Biggie (3 page)

Killer reaches out and catches the ball with his right hand. He slides on the asphalt and rolls over with skid marks busting open down his leg. I can almost hear the sizzle like bacon bouncing on a skillet as he slides on the hot surface. He jumps up, shakes off the pain, and screams to Jet, “No one on your team's going to reach base today.” He flips the ball back at me and gives me a nod. I see blood mixed with small pebbles of gravel on his forearm. He takes a deep breath, rolls his neck, and ignores the little pieces of parking lot trapped in the sticky red substance escaping from a series of tiny cuts.

“Last batter!” Coach Phillips yells.

Justin Martinson steps up to the plate. If not for me and my lard ass, he would be the biggest kid in school. But while I say nothing and stay invisible, he's the class clown. He shakes his big ass to make the girls laugh and invents new sound effects for fake farts to get the guys to applaud and shout. I don't know what to expect. He might strike out by taking an overexuberant swing or hit a home run.

Knowing Justin's the last batter calms me, and I get a second wind. I'm able to take a deep, relaxing breath. I stand upright, feeling confident. I squeeze the Wiffle ball with precision like a nurse taking a pulse. I toss the pitch, releasing the ball just above my head. The ball drops, slices, and hovers in space. Justin swings as hard as he can and yells as loud as he can, but the ball barely bounces off the bat.

Like a raindrop, the ball drops straight onto the asphalt, bounces twice, and stops just a few inches in front of home plate. With no catcher, I run toward the spinning ball. As I get within stretching distance of the ball, a sharp pain shoots through my chest. My knees buckle, my neck stiffens, and my eyes slam shut. I don't fall as much as tip over, landing on my right elbow and rolling onto my belly.

Killer grabs the ball and throws out Justin as the hot asphalt leaves grill marks on my forehead. My breaths become choppy as I try to roll over onto my back. Everyone must be looking on in horror as I vibrate like a fish out of water.

“Biggie, you okay?” Coach Phillips says and helps me sit up.

My forearms have stingy pains, and I can't take a long breath or close my mouth without a lump forming in my throat. As the pain in my chest lessens, the sting from my tears mixed with warm sweat intensifies in my eyes.

Why did Mom rip up the note? I struggle to get air. I am dying. Right here in the parking lot, right after throwing a perfect game. Why did Coach make me play? He knows I shouldn't be doing school-based physical activities.

“You'll be all right,” Coach says. “Just too much heat.” He rubs my shoulder and Michelle brings me some water. She bends down like a World War II nurse and pours the cold liquid into my mouth.

As she leans over me, Michelle places her hand on my chin, and I start to feel better. How do I know? Because I start getting turned on. I know it's sad, but this is the most action I've ever gotten from a Finch girl. She pours some water down the back of my neck. The water feels like razor-blade slivers of ice cutting my neck. “That'll cool you down,” she says.

My breathing slowly returns to normal and I feel comfortable enough to close my mouth. Coach and Killer help me up. “Everyone hit the showers,” Coach says.

I sit there with my hands on my knees and try to take deep, long, consistent breaths.

Kyle, Michelle, and Annabelle surround me, and Kyle offers a hand to help me up. His Popeye forearms pull me up with little effort.

“Hell of a game,” Michelle says. “Hey, Coach Phillips, is there room for Biggie on the baseball team this year?”

“Yeah, I wanna see him pitch!” Annabelle yells.

“Really?” I whisper so quietly I'm not sure anyone heard it but me.

“C'mon, guys, you're going to be late for class,” Coach Phillips says. “Biggie, you can have a few more minutes of fresh air, but don't take too long.”

“Coach,” I say. I want to add,
Annabelle said I should pitch?
But the words settle in my throat. Instead I say, “Thank you. I won't be long.”

Chapter 4

The Baseball-Playing Son

I lie on my bed and wait for my younger half-brother Maddux to get home from spending the summer traveling with my step-dad. Maddux and I get along pretty well. He's a cocky little thing who thinks he's gonna hit seventy home runs in the Major Leagues by the time he's twenty, but for the most part, he's all right. My step-dad is a different story.

In 1990, Jim Kaczor changed the pronunciation of his last name from
Kass-sore
to
Kazer
, so that he could go by the nickname Jim “the Laser” Kaczor. He stole thirty-three bases as a senior at Finch High School and helped the Yellow Jackets win a state title, one of ten Finch has won. He has now played professionally for three organizations, including the San Diego Padres, who called him up for four days in 2004. His lifetime batting average is .100: 1-for-10, a single against the Los Angeles Dodgers on September 29. After singling to right field, he was thrown out trying to steal. So the self-proclaimed Laser has the worst possible stolen-base percentage in major league history: .000

Laser never talks to me. I'm not complaining, just stating a fact. Is it possible for a step-dad to be embarrassed by a child he didn't procreate? All of the Kaczors are baseball players. They're royalty in this town. When I was younger, I always thought Laser would adopt me, but he never has. I guess only baseball players in this town can have the last name Kaczor. If he doesn't want to be my dad, so be it. I don't care.

Eleven years ago, they had Maddux Kaczor, named after former Atlanta Braves pitcher Greg Maddux. In a lot of ways, Maddux is my best friend. We stay up all night playing video games and talking about his road trips.

I like Maddux, not only because he's my brother, but because he doesn't expect anything from me. He doesn't ask questions about school, work, or girls. Outside of calling me Biggie, which I said he could when I went through a Henry's-a-stupid-old-man-name phase, he doesn't make fun of my weight or ask me when I'm going to lose one hundred pounds. When we sneak off to Molly's for chicken fingers, he keeps it to himself. I just wish he was around more. What really sucks is that he's gone in the summer when I have little to do.

Maddux is road-schooled. I can't say he's home-schooled because he's never home. Laser takes him everywhere: out east for minor league baseball, down south for winter ball. Maddux sleeps in his bed in October, November, Christmas, New Year's, and the first few weeks of February. The rest of the year, he sleeps in hotel rooms with his dad.

The Kaczors are also filthy rich. Besides being baseball players, they have a knack for buying farmland cheap and selling it high. Laser doesn't farm, so he sold his 2,400 acres of inheritance to his brothers and used the money to build my mom her 6,000-square-foot dream house and Maddux his own indoor baseball field. The indoor baseball diamond has green-and-white field turf, a dirt pitching mound, a batter's box, bases, and a pitching machine.

Maddux can hit pitches that fly in at 75 miles per hour. He stands straight with his feet parallel to his shoulders, stiff as a miniature green plastic army man. The bat barely moves as he points it straight up at the thirty-foot ceiling. The machine fires the ball, and in one quick motion Maddux drops his back shoulder and smacks the ball off the padded wall just past third base. It's poetry—the perfect swing.

“What's up, Biggie?” Maddux shoves my door open.

“Welcome back,” I reply. “How was Victoria?”

“It sucked ass.” He jumps onto my bed. “Dad couldn't get on the field, so he's calling it a career.”

“What?”

“He retired.”

“No shit.” I'm shocked by the news. “He just quit, no more majors?”

Maddux shakes his head. “His brothers said he can help out on their farms, plus Coach Phillips offered him a coaching job.”

“Wow,” I say. “That's big news. Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he's cool. He's thirty-four now and coaches don't play old guys. It's all politics, he claims. What really sucked is that the coach played crappy young guys, so not only did Dad ride the bench, but the team lost all the time. It was the worst summer ever.”

“Yeah, I saw he wasn't playing much. I kept asking Mom if he was hurt,” I say.

“Nah, he just had a crappy coach.” Maddux settles down in front of my PlayStation and turns on the TV.

“Dad's pissed that you were skipping gym.” He sifts through video games, searching for right one. “I would hide out here too.”

“It's cool,” I say. “I went to PE today and actually threw a perfect game.”

“What? You played baseball in gym?”

“Well, no, we played Wiffle ball, but no one reached base. I taught myself to throw this badass curveball that no one could hit.”

“I could hit it,” he claims.

Still feeling the rush of my perfect game, I talk with an ounce of cockiness in my voice, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Game on,” he says, stretching his neck out to get his eyes within an inch of mine.

We walk to the indoor baseball diamond. Despite my smart-ass comments, I'm nervous to pitch to Maddux, afraid he'll smack my perfect pitch all over the building. Facing Killer, Michelle, and Jet is one thing, but getting Maddux, who plays baseball six hours a day every day, to swing and miss is something completely different.

And then I remember we don't have any Wiffle balls. I need to throw a baseball, which is firmer, heavier, and slimier than the Wiffle ball. And there are no holes for my fingertips.

I look at the ball and try to remember where my favorite holes were and put finger pressure in those same spots. The ball's cold from sitting in a white bucket in a dark closet for months. Maddux stands there, motionless. Not even his eyes blink. He shares mannerisms with his dad, including confident shoulders, a straight posture, and a quick, I'm-running-late walk.

He, like Laser, has blue eyes, a perfectly sloped nose, and a small chin that's much thinner than his lips. Their faces start wide at the forehead and then, like a V, thin down to the chin. Unlike his father, Maddux is stocky with big shoulders, forearms, and calves, which he gets from his mother's side of the family.

I wind up and fire the ball at the target behind the plate. Just like in gym class, the ball drops at the last minute. Maddux swings and hits a ground ball.

“Are you throwing knuckleballs?” he asks.

I just shrug my shoulders.

“Throw it again, but harder,” he says.

I go through my routine and, this time, throw it harder. Maddux swings and hits the ball off the back wall. Damn it, I think.

“Now throw it slower, but with the same windup,” he says.

How can I throw it slower but keep the same windup? What is he talking about? I step back, lift my leg, and push the ball to the plate instead of pitching it. The ball barely reaches the plate and Maddux slaps it back at me. The ball bounces off my shin. I hop twice but quickly lose my balance and drop to my back. How come every time I play sports, I fall down?

Maddux hovers over me as a pink balloon of gum swells from his mouth. After a loud pop he says something really dumb. “I know you were probably joking upstairs, but you're going out for baseball this year.”

“No way,” I say, climbing to my feet. The pain is gone, but when I press on the welt below my sock, a sharp pain shoots up my leg.

“Why not? You could be a great pitcher with some help,” he says.

“Nah, I hate sports.”

“Why?”

“It's all about failure,” I say. “I can't handle that type of disappointment.” I head for the door, limping.

“What if you don't suck?” Maddux shouts at my back.

“No,” I shout at the door.

“Just listen. What if you mastered this knuckleball and threw a perfect game?”

“I already threw a perfect game,” I say as I reach for the door handle.

“Wiffle ball doesn't count. Biggie, no one in high school throws a knuckleball, at least not a good one. No one would know what to do when they see it. Plus, there would be no scouting reports on you because you're just starting. The other players would be completely off balance.”

I resist turning the knob, choosing instead to turn and say, “I don't care.”

Twenty feet away, Maddux continues his sales pitch. “If I can fix your windup, you could be a hell of a junkballer. We have nine months to tinker with a few things. Biggie, you could throw a perfect game. I know it. The first in school history. Just think how cool it would be to throw one for real, not just in gym.”

“My dad threw a perfect game, I'm sure,” I say. “He's in the Iowa High School Baseball Hall of Fame.”

Maddux shakes his head. “Aaron never did. No one has. I've memorized the entire Finch record book.”

“My dad didn't throw one?”

Maddux smiles. “No one. Stick with me and you'll be the first.”

I ponder the thought. Throwing a perfect game, especially after finding out that my dad never did, is appealing. Plus, Annabelle did say she wanted to see me pitch. I am 99 percent sure she was kidding or making fun of me, but what if she wasn't? What if she watches me throw a perfect game and falls in love with me?

“So what do you think, Biggie? Wanna throw a perfect game?” Maddux asks, jumping up and down, giddy with excitement. The way he's shaking, who would believe he hasn't had a teaspoon of sugary pop in six months.

Although I know it's a horrible idea, I don't shake my head and nod instead. Why? Who knows? Maybe I just want to make Maddux happy. Maybe I just want to live in the glow of the perfect game a little longer and believe my ability to manipulate a ball isn't a fluke, but a start of something bigger, something that can't be predicted or prophesized. Maybe I think it's a path toward kissing Annabelle.

No matter the reason, baseball season isn't until the end of the school year, eight months from now, so I know I have nothing to lose by saying okay. I have plenty of time to quit. For now, I'll make the kid jumping up and down in front of me happy.