Biggie (19 page)

Chapter 33

Retired Numbers

With the Yellow Jackets in Des Moines, Finch is quiet. With the exception of an orange summer moon climbing over the water tower, running at 11:30 p.m. is just like running at 5 a.m. Every forty or so steps, I see a pair of headlights providing just enough of a glow to see a half-asleep driver. None of the shops on Second Avenue are open. The school is dark and empty. The wind is calm and warm and getting warmer with every step. Mike's Sports Bar is open, but only a rundown, rusty two-door Chevy and a conversion van with a paper sack covering a broken window sit in the parking lot.

And there are stars. In May, I can see Leo the lion, Virgo the maiden, and the Big Dipper. At 5 a.m., my eyes focus forward. Tonight, my neck twists and turns in all directions. The sky is amazing.

I stop running when the worn-out rubber on the soles of my shoes hits the asphalt of the parking lot of Finch Field. Slowly, methodically with purpose, I walk to the right-field fence and climb. When my chest reaches the top of the eight-foot chain-link fence, I pump my forearms and flip myself over, sticking my two-foot landing.

I remain focused and inattentive to any sounds. There may be crickets at my feet or bees swirling around my ears or frogs croaking in the creek behind the left-field wall, but I'm not listening. My eyes are locked on a gold “25” on a billboard attached to the left center-field wall. Above the 25, in blue letters, is the name Abbott. My father wore No. 25, and when I was in fifth-grade, the school retired the number. For the past six years, no Yellow Jacket has worn the number. It was the first number the school retired. Soon, billboards went up for 12, 22, 50, and Laser's No. 9.

I thought the grass would be wet or at least damp, but it's rough and crisp after two weeks of dry temps. With each step, I crush blades of grass with my tennis shoes.

Three feet from the wooden banner, I stop and release one long breath. My shoulders are at attention and my chin is squared. My hands hang free but don't sway. My shoes are a foot apart but lined perfectly. With the exception of my lungs pushing against my chest, I'm standing perfectly still.

Seconds tick away and minutes pass, but I say nothing. I just stare at the 25 and gather my thoughts. I have so much to say, but no idea where to start. After six minutes, I say, “I'm not a coward.”

My eyes water and my breaths putter. I rub my nose, mouth, and chin to regain my composure.

“I was called a coward tonight,” I continue, “and I'm not. Also tonight, I had to tell a girl, a girl that I like, that I'm a quitter. Nothing makes a girl fall for you like those three words: I'm a quitter.”

Like a reflex, I chuckle and run my two front teeth over the tip of my bottom lip.

“I saw your Facebook page. I've looked at it for years. I saw you and your two boys hugging each other at the baseball field. They're probably pretty good with their dad being a former first-round draft pick. Do people in Tempe know you're a high-school legend? Do they know that No. 25 is retired, and you're in the Iowa High School Baseball Hall of Fame?

“When your two boys, I think their names are Justin and Matt”—I wait for the sign to verify the information, but the two-dimensional white, blue, and gold sign confirms nothing—“when they walk around, do people say, ‘I thought he would be bigger, stronger, faster, better at baseball, football, basketball, better looking'? Do they have to deal with your legacy?

“You know I hate you?” I continue, cheeks warming and tightening. “I know I should hate you for what you did to my mother, but that's not why. It's not because you hired a lawyer and signed a paper saying you're not my dad anymore. It's because you knew I couldn't be average, ordinary, or normal. You knew expectations were going to be impossible for me to meet, and you didn't hang around to help me get through that. You just left and left me with the snickering, the whispering, and the looks of disappointment.

“I told this girl that I was going to play baseball and she said, ‘Good.' She had no idea if I could even catch a baseball, but she said, ‘Good.' When I asked why she said that, she said, ‘Because you're Aaron Abbott's son.' That's what I live with, you selfish asshole.

“Yeah, I was going to play baseball. My brother and I were working on this pitch. It was going to be unhittable, and I was going to throw a perfect game. I'm an idiot. All the pitch does is hang up there. I would be better off placing the baseball on a tee. When I found out that I didn't have a magic pitch, I quit. But now my friends need me, and I'm going to help them. I'm going to see if Coach can use me. I don't know what will happen. Coach could tell me to go home. I could pitch and do well. I could pitch and do horribly. But I can't worry about you. If I go there, I can't worry about you.

“I know that people tell you things. Finch is small, and people talk to you. I know that. And you probably know I'm smart. You probably know that I stay out of trouble. What you don't know is that I like pitching, and I truly believed I could have thrown a perfect game.

“After the celebration, someone would have called you and said, ‘Go online. Henry pitched a perfect game.' You would have logged on, and maybe for a second, just maybe, you would have felt a little regret for leaving me. Maybe you would question what you did. Maybe you would look at your sons differently and worry that you picked the wrong ones.”

My shoulders are now slouching, my back curled and feet shuffling. My fingers either rub my palms, my eyes, or my cheeks. I'm shrinking.

“I just came here tonight to say I'm done with you. I know you already split us up, but I think I should get a turn, a chance to say you're a nuisance to me. And you know what really sucks? In the movies when people split, someone throws a plate or breaks something. They find an object that the person gave to them, and they break or burn it. But you haven't given me anything. I have nothing to destroy or throw at this sign.

“All you have ever given me is my last name; something I can't rip, burn, spit on, piss on, or return.”

I fiddle with my sweaty shirt, then expel a long breath and say, “Tomorrow, I'm going to pitch. And no matter what, my brother, my mom, and my step-dad are going to be proud of me.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and raise my shoulders, lift my chin, and flex the muscles in my legs and arms. I have no intention of looking weak.

“If I do well, you can think whatever. If I do poorly, be happy. Be happy Matt and Justin are the sons you kept. I don't care. I'm so tired of giving a shit about what you think about me. I just want to stop being judged by someone I've never met. I'm tired of being called weird or scared or a quitter.”

I massage a tear into my cheek and turn away. As I try to steady myself, I see Laser's sign with his retired No. 9.

I run back and stand close enough to Aaron's sign that my breath bounces off his last name.

“Tomorrow, I will be wearing No. 9. And when I'm done, Maddux will wear No. 9. And someday, my son will wear No. 9. No one will ever wear your number again. Not in this town. Someday, people will forget about you.”

Chapter 34

Can I Help?

Wearing a Finch baseball hat and balancing a Finch baseball duffel bag on my shoulder makes it easy for me to sneak past security at Principal Field. Next, I have to find Coach Phillips, beg for a spot on the team, and then hope he doesn't want me to spit shine his shoes.

I pray that I won't run into Kyle, Jet, Mom, Dad, Maddux, or worst of all, Killer before I can talk to Coach. The game doesn't begin for ninety minutes, so I'm not 100 percent sure the team has arrived. With every step, Killer's idea becomes dumber and dumber. A poster on the wall lists all of the Kickoff Classic champions, a menu full of large schools in Iowa. Killer was right, a win tonight would put the Yellow Jackets on the map.

Huddled ahead are Coach Phillips and Laser. They scan a sheet of paper. If I hadn't just driven three hours, I probably would have turned around and ran, but here I am. I might as well see if I can get a seat in the dugout to one of the biggest regular-season games in Finch history.

I'm happy that Coach Phillips sees me first. He frightens me less than Laser, which makes no sense, seeing how Laser would do anything to get me on the team, and Phillips could care less. That being said, I'm glad Laser hasn't seen me yet.

“Biggie, good to see you.” Phillips eyes my hat and duffel bag.

He's no genius, but I think he can put two and two together.

Laser turns and looks pale. It's been two weeks since he told me he didn't raise a quitter. I'm sure he had given up on me.

“Hello, Coach.” I slowly pronounce my words. “I want to help the guys win this championship. Can I help?”

“I don't know,” he says. “Come back in an hour, and I'll let you know.”

“What?” I ask.

“Come back in an hour, and I'll let you know,” he repeats himself. “I'm busy right now.”

“Okay,” I say.

For the next hour, I sit outside the locker room. People pass, but no one I recognize. Finally, after an hour, which felt like ten, Maddux tells me to come into the locker room and get ready.

As I slip on the jersey, which is a little baggy, Coach walks past, but remains silent. I've never felt more uncomfortable. Obviously, he's screwing with me. If he didn't want me here, he wouldn't have told me to get dressed, but I can't help but think an ass chewing is coming up soon.

Phillips, Laser, Maddux, and I walk to the bullpen. It's cloudy and the wind blows crisply onto my face. I look around and only see a handful of people searching for seats in the stands. The sky has zero blue, only shades of gray and black, like some old movie. It's cold, but it's not supposed to rain. As we walk to the bullpen, the scoreboard says that Council Bluffs beat Waverly-Shell Rock 5–1 in the third-place game.

I search the stands for Jenna and maybe even Courtney. I'm not sure how much they hang out or if Courtney is the kind of girl to travel two hours to see a baseball game, but it doesn't hurt to look. In between games, there are maybe a dozen people in the stands, and none look like Jenna or Courtney.

“Biggie,” Coach Phillips finally speaks, “are you ready for this?”

I nod and take the ball. It's used, brown like soil, and the formally red seams are a dull maroon. Jet tosses baseballs on the far pitching mound. I only need to see two pitches to know Killer's right. He doesn't have a lot of stuff.

I decide to show Coach that I'm fine. I toss a strike to Laser, who's catching for me. Even at 70 percent, with no windup, I throw faster than Jet, who's moaning and groaning before each pitch. Slowly but surely, I ramp up the velocity. The snapping noise coming from Laser's catcher's mitt gets louder after each fastball. By my tenth pitch, I'm firing at full speed and making it look like Jet is playing egg toss with his younger sister.

I throw forty-two pitches, mostly fastballs, before Coach tells me to stop.

“Jet, head to the dugout,” he says.

“Yes, Coach,” Jet says, adding, “Hey, Biggie,” as he walks by.

“Sit on the bench,” Coach orders me.

He leans over; the smell of cigars fills my throat, almost causing me to gag.

“Biggie, you just sit here by yourself and watch the game,” he says. “Watch every aspect of it. Watch every play, good or bad, we make.”

“Am I going to pitch?”

“I'm not even sure if you're going to be allowed in the dugout at this point.”

“I can't go in the dugout?”

“The dugout's for ballplayers, for people who love to play, for people who have fun, for people that don't skip two weeks of practice. You quit on me, son. I don't know what to think about you just showing up for a game.”

I sit there in complete silence and think about what he said. Did I come down here because of the championship game? I don't know. Maybe I did want to help Kyle and Jet and maybe even Killer. Maybe I felt I owed Laser something for training me and giving me his number. Maybe seeing my name on that roster got to me. Hell, I don't know why I'm here, but I'm here.

Jet struggles from the start. He allows a run in the first and second innings and a three-run home run in the third. The good news is that Killer wasn't kidding about Finch's hitting. Kyle smacks a three-run triple in the bottom of the fourth, and Finch leads, 6–5. After shutting out St. John's in the fourth, Jet allows three hits and one run in the top of the fifth. I count every pitch. When a St. John's batter pops out to Killer for the final out of the fifth, Jet has thrown 102 pitches. Unfortunately for me, his arm is still attached.

Finch retakes the lead in the top of the fifth when Aargo doubles off the wall, scoring Kyle. Going into the top of the sixth, Finch leads 7–6. Killer said if I could have held St. John's to six runs, the Yellow Jackets would win. He was right.

Jet walks the first two batters of the sixth. He's now at 112 pitches, give or take a couple I may have missed because I was looking into the stands.

Laser and Maddux leap out of the dugout. Maddux carries a face mask and catcher's mitt. I stand up. Defying gravity, a lump climbs up my throat. I reach down and grab my cap and glove.

“Let's go, Biggie. You have to get warm,” Laser says.

I throw seventeen pitches as Killer, Kyle, and Coach Phillips walk back and forth to the mound. When the umpire orders the meetings to end, Jet, with little effort, tries to pick off a base runner. Everyone knows he's done. I know he's done, which explains why I feel like I'm going to piss my pants.

After my eighteenth warm-up pitch, Phillips lifts his left arm. He's calling for me.

He's waiting for me.

He raises his arm again.

The moment freezes me. My throat feels sore, and my hands numb. Although I'm standing in a massive baseball stadium, I feel cornered, trapped, like to get to that mound, I'm going to have to crawl through a tight tunnel. I can't do it. I have to go. I have to get out of here. My pants feel itchy, and my cap feels too tight. I take the cap off and try to breathe.

“You have to go now,” Maddux says.

I still stand there with my cap at my hip. Even when I hear the announcer say, “Now coming in to pitch—No. 9 junior Henry Abbott.

“You have to go right now, Biggie,” Maddux says firmly.

“Maddux, be quiet,” Laser says before placing his hand on the No. 9. He rubs my back, which doesn't make me breathe any easier.

“They're quiet now, but they're going to cheer for you. You know that, right? They're going to stand, clap, and cheer your name. Not because of who your dad is or who I am. They aren't going to cheer because of the uniform you're wearing or because you're a star. They're going to yell your name because each and every one of them knows what you've done for their favorite team.

“Those people in the stands, they love Finch baseball, and they know all about your hard work. They saw you run up and down their streets. They've noticed all the weight you've lost. We live in a small town, Biggie, where everyone knows everything. Some will say that's a bad thing. But you're going to find out tonight that being from Finch is wonderful. Strikeout or walk, they're going to cheer your name, and you've earned that moment.” He pushes me forward. “Now, go get six outs.”

I stumble, but keep moving. I take four or five steps, but then I turn around.

“Hey, Laser, I just want to say—”

“You can thank me when the story ends. Today, all this, it's just the beginning. Go get six outs.”

I step onto the grass and take small steps. I'm terrified.

“Biggie, you can't walk. You've got to run!” Maddux yells.