Center Field (8 page)

He was hungover at church. But the songs soothed him and the only time his head hurt was when he had to stand up. The guest preacher was a big young guy fresh out of seminary who took Ecclesiastes 3:1–8 as the basis for his sermon: “To every thing there is a season.” When he started talking about the baseball season, Mike tuned in. When the preacher veered off, talking about making a brand-new ball game of your life with Jesus as coach, Mike tuned out. Same old.

He had liked going to church when the five of them went together, before Tiffany started spinning out of control and Scotty left for college. They had felt like a family then. That was a long time ago. He was just starting out in Little League, so he would have been eight years old. Tiffany would have been thirteen, not yet sneaking off to get piercings, and Scotty fifteen, spending most of his life
wrapped around his cello. The three of them weren't that close; Scotty was too busy with his chamber music group to be a big brother and Tiffany was already on her own planet, but they got along well enough and never ratted each other out.

The first store had just opened then. Lots of new houses needed floors. Dad thought that going to church was a way to meet potential customers and get to know other merchants and politicians in the area. He was right. There would be a social hour after the service, and then the five of them would usually go to lunch at the fancy restaurant at the Ridgedale Inn or the big Greek diner on Route 17. In both places Dad would walk around, shaking hands and slapping backs. Mike could order whatever he wanted. Almost always hamburger and fries. Mom and Scotty were adventurous, fish dishes, pasta. Tiffany might pick at a vegetarian plate. It was fun.

He thought they might actually eat out to celebrate the first time in a long while they had been to church, but Dad pulled in at a deli in the mall and bought sandwiches to take to the new store.

In a couple of weeks it would be ready to open. A tiled walkway led under the arched
SEMAK'S FABULOUS FLOORS
sign into a huge, two-story building filled with areas for wall-to-wall carpeting, expensive throw rugs, and different kinds of
tiles. Flat-screen TVs on the wall were running infomercials for different floor covering brands. Pretty fancy.

The store still smelled of paint and paste. Upstairs, men were spackling and hammering. In one corner, three dark-skinned men were sanding and staining wood flooring. One of them, tall, lanky, with a wispy mustache and goatee, jumped up to shake Dad's hand and thank him in broken English.

He and Dad talked in halting bursts of English and Spanish, and shook hands again. The man looked happy.

Walking back downstairs, Dad said, “This is what you got to deal with to get help. Ferdy lives in Orange County in New York, no car, and depends on his cousin to drop him off here. He can be here by eight
A.M
. but he needs to leave by six sharp for a second job in the city cleaning offices.”

“Illegal?” Why did I say that, Mike thought.

Dad looked at him as if he were also wondering. “Illegal's a crummy word. These guys are willing to work hard, show up on time, clean, sober, cheerful. Grateful. What's so illegal about that?” Dad was almost shouting. “They're trying to survive.”

“I got it.” Mike raised his hands.

“He's here with his son, who goes to your high school, sending money back to the family in the Dominican Republic, trying to get them all together….” He stopped.
“Sorry, Mike. Didn't mean to unload on you.” He reached across Mike's shoulders and hugged him. “Really glad we can spend a little time together. It's all going to be yours someday. If we can hold on to it.”

Mom approached with a spreadsheet and a frown. She and Dad disappeared into the back office. Be yours someday. He remembered driving Scotty to the airport after Christmas, the last time he had seen him. Scotty was happy to be going back to school. They talked about the new store and Scotty told him not to get trapped if he didn't want to spend the rest of his life looking down at the floor instead of up at the sky. It was very poetic and Mike knew Scotty wasn't thinking about the sky over center field.

Coach Cody yanked Mike off the cafeteria line and steered him down the hall and into an empty classroom. “Talk to me. Saturday.”

It took him a moment to dial into what Coach wanted. In his mind Saturday was Kat at the twins' party. “Same as last time. The senior center in Bergen Falls. Helping them get online.”

“You got to do better than that.”

“Coach, if I knew what you were looking for…”

“If I knew I'd know, right?” Coach's face was so close Mike could see the outlines of his contact lenses. Why does that surprise me? Everybody wears contacts, why not Coach? Somehow he thought Coach wouldn't need anything corrected. “I need to know what's going on in that club.”

“You think something's going on?”

It sounded dumb but Coach nodded seriously, as if it had
been a smart question. “I want to pinch it off before Zack hurts himself and other people. I hate to see a fine athlete like Katherine Herold involved. Can I count on you?”

“You want me to spy on them?”

But Coach kept nodding seriously. “I tend to think of it as long-range Ranger recon, behind the lines.” He turned to check the door. “Between us, Mike, I think they're hacking into school files, maybe even changing grades and evaluations. I could bring in the FBI, but then I would be exposing a lot of innocent people to privacy invasion. Are you tracking me?”

Mike wasn't sure he was, but he nodded, stalling for time. Coach wants to protect Kat. So do I. Why do I need to protect Tigerbitch? She can take care of herself. This FBI stuff sounds like he's trying to scare people. What TV show are we on? I'll just tell him a little. You only know a little, Mak. “They're going to a conference in the city on Saturday.”

“Be there.”

“What about the hitting clinic?”

“This is more important.”

Not to me, Mike thought.

Coach put a hand on his shoulder. “I'm not going to forget what you're doing for me, for the team, the school. Better get some lunch.”

Mike went back to the cafeteria, confused. He needed to
work on his batting mechanics. Look at his average. Maybe Coach didn't care about him. Team has another center fielder. Mike was expendable. Spies die. Don't get paranoid.

“What'd he want?” asked Andy.

“He wants me to nark on the Cyber Club. He says they're hacking into school files.”

“Maybe hacking into his files,” said Andy. “He's afraid they'll find out Oscar is twenty-five years old, lives in the Bronx, and took money from a Yankee scout.”

“Does insanity run in your family?” said Mike.

“Nah, they're old-fashioned, middle-of-the-roaders like you.”

Mike was happy to get lost in Dr. Ching's new problem. When two bulldozers that start from opposite sides of a field and are moving at different speeds pass each other, they are five hundred yards from one side of the field. When they reach the opposite sides of the field, they turn around and head back. The second time they pass each other they are two hundred yards from the other side. How wide is the field?

One of the brainiacs asked if they should assume the bulldozers were traveling at a constant speed, and should they disregard turnaround time. Dr. Ching said, Yes, yes, and also ignore the drivers pausing to text message and shuffle their iPods. Dr. Ching was the
NCIS
of math teachers.

 

He ditched last period study hall for jocks and went to the basement. It took him a while to find the Cyber Club in the back of the building. Zack and Kat weren't there, but half a dozen kids he recognized from the last two Saturdays were hanging and tapping away. It looked like the varsity lounge without Exercycles or video games. Or muscles. An Asian girl waved at him. Nick Brodsky, the Goth kid, sauntered over in his super-cool rolling walk.

“Hey.”

“What's happening?” said Mike.

“Not much,” said Nick. “Trying to decide if we hack into the school or the Pentagon today.”

Mike thought, Is this guy onto me and mocking me? He said, “School. There's a B in English I'd like changed to an A.”

Nick laughed. “Get in line. How much longer you got to help out here?”

Mike shrugged. “Coach keeps extending my sentence.”

“That's Cody. Likes to mess with people's heads, keep them off balance.” He lowered his voice. “That's why he sent you here to spy on us.”

His mouth was dry. Was Nick playing with him or was he suspicious? “That's what you guys think?” He wondered if Kat thought that.

“Sure. If he didn't hate Zack so much he would have buried you. Zero tolerance, remember?”

“Why does he hate him?” He noticed that the web tattooed on Nick's neck wove around one ear.

“He hates anything that challenges his control of the school.”

“You sound like Andy.”

“At least they agree on something. But Andy only talks the talk. Zack walks the walk.”

“How?”

Nick grinned. Mike could see the stud in his tongue. “You interrogating me for Cody?” He shifted his shoulders the way he did just before he bumped the defensive back and ran around him.

Stay cool. “You got it. Next comes torture. Water-boarding.”

“You think that's funny?” Nick took a step closer.

Does he want me to hit him? Mike swallowed the anger bubbling up.
BillyBuddBillyBuddBillyBudd
. “I do.”

“Me, too.” Nick laughed. “Just busting your chops. Zack has some great ideas.”

“Kat seems to think so.” He thought it was cool the way he got her name in.

“She's drinking the Kool-Aid all right. Some piece of work, Tigerbitch, huh?” He locked eyes. What's Nick fishing for, Mike wondered.

“Helluva miler,” said Mike. “I was surprised to see her here.”

“I'm here, you're here,” said Nick. “Jock heaven.”

He's not going to tell me anything, Mike thought. His cell beeped. Text from Lori. ?RU. He'd forgotten he promised to meet her before practice. She just wasn't on his radar. “Gotta jump. Where is Zack?”

“He had a student government meeting.”

“Could you tell them I'll be coming on Saturday?”

“Cool.”

Tuesday's game against Glen Hills was a laugher. Everybody hit. Oscar drove in five runs with a triple and two singles. Ryan unloaded a monster three-run homer over the centerfield fence into the Glen Mall. Swinging late, Mike managed to slap a single into right field and then get thrown out trying to stretch it into a double. He felt stupid but no one seemed to notice as Ridgedale piled up runs. He had two easy chances in center. He felt unsure about them both until he squeezed the ball. He realized he wasn't silently daring batters to hit to him. He wasn't playing as shallow as usual. He didn't want the ball. The one shot deep to left center that might have given him trouble, Oscar took on a dead run.

Craig had a one-hit shutout going into the bottom of the ninth. His pitch count was high and his fastball seemed to be losing steam, but he told Coach he had to finish.
He wanted that shutout. Be the second one in a row, his eighth as a varsity starter. He was going for the Ridgedale career shutout record. Coach nodded. He liked that kind of fire.

Craig walked the first batter and hit the second. Two on, nobody out.

Mike waved Ryan and Oscar farther out. Catch the long flies, go for the big outs, even if a run scores. Craig shook his head and waved them in. Go for the play at the plate. He wanted that shutout. Then he walked the third batter to load the bases.

Two relief pitchers warmed up behind the fence as Coach Cody and the catcher, Jimmy Russo, walked out to the mound. Coach took the ball from Craig and signaled Todd and Mike to join them. He was the only coach in the conference who brought the center fielder in for conferences at the mound. The spine of the team.

By the time Mike reached the mound, Craig was red-faced, kicking at the dirt with his heel. “I can get out of this,” he said.

Coach nodded at Jimmy, Todd, and Mike. “Deal or no deal?” He was also the only coach who listened to what players said. But he still made the final decisions.

Jimmy didn't look at Craig. “He's getting tired.”

“He's got eleven runs,” said Todd. “Give him a chance.”

Coach rubbed the ball. He said, “We need a tiebreaker. Mike?”

Mike felt Craig's eyes boring into him. “You said this is about finding out what's inside us, Coach, what we're capable of.”

“Well said.” Coach flipped the ball back to Craig. “You've got a good defense behind you, let them work.” He turned and headed back to the dugout. Todd and Mike patted Craig and jogged back to their positions.

The fourth batter blooped a hanging curve over DeVon's head into short left. Oscar came racing in. He looked like he was going to catch it. The runners ran back to their bases. Mike, backing up Oscar, was close enough to see how he quickly checked the runners, pretended to catch the ball close to the ground, then let it drop in front of his glove.

Oscar scooped up the ball and fired it to DeVon, who stepped on third for the force-out and threw to Hector at second for the second out. Hector threw to first. They almost had a triple play.

Mike caught his breath. I could never have pulled that off. If Oscar isn't a pro he should be. What a play.

“Way to go, Oscar,” bellowed Coach, clapping. The Ridgedale players were cheering.

Oscar grinned and shrugged. Playing humble, thought
Mike. C'mon, man, give him a break. Maybe he is humble. Helluva play.

Craig was the only one who wasn't cheering. He stood silently, glaring at Oscar, his shutout ruined. But he had two outs now, only a runner on first, and an 11–1 game. Wasn't winning more important than individual stats?

Craig lost it then, a wild pitch that sent the runner to second and another walk. He didn't wait for the relief pitcher, just dropped the ball and stomped off the field. Kevin Park, the closer, got the final out, an unassisted groundout to Mark Rapp at first.

Craig was sullen on the bus back to Ridgedale. He sat in the rear with Eric Nola and stared out the window. He refused to talk to Jimmy Russo, shaking off the chunky catcher as if he were refusing a signal.

Up front, Coach was talking to Oscar, who grinned and nodded. Mike, trying not to stare, had a sinking feeling about what they were talking about.

Andy said, “That was some play. I didn't know it was legal to purposely let the ball drop like that.”

“You can't do it in the infield with bases loaded and no outs,” said Ryan. “No rule about the outfield, though. Cool trick.”

“Should have saved it for the play-offs,” said Mike. “Word gets around.” Why do I have to put Oscar down?

“This is better,” said Ryan. “They'll never know what he'll do. Keep 'em off balance.”

“Off balance,” said Andy. “Welcome to Ridgedale High.”

Todd started singing the Ridgedale school song and as the guys picked it up, the sound ricocheted around the bus. Ryan bellowed the words off-key. Andy leaned over the back of Mike's bus seat and whispered in his ear, “How many high school kids can pull off a play like that? Get your geek peeps to check those files.”

 

He wasn't surprised when Oscar started Thursday's game in center field, but he still felt a little stab of pain when Coach read the lineup. Mike was in left field. He'd been dropped to seventh place in the batting order.

“Lineups are not written in stone,” said Coach, standing in the middle of the locker room. His gaze seemed to linger on Mike. “Every job is open for competition.”

The twins cheered as Mike and Ryan ran out on the field, side by side as usual, then fell silent as they separated, Mike to left, Ryan to right. Mike didn't look at Lori. He didn't want to see the sympathy on her face that he knew would be there. She was sensitive, she would feel for him. Even though he could tell that she was beginning to sense he was just going through the motions with her.

He felt wrong, out of place, in left field. He remembered
waking up in a motel bedroom on a family trip once with the panicky feeling, Where am I? He should be in the middle of the field, teammates on either side, the game directly in front of him. There was nobody on his right and the game was slanted off to his left. It looked different. He couldn't see the pitches clearly.

Suck it up, he thought, you're making too big a deal of this. It's not so hard, it's not like shifting to left field in some big league ballpark with strange angles and shadows and grandstands looming over you. Most of the ballparks in the conference have standard high school outfields. This isn't like shifting to the infield, not even as radical as moving from linebacker to safety like you did last season.

But I'm a center fielder.

You're a baseball player.

He looked over at Oscar, relaxed and loose, playing shallow, even shallower than Mike did. Maybe he's just better, he thought. He pushed that thought way. I just need to step up. Show Coach what I'm capable of.

Willie Lockett, the number-two pitcher, struggled for the first five innings but managed to give up only two runs. In the bottom of the fifth, Oscar led off with a double, stole third, and scored on Ryan's sacrifice fly. Mark Rapp singled.

At bat, Mike visualized the homer that would put them
ahead, win the game. He relaxed his body the way Billy did, waggled his bat to drain the tension, then froze. He let the first pitch go by, a fastball the ump called a strike, and swung too eagerly at a slider, punching it foul. He took a ball, then watched a changeup curve outside. The ump called it strike three. He was on deck two innings later, the score still 2–1, two on and two out, when Mark flied out to end the game.

He felt numb as he walked to the grandstand to wish Lori good luck. The twins were going to Boston for a weekend twirling competition. Nearby, Oscar was talking to two dark-skinned men in work clothes. One of them looked like the new installer in the second store, the one so grateful to Dad for the job. Ferdy. The one who's got a kid going to my high school.

That's Oscar's father, Mike realized. When he walked the twins to their car, he saw Oscar getting into an old white van with New York plates. They lived out of the state, out of the school district. Oscar shouldn't be in Ridgedale High, certainly not eligible to play sports, nowhere near center field.