Home Run

by Tim Green

  “It’s not nothing,” Jaden said.

  “How would you know?”

  “I keep the stats, right?” she said. “Now you’re gonna tell me about the stats, Mr. Mona Lisa?”

  “You’re gonna tell me Josh can’t do this?” Benji held out his traffic cop hand. “You wanna talk to the hand for the rest of the day today?”

  “I’m not saying he can’t.” Jaden slapped Benji’s hand away. “He can, but it’s not going to be easy. Even if he hits as well as he did all summer, it’ll be close. Every game will count. Every home run.”

  “Heavy hitters play that way no matter what. You already know that if you’re half as smart as you think you are.” Benji turned around, ending the conversation.

  When they arrived at the ball field, Esch and Lockhart gave them high fives. Josh could already see Coach Swanson standing at home plate with his arms folded across his broad chest. He had a crew cut that didn’t hide the three-inch white scar on the right side of his skull. He was wiry and not very tall, but he kept his back ramrod straight. He watched the team, his team, without speaking as they unloaded their equipment bags, slipped on their gloves, and began to form a small half circle beneath his iron gaze.

  Josh and Benji dumped their stuff in the dugout, and Josh leaned close to Benji. “Glad you didn’t arrive fashionably late now?”

  “Holy moly.” Benji’s eyes were frozen on their new coach as he whispered, “You see that scar?”

  “How could you miss it?” Josh felt a thrill of excitement, not about the new coach, but just about being back with the guys he knew on a field he’d practiced on for months in weather that was warm without being a steam bath.

  He fist-bumped with Paul Goldfarb, their rangy third baseman who hustled out of the dugout.

  “You think it was a bullet or a knife?” Benji whispered, still stuck on the new coach’s scar.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Josh stepped out of the dugout.

  Benji hustled and caught up to him. “Did you leave your brains in Disney World?”

  Josh said nothing because they were in the circle of players now and Coach Swanson was pointing to him. “You’re LeBlanc.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Josh nodded his head anyway, and he couldn’t help thinking how nice it’d been when his father was the coach. Josh had nothing to prove with his father, nothing to worry about. All he had to do was work hard and his father would be pleased. With this coach Josh didn’t know.

  “Thought we weren’t going to have you this season,” Coach Swanson said. “Florida or something?”

  Josh shrugged.

  “Well, I’m darn glad you’re here.”

  The coach sounded like he meant it, but Josh couldn’t read his eyes.

  The coach turned them on Benji. “You Lido?”

  “Heavy hitter two, Coach.” Benji’s words lacked their usual conviction.

  Coach Swanson frowned and looked Benji up and down. “You’re heavy, that I won’t argue with. And you must be Jaden Neidermeyer. Glad you’re on with us.”

  Coach Swanson made a note on his clipboard. “I like the articles you’ve written about the team. I’m hoping you can keep that going.”

  Jaden blushed. “Well, it’ll be harder to get articles in for fall ball. People want to read about football.”

  “My money’s on you.” Coach Swanson smiled at Jaden before directing his attention back to Josh. “Your father was smart, more than just a good coach. He sold this team, great public relations, all that. Nike doesn’t sponsor just anyone, you know. There are only five Nike travel teams in the country, so you not only have to win, people have to notice.”

  “Thanks.” Josh thought of his father down at Crosby College, sweating and working in the heat. A shiver of guilt scurried up his spine.

  “Did you ever help with the paperwork, Jaden?” Coach Swanson held up a folder stuffed with papers. “I’ve got these tournament applications. I’ve already made copies of everyone’s birth certificates. No pressure, but if you’re going to be around, I’ve got lots for you to do.”

  Josh recognized the folder as the same one his father had used. He knew coaching the Titans came with a lot of paperwork. The tournaments they played in always required every player to be registered and to prove that he was eligible.

  “Sure, Coach. I’m happy to help.” Jaden took the folder from him.

  “So, gentlemen,” Coach Swanson said, addressing the whole team before he bowed to Jaden, “and one lady. This is the Nike-sponsored Syracuse Titans. I am Coach Swanson. We have five days to get to know one another before we head out to Cambridge for the Harvard Classic, the first of eight tournaments over the next two months. During that time we will distinguish ourselves as the best U13 fall ball team in the land. We will practice outside unless it looks like rain or it gets too cold, then we will be inside the Mount Olympus Sports Complex just as you’ve been in the past.

  “Now, let’s get something straight. I am not Coach LeBlanc. As much as I respect Coach LeBlanc and everything he did with this team, this will be the last time we talk about him. You belong to me now. I will be demanding. We will do things my way now, whether you like it or not, and you will not question me. Do not tell me how things were done in the past; only do as I ask in the future. We are here to win. Is that understood?”

  Coach Swanson glared around at them. “Is that understood?”

  “Yes!” They barked like a pack of dogs, answering his growl.

  “Good.” Coach Swanson nodded and pointed toward the visiting team’s empty dugout, and a skinny boy with crooked glasses, a crutch, and leg braces limped toward them as if he were drawn to Coach Swanson’s finger by a string. “This is Martin Sheridan. He’s like family to me. He’s our manager. He won’t replace you, Miss Neidermeyer, but Martin will be my right hand.”

  Martin’s hardware clattered in the silence. He gave his hips a final swing, came to a halt, and hung his head. A curtain of brown hair hid his downturned face.

  “Look up, Martin!” Coach Swanson’s bark startled the team.

  Martin forced his chin up and revealed big, dark eyes and a pale face.

  “Martin has moderate cerebral palsy, but that doesn’t slow him down.” Coach Swanson’s voice was hard. “He doesn’t feel sorry for himself, and you’re not to feel sorry for him, either. If he asks you for something, it’s like I’m asking you for something, so you’ll do it.”

  The look on Martin’s face suggested Josh’s little sister, Laurel, was tougher, but like the rest of them, he said nothing.

  “Also, Coach Moose.” Coach Swanson looked at his clipboard. “He will be with us, but not for the next two days, because he’s at some teachers’ conference. Finally, we are missing one player—Martin’s older brother. His name is Jack Sheridan, and he will be here for tomorrow’s practice. He’s from North Carolina, and he’ll be our ace—our go-to pitcher.”

  A gasp rumbled through the team. Kerry Eschelman had been the team’s number-one pitcher since Josh’s dad formed the Titans U12 team last spring. Esch had a wicked arm and had won the team plenty of games, including a national championship at Cooperstown. He had also developed into a potent hitter with Josh’s dad’s coaching.

  Gary Lockhart stepped forward as if to say something. Their left fielder had a strong arm but not much of a bat.

  “Oh? Some of you don’t like that?” Coach Swanson’s smile seemed wicked. “Trust me, when you see Jack pitch, you won’t be disappointed. Esch, there’ll be plenty of work for you too; you know that.”

  Esch’s freckled face had reddened at the attention. He was a quiet kid anyway, and all he did was nod to the coach.

  “I presume everyone here has a cell phone?” Coach Swanson looked around.

  Everyone nodded.

  “Right.” Coach Swanson nodded to Martin, who adjusted a duffel bag he had slung across his shoulders, opening it for them to fill. “Put your cell phones in Martin’s bag. That’s where they go at the beginning of eve
ry practice and every game. No distractions. We’re here to work, not text our girlfriends.”

  A few of the players twittered at that, and Billy Duncan burst out with a laugh he cut short.

  “You’ll get them back at the end of every practice, so there’s no need to worry.” Coach Swanson then blasted his whistle. “Okay! Dump your gloves in the on-deck circle. Form a line behind home plate. This team is going to get in shape. People think baseball is relaxed and casual. Not my team. We’ll never phone it in: we work hard, we train hard, and we play as hard in the last inning of the last game as we do in the first. On my whistle you jog down the first-base line, around the inside of the fence, back down the third-base line, then sprint around the bases and do it all over again. Six times. We gotta run fast when we’re tired. If you can pass someone, do it. I will be watching to see who lags and who wants to win. Ready? One at a time, on my whistle.”

  Josh had jumped and was first in line at home plate. Coach blasted his whistle, and Josh took off at a steady jog, circling the field. When he hit home plate, he burst around the bases and set out again. Josh passed Benji on the second lap and Lockhart and Duncan soon after. Martin leaned on his crutch and remained at Coach Swanson’s side. After the sixth lap the coach told Josh to get some water. Josh threw himself down on the bench beside Jaden and sucked down half the water in his bottle.

  Jaden was completing some paperwork for the Harvard Classic. “Not like the old days, huh?”

  “What’s he think we’ve got next weekend, a baseball tournament or a marathon?” Josh gasped for breath.

  “That which doesn’t kill you . . . ,” Jaden said.

  “Makes you stronger, I know.” Josh slapped his knees and got up. “But if we do too much of this junk, someone will get killed.”

  Jaden looked out at the field and Benji’s big, wobbly shape as he struggled along the outfield fence. “Meaning Benji?”

  “I just don’t know how much of this stuff the big guy can take.”

  “What if he really can’t make it?” Jaden asked.

  Josh glanced at Coach Swanson, standing like a statue behind home plate, checking off kids as they crossed home plate for the final lap.

  Josh bit his lower lip. “I’d hate to find out, but I think we’re about to.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  JOSH HEADED OUT TO home plate to cheer on the stragglers. He high-fived the guys as they stumbled across home plate and headed to the dugout for some more water. Josh didn’t look at Coach Swanson or Martin. He just did his thing the way his father had taught him, encouraging the guys, even Billy Duncan, who came in second to last, and then Benji, who still had a final lap to go even after Duncan had finished.

  Josh patted Benji’s butt. “C’mon, Benji. Do it, buddy!”

  Benji stopped and turned the saddest eyes he could muster on their new coach. “Coach, can I call it with everybody else?”

  Benji could barely speak, and he sounded like he was about to cry. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead. Sweat poured from his face and dripped from his ears.

  “Man up, Lido. This isn’t kindergarten. Everybody doesn’t get a medal for trying. Finish!” Coach Swanson shouted, pointing a finger down the first-base line.

  As Benji slogged off, Coach Swanson blew his whistle again. “Let’s go, long toss. Partner up on the first-base line!”

  “What about Benji, Coach?” Josh asked.

  Coach Swanson watched with disgust as Benji waddled across first base and kept going. “What about him?”

  “Well, my d—” Josh caught himself and stopped before he quoted his father about how a team sticks together. Coach Swanson glared at Josh and looked like his head might explode.

  “My . . . my darn cleats,” Josh said, thinking fast. “Too tight, Coach. Gotta get a new pair.”

  “What’s that got to do with Lido?”

  Josh shrugged. “Maybe he’s got the same problem?”

  “Long toss, LeBlanc. You leave Lido to me.”

  Josh nodded, got his glove, and paired off with Preston to warm up their arms with a long toss. As they threw, Josh kept his eyes on Benji, silently urging him to make it. Josh was beyond third base when Benji passed him, chugging as slow as cold honey, gasping and heading for home. Just before the plate, Benji went down. He collapsed slowly, melting rather than falling, and his chin ended up on the rubber. Josh stopped his throwing and moved toward his friend.

  “I made it, Coach.” Benji barked like a wounded seal, looked up at the coach with a painful smile, then barfed all over home plate.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “LIDO!” COACH SWANSON HOWLED. “You get that mess off of home plate!”

  Benji rolled over on his back and flopped his arms out to the sides. “I can’t move, Coach. I can’t move. Aw, the ham and cheese . . . gone.”

  “Clean that up, Lido.” The coach glowered at the puke. “Get some cardboard and the rake from the equipment shed to clear it. You’re gonna need some fresh dirt. Before you’re done, douse the plate with water—and get yourself cleaned up too.”

  Coach Swanson stomped off to the outfield. He marched around the grass and kept a surprisingly watchful eye on the team, barking out commands sometimes to the players right in front of him or sometimes to the ones halfway across the field.

  Josh kept stealing glances at Benji as he struggled with the infield rake and shoveled the mess onto a piece of wet cardboard. Dejectedly, he dumped it in a garbage barrel before raking some fresh dirt into the ground.

  Swanson barked, “Lido, now water it down!”

  Benji staggered back from the bathroom, struggling with both hands to control the sloshing water in the bucket. He finally made it to home plate and doused it with the water.

  “Get to work, Lido!” the coach shouted. “Put that bucket back and come out here!”

  Benji stalked off with the bucket and got his glove. Halfway to the outfield he shouted, “Where you want me, Coach?” as if nothing was amiss.

  “Shag balls with LeBlanc and Zigmansky!”

  “Are you okay?” Josh whispered at Benji when he arrived.

  “You two!” Coach Swanson shouted from two drills away. “Stop talking gumdrops and lollipops and get to work!”

  “I’ll give him a gumdrop,” Benji muttered beneath his breath.

  “What’s that, Lido?” Coach Swanson headed their way with his hands on his hips and shouting like he meant it. “You got something to say, or is that just more barf leaking from your piehole?”

  “Nothing, Coach!” Benji shouted, scowling at Josh like it was his fault.

  Josh didn’t know if it was because Benji made a mess on home plate or if every practice was going to be as brutal, but brutal it was. They worked nonstop for two hours and ended with baseline sprints, and Benji catching a tongue lashing for lagging behind. Finally, the coach brought them in and answered Josh’s question.

  “Well, I took it easy on you tonight, but we’re going to have to work a lot harder if we want to sweep this season.” Coach Swanson stared around at them all as if daring someone to deny that they were going to win every single game they played. “That’s how you gotta look at it, men. You gotta believe you’re gonna win every time you walk onto that field. The ones who don’t? You’ll weed yourselves out. I’ve seen it before. Now bring it in for a break.

  “‘No guts, no glory’—that’s our chant. Let me hear it on three! One, two, three!”

  “NO GUTS, NO GLORY!” they all shouted, even Martin.

  “All right,” Coach Swanson said, “everyone take two handouts from Martin. One has his email and cell phone info. The other asks for your information. Fill it out carefully. If you’re old enough to play for the Syracuse Titans U13 Travel Team, you are old enough to be responsible for yourselves. All practice announcements and team business will be emailed and/or texted to you and your parents by Martin. If this doesn’t work for you or your parents, good luck finding another team. I’ll give you a glowing recomme
ndation.”

  Josh took a handout from Martin. “Hey, thanks, Martin.”

  Martin didn’t even look up but handed a paper to Benji.

  Josh let the others drain into the parking lot before he doubled back to speak with Coach Swanson. Martin was in the dugout, struggling with a latch on the equipment bag. Josh went to help him, but Martin just mumbled, “I got it.” Josh sighed and let him alone.

  Coach Swanson hadn’t moved, and he looked up from his clipboard. “What can I do for you, LeBlanc?”

  Josh cleared his throat; the cold look on his coach’s face made him wish he hadn’t come back. It was a bad thing to ask. It didn’t have anything to do with winning. This wasn’t Coach Moose or Josh’s dad. This was an ex-soldier who’d probably killed people with his bare hands.

  Josh opened his mouth and gurgled.

  “Well?” Coach Swanson’s thick eyebrows knit together above his nose. “I’ve got work here, LeBlanc. Spit it out.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  AN UNFRIENDLY VEIN APPEARED in Coach Swanson’s forehead.

  Josh began to sweat. “I . . . I just. It’s nothing, really, Coach. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “Okay, but you did, so what’s up?”

  “It’s just that Qwik-E-Builders Home Run Derby?”

  Coach Swanson narrowed his eyes. “I’m not a gimmick guy, LeBlanc, if that’s what you’re asking. I see you got a big bat, but that contest is just a marketing ploy by some company to get people talking about it like you and I are doing right now. First you gotta qualify, and twenty home runs are a lot when we only play thirty-two games. Second, you gotta drop one of your home runs into a soup bowl or something.”

  “Yeah, but . . . I think it’s a bathtub,” Josh said. “Someone could win.”

  “And I could hit a ball from here to the moon.”

  Josh tried to read his coach’s face. He had no idea where this craziness was headed.

  “You don’t think I’m really gonna do that, do you?” Coach Swanson spoke softly.

  Josh shook his head.