Biggie (21 page)

Chapter 37

Plenty of Gas

From three hundred fifty feet, it looks like the left fielder is leaning against the wall when he reaches up and catches the ball. As he throws the ball back in, the crowd behind me and the players beside me go quiet.

Tagging up, Christensen races to third and Jet to second as Killer fires his bat to the ground, leaving it there for Maddux to pick up. Killer pulls open the Velcro of his batting glove like a nurse rips off a Band-Aid.

“In the dugout.” The umpire orders that I take a couple small steps back to the top step.

“Now or never, Kyle,” Maddux says.

Kyle steps into the box. Resting the bat on his shoulders, he stands upright and blows a pink bubble.

“Kyle,” I yell.

He looks at me, and I freeze. Not a word appears from my mouth. He grins and looks at the pitcher. Under my breath, I say, “C'mon, one hit.”

The St. John's crowd chants its pitcher's name. Morgan, I think. Our crowd claps calmly and says next to nothing. Most just have their eyes open and hands clasped. As I look down the dugout, everyone leans against the fence and breathes slowly. Three games, all close, have worn the team out. Finch has played twenty-seven innings in three nights. Over the past two days, there have been too many rallies, big hits, highlight catches, costly errors, and brain farts to count. After letting out every last bit of energy in a feeble attempt to scream Killer's fly ball over the left-field fence, no one, not Maddux, the players, or the fans have any cheering fuel left in the tank.

Well, not everyone is gassed. Someone was resting on his bed during the first two games and sitting on his ass in the bullpen for much of this one.

I raise my fists and yell, “Kyle, we just need one hit! C'mon, No. 10, one hit!”

The first pitch is high, and Kyle bends his back and drops his shoulders to get out of the way.

“Kyle, he's scared,” I continue. “He is just like the rest of us. He knows you're going to win this game. C'mon.”

Although, the umpire banished me to the dugout, I step back onto the dirt, look up at the crowd, and start clapping my hands above my head. “C'mon, let's go,” I yell to my neighbors.

Slowly, everyone starts to clap with me.

“C'mon, Kyle,” I yell again.

The next pitch is right down the middle, but Kyle doesn't swing.

“Kyle, Kyle, Kyle!” I try to start a chant … and it works.

The cheer gets so loud that we can no longer hear the clapping hands or pounding feet.

“Nine, get back into the dugout,” the home-plate umpire orders.

I start to jump, pumping my fists, chanting, “Kyle, Kyle, Kyle!”

Laser grabs my shirt and pulls me into the dugout.

“Don't get kicked out,” he says.

After regaining my balance, I look at Kyle, and he's laughing. Although he's twenty feet away, it's like we're back at our locker telling jokes.

Kyle swings at the next pitch and lines the ball to center field. The outfielder races in and my heart stops beating, my lungs forget to pump air, my lips lock, and my clinched fists rise slowly into the air.

The outfielder dives face-first at the dropping baseball. The ball hits the grass and bounces over his glove.

Elbows, shoulders, and knees thump my back and legs as Yellow Jackets race toward Kyle at first base. As Jet, who easily scored the winning run, picks up Kyle, I look at the scoreboard and smile when the seven changes to nine. Above the box score, it says, “Congrats, Finch!”

A long row of Finch fans, who are clapping and cheering “Best Team Ever,” wait for us in front of the locker room. Girls from my school are high-fiving and hugging the players. Nothing too passionate, mostly a quick two-arm wrap around the neck. By the time the player can place his arm on her back, she has let go and moved on to the next guy.

I give high five after high five, receiving a few hugs and a bunch of “Way to go, Biggie” compliments.

I have dreamed about having one girl after another press her boobs up against me, even if it's just for a split second. But the two hours of stress weigh on me, and I'm barely awake going through the line.

At the end of the line is Annabelle, who is talking with Jet. From two feet away, I can see him blatantly stare at her breasts, which are hidden by only a thin piece of gold fabric with the words “Finch Softball,” stretched out over the front. Annabelle has no problem wearing shirts way too tight for her gifts from God.

As I walk up to her, I don't wait for her to decide between hug or high five. I place my hand right in the middle of her back and pull her tight up against me.

“You know you were the one that told me I should play baseball,” I whisper into her ear.

She pulls back. “I don't remember that.”

“I do,” I say. “It was the first day of school.”

“Oh yeah! Wiffle ball.”

“Yep,” I say.

“Well, I'm glad I did.”

She's so beautiful. I know I have to let go. I can't hold on to her forever, but I just want to rub her back a few more seconds before I have to say good-bye. As I pull my hand away, she gets on her tippy-toes and kisses me on the cheek.

“I'll always be sorry about … you know,” I say. “I want you to know that.”

She smirks and says, “You should be.”

And with that, she's gone.

“Biggie,” Coach Phillips squeezes the top of my shoulder.

“Go into the office; I'll be right in,” he orders.

I turn around and hope that he will give me more time on the field. For someone who has yearned to be alone most of his life, I am so happy to be on the diamond with the celebrating players and family members. The air buzzes with delight and elation. It's intoxicating.

“I will, sir, but can I just stand out here a little longer?” I ask.

“Sure, Biggie,” Phillips says. “Oh, and you might want to look at the scoreboard. Every day, I planned on erasing you from the roster, but Laser kept sharing this tall tale that you would come back some day. He just wouldn't let me take you off.”

I look up at the massive outfield scoreboard and there it is.

WP—Henry Abbott (1–0).

“Let's keep that loss number at zero for awhile,” Coach says as he walks away.

“Perfect,” I whisper.

Chapter 38

EiGht texts

I sit down in the blue leather chair in front of the cluttered Iowa Cubs manager's desk. My back curls and my eyes look down at my knees. Why does Coach Phillips want to talk to me in private? Am I getting cut? Was this a one-time thing? I should have listened to him. He said fastballs. What was I doing?  

“Biggie, how's the arm?” Coach walks in.

“Okay,” I say.

“Your fastball looked good.”

He settles on the edge of the desk. His chin, filled with black and gray stubble, hovers right over my head.

“Coach, I'm so sorry about the hit. I should've listened to you. I just thought the pitch was unhittable. I was wrong.”

“Shut up.” He takes off his hat and rubs the bald spot on the top of his head. “How can the smartest kid in this school be so mentally weak? How can the strongest kid in school have no backbone?”

My body tingles as I wonder if I should answer either of the questions or follow his order to shut up.

“Is it a girl?”

“What?”

“Why are you doing this? All of this?” he asks. “Why are you here, playing baseball after all of these years?”

He was right. It was a girl. Strap me up to a lie-detector test and the only passable answer was Annabelle. But I couldn't say that. Reason No. 2 may be to get the attention of my step-dad or my real dad, but I can't bring myself to admit that either. I exhale a long breath, look up, swallow some rancid cigar breath and say, “Because I want to be a champion. You aren't anybody in this town if you're not a champion, and I want to be someone.”

That was the coolest thing I've ever said, I think, feeling really proud of myself. I'm almost more proud of those words than my game-winning pitching performance. Before Coach Phillips can respond to my awesome response, two men walk in the office. Leading the way is Finch mayor Marty Blaine, and right behind him is him. Aaron Abbott.

“Marty, Aaron, I'm just talking to my pitcher right now,” Coach says.

“Aah, don't mind us, Coach,” Mayor Blaine says. “We're just looking for that trophy.”

Aaron limps. It's not pronounced, but I notice that he pulls his right leg with every step. He's tall, really tall actually. I feel a slight urge to stand to see if I tower over him, but I remain planted in the chair. I always imagined that when I saw him, he would look rough. His face would be covered in a five-o'clock shadow and his clothes would be dirty, like he just got out of a fight. I supposed I always imagined him as a loser, a bum whose time had passed.

In reality, he looks wealthy and clean-cut, with a black Polo shirt and olive green shorts. He walks, limp and all, in flip-flops. He doesn't look big, more lean, in shape. Part of me always hoped he would carry around a big gut, and my obesity was hereditary. Nope, he looks great. I am fat, and became fat due to shoving my face with junk food and spent free time reading and playing video games.

“Sorry, guys, the trophy's gone. It's getting engraved,” Coach says.

“Yeah, they probably already had St. John's engraved on it. Oops!” Mayor Blaine says before releasing an over-the-top belly laugh.

“Thanks for making the trip, Aaron,” Coach Phillips says.

“I saw the sweep yesterday and got on a plane this morning. This is a big win, Coach,” Aaron says.

“Thanks,” Coach responds.

“And this is the winning pitcher.” Aaron looked down on me. His eyes look just like mine.

My mind is blank. I can think of nothing to say. I guess I said it all last night.

“He kept us in the game. That's for sure,” Coach says.

“Well done, No. 9.” Aaron places his hand in front of mine, and I shake it. As he grips my hand, I wish I hadn't, but I did.

“You need to put some ice on that shoulder,” Aaron says.

I nod my head and remain silent.

“Well, we'll let you get back to it,” Mayor Blaine says. “You bring that trophy by when it's engraved.”

As Aaron walks out, he places his hand on the top of my shoulder. He pats it twice and then squeezes it, almost as if there's a meaning behind the squeeze.

“See you guys at State,” he says as he lets go.

I watch him walk out and close the door. Two fingers from Coach Phillip's hand pull my chin back around.

“You're only going to worry about me right now.” Coach Phillips's eyes are inches from mine.

“Well, you missed two weeks of practice, most of which was training to get everyone in shape. Looking at you, I can tell you did what you had to do to get in shape, but as a gesture to the guys who busted their asses for two weeks, you'll carry everyone's bags to the bus on road trips. I told the guys to leave their stuff by their lockers and you would take care of it.”

“Yes, Coach,” I say. “Of course. It's the least I can do.”

“Now hit the showers,” he orders.

I get up, but before I reach the door, I look back and blurt out, “I'm going to throw a perfect game.”

He nods a couple of times and exhales. “Don't forget the bags.”

Before getting dressed, I reach for my phone. It's been a personal record four hours since I fiddled with it. I sit down and start looking through the text messages I missed. They're all from Courtney.

First one says,
This might sound stupid, but it looks like you're pitching in the bullpen.

Second,
They just called your name.

The third message is a picture of me on the mound.

Then, there's a picture of the crowd cheering for me.

And another picture of me. Below it says,
After the strikeout.

The sixth message says,
Wow, you throw hard.

Another picture. This time, I'm leading cheers.

The eighth message says,
You were amazing.

My eyes water and my hands shake so much that I fumble the phone. As it lands on the concrete floor, it slides under the bench.

Every hair on my body tingles as I reach down to pick up the phone. I pray that she's still at the stadium.

With the phone lodged between my hands, I take a deep breath before slowly typing. Whether it's nervous energy or water on my fingers, I keep hitting the wrong key. After several stop-and-starts, I finally ask,
Where are you?

As I wait for a response, I slide on my underwear, shorts, and my lucky blue shirt. Before I bend over to pick up my towel, my phone vibrates.

With my eyes closed, I whisper, “Please still be here.”

Sliding my thumb to see the response, I see,
I'm outside Gate B.

I hurdle the bench and push open the door. With wet hair, no shoes and no idea where Gate B is, I race past Coach Phillips.

“Biggie, the bags!”

“I won't forget.”

Leaving wet footprints, I maneuver around fans young and old until I'm outside. Before I see the sign for Gate B, I see her.

She's alone. Her eyes scan the crowd. Her half-zipped blue sweatshirt covers her chest. Even on a humid night, her dark hair lies straight.

Her eyes see me. She adds a small smile to her half-wave.

Eight months of daily running doesn't keep me from losing my breath as I get within the vanilla scent of her perfume.

“I looked for you,” I say.

“Jenna and I were hiding from what's-her-face,” she says. “We were sitting with the enemy.”

“How did it go?” I ask.

“You were awesome. When you—”

“No. How did last night go?” I interrupt her.

She leans in a little and says, “You were right about him. All hands.”

It happens fast. In less than a blink, my lips touch hers. As she rubs my neck, I place my hands on her cheeks.

I've never kissed a girl before, so I have no idea what I'm doing. Her lips are soft but flavorless. For years, I dreamed of kissing Annabelle, a Chapstick addict. So I expected to taste cherry, but Courtney's lips are flavorless. Flavorless and really soft.

She steps back. How long did it last? Who knows? Maybe two seconds, maybe ten, but it didn't last long enough.

“So you like the PDA, I see,” she jokes.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“Don't apologize. It was nice,” she says.

“You saw the home run?”

She steps back, looks stunned, and says, “Oh, my God. One more inch and it would have gone foul.”