Against Medical Advice (6 page)
Read Against Medical Advice Online
Authors: James Patterson
The Last Ball Game
I’M STANDING on the pitcher’s mound in front of hundreds of people in the biggest game of the year, the Little League town championship, on Memorial Day weekend. I’m basically a nervous wreck but also as happy as I’ve ever been. This is a rare chance for me to be the center of attention.
For the right reasons.
Playing baseball is the best time of my life, and against all odds I’ve become a good pitcher, a sixth grader who can throw a sixty-five-mile-per-hour fastball, though not always as straight as I would like. I’m also able to hit long home runs when I’m not striking out, which happens a lot, too.
We’re losing by three runs, and they’ve got the bases loaded with two outs in the fourth inning. I’ve just come in to replace our pitcher. My team expects my help in winning a game that will be talked about until next season’s first practice sessions, when there’s still snow on the ground. At least, in my family it will be talked about.
Today I’ve come to the game with many more tricky moves than the crowd expects. Due to the stress, my tics and compulsions have reached a whole new level. I’m also bigger than anyone’s ever seen me. As expected, I’ve gained thirty-five pounds from the Risperdal, which I’ve been on for a few months.
And I’ve taken an extra dose before today’s game.
As the stadium quiets and I look for a signal from the catcher, I give in to an urge to start touching the tip of my nose with my mitt in an exact sequence, three times, then two times, then one. I complete this complex compulsion by tapping myself softly in the crotch with my glove.
Today, because of the extra tension, I’ve done this ritual before each of my first two pitches, and it has distracted me so much that both pitches were balls, missing the strike zone by a mile.
This time when I start my tics, I notice some of the guys on the other team watching me from the sidelines. So far they aren’t reacting, just staring. Even though I know they’re aware of my Tourette’s, I tell myself that a lot of pitchers, out of nervousness, go through their own rituals on the mound, even in the major leagues, so maybe what I’m doing is no big deal.
When the touching is over, I stand up straight and turn the ball in my glove until the stitches are in the exact right place for my fingers.
My body becomes still, I cock my right arm, and I throw the ball as hard as I can. It flies straight over the center of the plate so fast that the batter can’t get around in time. The umpire calls
strike one.
I’m in heaven.
All right! There’s hope.
The crowd in the bleachers to my right is rooting for my team, and they erupt in a cheer like they’ve just witnessed the best thing ever. It’s amazing to see how important this game is to them, and it feels good to know that I’ve come through with a decent pitch.
Nose three times, then two, then one, pound my crotch.
This time one of the kids from the other team picks up on my ritual of movements and yells, “What’s the matter, pitcher, you nervous? Can’t take the heat?”
I have a tough time concentrating on my next pitch. Then another kid shouts, “Choke, choke.”
I take my foot off the rubber for a break, turn to the outfield, and try not to think about the cruel taunting and about what happened in my pregame warm-up. I’d been throwing really well, not every one a strike, but most. Then, all of a sudden, I let go of a ball that sailed at least ten feet over the practice catcher’s head. Something told me,
Throw a wild pitch.
I worry that this can happen now, in the real game.
I also worry that something will tell me to throw the ball at the batter, which would be horrible. I can’t stand the thought of hurting anyone with my pitching. I do throw fast, and this hardball in my hand is a lethal weapon.
By now a bunch of the opposing team’s players are off the bench and standing along the first-base line. The batter is taking warm-up swings at the plate.
The next time I touch my nose, I hear one of the players yell something at me, then another and another. Their voices echo in my head, and even though I can’t get all the words, I know for sure that they’re making fun of my ticcing and dancing around.
“Choke, choke, choke,” they chant in unison.
They all know I can’t help the tics, and I can’t believe they’re using it against me. This is really crummy sportsmanship. Why isn’t someone telling them to stop? Where’s their coach, a grown-up who has to know how unfair this is?
I hurry through the rest of my movements, just to stop the shouting, and throw a really bad pitch for ball three.
The other team bursts out laughing, like they know they’ve made me worse by taunting me. It’s cruel and it’s wrong, but it’s working.
Even before I get ready for my next pitch, the whole team is shouting all kinds of things to make me more nervous.
I look for their coach again to see if he’s going to stop this. He’s the father of one of the players and also the team manager, and when I spot him I’m shocked to see that he’s up on his feet next to them. He’s yelling at me right along with his team. He’s leading them on.
I don’t know how a grown-up can be doing such a thing. It feels like he’s using my nervousness against me. I thought everyone would have known what this would do to me.
The more they yell, the more I need to tic. Suddenly I lurch forward with a bending tic. When they see that, the noise level goes up even more. But not on my team’s side of the stadium; they are mostly quiet.
I suddenly hear my father’s voice rising above our opponents’ shouting. I look over at him, and at my mother and sister. My father is standing now and calling across the infield to the other team’s coach. He’s telling him to shut his players up, but the coach isn’t paying any attention. My mother is staying in her seat, looking as tense as I feel. Jessie gets to her feet to cheer for me, saying, “You can do it, Cory.”
Throw a wild pitch,
something inside my brain tells me. The bad thought happens all at once and is too much for me to tune out.
Throw a wild pitch.
Throw a wild pitch.
I take a few deep breaths. I focus on the red seam of the baseball.
As I get ready again, the noise from the other team is so loud I can’t even hear what they’re saying. But I know what they’re doing, and I’ve had enough. I can feel the change in my mood, and the change in my body.
Instead of making me more nervous, their jeering is making me angry.
Throw a fastball for a strike,
I tell myself.
Right down the middle. Faster than you’ve ever thrown before.
This time I hurry through the touching so quickly that I leave out a step, and when I let go of the ball, it flies straight and fast. The batter barely gets around and fouls it off for strike two.
Three balls, two strikes,
I say to myself.
Now I have a chance.
And then the significance of what’s just happened dawns on me:
I can still throw a good pitch even when they’re yelling.
“Show ’em, Cory. You can do it,” Jessie calls out. “C’mon, Cory.”
“You got ’em now,” somebody else shouts.
“Right down the middle, baby.”
“One more, just one more,” my father calls out. “Go, Cory! You’ve got ’em!”
I have goose bumps all over my body. People are actually cheering for me.
I touch my nose once, but this time that’s where the urge ends. My arms come to rest on my stomach.
The runners set themselves, ready for anything.
People on both sides of the field are standing and shouting.
Something inside me has changed and gotten really calm. I’m out here in a place I love, with the wind on my face, playing my favorite game in the world. This is tense, but I’ve been through a lot worse and come out alive. I can survive this, too.
I force my attention completely on the catcher’s mitt. Two seconds later I reach back with the ball, then let it go with more power than I’ve ever had before. The ball flies so straight and so fast I can hardly see it. Even before it gets there, I know that nothing can touch it.
And nothing does.
“Strike three. You’re out!”
the umpire yells at the batter.
The inning is over.
God, I love baseball.
IF THIS HAD BEEN THE END of the most perfect afternoon in my life, it would have been more than enough to make me deliriously happy. But right now our team is still losing by two runs, and it’s our final at bat.
I’m at the plate with two outs, and a new set of bending and twisting tics has set in. I look at the two guys on base and don’t want to let them down.
Maybe it’s the lesson I learned on the mound about not letting anything bother me, but when I see the ball coming in, I have only one point of focus.
When I swing, I feel solid impact on the fat part of the bat. As the runners take off, the ball sails high in the air. It keeps going farther than any other ball has gone at this field, right over the center-field fence and into the parking lot.
I just hit a home run!
When I get to home plate and break free from my teammates, I run to my family at the chain-link fence. Our fingers touch through the mesh, and they tell me that I’m great.
My God, I did something great,
I think to myself.
A short time later, a friend of our family taps me on the shoulder. “I got this in the parking lot,” he says, “so you never forget.”
I take the home-run ball with a happy grin and thank him.
It’s been years, and I still have the ball. I will always remember that special day, maybe the best day of my youth.
No, not maybe. It was.
To the Ends of the Earth
THE GOOD DAYS ARE FEW and far between, and maybe that’s why I remember them so vividly.
It’s late on a Sunday afternoon in the summer before seventh grade. My father and I are in a race against the sun somewhere in the mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania. We’ve been looking for a lake called Wallenpaupack, but after what is supposed to be a two-hour drive turns into a three-and-a-half-hour drive, we’re about to give up.
The tension in the car is like electricity flowing all around us. Out of anxiousness, I start to touch the steering wheel again, even though we’re going fast.
My father doesn’t mention it at first, but the next time I reach for the wheel, he can’t stop himself.
“You can’t do that, Cory. Do something else,” he says, suddenly very annoyed.
Even though I realize that this urge seems dangerous to someone who’s driving, I have an instant angry reaction to his warning. He knows it will only increase the urge. And he should understand by now that I would never again pull the wheel to one side, as I almost did with Mom right before our accident.
His outburst is especially surprising given that my father and I are getting along very well this summer. When I do something silly or dangerous such as grabbing at the steering wheel or shooting paintballs at our white garage doors, he knows how to handle it. He stays calm and asks me to think about the consequences of my actions, then walks away until I chill out.
My mother almost never gets upset with me, no matter what I do. She simply talks to me until I relax. I just wish she’d stop worrying so much. Sometimes I see a sadness in her eyes that makes me think my problems are never going to end and that they might even make her sick.
I move once more for the steering wheel, but this time I’m able to stop myself from touching it. Then the need goes away.
I still can’t believe my father is taking this long road trip with me. He’s doing it because he wants to spend some time together but also because I have nothing to do at home. My few friends have been going to the town pool and having parties and not inviting me, so my father has again taken over as my friend.
THE SKY IS GETTING DIMMER. Ever since the idea of Jet Skiing came up, it’s become a thrilling obsession for me. It’s like riding a motorcycle full speed, only on the water. But we’re obviously losing the race against time.
“I’m not sure we’re going to make it,” my father says. “It wasn’t supposed to take this long. Sorry, Cory.”
His words are like a knife sinking very deep into my stomach.
“We
have
to do it, Dad. Will you still try?”
He takes his eyes off the road to look at me. “I’m trying, Cory.”
“It’s okay,” I surprise myself by saying. “It’s okay if we can’t do it. Thanks for trying, Dad.”
My father’s expression suddenly gets more determined.
“I didn’t say we were giving up.”
He sets his eyes back on the road and pushes down on the gas pedal.
A half hour later, it’s getting more apparent that my dream isn’t going to happen today. I’m making a chirping sound to get the tension out of my throat, and my right hand is shooting into the air over the dashboard.
Then a miracle. We see a road sign for a place called Hawley. My heart pounds in my chest. That’s the name of a town near the lake.
“We have a chance,” my father says with new energy, “but they said they only stay open until no one wants to ride.”
That’s a possibility I don’t even want to think about.
Lake Wallenpaupack appears at the end of the road like magic. It’s an endless body of water that looks like motor oil in the dimming light. The evergreen trees on a distant shoreline seem about a thousand miles away.
Two college-age boys in swimsuits are on the dock, one sitting, the other tying up the last of six or seven Jet Skis for the night. No one else is around. No one is on the lake. My heart is sinking faster than the setting sun.
“I know it’s late, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d let us take a ride,” my father says to the boy on the chair. “We’ve been driving for hours.”
The two guys look at each other. Not happy.
“We’re closing up for the night,” the chair guy says. “We open at eight tomorrow. Where are you staying?”
“We have no place to stay.” My father nods in my direction. “I promised my son we’d be able to ride. It’s really important to us.”
The tension in the air makes my body twitch. Maybe they notice, maybe not.
After a long silence, the boy in the chair gets up and trudges to a small shack on the dock that serves as the office. My father turns to me with his eyebrows raised, and we follow him.
“I’ll need his ID,” the boy tells my father.
This is an unexpected shock. Age matters, even at such a faraway place as this. With all the weight I’ve gained, I’m big for my age, but I still look too young for this.
“We left so fast we forgot to bring it. But don’t worry about that. He’s ridden dozens of times. On vacations.”
“I could get in trouble.”
“I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll sign a paper if you want.”
The boy thinks about it for a time. “I’ll need a hundred-dollar deposit. You’ve got a half hour.”
