7 Days at the Hot Corner (9 page)

Back at school this morning, everything is all right as near as I can tell. I haven't heard any mention of gay stuff. Unbelievable as it may sound, our baseball team has wiped the “secret homo” story right out of most people's minds. Yep, it's true: Baseball to the rescue. Our team is only two wins away from the high school city championship and an unprecedented undefeated season. People, a lot of them, have actually started coming out to watch us. Even the cheerleaders are coming, sitting on the front row of the bleachers. They're not allowed to stand up and cheer. It's actually kind of funny, watching them sit there as if their butts are superglued to the metal seats, waving their red and black pom-poms and trying to convert football and basketball cheers to baseball. “D-fense, D-fense, D-fense,” and “Push 'em back, push 'em back, waaaayyyy back …”

For the last two games, the custodian and the kids on the grounds crew who help him have added a full set of additional bleachers on the third-base side, right next to the regular ones. The success of the team has helped take people's attention away from everything else.

Today after school we play the semifinal for the tournament. But right now, although I'd never say it out loud, a part of me feels like
big whoop.
This is weird, because baseball has always meant so much to me, and of all the times for me to suddenly get all easygoing about playing ball, this seems like the worst—then again, maybe it's the best.

As school rolls on, I manage to pretty much avoid Matt Tompkins. Of course, I can't avoid him completely: We
are
in three classes together, Computer Science, English, and Mr. Robinette's World History. But by arriving as late as possible for the day's classes, I haven't had to interact with him.

It's funny, though; I can't help but feel that Matt's been avoiding me, too. I haven't allowed myself any eye contact with him, so I can't be sure, but as I've passed him in the halls going to and from classes, he completely ignores me. Whatever is up with him, I don't really care, so long as he stays away from me … and from Trav. Yeah, I'm a hypocrite—it's okay for me to hurt my friend, but nobody else better!

As school comes to an end today, the pressure over our game this afternoon is worse than it's ever been before—it's against the team with the next-best record to ours in the league!

In the locker room as we suit up, everybody is as tight as a fish's ass. Captain Josh even tries to joke around with us, and Josh
never
clowns around. His efforts to be lightweight and relaxed make everybody even more uptight. I have dry mouth something awful.

I sit near my locker and lift my glove up to cover my mouth and nose with it. If you watch much big league baseball, you've seen the catcher call time out and go talk to the pitcher, and the pitcher often covers his mouth with his glove when he talks, as if he's scared that the batter can read lips or something. I've always suspected that the real reason pitchers hide their faces behind their gloves is the reason I'm doing it right now: I
love
the smell of my glove, the leather, the oil I rub into it a couple of times a week to keep it supersoft—it's the greatest scent in the world.

Now, lowering the glove from my face, I take a few deep breaths and try to relax. Hey, it's a baseball game, not a tsunami in Indonesia, not a hurricane on the Gulf Coast, not an exploding troop transport in Iraq—it's just a baseball game.

Turns out we are up 9 to 2 by the third inning. Of course, with a cushy lead we are playing loose again, laughing and clowning around. It's a perfect day. The sky is ninety percent blue, with only a couple of white, fluffy clouds. We have a huge crowd. The grounds crew has added a third set of bleachers down the left-field line and a second set down right field. Whatever number of seats the ground crew sets up, every seat is taken. Even more fans, mostly kids from school, sit on the grass where the bleachers end. Dad and Travis have come to today's game. I'm not worrying about them. I'm trying to concentrate on the game itself.

By clowning a little during the game, we aren't meaning to be disrespectful to our opponents. Butler H.S. is a good team; it's just so much fun to be way ahead and not feel so much pressure.

Willie Brown, our shortstop, is a joker all the time. As he gets up to bat in the fourth inning, he gives Josh, who is coaching at third base, a real goofy look, which cracks Josh up. We've been pounding the ball, especially against this kid they've brought in as a relief pitcher. He is on the mound when Willie steps up, and he sees Willie's routine. His first pitch is a fastball, hard and straight at Willie's head. The sickening
smack
of the ball exploding against Willie's batting helmet can be heard all over the field. Willie drops like he is dead.

I once saw Major League fastball pitcher Randy Johnson bean a guy. Everybody could tell Randy was real upset, and that it was an accident. Nobody came out to fight or anything, because everybody knew that it was unintentional.

The Butler pitcher, though, smiles and looks at his dugout as Willie hits the deck. He imitates Willie's goofy expression from a few seconds before. Big,
big
mistake.

The brawl is as ugly as any I've ever been involved in. Our catcher, Mark Trilling, is the first guy out of our dugout, followed by all the rest of us. Butler's guys meet us at the mound and the fists start flying. Sometimes in baseball, fights are just jokes, but an intentional beaning like this eliminates any possibility of one of those pick-a-partner, dance-around deals. Trilling aims a major right hook at the Butler pitcher's mouth. If the punch had landed squarely, the kid would still be on his knees looking for his teeth.

The fight lasts a good five minutes, which is a long time for a fight. I get lost under a pileup and spend most of my time just trying to protect myself from feet and fists coming at my face. It's scary. I finally manage to claw my way out from beneath three or four bodies and get back on my feet. I am up just in time to see Matt Tompkins do one of the nastiest, most vicious things I've ever seen.

He backs himself quickly across the infield to where the pitcher who beaned Willie is trying to hide out. Because Matt backs toward him, I'm sure the kid has no idea what's coming. When Matt is right in front of him, his back still to the kid, he cocks his arm high and swings his elbow with all his might. It connects with the pitcher's face. Matt has made it look like an accident, but I've seen his eyes as he sets it up, moving himself into position, picking the perfect moment, and then striking. The results looks like a stunt in a movie, the way the kid's nose just explodes with blood. The kid drops, holding his face, blood flowing freely from between his fingers; he is too hurt to even moan.

When order is finally restored, the Butler pitcher doesn't have to be tossed out of the game, because he is so messed up with a broken nose that he can't return anyway. Our catcher, Mark Trilling, is thrown out. Willie, still a little shaky from the beaning, is okay; he even stays in the game.

I admit I have a temper. At my dad's, twice I've smashed the remote control for our TV, first the original and then the seventy-dollar replacement, when the Mariners lost games they should have won. I'm not proud of this—in fact, after I lose control, I always feel ashamed of myself. But after watching what Matt did today, I could tell that he was never out of control. He wasn't like I get when I go nuts. He was very methodical, very cold. At no time did Matt ever look like he was mad. To me, that makes him even scarier.

The game gets really sloppy after the brawl. We make four errors. Even Captain Josh drops a fly ball on a fairly tough try, but it's one he makes ninety-nine out of a hundred times. Matt makes two errors, on easy grounders. Still, we hold on for the win. Personally, I have a great game; I don't have any errors and I get four hits and bring home five runs.

It's a relief to contribute so big-time today. I've made only one error in the last six games. But more important than my defense, which has been good all year, today I hit again. I hit fastballs, of course, but I hit the off-speed stuff too. Actually, I hit everything! I'm in the zone. I've raised my season batting average back up to .340, with a total of eight home runs and twenty-one RBIs.

We win, but we win ugly. What a nasty baseball phrase that is, “winning ugly.” To me it means that none of the good stuff about winning made any difference—not skill, not talent, not the fact that you work hard, play hard, or deserve to win, not even being lucky. Nope, winning ugly is actually more like not even winning. You have more runs on the board at the end of nine innings—but is that the reason you play? It's actually just another form of losing; somehow, winning ugly is like my argument with Trav, because being right doesn't matter all that much. I can't explain it any better than that, but winning ugly is not a good thing.

Back in the locker room Matt sits alone, steaming. Besides his two errors, he went 0 for 4 and had two strikeouts. He can work his jaw like nobody I've ever seen, with the exception of Elvis Presley in some of those stupid
Viva Las Vegas
–type movies where he wiggles his jaw when he's acting like he's PO'd. But Elvis was pretending; as Matt works
his
jaw now, it's no act, just a big, enraged-looking carnivore that feeds on red meat and anger.

I haven't spoken to him since our World History class. And after the crappy game he played today, I have no intention of saying anything now. But as I'm finishing getting my stuff together at my locker, I feel him staring at me. I make the mistake of glancing over.

“Listen,” Matt says, his voice low and cold. “I know about your little buddy. You just stay away from me.”

I knew it! I start to say, “I'm not ga—”

But he interrupts. “I don't care what you are—just shut your mouth and stay away from me!”

I realize that no matter what I say, it won't help, so I shut up. Matt's always been the opposite of me. I wear my feelings pretty much right out there; with Matt, you can hardly ever tell what's going on inside him—so him saying this stuff feels dangerous for both Travis and me.

I leave the locker room and walk quickly to my truck. I unlock the door and get in. I just sit here for a while wondering: How much hotter can my hot corner get?

Knowledge of the game, final thoughts: The longer I play ball, the smarter I seem to get about it. This is not to say that I never make stupid moves, never make bad plays, and never mess up. Nope, there's no way to play without sometimes screwing up, and I think it's pretty cool that there's even a symbol for it when you're keeping score: “E” equals “error.” But every error you make, if you're paying attention, you gain knowledge. I think that's called learning from your mistakes. And you don't have to play third base to experience it.

Winning and losing: In baseball there are no ties. You play until one team wins and one team loses. There's no maximum number of innings, no set number of outs, there's no time clock. So there's no other way to end a game, except by forfeit, once you've started. Every so often on a hot July day, playing a meaningless American Legion game, when you're in the top of the thirteenth and you're standing at third and there are two outs and nobody is on base—you say to yourself, Let's just call this one a draw. But you'd never say it to anyone. In baseball somebody has to win and somebody has to lose; that's the game. It's that clear-cut. Unfortunately, most other things are not quite that simple.

Saturday morning I try to phone Travis from my mom's place to talk to him about Matt, but he doesn't answer his cell. I call Dad's house too, but no one answers there either. Because it's the weekend, no school, there's nothing I can do but drive in early and try to find Trav. After what Matt said yesterday,
I know about your little buddy
, I have to give Travis a heads-up.

Normally, Coach insists that we be at the field an hour before a game, but our game today isn't like any we've ever played before—this game is the championship, so we're supposed to be in two hours before the first pitch.

I drive by Dad's house and there's no one home. I go by the Five-Mile Espresso, where Travis and Dad and I used to go for Saturday-morning donuts after Friday-night sleepovers; no luck there either.

I cruise by Roy and Rita's house, my stomach doing a small flip-flop, but neither Dad's nor Travis's car is in the driveway or parked on the street.

I glance at my watch and I'm already twenty minutes late.

I grab my cell and dial Travis's cell again. It picks up on the first ring and I leave him a voice mail. “Listen, Trav, I know this is gonna sound strange, but stay away from Matt Tompkins today, okay? I'll explain after the game.”

There's nothing more I can do now except hope that Travis checks his messages and that he doesn't run into Matt anywhere this morning. There's not really any reason why Trav would see Matt, and I've done all I can do. I have to set that aside and start focusing on the game; the most important game in my life, in any of our lives.

I drive to Hart Field for our one-o'clock start time.

Parking my truck in the already packed parking lot and seeing the size of the crowd already here, over an hour and a half before the first pitch, I realize that this game, the big one, for all the marbles, is going to be something else.

Everybody in the Western world seems to be here. I don't actually know how many people are watching; maybe it'll say on the news tonight. All three local TV channels, 2, 4, and 6, have sent out their main sports guys, the ones you see reporting sports every evening at five and eleven. All I know for sure about the crowd is that it is so big that the umpires had to have the grounds crew rope off the left- and right-field foul territories all the way to the center-field fence. They also made a bunch of kids who were hanging over the fence in center field move so they weren't directly behind the pitcher. There are more people watching this game than I've ever seen at a Thompson H.S. basketball or football game, which is pretty amazing. It's packed.