?”

  “Not on a team,” I said, “but I’ve caught some.”

  “We’ve got our first-string catcher returning from last year’s team,” he said. “And another guy who can back him up. Besides, being a catcher is a lot harder than you might think.”

  “All I want is a chance,” I said. “If I’m no good you can cut me.”

  He snorted. “Don’t worry about that. If you’re no good we will cut you.” Then he moved to another player.

  A whistle blew. Coach Wheatley emptied a ball bag onto the ground. “Grab your gloves, find a partner and play some catch. Two lines. One group against the fence, the other group about twenty paces away. Let’s go! Move it!”

  Around me everyone was in motion, running to their equipment bags for their gloves, pairing up. I stood, almost paralyzed. I might have walked off the field right then if Josh hadn’t come up.

  “Get your stuff, Ryan,” he said.

  We warmed up for about ten minutes. With each throw and catch my heartbeat slowed, the fear subsided. The whistle blew again. I looked to Wheatley. “Pitchers go with Coach Cliff. The rest of you stay here.”

  “Good luck,” Josh said.

  Coach Wheatley pointed to home plate. “If you’re willing to catch,” he said, “get behind the plate. Otherwise spread out around the infield.”

  I followed Wheatley toward the backstop, and so did two other guys. One of them was Chris Selin. I knew he’d be there. He was a senior, a three-year letterman, and a two-year starter. The other guy was Garrett Curtis, the sophomore from the football team who ran back kicks. “I can play third and first, too,” Curtis said to Wheatley, “and a little outfield.”

  “How about you?” Wheatley asked, turning to me. “You play anywhere else?”

  I shook my head. “Just catcher,” I said.

  He frowned, then made a note on his clipboard.

  Wheatley banged grounders to the infielders. We took turns handling their throws back. Then he had us field bunts, run down pop-ups, make the throw to second, hit. My throws were pretty good, but both Selin and Curtis had more range on the pop-ups, more quickness fielding the bunts. During batting practice Curtis blasted two balls over the fence and Selin blistered line drives to all fields. I hit a couple of hard grounders back up the middle, but the rest were pop-ups and lazy flies. Coach Wheatley constantly wrote notes on his clipboard. I knew what the words next to my name said without even looking at them: Mediocre runner. Mediocre fielder. Mediocre hitter. Finally the whistle blew. “That does it for today. See you tomorrow, gentlemen.”

  I went to the locker room, changed without showering, and slipped out a side door. Josh called to me as I left, but I pretended I didn’t hear him.

  The locker room exit opened to a hallway parallel to the three-hundred wing. I walked past empty classroom after empty classroom, then turned and took the shortcut up the hill.

  As I neared the music portable at the top, I heard someone practicing the piano. The music was so sunny, so quick and playful, that it was as if whoever was playing was making fun of me. They had a ton of talent, and I had none.

  Finally I was there, right outside the portable. Instead of walking by, I stopped and peered through the one window. The room was dark, but I could make out a girl at the piano, her hands gliding back and forth effortlessly. She turned her head slightly and I recognized her.

  Monica Roby.

  I stepped back and away from the window. I laughed, a disgusted laugh. It would be Monica.

  That night Josh called. “Why did you disappear?”

  I played dumb. “What do you mean?”

  “You just took off after practice. I called out to you. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Anyway, how did it go for you?”

  “Okay,” I said. “How about with you?”

  “Really good,” he said, his voice picking up. “Coach Cliff knew who I was and all, and that made it easier. He didn’t want me to throw hard, but I cut loose a couple of times just to show him what I had.”

  “And?”

  Josh laughed. “Coach Cliff’s mouth fell open. After one fastball he took his hand out of the mitt and shook it. I’ll be starting opening day.”

  We talked a little longer, and then I told him I had some chemistry homework. That was true, but after I hung up I didn’t do it. Instead I lay back and looked at the ceiling.

  I’d been waiting for seven months. Planning for seven months. But it had all been a dream, a stupid kid’s dream. I had as much chance of making the team as I had of sitting down at the piano and playing Mozart.

  5

  The second day of tryouts was a repeat of day one. Running, throwing, catching, hitting. The clipboard was always there in Wheatley’s hand, and I knew the paper on it was filling up with the little marks that were killing my chance to make the team.

  I couldn’t slip away from Josh again, so I went through the regular locker room routine and then walked home with him.

  “How did you do?” he asked once we got outside.

  I decided to come clean. “Look,” I said, “this was always a long shot for me. I don’t regret anything, and I’ll catch for you any time you want. But I’m not going to make the team. Selin is better than I am. And Curtis can play third base and first and fill in behind the plate whenever they need him. If I was a sophomore or a junior, maybe I’d have a chance. But they don’t need me this year, and I won’t be here next. I’m going to get cut.”

  He didn’t argue, and I’m glad he didn’t. You want the truth from your friends, not pie-in-the-sky stuff. We walked all the way to our houses in silence. Then, just before we split up, he stopped. “There may still be a way.”

  “How?”

  He bit his lip. “I’d tell you, but it’s got a better chance of working if you don’t know.”

  I was irritated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Forget I mentioned it,” he said, and he was up his porch steps and into his house.

  But I couldn’t forget it. I didn’t like his air of secrecy. I couldn’t figure what he had planned—whether he was going to go in and plead my case to Coach Wheatley, or whether he’d concocted some way to cheat that I couldn’t even imagine. Either way, I wanted no part of it. I’d make the team, or not make it, entirely on my own.
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br />   The next day was the final day of tryouts. As Josh and I warmed up together, I told him I wanted things on the up-and-up. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just relax and play. Everything is going to work out.”

  Before I could ask him how, Wheatley blew his whistle and Josh went off with Coach Cliff and the other pitchers.

  I had batting practice first thing. I hit the ball pretty well, and to all fields, by far my best effort in the cage. But Selin and Curtis hit the ball well too. And with the other stuff—fielding the bunts and the pop-ups, running the windsprints—they had me. Even my throw down to second, which I’d thought was so good, was only slightly better than their efforts. I wondered if Wheatley even noticed.

  With half an hour left in practice, Coach Cliff came walking toward the main diamond, Josh and David Reule and the other pitchers trailing behind him.

  Coach Wheatley looked up, surprised. As the two coaches huddled, Josh sidled up next to me. “So far, so good,” he said, a light in his eyes.

  “What’s the deal?” I asked, annoyed.

  “You’ll see.”

  A minute later we were paired off. Selin caught Josh; Curtis caught Reule; and I caught the third pitcher, Randy Wilkerson. Wheatley took his pen out, and lots of little marks were being tallied up on the clipboard.

  Right away Chris Selin had trouble handling Josh. About every fourth ball Josh threw got by. “Get in front of those,” Wheatley called to Selin.

  “I’m trying to,” Selin said. “His ball just moves.”

  Suddenly I understood what Josh was doing.

  Josh’s next pitch got by Selin too. Coach Wheatley pointed to Selin and Curtis. “You two, switch.”

  Curtis handled Josh better at first, but then one ball got by him, then another, and another. Wheatley moved directly behind Curtis. “That’s a slider you’re throwing,” he called out to Josh. “And a pretty good one.”

  “Is it?” Josh answered, acting dumb.

  The next pitch got by Curtis. As he trotted off to retrieve it, Josh motioned toward me. “How about if I throw to Ryan a little,” he said. “Maybe he could handle my stuff better.”

  Wheatley shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Let’s see what Ryan can do.”

  So Curtis and I switched. And with both Coach Cliff and Coach Wheatley watching, Josh fired slider after slider at me. He came at me with his best stuff—the stuff that was eating up Curtis and Selin.

  Nothing got by.

  After practice, as we headed to the locker room, Josh wrapped his arm around me and gave me a shake. “You did it, big guy!” he said. “You showed them you can catch.”

  My heart was racing and a big grin was trying to cover my face. I wasn’t sure I’d made the team, but I had a chance. And it had been fair and square, on the field.

  “Thanks for the help,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”

  He smiled. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do anything. I just threw the ball. You’re the one who caught it.”

  I stopped him there. “I don’t mean just today. I mean all the days. I’d never have gotten anywhere without your help, and I know it.”

  He punched me on the shoulder. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for myself. A pitcher needs a good catcher.”

  I slept that night. I wasn’t confident, or even close to being confident. But tryouts were over. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen.

  I wasn’t calm in the morning, though. I raced through my breakfast. I was at school so early I had to wait for them to open up the main doors. I hustled down to the gym. Outside the main entrance is the P.E. bulletin board.

  I spotted the list from about ten yards: “Varsity Baseball Team.” It was neatly typed. I ran my finger down the list. Josh was there, of course, and so were Garrett Curtis and Chris Selin. And then, at the very bottom of the list, was my name.

  Ryan Ward.

  6

  They say you should never be satisfied with what you’ve got, that you should always be trying for more. And since everybody says it, I suppose it’s true. But the fact is I was satisfied. When I came back out after reading my name at the bottom of the roster, the sun was shining, and I felt like it was shining just for me.

  I didn’t care that at our first practices Coach Wheatley stuck me out along the right field line and had me protect the pitchers and catchers who were warming up during batting practice. I was happy to field the occasional stray grounder or line drive. Crown Hill’s colors are red and black, and the baseball uniform has a Viking ship on the sleeve. It’s a sharp-looking uniform, and I was going to get one with my name sewn on the back. That’s all that mattered.

  After one of those early practices, Josh and I came out of the locker room together. The sky was a reddish pink and a blazing sun was setting over the Olympic Mountains. In the distance I heard Monica playing the piano. “Isn’t that incredible?” I said, without thinking.

  Josh looked at me, surprised. “You like classical stuff?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. It’s just that for a second it sounded really good.”

  We walked down the hallway. The air vibrated with music. It raced down the hall the same way Monica’s hands must have been racing over the keyboard.

  “I wonder who’s playing?” Josh said as we turned up the hill toward the portable.

  “Who cares?” I answered, trying to lead him past it.

  “I want to see. I didn’t know anybody in this school was any good at anything.” He grinned. “Besides me, of course.”

  He leaned down and peered in the window just as I had. Then he pulled back, as though he’d put his hand on a red hot iron. “It’s Monica Roby,” he said, disbelief on his face. “Is there anything she doesn’t do?”

  I grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him from the window. “She doesn’t play baseball,” I said, “so don’t worry about her.”

  7

  By a weird fluke of scheduling, we opened the season against O’Dea, making it one of the biggest games of the season. Josh was pumped for a bunch of different reasons. They were the defending league champions, so beating them would get us off on the right foot. But it was personal too. Lots of football players would be on the baseball team. He remembered what they had done to him, the punishment they’d laid on him. All week he talked about evening the score.

  My father drove me to Woodland Park. In the car he talked about how proud he was of me, how he admired my spirit. I know he was trying to connect with me, but I was too nervous to listen closely, let alone answer.

  Coach Wheatley gave us a pep talk I don’t remember at all. Then I stretched, ran a little, did some infield practice, and got a few batting practice cuts. The next thing I knew the umpire was shouting: “Play ball!” Josh and the other starters—including Curtis, whose big bat had won him the third-base job—took their places on the diamond, and I headed to the bench.

  Right then I felt totally deserted. There were other guys not playing, of course. Darren Smith and Kolas Chang and Mike Nelson. David Reule, our number two starter. Carlos Hernandes, the designated hitter. But we didn’t talk. We spread out on the bench, each of us feeling there was something wrong with us, each of us trying to be invisible, each of us aching to play.

  It was better once the game started. O’Dea’s leadoff guy was thin as a pencil and fast as lightning. He showed bunt on the first pitch, but Josh burned a fastball over the heart of the plate. Strike two was another fastball on the outside corner. With the guy leaning out over the plate a little, Josh came back inside with still another fastball. The batter jumped out of the way as if it was close to hitting him, but Selin didn’t have to move his mitt. “Strike three!” the ump hollered.

  “That’s the way to pitch!” Wheatley shouted.

  I cheered, and so did all the other guys on the bench. But once the cheer ended, we lapsed back into silence. There’s nothing much to do on the bench.

  O’Dea’s number two guy grounded out to third, bringing up the three hitter, Number Forty. He looked famili
ar, but I couldn’t figure how I could know him. Then it came to me: the number, the build—he was the linebacker who had sacked Josh so many times in the football game.

  I looked out at Josh’s face, and I knew he knew it too. He got a first pitch strike on a curve. Then he came in with a hard fastball, high and tight, that put Forty down in the dirt. The pitch would have beaned him if he’d been a tenth of a second slower. Forty stood, dusted himself off, then glared out at Josh.

  It wasn’t just show, either. The guy was tough. Josh came back with another curve on the outside part of the plate. You figure that after a fastball up and in, the batter is not going to be leaning out over the plate any time too soon. But Forty went out and got that ball, rifling a shot down the first base line that Dillon Combs caught without moving an inch. He was out, but Josh hadn’t fooled him.

  The starters clattered into the dugout. Josh sat down by himself at the end of the bench. I started toward him, but he put a towel over his head and closed himself off.

  Around me all the other guys seemed to have somebody to talk to. I felt like a stranger with nothing to say and no one to say it to. I looked back to where I’d been and saw Ruben sitting there. I leaned against the Cyclone fence, twining my fingers through it, and stared out to the field.

  The O’Dea pitcher was tight, and he walked Van Tassel on four pitches. Once he threw his first strike he settled down, and Curtis, Richardson, and Bayne went down easily. The way the O’Dea infielders made the putouts told you they were good. The third baseman bare-handed Curtis’s dribbler and threw a strike on the run, and the shortstop was smooth as silk on Combs’s two-hopper. There was no way we were going to blow them out—not with the pitching and fielding they had.

  In the second inning I watched Selin, watched the way he called the game. He was moving Josh’s pitches in and out, changing speeds. But there was something not quite right, something missing. It wasn’t until the third that I figured it out: no sliders.

  Selin had handled the slider better in practice, but he wasn’t calling for it in the game. Not with no strikes, not with two strikes. It was lack of confidence, and it was pride too. You don’t want balls getting by you when you’re catching, especially with people watching. So he kept Josh throwing fastballs and curves.