7 Days at the Hot Corner (11 page)

I feel myself blush, but I smile too. “Matt,” I say once more, shaking my head.

“He was pretty sure you'd react that way,” Travis says. “It's the main reason he's taken such an attitude with you. But believe me, with a family like his, Matt's got to keep
real
quiet. If you think my parents have been bad, Matt's folks will
never
accept him for who he really is; they'd
hate
him. At least with my mom and dad there's still hope, I think; but not for Matty.”

I smile. “Matty?” I say.

Travis blushes. “Yeah, but you probably shouldn't call him that.”

Travis is telling me how important it is to protect Matt's secret. “I get it,” I say. Then I add, “I've been thinking a lot about the stuff you said to me, about fantasyland, about how stupid I can be—”

Travis interrupts me. “Scott, I was out of line. I'm sorry I said that—”

I interrupt him, “No, you were right, about all of it—I have a lot of stuff to work on, but I will.”

Travis says, “I was angry, but you know how much I care about you.”

I say, “Yeah, I know—me too … but …” I can't think how to say it, stumbling as I try to find the right words.

But Travis laughs loudly. He says, “Believe me, Scott, you're the least gay guy I've ever met. We're friends, man—best friends, but just friends. I hope we always will be.”

“Me too,” I say, and I mean it.

We stand together for a while without talking, but not like it's been for this last week, not uncomfortable and bad—more like it always used to be.

“I gotta go,” Travis says. “Are you staying out at the lake tonight with your mom?”

“Yeah, she's expecting me. Come on out with me—the dogs miss you.”

“Nah.” He laughs. “This is the last Thompson High game of the season. Your dad's gonna need somebody to help him survive toxic baseball withdrawal.”

I smile and say, “You're right; thanks for filling in for me.”

“Sure.” Travis laughs again. “I'll see you Monday at school.”

“See you,” I say, and laugh.

It feels great to laugh with Travis again.

So Travis and I are still friends. If I've learned anything from all this, I guess it's two things: first, that nothing is ever quite like it seems—there's the way we imagine the world, and then there's the way the world really is; and second, that everything in life changes, and if you fight that reality, you're gonna be miserable.

Life is not always going to be as good as this. Things don't always work out for the best. But I don't want to think about that right now. I want to feel happy for just a little bit longer. I guess that's something else I know now—being happy is more important than baseball; enjoying your life is more important than
anything.

I'm back out at Weaver Lake. It's dark, getting late. The dogs, Evander and Bob, are asleep on the floor of the studio. I'm lying in my sleeping bag in the sleeping loft. Looking out, I see the light from the kitchen window of the house. The moon is shining down on the lake. A few crickets are chirping, and I can smell the fresh-cut grass.

In forty-eight hours I'll walk back into the Spokane Public Health office and get the results of my test. In some ways I'm not freaked out anymore. I trust Travis, and if he is infected and knows it, he'd tell me. The test should come back just fine, and besides, AIDS or no AIDS, life is about the
way
you live, how you treat the people you love. It really is about how you play the game.

Winning and losing, final thoughts: In ways that I never really got until now, I realize that winning and losing in baseball is exactly like they always used to tell us in Little League—it doesn't matter.

Baseball history: Almost every ball player knows the history of baseball, not every bit of it, of course, but lots of the really important parts. Babe Ruth, the Black Sox Scandals, and the Red Sox finally winning the Series. Baseball history is part of the game—remembering how people have played, how they've helped make it great. History is important, I think.

A few months ago, back in early March, a month before the baseball season even began, Travis was out here for the weekend with me at Weaver Lake.

On that Saturday morning he and I walked Evander and Bob out around the lake, like we'd done on so many other Saturday mornings before. As we got to the edge of the woods and could look out and see the wheat fields ahead, Bob started a weird, low growl, and the hair on his neck rose up. Evander, who had been padding along ahead of us, stopped, then hurried back to join Bob and began to growl too. My first thought was “skunk,” which is usually the nastiest thing you can run into out here. But as I looked ahead more closely, I saw what had set Bob off. It was a small herd of elk.

“Look, Trav,” I whispered excitedly, although there was really no reason to whisper—they were a good 150 yards ahead and the wind was blowing toward us, so they wouldn't catch our scent. There were five of them. They were at the edge of the lake; a couple of cows were drinking, the other grazing. The bull was a big one with a huge, handsome rack, and the three cows were full-grown too. A calf stood near one of the cows, not a newborn but still small.

Travis softly said, “Wow.” We leashed up the dogs and, shushing them as best we could, moved slowly toward the elk.

“We'd better not get too close,” I said. The bull looked more and more massive the closer we got. Even the cows, with a calf to protect, could be dangerous.

I'd never seen elk in the wild before. I knew they were around, but they're hard to spot. Some hunters buy elk tags every year for twenty years and never even get to fire a shot.

We walked toward them as close as we felt was safe, about fifty yards out of the woods. We were close enough to run back to the trees if they charged us. With the dogs, I knew we'd be okay so long as we weren't caught in the open.

We watched them for twenty minutes, maybe longer. When they'd had their fill of water and grazing, they walked slowly off across the field toward the bigger woods farther west.

“Pretty cool, huh, Travis?” I said.

“Yeah.” He smiled.

That morning there was still even a little ice on the lake, and a small, filthy patch of snow at the foot of a craggy ledge where the sun wouldn't reach until later in the spring.

That was only a few months ago. This evening, after hanging out with Mom, I walked Evander and Bob back out to where Travis and I had spotted the elk. Of course there were no elk to be seen, and the ice and snow are long gone. In other ways, too, it feels like there's nothing left of that morning with Travis—like the whole world has changed, all for the good. Everything that's happened these last days, everything I remember from my whole life, feels valuable and worth remembering.

It's great how sometimes, when you let yourself, you can remember the things that make you the happiest, the things that make you feel … I don't know what you'd call it.... Peaceful, I guess.

The days are getting much longer now, so even though it's close to nine
P.M.
by the time I get back to the studio and ready for bed, there's still a little bit of light on the western skyline.

Ten minutes ago the sun was coming through the smudged glass in streaks, oddly shaped shafts of light cutting through the pines and the leaves of the locust trees. Now the sun is low enough, and it doesn't shine directly through the windows anymore. The light is softer. At moments like this, life feels perfect—like nothing bad can ever happen.

I get my test results back tomorrow, but as worried as I've been about it, now I'm not all that nervous. Whatever the news, it'll be what it'll be and I'll deal with it.

Baseball history final thoughts: Hey, it's only baseball. What else can I say?

My ride into town is quiet, just the hum of my tires over the road. I can't think of any music I want to hear. I'm still thinking a lot about everything that's happened over the last week. And, of course, I feel a little bit nervous. Who wouldn't? But in a strange way, the fear is all right.

As I park my truck and approach the building, there is one thought, one image that keeps playing over and over again in my head. Although I didn't even think about it a single time this last week, with so much going on, right now I can't stop remembering that young mother with her little boy who was here the day I got my blood drawn. She was real worried-looking, and her kid, who was totally unaware of what was happening, was wild and rambunctious, a little shortstop in the making. What's gonna happen to those two if their results come back bad? I mean, I've got my parents, Trav, my teammates, and a whole world of support in my life. What happens to the thousands of moms and little kids all over the world who have nothing like the love I get every day, if their tests come back bad?

The last time I was here and I saw that mom and her little kid, I said that seeing them creeped me out. That's not how I feel anymore. No, thinking about them now, I just feel sad and worried.

I get called into Dorothy's office. As she's telling me my results, something in her face, a kind of sadness just under her smile, makes me realize how it must be for her when she has to tell somebody the opposite news of what she's telling me right now.

I thank her for about the tenth time, and then I stand up to leave. Suddenly, without planning to do it, I reach over and hug her. She hugs me back, and it feels nice.

I walk out a locked door and down a short hallway.

When I get out the door to the outside, I run to my truck as fast as I can, almost tripping over a big bulge in the sidewalk where a tree root has pushed up and cracked the cement. I unlock my truck door, hop in, and peel out, my wheels throwing gravel up behind me as I race away. It takes me a couple of blocks to settle down and start breathing normally again.

My seven days at the hot corner are finally over. Now all I've got to do is figure out what to do with the rest of my life.

Graduation was cool. Flat hats tossed in the air, hugs all around, although all I got from Matty, I mean
Matt
Tompkins was an overly firm handshake and about half a smile.

It's been a lazy summer. The most exciting thing has been Zeke Willhelm making it to the final round of the half-pipe skateboarding competition in the X-Games (he placed third, winning a bronze medal). Every evening on the five-o'clock news for the whole week, Zeke got interviewed—he looked almost normal: short hair, actually close to a shaved head but at least a natural color; you might have thought he was completely average except for the truly incredible way he rode his skateboard and the pierced gold hoop he wore in his right eyebrow. I felt proud of him; who'd have thought that Zeke Willhelm would be our graduating class's greatest jock?

I've been trying to decide what to do with my life—community college or get a job? Dad's given me the rest of July to take it easy and make my decision.

This afternoon I go out to grab the mail, something I do most days. I don't usually get much from our friendly postal delivery lady, other than junk about credit cards and my
Baseball Weekly
, which arrives most of the time on Fridays.

But when I look in the mailbox today, there is a letter for me.

I look at the return address on the envelope and I can't believe my eyes, can't believe what I'm seeing: It's from the Minnesota Twins.

I tear it open right away and read it.

I've been selected in the baseball draft.

I'm getting my shot at pro ball.

Without moving from the mailbox, I read and reread the letter about twenty times. I'll start in triple-A ball at the Twins' club in upstate New York, the Rochester Red Wings, but first I actually get to join the big club for spring training next March in Arizona, the Cactus League!

I can hardly believe it—I reread the letter another half dozen times.

I can't wait to call Travis, who has his own apartment now, so that he can help me celebrate!

But the strangest thing is that I'm not even
happier
than I actually feel. Sure, I'm excited, and it's great news but … I don't know how to explain it … I feel happy … but …

Playing baseball takes a certain amount of guts and skill. Remembering that simple fact is enough for me after everything that happened last May.

Playing ball is a lot of fun, but I'm happy and lucky to be alive. I'm thankful for everything, not just baseball; I'm thankful for
everything
that happened during those seven days at the hot corner, and for what happens every day
away
from it too.

Special thanks, as always, are due Toni Markiet, my wonderful editor at HarperCollins Children's Books; her terrific assistants, Catherine Onder and Savina Kim; and the entire team, Phoebe Yeh et al. Thanks also to George Nicholson, Paul Rodeen, and Thaddeus Bower at Sterling Lord Literistic Inc. Thanks to various readers who helped me see the light in this story, including Stacie Wachholz and Stephanie Squicciarini. Thanks to Kelly Milner-Halls for helping with my web page and being a fellow writer, and to Crutch, Bill Egger, Ed Averett, Terry Davis, and Mikey Gurian.

Always, I am indebted to my family—my sons Jesse and Sheehan, sister Cindy, and Garren—so many Eggers that my sales are always brisk, including our favorite fellow travelers Wally and Kathy, also Bill and Nora, Peggy and Neil, Judy and Bill, Kathy and Jim Rudolph, Aunt Kay and her wonderful kids … like I said, too many to name, but thanks to all of you.

I'm bound to leave out someone, so I might as well leave out a lot of you and just give this inadequate group thank-you to all not mentioned who support me. But thanks especially to the schools and libraries that continue to so vigorously defend and support my work, and to John Cole and the National Book Festival for their support as well.