Center Field (15 page)

Billy Budd sent a limo.

Zack was waiting with Mike at the end of the driveway when the long black car glided up. Zack gawked until Mike elbowed him. “Start shooting.” He imagined Kat would get a kick out of this.

Zack dug the camera out of his bag. He got the driver jumping out to open a back door, and Mike grinning and waving at his parents as he climbed in.

They didn't say much on the ride down the Palisades Parkway, the Hudson River gleaming on their left, over the George Washington Bridge, and into the Bronx. Zack mumbled something about poor people being uprooted to make way for the new Yankee Stadium, but Mike barely heard him. He was concentrating on not worrying about trying to make conversation with Billy Budd because it gave him a stomachache. What do you say to a god?

An advertising billboard with the date—Thursday, April 24—reminded him that it was exactly five weeks since he had shoved Zack. I should tell him it's our anniversary, he thought. But the guy has no sense of humor. Some anniversary. Shoving Zack was the worst thing I've ever done and look how great it turned out; I'm the starting varsity center fielder in the middle of a great season, captain-elect, met a great girl, and I'm on my way to meet my all-time hero.

The limo pulled up at the glass doors of the Yankee Stadium office entrance. The driver jumped out to open their door. A chunky young guy in a wrinkled white shirt and a loosened tie rushed out to meet them.

“Mike,” he said, sticking a hand out. “Dave Petry. Let's go. Billy's waiting for you.” He ignored Zack and led the way into the Stadium. He walked fast.

Security guards waved them through doors into a concrete corridor circling the Stadium, then into a dark tunnel that poured them out into an explosion of dazzling sunshine, green grass, blue sky.

From the right field foul line, the Stadium was immense, the grandstands rising like cliffs. As they walked onto the field, the Stadium grew around them, higher, wider, until Mike felt as though he were at the bottom of a canyon. He had seen games from seats all over the park but never before had any idea of the hugeness of the field, the height of the
stands, the vastness of the sky with the sun as spotlight.

He tried to imagine the thrill and the pressure of playing here, of what it must be like to be Billy in the center of the universe.

“Let's go.” Dave Petry was pulling him toward the Yankee dugout.

Billy Budd was bigger than Mike had imagined, taller and broader. Mike had to consciously slow his breathing. Billy was listed at 6-3, 220 pounds, but most of the time, Mike knew, the ball clubs added inches and pounds to their stars' statistics. Billy was as big as advertised. He wore a fresh white pin-striped home uniform, without a cap. His short brown hair glistened.

His spikes clacked on the dugout steps as he climbed up.

Billy glowed. His big white smile welcomed them. “Hey, young baller. Congratulations. Great video.”

He stuck out his hand to Zack, who jumped back.

“This is Mike,” said Dave, guiding Billy's outstretched hand away from Zack. “Billy hasn't had a chance to study the video carefully.”

“Yo, Mike,” said Billy. His hand was huge, callused.

His eyes, thought Mike, didn't seem as shiningly alive as the rest of him. They were clear and brown, but they were on guard. They checked out Mike, roved over his shoulder at the players on the field, then up to the early crowd,
warily, as if he were checking for snipers.

“Hi, Billy.” Mike's throat, dry, closed up.

“Photo op,” said Dave. He pushed Mike and Billy together. Several photographers hurried up, posed them. Zack was shooting, too.

Side by side Mike realized that Billy wasn't that much bigger than he was. An inch or so taller maybe, at least twenty pounds heavier, but Mike didn't feel small next to him.

After a few minutes Billy said, “Gotta get my BP.” He clapped Mike on the shoulder and ran back to the dugout to get a bat.

“BP?” said Zack. “They take blood pressure before a game?”

“You're kidding, right?” When he saw the blank look on Zack's face, Mike said, “Batting practice.”

“Great guy, huh?” said Dave. They watched Billy run into the batting cage and take his swings, then grab his glove and run out into center field.

Mike and Zack trailed Dave as he pointed out Yankees. He introduced Mike to Dwayne Higgins, who shook his hand, then spat sunflower seeds on his shoes and cackled. “Next year, dude, you win a Day with Dwayne and have some fun.” He winked and went to the bat rack.

They went down into the dugout, through another tunnel, and into the clubhouse. Mike shook hands with a young
guy carrying towels who gave them a tour of the lockers, fancy cubicles with CD players and hair dryers. Billy had two lockers with a high director's chair in front of them. There was a sign on the chair—Captain.

It was dreamlike yet creepy. He thought he should feel thrilled, at least pumped, but he didn't feel much of anything. He pushed himself back into the now.

Dave hustled them into an elevator that opened onto a corridor high over home plate and into a wood-paneled room whose walls were filled with pictures of great old-time Yankees, Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Reggie Jackson. Mike could tell Zack didn't really know who most of them were.

They were served cafeteria-style, overcooked burgers and coleslaw, and sat down at a table. Dave brought a few reporters over, rumpled mumbly guys and fast-talking young women who asked a few questions about where Mike went to school.

One of them said, “What do you think of all this?”

“'S great,” said Mike, his mouth full.

Dave was tapping into his handheld. “Highlights so far?”

Zack said, “Billy thinking I was Mike.”

“Let's delete that,” said Dave. “Other highlights?”

“What's this for?” said Zack.

“The Billyblog.”

“You write that?” said Mike.

“A couple of us, yeah, after we talk it over with Billy.”

Zack looked at Mike. “You thought Billy Budd wrote it?”

“Nearly forgot,” said Dave, reaching into a black plastic garbage bag. He pulled out caps and T-shirts and a Yankee jersey with Budd across the back. They were all autographed by Billy. “For you guys.”

They watched the game from a cramped corner of a radio broadcast booth. At least Mike did. Dave was writing on his computer and Zack was texting. Mike wondered if Kat was on the other end. He thought about sending something to Mom and Dad. They'd be busy at the store, but they had been excited about him going to the Stadium. Now they were excited because Scotty was coming home for a day on his way to Europe to play in a chamber music competition. Tiffany might be able to come home to see him.

From high up behind home plate, the entire field was spread out in front of him. He concentrated on watching Billy, the way he shifted position for different hitters and called out to the other outfielders. Billy was never quite still in the field, pounding his glove, transferring his weight from foot to foot, checking the flags in the outfield to see which way the wind was blowing. He was totally in the game, every moment.

In the seventh inning, Billy went all out for a long fly.
He caught it at the warning track, but limped back to the dugout.

“That quadriceps again,” said Dave.

When Billy didn't go into the field for the eighth, Dave made a call on his cell. “Billy's going to the hospital now, check out that quad. Afraid we won't get to talk to him.”

After the game they followed Dave back down to the corridor past the clubhouse. Mike spotted Billy first, his arm across the shoulders of a pretty blonde who looked like the model on the Buddsite. Dave looked uncomfortable. Had he been caught in a lie, Mike wondered, or had he gotten the wrong information? Billy pointed at Mike and motioned him over.

“The kid who won my contest,” said Billy.

The blonde smiled. “Congratulations.” She was shaking Mike's hand when her eyes flicked over Mike's shoulder. “Billy, is that the girl we met from
American Idol
?” She dropped Mike's hand to wave.

Dave walked them outside. The limo was waiting.

“I might call you later or email,” said Dave. “For more of your reactions.”

“Just make it up,” said Mike. “Like usual.”

Zack laughed. Well, that's something, Mike thought.

He felt sad. He watched the late afternoon sun sparkle on the Hudson River as the limo cruised up the parkway. Zack was quiet for most of the ride, his face close to the camera. He was viewing the video he had shot.

After a while Zack said, “Seems like a nice enough guy.”

“What?”

“Billy Budd.”

“He was okay.”

Zack put the camera in his lap. “What'd you expect?”

Mike thought about that. His mind felt numb. “I don't know.”

“You sound disappointed.”

Mike looked at Zack. He had such a long, serious face. “Kind of.”

“He was your hero, right?”

Mike nodded. It seemed childish now.

“I met my hero once. Ralph Nader.”

Mike knew the name from Social Issues. “He ran for president, right? Pissed people off because he took votes away from their guy.”

“Yeah. But before that he was really out there, going up against big business, starting grassroots consumer organizations. The bad guys went after him, but he was tough. Never gave up.”

“You met him?”

“Yeah. He was okay. Brushed off my question. I guess it wasn't as good as I thought. He was busy.”

“You were disappointed?” said Mike.

“Yeah. My mom said I should concentrate on remembering why I admired him. The guy had a real impact on America.”

Mike felt a little flush of affection for Zack. Guy was trying to make him feel better. And he was.

And then he spoiled it.

“Of course, Billy Budd's just a jock.”

“Dumb jock, you mean?”

Zack looked sorry. Maybe he just can't help himself. “I didn't mean that.”

“Sure you did,” said Mike. “You've said it before.”

Zack chewed on his lower lip as if he were chewing
on a thought. “I was having a real bad day. When you pushed me?”

“I thought I slugged you. Gave you headaches and post-traumatic stress.”

“That was our lawyers. When the school was trying to expel us.”

“For hacking into school files?”

“I told you we never did it.”

“Just talked about it,” said Mike. Like a puke. And messed up Kat. Give him a break. “So what was your bad day? When I…pushed you.”

“We had just found out Mr. Cody had canceled funding for the Cyber Club after the school board okayed it.”

“How could he do that?”

“At Ridgedale he can do whatever he wants.”

“That's what Andy says.”

“Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”

Mike remembered that Kat had said that. Mike laughed. There was something honest and solid about Zack. He might be a puke with no social skills, but he didn't pretend to be anything else. Honest in his way. Took the blame for shooting off his mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he had talked with a guy when it wasn't about sports or girls. “I was having a bad day, too. I just found out a new kid was set to play center field.”

“Oscar Ramirez.”

“You know him?”

“He was at the district office when we were there. I think they're going to deport him.”

“Is he illegal?”

“Cody said so. Said Oscar and his dad had lied to him about their status and given him a phony birth certificate. He was angry at them for pretending they were living in the school district. Told us that anyone who crosses him can expect no mercy.”

“Did he say how he found out Oscar lied to him?”

“He said he was suspicious and checked him out.”

They rode in silence for a while. Mike's head hurt from trying to follow Cody's lies. Finally he said, “So how come you never hacked in?”

“Now I'm sorry I didn't. Kat needed to know what was in her school record. Cody's such a liar, he could have been bluffing. Maybe there wasn't anything there.”

“So who was the mole?”

“Nick,” said Zack. “He showed up at the district office and you could tell which side he was on. And he knew Kat was shooting video while I was talking. She felt so bad. That's why she split.”

 

Mike felt a lead weight in his stomach. Poor Kat. That bald-headed asshole really knows how to twist people up. He wanted to hold her, tell her it was all right.

“Ranger psych,” said Mike.

“What's Ranger psych?”

“Psychological warfare. What Cody learned in the Army Rangers.”

“He was in the Navy,” said Zack. “The SEALS.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“He told us at one of the meetings. Show how tough he was. One of our lawyers had been in the Rangers, and when Cody heard that he said he was in the SEALS.”

“That makes no sense. He changed the team names to Rangers, he talked about the Rangers all the time.”

“A lot of different stories going around,” said Zack. “Like your dad gave Oscar's father a job so Cody wouldn't suspend you.”

Mike thought about it. “That could be true. He came back that day and said he'd worked out some kind of deal.”

“Did your dad know they were illegal?”

“He got mad when I asked him. Said they worked hard and showed up.”

“He got that right.”

The numbness in his mind was gone, but he had a headache. Too much information. “So what are you going to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“All your projects. The senior center. On-High dot org.”

Zack shrugged. “Everything's on pause. We're all on
probation. We have to report to Cody once a week. Tell him what we've been doing.”

“You can tell him about Billy Budd. What a dumb jock he is.”

That got a smile out of Zack. “Yeah, right. He's gonna be on you for taking me.”

“We can take care of ourselves.” He tried to mock the high whiny voice Zack had used in the cafeteria.

“I meant that,” said Zack. “Where did you come off saying you were supposed to be our role models, show us how to act?”

“You didn't like that?”

“Would you?”

“When are pukes role models?”

“Pukes?”

“Sorry. It's a word we…”

“Like dumb jocks?” said Zack.

Mike laughed. “I'm not as dumb as I look.”

“How could you be as dumb as you look?” said Zack.

Mike threw a long, soft jab slow enough that even Zack could duck it.

“I think you just made your first joke,” said Mike.

They both laughed the rest of the way home. The limo dropped Zack off first. Mike sensed that Zack was also trying to come up with something more to say, but they just nodded good-bye.