Never Blame the Umpire (2 page)

Coach breaks up our celebration so our team can walk single-file across the middle of the infield to shake hands with the players from the other team. It’s a league rule. Be good sports, whether you win or lose. That’s what Coach preaches to us at every practice. “Play hard,” he says, “but most of all play fair and have fun.” He always tells us, “We should all play to win, because that’s what makes competition fun, but I’d much rather coach a team of good losers than a team of poor winners.”

I’m really glad he’s coaching us. Ken and I have known him for a long time. He teaches Sunday
School at my church and comes along with our youth group on a lot of our activities. The best thing about having him as a coach is he doesn’t yell and get mad like some of the other coaches do. If we make a mistake, like throwing the ball to the wrong base or something, he’ll talk to us and tell us the right thing to do. And he always does it in a quiet way. He never shouts or makes anybody feel bad like some of the other coaches do. Ken played last year, and I went to almost all his games. I couldn’t believe how mean some of the other coaches were to their players. In one game the shortstop on the other team made an error and his coach came right out on the field and yelled at him to go to the bench and he brought another kid in to take his place. Right in the middle of the inning!

Coach motions for all of us to get together down the left field line. It’s our “post-game critique.” He says we’ll be having one after every game because it’s important to go over things that happen in the game while they’re still fresh in everybody’s mind.

The things that are really fresh in my mind are that last swing, the sound the bat made when the ball hit it, and Ken and Andy scoring the tying and winning runs.

“Remember that base hit they got back in the fourth inning?” Coach says. “The one out to right-center that Heather fielded? When the runner on first
base was running toward third, the pitcher should have been backing up the base in case the throw got away. That goes for everybody. Always anticipate where the ball will be thrown and back up the base.”

I can hardly wait for Coach to get to the good part, that last inning.

“Another thing,” Coach says. “Pay attention to my signs. Twice I gave the bunt sign and the batter swung anyway. Missing a sign is serious business. It can cost a team a game. I remember a game two years ago when a player missed the bunt sign and then grounded into a double play to end the game.” Coach has such a serious look on his face you’d think we lost the game.

Suddenly his face breaks into a big smile. “Enough of the negatives,” he says. “I’m proud of all of you. You played hard, and you never gave up.”

Coach takes a couple minutes to tell at least one good thing everybody did in the game, even Cal, who struck out twice and popped out and missed the only two balls hit to him. Coach said, “Cal, you did a great job battling up there at the plate that last inning. Keep it up and the hits will start dropping.”

I can hardly wait until he gets to me.

“Ken, Andy, you two set the table for Kate in that last inning with good hits. And Kate, what a clutch hit that was. Two strikes and you hung in there. That was a fine piece of hitting.”

Everybody starts to cheer.

Coach shouts out above the cheers, “No practice or game tomorrow. We’ll practice Saturday morning at ten. See you then. Remember, if you know ahead of time you can’t make it, be sure to call me and let me know.”

Some of our players leave with their parents. Some others get on their bikes. I call out to Ken, “Race you home!”

“You’re on!” Ken answers.

Ken’s the better baseball player, but I’m the faster runner. Besides, I already have a three or four step head start. I know there’s no way he can catch me.

I fling open our screen door and burst through first. Dad’s standing by the window.

“We won!” I shout. “We won!”

Ken blurts, “Kate got the hit that drove me and Andy in with the tying and winning runs.”

“It was the last of…” I begin. But I stop when Dad turns toward me. His eyes are red and puffy.

“Hi kids,” he says. His voice is soft, almost a whisper. “Sorry we missed your game. How’d you do?”

We’ve already told him. Didn’t he even hear us? I glance at Ken. He’s looking at me with a puzzled look on his face.

“We won,” I said. “6 to 5.”

Dad doesn’t say anything. He just nods.

“Is anything wrong?” I ask. I realize Mama’s not
in the room. “Is Mama okay?”

“Your mom’s not feeling well. She went to bed early.”

I glance at the wall clock. 8:10. Mama, in bed? She’s never in bed by 8:10. Never. Unless she has the flu or something. And she’s almost never sick.

“She’s not asleep yet, is she?” I ask. “Maybe she’d like to hear about the game.”

“I think we’d better let her rest,” Dad said. “You can tell her about the game tomorrow.”

“She’s not real sick, is she?” Ken says. “She was all right this morning.”

Dad doesn’t look at us. He just stands by the window, looking into the backyard. “I’m sorry we didn’t get home in time for your game. There’s some macaroni in the fridge that you can microwave. I’m going to go check on your mother.”

He turns and heads toward the bedroom. Before he gets there, I say, “Dad?”

He stops and turns his head.

“Can I just see if Mama’s awake and say good-night?”

Dad smiles. Or at least tries to. It’s not his normal smile.

“It’s best to let her rest. You can tell her about the game tomorrow,” he says. “She’ll be fine.”

But the way he says it doesn’t sound at all convincing.

Ken and I are sitting in front of the TV eating our microwaved dinner when my cell phone rings.

“Did you win your game?” Ginny asks.

“You should have been there!” Of course I know better than anybody that Ginny and baseball don’t mix. After all, she’s been my best friend for years. We’ve always been in the same classes at school, and we even go to the same church. We’ve been in the same Sunday School classes and youth groups. We do almost everything together.

Except baseball. Even Coach has tried to talk her into playing, but she won’t. I’m going to keep working on her. Ivy and Heather said they’ll keep trying, too. Baseball would be even more fun if Ginny was on the team.

I tell her about that last inning. Everything. How scared I was and then how I felt when I hit the ball and it fell in for a base hit.

“That would have been fun to see,” she says. “Kate Adams, Girl Heroine. Maybe I’ll even come to one of your games sometime.”

“Do you mean it? Ginny Calhoun, at a baseball game?”

“Sure, I don’t mind watching.”

“Hey, maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

Ginny giggles. “I wouldn’t go that far. When it comes to baseball, I’m hopeless. I’ll come only if you promise to be the heroine again.”

“Oh, sure. No problem. I’ll probably get the game-winning hit every time.”

“You’d better. I’m counting on it.”

I take a bite of my microwaved macaroni and cheese and let my thoughts drift back to that moment when I saw the umpire signal “safe.”

“I bet your mother totally flipped out,” Ginny says. “The last time I talked to her she was really excited about you and Ken playing your first game together. I remember how pumped she got during your soccer games last fall. She was the loudest screamer in the crowd.”

“She gets excited all right. But she couldn’t come to the game today. She’s sick.”

“That’s too bad.” I know Ginny means it. That’s
one of the things I like best about her: she cares about people. It’s like she actually feels their pain whenever someone around her is hurting. “Tell her I hope she’s feeling better.”

“I will.”

“Did you write your poem yet?” Ginny asks.

“Not yet. How about your monologue? Do you have it memorized?”

“Not quite. It’s a long one. I wish you were in drama. Then we could work together.”

“You know I’m no actress,” I tell her. “But I wish you were in creative writing.”

She laughs. “You know I’m no poet.”

Today was the fourth day of the first week of our three-week session of classes at the Valley Lake School for the Arts. Every June our county has fine arts classes for grades five through eight. Ginny went last year in drama. She’s a really good actress and has been in lots of plays in our town’s children’s theater. She always tells me I should audition. No way. Like I told Ginny, I’m no actress. I’ve helped her rehearse by reading lines with her. I just can’t read them like a real actress does. Not like she does. She actually becomes the character. Me, I’m just reading words. No matter how hard I try, I never get any better. She must know that, but she’s too nice to tell me.

The school has classes in visual arts, music, dance, drama, and creative writing. The classes meet from nine o’clock until three o’clock five days a
week. Kids who want to attend have to audition and be selected by the school’s faculty.

Last summer was awful because I didn’t get to see Ginny much for those three weeks. I didn’t audition for anything last year because I wasn’t any good in any of the arts or even interested in them.

But this spring a visiting poet came to our school for one week and taught us about writing poetry. I never knew before how much fun it could be to write poems. He read a lot of his own, and they were easy to understand. Most of them were funny. He read a lot of good poems about sports, too. I liked those the best.

He had us write poems ourselves. I didn’t think I’d be able to, but he showed us lots of ways to get started. He said that getting those first few words on the page is the most important thing. He had us do some activities that made it really easy to write those first words. Like “begin with a place or a time or a person or action or object. Then combine them.” And “think of a person and put the person in a certain place. Have the person doing something.” Things like that. Another one was, “Take an object, something you can actually touch. Have someone do something with that object. Add a time and place.” And he said a poem doesn’t have to rhyme. That made it easier.

He said, “Once you get your poem started, ask ‘What next?’ or ‘What else?’ Before you know it, you have a poem.” I found out that writing a poem isn’t
as hard as I thought it would be. Actually, it’s kind of fun.

So this summer I auditioned for creative writing. And got chosen!

In my audition, I had to submit a poem I’d written and then have an interview with the teacher. I guess that was how he determined who really deserved to be in his class. At least he could find out who wanted to be there.

I submitted a poem I wrote about soccer.

Soccer Goalie

In the closing seconds

I crouch on coiled legs,

wait for the corner kick.

I spring like a leopard,

claw autumn’s misty air,

clutch the damp ball,

clench it in cold hands,

skip three steps on soggy ground,

swing my leg into the ball’s flight

and take a tasty bite

of victory’s sweet fruit.

In my interview, Mr. Gallagher, the teacher, really surprised me. He said my poem was “marvelous.” He
was really impressed with my strong verbs. He said, “You captured the moment vividly.” Then he asked me about what he called “the process” of writing the poem. I told him about the poet who came to our school and told us we could start with a moment when something happened and then just add details to show what happened during that moment.

Mr. Gallagher said, “Well, you did great. I’m impressed.”

So I guess it was that poem that helped me get in his creative writing class. Even though Ginny and I aren’t in the same classes, we still see each other a lot. We ride the bus and have lunch together. There’s an activity period where we go outside and play volleyball or kickball. And every morning there’s an assembly. A guest artist comes to the school and gives a program or lecture. Ginny and I always sit together.

So even though Ginny isn’t playing baseball, this summer is better than last summer was.

I tell Ginny, “If I’m going to convince Mr. Gallagher that he was right to choose me, I’d better finish my assignment for tomorrow. I still have one poem to write.”

“Okay,” Ginny says. “And congratulations on your game-winning hit.”

“Thanks. I’ll meet you at the bus stop in the morning.”

I go back to the living room, pick up my cold
dinner, reheat it in the microwave, and take it to my bedroom. I set it on my desk, open my notebook, pick up a pen, and look at the poem’s first line, which I’ve already written in my notebook:

What I remember most

In class today, Mr. Gallagher had us write that line. One of our assignments for tomorrow is to write an unrhymed poem at least eight lines long using that as our first line. He told us, “Think of a single event in your life. It can be something that happened at any time in your past—five years ago, last year, last month, just a few days ago, or even today. You can make up details if you want, but you can also describe the moment exactly as it occurred. It doesn’t have to be a big, dramatic event. You can just start writing about the first thing that pops into your mind.”

I know I can do this assignment because it’s a lot like what I did with my soccer poem. Just write about a single moment. So I do what he said. I start writing about the first thing that pops into my head, and the lines start to flow. I don’t even have to think about what to write. My pen seems to move under its own power as it rushes across my paper. I write the final line and read over what I’ve written. I realize that I didn’t even worry about the length, and the poem turned out to be even longer than Mr. Gallagher said it had to be.

What I remember most

is the way my arms felt

when ball hit bat,

the way the ball darted,

like a scared rabbit

toward the outfield,

the way the dust

billowed above home plate,

the way Andy pumped

his arm in the air,

the way the team cheered me

and called me a hero,

and the fact that Mama and Dad

weren’t there to see any of it.