Biggie (20 page)

Chapter 35

Fastballs

The mound doesn't feel as high as I imagined. For some reason, I always believed that all of the other mounds that I practiced on would be lower, beaten down over time, but the mound in the middle of the Principal Park infield was the same height as the Laser-constructed mound in the dome. Straight ahead of me are rows of Finch fans, all wearing blue and gold. They stand in silence.

Although I'm surrounded by Coach Phillips and our infield, I know every eye is on me. I'm a car wreck that has to been seen. I'm the old lady who has slipped on ice. I'm an old man clutching his chest. People stare because they don't know how it happened and they don't how it will end up.

I'm too far away to hear the whispers of, “Is that Biggie?” or “Is he on the team?” or “Does Coach Phillips want to lose his job?” But I know that's what they're saying.

“When you tried out two weeks ago, I really loved your fastball,” Phillips says. “Do you have confidence in it? Can you throw it for strikes?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Then do that,” Phillips orders. “Throw one strike after another. Look at me. You will not—you hear me?—you will not get fancy. It's one fastball after another.”

As everyone heads back to their spots, I turn around and see Jet stretching his legs in his favorite spot, center field. He's back in his comfort zone. I'm two hours away from mine.

I look up at the darkening sky and see zero stars, which differs from the perfect game fantasies I imagined as I jogged through Finch. Also above me are light towers releasing blocks of clear, white light. I count about eighty-two bulbs before Kyle attracts my attention and tells me the signs or, better yet, sign. One finger means bring the heat.  

I can tell the baseball hasn't been used yet. The umpire must have handed it to Kyle before he walked out to the mound. It's the same size as every other baseball I have thrown since last September, but glossy. The ball's white, ideally white. There's hardly a smudge on it, just two sweaty fingerprints from Kyle's fingertips.

When I look down at Kyle, he seems a hundred miles away. For a moment, I wonder how I can get the ball that far. The fans are a hundred feet away, but it feels like they are sitting on my shoulder. Although the fences are almost three hundred feet behind me, I struggle with the tight squeeze of claustrophobia. Flashing phone cameras leave me light-headed. My dry and red eyes can't focus. I rub them with the balls of my hands. Kyle pounds his catcher's mitt and repeats, only louder this time, “Bring the heat.”

I want this first warm-up pitch to be a strike. I want to get off to a fast start. My feet are parallel with my shoulders. My fingers grip the glossy baseball tight.

From behind me, I hear a loud belly laugh, the kind that sends milk down a little boy's nose.

Kyle stands up, “Biggie, pitch from the stretch. Do you know how to do that?”

I turn my shoulders and place the inside of my left foot on the mound. Behind me I see the runner at first base is the one laughing. Watching him chuckle at my simple rookie mistake only makes me want to beat them more.

All throughout my idiotic quest, Laser forced me to pitch from the stretch at least half the time. “Just in case a batter gets on base,” he would say. I felt foolish doing it then and I still do now.

Calmly, I snap off seven more warm-up pitches, each one requiring little effort or mobility from Kyle.

During the past year, Laser told me a lot of things: keep your head up, legs straight, arm warm, and so on. He also said baseball has no clock. Oftentimes during hundred-pitch practices, my patience would wane. Throws would come faster and faster as I yearned for blue Gatorade or cold water. Laser would tell me to slow down. He would repeat over and over that I could take all the time I needed.
There is no clock in baseball.

Remembering that, I stand tall with my feet on either side of the rubber and close my eyes. When I dreamed about this day, I felt myself surrounded by a perfect early-summer breeze, a Finch breeze. If some guy from Canada felt the gust on his face, he would feel heat. If some guy from Florida, Southern California, or a desert stood here, he would be freezing, but to us in Finch, the wind is perfectly uneventful. Now as I stand here, the wind barely exists. Instead, a faint mist hovers over the grass—the quiet before the storm. The chemical smell of the treated grass hides the musk smell so evident in my nose, just as when I put back the mower in our garage.

While baseball has no clock, I do have to open my eyes, squeeze the baseball, lift my elbow, arc my back, lift my leg, and get this guy out.  

“Here we go,” I whisper.

My first-ever high school pitch is bunted out in front of the plate. I stumble off the mound, but keep my balance and reach the rolling ball first.

“Throw to first!” Kyle screams.

I pick it up and cock my arm, but it fails to move. I just grip the ball and watch the kid race up the first-base line, chin up and knees chugging. Our first baseman stretches out his gloved hand and waits.

“FIRE IT!” Killer yells.

I grit my teeth and throw. The ball arrives a split second before the runner.

“Nice throw,” Kyle says. “Let's not make it so dramatic next time.”

The base runners move up to second and third. If I allow a hit, both could score, and St. John's would take the lead.

The out calms me and lifts a lot of stressful weight off my shoulders. The next batter, a small kid with baggy pants, steps in the box.

I fire a pitch: strike one. Then another pitch, even faster: strike two. And then I grit my teeth and let the next pitch fly. The umpire, as if someone lit a firecracker below his ass, explodes out of his crouch, swings his arm like he's speed-painting a wall, and yells, “Strike three!”

Kyle pumps his fist, and Killer belts, “Two down!”

As my head spins toward Killer's excitable roar, I see our senior third baseman hunched over not in pain, but in laughter. When he sees my eyes, he bites his lip to stop his laughing. My guess is he's laughing at the perceived absurdity of my unhittable fastballs. As I scan the rest of my teammates, I see others smiling like the Joker from
Batman
, cheeks high and mouths partially open and curled.

They might be surprised, but I'm not. One more out and I've cleaned up Jet's mess. Five minutes after Kyle seemed a hundred feet away, he now sits right in front of me. I feel like if I stretch my arm a little bit more than possible, I could pull and snap back his catcher's mask.

Then I hear it. Only a couple people shout it, but I hear it.

“Biggie! Biggie! Biggie!”

Once again, deep breaths calm my demeanor as I regenerate my self-confidence. Now poised on the mound, I feel like I'm immortal. Okay, maybe not eternal, but at the very least, I feel like a good baseball player. No! A
great
baseball player. I feel like I belong on this mound. It feels more like home than the synthetic mound under the dome, thirty feet from my bedroom.

I rock and fire, and the batter swings and fouls the ball straight back. The ding of the aluminum bat startles me.

“That's the only time you're going to touch the ball,” I whisper to myself.

The cheer has gotten louder as more and more fans join in. “Biggie! Biggie! Biggie!”

I find myself listening more than concentrating. I've heard experienced athletes say they can't hear the cheers when they're on the field and in the zone. Since this is my first real athletic experience, I hear the fans loud and clear. I try hard to block it out and concentrate, but it sounds so amazing.

The ball feels smaller as if I could wrap my fingers around it, bury it, hide it. With the tips of my fingers, I spin the ball in my palm and dig my cleats into the dirt. Again I grunt as the ball races to the plate.

The batter swings and the ding returns, only louder. The base hit screams to right field, easily over the outstretched arm of our second baseman. The runner who was on third base scores, while the runner who was on second is rounding third. Jet scoops up the ball and in one motion fires the ball to the plate.

“Get down, Biggie!” Kyle yells over the deafening St. John's fans' cheers.

Like a second-grade tornado drill, I drop to my knees and cover my ears. The ball skips off the grass and lands in Kyle's glove. The runner tries to slide around the tag, but Kyle slams his mitt on the runner's knee inside a cloud of swirling dust.

Before my eyes focus on the scoreboard, which now says the game is tied at 7–7, Killer places his face in my line of sight and claims, “We're going to score a lot more runs, Biggie. It's all good.”

As I sit in the dugout, Maddux hands me a blue Gatorade. “You've got to go tell Jet thanks for picking you up,” he claims.

“What?” I ask between gulps of Gatorade.

“It's baseball stuff,” he continues. “You have to tell a player thanks for picking you up when they save your ass.”

“Really?”

He just nods like a bobblehead.

I get up and tap Jet on the shoulder, “Hey, man, thanks for picking me up.”

“Keep firing, Biggie, you big old son of a bitch. We're winning this title,” Jet says with an unnecessary punch to my chest.

My ass plants back down on the dugout bench next to Maddux.

“It's insane out there,” I mutter. “There's lights and noise everywhere. It's hard to breathe.”

“You got to throw the pitch, the Wiffle ball,” Maddux says.

Elusive Gatorade soaks my chin as I try to get the last ounce out of the plastic bottle. I belch and wipe my chin clean with the back of my hand.

“Coach said only fastballs,” I inform him.

“He doesn't know about the Wiffle ball. Trust me, the pitch is unhittable. I mean jeez, Biggie, that's why we are here—to throw the Wiffle ball. Remember?”

I do.

After Finch fails to score in the bottom of the sixth, I'm back on the mound. I feel a lot more comfortable pitching from the windup and more relaxed knowing there aren't any base runners behind me.

Maddux told me that the heart of the St. John's lineup is coming up and if I want to avoid a big inning, I'm going to have to throw the Wiffle ball. I'm hesitant to defy Coach Phillips, but Maddux is right. We just spent nine months perfecting the magic pitch.

As the first batter steps to the plate, Kyle puts down the sign for a fastball and, just like I had seen in the movies, I shake it off. I'm throwing my Wiffle ball. As if I'm going back in time to the first-day-of-school Wiffle ball game, I place my fingertips in the proper positions. With my left hand in my glove and the baseball hidden inside it, I bring my glove to my mouth and calmly blow on it. I step back and I begin my windup. I snap my wrist and release the ball. It starts outside. Kyle slides to his right just before the baseball spins back to him. He catches it right in front of the outside corner of the plate.

“Strike one!” the umpire yells.

The batter shuffles forward in the box. Kyle sees it and quickly and emphatically drops one finger between his folded legs. I throw my fastest one yet and it catches the outside corner.

“Strike two!” the umpire yells.

Again, the batter dances in the box.

Kyle again asks for a fastball, but I shake him off. He looks into the dugout for a split second, but comes back quickly and makes an upside-down peace sign in front of his crotch.

Nine months after my parking-lot perfect game, I still remember where the holes were on that Wiffle ball and the right amount of pressure to make even this sturdy baseball dance.

Once again, the ball starts outside and hooks over the plate. Just like last time, it's going to catch the corner and the umpire will jump up and send this batter to the bench. Kyle reaches forward to catch the ball and my mouth starts to tingle.

But right before Kyle can snag it, the batter leans over and swings. The ball connects with the barrel of his bat and soars high into the air. There is no ding this time. The bat releases a dull thump. I watch it fly to left field, and it looks like it's going to go foul. I attempt to lift my hand and pray it into the stands, but before I can do anything, even breathe, the ball bounces off the foul pole. Home run.

My shoulders drop. The St. John's crowd screams so loud that my brain can't create simple thoughts. The clapping rattles between my ears. I have to bend over and press hard on my ears to clear my head. While the St. John's fans' cheers and clapping are ear-popping, I still hear Coach Phillips yell from the top step of the dugout, “Biggie, what did I say? What did I say? Throw heat and get us in the dugout!”

Chapter 36

The Villain

After a running catch by Jet ends the inning, I walk off the mound, eyeing only dirt and grass. As the players surround Coach Phillips, I walk through the dugout and into the hallway. I rip off my glove and let it fall to the ground. I place my forehead and elbows against the concrete wall and they slide, along with the rest of me, to the ground.

I blew it. I knew it was a bad idea. That's why I quit the team. I'm not ready to be a pitcher. Killer talked me into coming down here, but maybe he did it on purpose to teach me a lesson. Worst of all, I didn't listen to my coach, who told me not to get fancy. Instead I listened to an eleven-year-old.

“Biggie, you've got to come and cheer for your teammates.” Maddux appears in the hallway.

I get up. Shoulder hung, eyes glazed.

“No,” I say.

“Biggie. I'm not kidding. You have to go out there. It's the bottom of the seventh. You need to be with your team.”

“No, I don't.”

“Listen to me,” he says.

I walk toward him.

“What? You said I need to listen to you. Who are you? C'mon, tell me who you are.”

“Biggie,” he says, backpedaling.

“You said you were going to teach me an unhittable pitch,” I mumble, closing in on him. “You said I could throw a perfect game. You said I could do something no one has done, not even Aaron Abbott. This is all your fault. You convinced me. You told me to throw the pitch, even though Coach said not to. You told me you could teach me a pitch that was unhittable. This is all your fault.”

“The pitch worked on the first guy,” he says.

My volume increases, “It's all your fault, but here's the thing: no one knows that. Everyone out there thinks it's my fault. Hell, maybe it is my fault. After all, I listened to you.”

Despite the fact that I weigh 150 pounds more than him, Maddux, all of five feet, stands tall and steps toward me. “You need to be with your team,” he says. “You need to be a good teammate.”

In one quick motion, I pick him up by his armpits and toss him up against the tunnel wall. His torso convulses in my hands. With his legs swinging in the air, we are at eye level.

“Listen to me!” I yell. “You're a kid. You're not a ballplayer. You're not on this team. You're a glorified batboy. No! You are just a batboy, a kid who picks up bats. You're not a coach. Do you hear me? You don't know anything! Do you hear me? You don't know anything!”

Tears glaze his eyes and start to flow. His cheeks glow red and his lips shake.

“Why are you so mad?” he asks.

I feel like a monster, huffing and puffing with a small boy in the palms of my hands. I set Maddux down.

“I'm a laughingstock. I cost us this game,” I say with my back to my little brother.

“The game's not over,” Maddux says.

I head down the tunnel to the locker room. I feel lucky that I have my truck. It's just a few steps away. I can easily grab my stuff, race back out the door, and be gone before anyone notices. The nightmare will be over. As I enter the locker room, I immediately turn on the sink and splash water on my face.

All I can think about is that note my mom found nine months ago in my backpack. Why did I put that note in my backpack? If I'd folded it in my pocket, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have thrown up on YouTube, almost strangled a redneck, gotten beat up by a girl, or blown a title chance for my classmates at Principal Park.

I pound the sink with the side of my fist.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I rotate obscenities with sink punches until the side of my hand aches too much to continue.

On the floor I see my Yellow Jackets cap lying there upside down. A banner stain of sweat covers the brim and inside. My hand reaches for it, worried that it's ruined. I'm mad that the cap may be soiled so I rub the blotch in faint hopes that it would disappear. Sweat transfers to my fingertips. And then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I stand up straight and place the hat back on the top of my head.    

It's weird how reality can just slap you in the face. In the past nine months, I played catch almost daily with Maddux and Laser, tried out for the Yellow Jackets, got cut, made the team, received a uniform with Laser's retired number, sat in the Iowa Cubs bullpen, struck out two batters, and gave up a home run, but only now, rubbing the sweat off the inside of my black and gold Yellow Jackets cap, do I suddenly feel like a baseball player.

As I look at my reflection, the first thing I see is the cap. Then I see my face, worn by running sweat and flying dirt. Then, the uniform top, “Yellow Jackets” spelled out over my chest. To see it more clearly, I take a step back and then another and then another.

For years, I have hated mirrors. The reflecting glass is nothing more than a bully, and the worst kind. In the schoolyard, kids call you names—“fat ass,” “dumb ass”—mostly they pick a word and throw “ass” on the end, but what do they know? They're just mean, dumb kids. A mirror, however, knows all. When it calls you fat, guess what? You're fat. When it calls you ugly, guess what? You're ugly. A mirror never lies. And as I keep stepping backward, I can see more of my uniform—my black belt, my long baseball pants, and finally as I bump my back into the locker-room wall, my black, dirtied cleats.

A small smile appears as I think about Coach Phillips cutting me. “How do you like me now?” I think, happy that I proved everyone wrong. But the smile fades as I try to think of others who doubted me, who said this day would never come. I try to remember other moments when people laughed at the idea of Biggie playing baseball, but I can't think of any.

Suddenly, my chin drops and my lips dry out. It's a cold, lonely feeling when you realize that the person in the mirror is the villain in the story. This is the guy. This guy, now five feet from me, stalked a girl online, ignored and shut out classmates, lied to his mother on a daily basis, looked down on his stepfather, and threw his little brother up against the wall, just for telling me to support my teammates.

When I said I wanted to be a ballplayer, Maddux jumped on board. Although I embarrassed him at the first tryout, Laser trained me anyway. Even Kyle told me to try again after I lost some weight. Shit! Even Killer drove three hours to tell me I could be just what Finch needed to win this tournament. No one doubted me. No matter how much I want to believe that this world is full of cold, selfish bullies, the simple fact is that I'm the one who treats others with disrespect. I'm the selfish one.

For the second time in nine months, I look straight into a mirror and make promises.

“I'm going to be better person,” I say. “I have to say I'm sorry to Maddux.”

I run out of the locker room.

As I head out the tunnel, the ceiling rumbles under pounding feet. I feel like a four-year-old experiencing his first thunderstorm. As I reenter the dugout, everyone is standing, leaning against the dugout rail or pacing back and forth. At first glance, I don't see Maddux. My teammates are congratulating Christensen, who stands on first. The sophomore hears shouts of, “Way to get us started,” “Now we go,” and “Get him home, guys.”

As Jet walks up to the plate, I see Maddux sandwiched between two players twice his size. He's not screaming or pacing. He just stands there and watches Jet take a few practice swings. As I walk toward him, Maddux finally yells, “Speed kills, Jet. Put it in play and keep it going.”

As I reach Maddux, he uses the protective dugout bar to pull himself up and yells, “C'mon, Jet.”

“Maddux,” I say.

He doesn't look back. “C'mon, Jet!” he repeats, either ignoring me or blocking out everything other than the game.

“Maddux!”

He looks up and over his shoulder, his hands still pushing and pulling the fence as if the motion is creating the electricity to energize Jet.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean any of it. You do know a lot about baseball.”

“I know I do,” he says.

“So what do I do now?” I ask.

“You just cheer,” he says. “You need to fire up Jet. It's the bottom of the seventh. You have to cheer as loud as you can.”

Maddux follows his own advice. Like a raging madman, he opens his mouth and lets out the loudest animal-like scream I've ever heard. If his fingers weren't curled around the fat, red bar, his fists would be pounding on his chest.

I look out and see Jet circle the sky with his bat. He's batting left-handed now, not right-handed like he did in gym class. He's ahead in the count, two balls and no strikes, and there is one out. The pitcher throws the ball, and Jet reaches out and slaps at it. The ball skips up the third-base line. The St. John's fielder snags the ball and pumps his arm, but doesn't even try to throw out the two-time small-school state champion in the 100-meter dash.

As Jet crosses first base, he flexes his chest, tilts his neck, and just screams to the sky.

“We need one hit, Killer,” Kyle yells out as Killer steps into the on-deck circle.

“C'mon, Killer!” Maddux cheers.

I want so bad to cheer for him, but I just can't. Instead, I clap my hands tentatively and place my cleats on the top step and look into the crowd. Practically everyone who lives in Finch is in the stands, clapping their hands and chanting, “Yel-low jack-ets, yel-low jack-ets.”

As I look for Annabelle, Mom, or, yes, I know it's crazy, Courtney, I hear,
PING!

I twist my head and see the baseball fly high over left field. The cheers are deafening, and every member of the Yellow Jackets jumps out of the dugout.

Killer jogs slowly to first. With a tight grip, he still holds the bat. Christensen and Jet stand still a few feet from their respective bases, and the St. John's left fielder stands up against left-field wall.

Then, the world stops. As if God hit the mute button, we all stand in silence.