Baseball Great (11 page)

JONES LOOKED DOWN AT
the spray of blood on his T-shirt and said, “Nothing, Coach.”

“Something,” Rocky said, scowling. “You guys okay?”

“It was my fault, Coach,” Josh said, stepping forward. “I got into some trouble and Jones, well, he just helped me.”

Rocky studied Josh, then returned his attention to the blood, his face still serious and stern.

“We got an important tournament this weekend, and I can't have my starting first baseman breaking his hand in a fight,” Rocky said.

“My hand's okay,” Jones said, flexing it for the coach.

Rocky looked at him for another couple seconds, then said, “No more fighting. I mean it. Think of the team.”

“Okay, Coach,” Jones said. “Sorry.”

Rocky returned to his fries. Josh got his food from Moose, and he and Jones sat down together next to Tucker and Watson. Both of them hunched over the table and whispered to Jones to tell them what the heck happened. Jones had checked to see that no coaches were listening in before telling them.

“He was messing with our man,” Jones said in conclusion. “So…”

“You whupped him,” Tucker said. “I wish I was there. I hate that smelly creep. Man, look at that blood. I love blood.”

Jones stuck a fry in his mouth and looked at Tucker as if he were weird.

“What's that guy dating an eighth grader for, anyway?” Watson said, taking a drink of his soda and shaking his head.

Jones shrugged and said, “No idea, but our man snagged his girl. Things happen.”

“I didn't really,” Josh said, trying to think of how he could explain the situation with Sheila without sounding stupid but coming up with nothing.

“Sure,” Watson said, not believing him anyway.

“Don't worry, junior,” Tucker said to Josh, “we got you covered. Ain't no high school kid gonna mess with our shortstop. I don't care who he is. You go ahead and date anyone you like, except my sister.”

“Your sister has bigger calves than you,” Jones said.

“Don't talk about my sister,” Tucker said, crumpling a napkin and bouncing it off of Jones's forehead.

“Easy, big guy. I'm just saying,” Jones said, drinking his soda.

“So, junior Josh is really one of us, isn't he?” Tucker asked. “Diapers and all?”

Jones raised an eyebrow at Tucker and said, “You're the one who picked him up and paraded him around.”

“I know. I'm saying it nice,” Tucker said.

“Oh,” Jones said, popping another fry in his mouth.

“And, I'm saying that if he's one of us,” Tucker said, lowering his voice and leaning across the table again, “shouldn't we cut him in on the gym candy?”

Jones looked away, shaking his head.

“What?” Tucker said. “He can use it.”

“What candy?” Josh asked.

“You want to win games, right?” Tucker asked.

“Of course,” Josh said.

“We do what we have to to win, right?” Tucker asked.

“We work harder than anyone,” Josh said.

“Exactly,” Tucker said, jabbing a finger at Josh. “We win because we work harder. We lift like crazy. We're good, too, but we're stronger than the other teams. That's what the game's about now. Think about it—Bonds, Clemens, McGwire—the great ones are all
strong, and gym candy gets you strong.”

“Like Super Stax?” Josh asked.

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Listen, you live on the north side, right?”

“On Turtle Street,” Josh said, nodding.

“Yeah, I'm over by Schiller Park,” Tucker said. “Tell you what; I'll ride my bike over tonight, meet you after dinner in Washington Square Park. I'll hook you up.”

Josh looked at Jones for some help, but the towering first baseman put another french fry in his mouth and chewed as he studied the big white column behind their table.

“I guess,” Josh said.

“You guess?” Tucker said, scowling. “You on this team or aren't you? My man just drew blood for you. That not enough?”

“Sure,” Josh said.

“Good,” Tucker said. “Don't say anything to your parents or anything. This is just between us guys. That's how we roll.”

“I wouldn't,” Josh said.

“Good,” Tucker said, winking. “I'll meet you at eight.”

THE COACHES BROUGHT THE
team back to Mount Olympus Sports, where the parents picked them up. Josh said little at dinner. He noticed that his parents seemed to be getting along better but was too distracted about his meeting with Tucker to give it much thought. Sometime during the meal, rain began to clatter against the kitchen window. After dinner Josh helped his mom clean up while Laurel banged her sip cup on her tray and screamed Josh's name, alternating it with the word
peek-a-boo
, meaning she wanted him to play. Normally he would, but when he finished helping, he draped a dish towel over her face just once before disappearing from the kitchen.

Josh pulled on his raincoat and crossed the driveway to the garage, where his father lay with his feet
sticking out from under the Taurus.

“What are you doing?” Josh asked him.

“Hand me that wrench over there, will you?” his father asked, wiggling one boot in the general direction of where the wrench lay on the cracked concrete floor.

Josh scooped it up and placed it into the hand that appeared from behind the front tire.

His father grunted and said, “Trying to change the oil.”

“Why didn't you take it to the shop?” Josh asked.

His father's legs went still, and the clanking of the wrench stopped. Josh heard him sigh.

“We gotta be a little careful for a while,” his father said from under the car before tapping something with the wrench.

“Careful?” Josh said.

“With money,” his father said. “It's no big deal. We're okay.”

“You don't make as much as you did with baseball?” Josh asked.

“Baseball pays pretty good,” his father said, “even Triple-A.”

“So it's good you got the job with Rocky,” Josh said.

“Real good,” his father said. “Most guys leave the game and make a lot less. I'm lucky to have it.”

“That's good,” Josh said.

Something clunked down onto the concrete floor.

“Oh, crap,” his father said. “Hand me that pan quick, will you, Josh?”

Josh knelt down and slid a metal pan under the car. He heard it scraping along the floor before his father started to worm his way out from underneath. His right hand appeared, smeared black with oil and gripping the edge of the car frame. As he pulled himself out, Josh could see that his father's shirt and face had also been splashed with oil.

“I'm no mechanic,” his father said, wiping one eye with the back of his left wrist. “Your mom and I would like to stay here, keep this house. The job with Rocky makes it a lot easier to do it.

“So, aside from me having to do a little mechanical stuff,” his father continued, grinning through the spatters of oil, “we're all set. You going someplace?”

“Uh, just to meet a couple of the guys,” Josh said. “Nothing big.”

His father nodded. “I told you it would all work out. It's raining, though. Still going? Make sure you put your hood up and be back by nine.”

“Dad?” Josh said, pulling his hood up and tying it down.

“Yeah?”

“I want to be great at baseball.”

“You will be,” his father said.

“But it takes a lot of hard work, right?” Josh said.

“And that's what you're doing,” his father said. “That's why I've got you on the Titans.”

“All that weight lifting,” Josh said. “It's important, huh?”

“Size and strength are the difference between what I had and what you're going to have,” his father said, his eyes drifting to an old tire that rested against the garage wall.

Josh said nothing.

“Well, I gotta get back under there,” his father said, picking up a tool that had a long canvas loop hanging from its end. “I gotta do the filter, too.”

“And you have to do whatever it takes, right?” Josh asked before his father could disappear again, underneath the car.

His father lay on his back on the broken floor, and his eyes darted back at Josh. Josh could feel them boring into his brain.

“Whatever it takes,” his father said softly. “That's the difference between good and great. You do things to your body other people are afraid to do. You push harder. You do everything Rocky tells you.”

Josh realized that he hadn't let go of his last breath and when he finally did, it came out in a long hiss.

“That's what I thought,” Josh said, but his father had already disappeared back under the car.

JOSH POPPED THE KICKSTAND
and walked his bike to the garage's open doorway. He flipped his phone out and sent a text message to Tucker. He had to wait only a second before he got a reply that they were still on. His father was banging again under the car, so Josh mounted the bike and pedaled off into the rain and under the dark sky.

Since the sidewalks were broken and bumpy, Josh kept to the streets. When cars hissed past they sprayed him with a fine mist and bled trails of red light along the wet road. Rain pattered down on Josh's hood. Old trees rose up in the dark, standing watch against the ring of battered houses that surrounded the park. Josh rode up the brick walkway in the center, past the Le Moyne Drinking Fountain—a round block of stone with
an image of the Jesuit who'd founded Syracuse—the Salt City—carved on its face. He passed by the basketball courts and pulled up under the park's lone, small pavilion.

Imprisoned beneath the rectangular roof were four battered benches, one with a metal trash can chained to its leg. Tucker's ten-speed bike rested against the far bench, and he sat sprawled out on another with both arms extended along the backrest. He wore a green Titans hat turned backward and a bright red rain jacket. His sneakers bubbled and squished when he rocked forward to shake Josh's hand. His hair hung wet and limp and dark like seaweed from under the band of his hat.

“What's up?” Tucker asked, tilting his head up and down as he sat back comfortably.

“Raining pretty good,” Josh said, stepping on his kickstand and resting his bike.

Tucker looked around as if it were the first time he noticed the weather. Except for the two of them, the park was as empty, dark, and gloomy as a dirt-floor basement. The streetlights washed over them in a misty glow that reflected dully off the teeth in Tucker's smile.

“Good for a secret meeting,” Tucker said. “It
is
secret, right? You didn't tell your parents or anyone or anything, right?”

“No,” Josh said. “You said not to.”

“Because this is down low,” Tucker said. He patted the bench seat beside him. “Sit.”

Josh did, and tried to see what it was that Tucker was looking at. Down the hill, over the rooftops of the murky houses, and across the interstate highway, a red light blinked high above the ground, visible even through the rain.

“Destiny,” Tucker said, nodding toward the light.

“The mall?” Josh asked, knowing the Destiny USA mall stood out there somewhere in the gloom and that the light was probably atop its central tower to warn airplanes.

“Destiny,” Tucker repeated, as if Josh hadn't spoken.

Tucker reached into his rain jacket pocket and removed an amber vial with a white plastic cap. A pill bottle, just like you'd get from a doctor. He twisted off the lid and shook a pill into Josh's hand. The smooth white lozenge bore an imprint that read A17.

“Gym candy,” Tucker said. “You take one in the morning and one at night, before you eat.”

“But what is it?” Josh asked.

“Good for you is what it is,” Tucker said. “What? You don't trust me?”

“Yeah, I do,” Josh said, giving back the pill.

“You won't believe how strong you're gonna get,” Tucker said. “Remember that pop fly you hit against Hempstead? The one in the first inning when we had
the bases loaded?”

Josh nodded.

“Three, four weeks from now? That same ball is
gone
,” Tucker said. “A home run easy. This stuff is all you need.”

“Is it safe?” Josh asked.

Tucker snorted and shook his head. “Does it look like it's doing anything bad to me? How about Watson? How about your boy Jones?”

“Jones?”

“It's a team thing, junior,” Tucker said through his teeth.

“And Rocky knows?”

Tucker shook his head. “Too many questions, junior.”

“'Cause my dad says I should do whatever Rocky wants,” Josh said.

Tucker stared at him for a minute. A jet airplane roared overhead, its blinking lights seeming to be on a crash course with the light atop the Destiny USA tower.

Finally Tucker said, “Yeah, Rocky wants it. Where do you think I got this stuff?”

JOSH GOT ON HIS
bike and waved good-bye to Tucker. The bottle of pills rattled in his pocket whenever he hit a pothole or a bump in the street. He looked at his watch and knew he had a little time. Instead of turning off Park Street onto Turtle, he kept going until he got to Pond Street and took a left until he hit the corner of Carbon. While Josh had never been to her house, he remembered Jaden telling his mother the night they had beef stew that she and her father lived on this corner.

He walked up the steps and onto the wide porch of what had once been a fancy white house with gingerbread trim and a round tower in one corner. The peeling paint left it looking shabby, but it was Josh's best bet at where a doctor might live. He knocked, and an old
woman wearing glasses yanked open the inside door, washing the porch in a cold, bluish light.

Josh smiled at her, but she waved at him through the glass storm door and shouted, “Go away! I don't want any.”

“I'm looking for the Neidermeyers,” Josh said loudly. “Doctor Neidermeyer.”

The woman scrunched up her wizened face and, pointing, said, “Across the street.”

She slammed the door, and Josh retreated to his bike. He rolled it across the street and mounted the concrete steps of a red row house nearly as narrow as his own. From the stoop, he could see through the curtains of the front room and into the living room. Jaden's father sat at a desk, working on a computer. Jaden sat beside him on the couch with her legs curled underneath her, reading a book and stroking an orange-striped cat. Next to her, the light from a lamp burned through its heavy shade to fill the scene with an orange glow.

Josh stuck out a finger and moved it toward the lighted button for the bell but froze only an inch away. His finger trembled. In his mind whirled a series of scenes that could play out, none of them hopeful, all ending with Jaden slamming the door in his face just like the old lady across the street had done. His hand gripped the pill bottle, and the pills rattled inside it. He pushed the button, wincing.

Nothing happened.

Josh thought about what Tucker had said—destiny. If it was his destiny, the doorbell would have worked.

He turned to go but didn't get to the bottom step before he heard the door swing open behind him.

“Hey,” a voice said. “Who are you?”