Center Field (2 page)

The house was quiet. The cat met him at the front door and looked up expectantly, ready for a head scratch and dinner. He stepped over her. He didn't like the cat. Too unpredictable in her moods. He'd rather have a dog, but after the last one died they had decided to wait until Dad's second store was opened and running, which was turning out to be harder than Mom and Dad had expected. Nobody was ever around to walk a dog these days. The cat meowed. He changed her water and dropped a scoop of dry pellets into her dish. She dug in and forgot about the head scratch.

Mom had left a note on the refrigerator. As usual, she'd left dinner for him. All he had to do was nuke the chicken and broccoli and dress the salad. Too much work. He made two peanut butter sandwiches. He took them and a container of milk up to his room.

He logged on to the Buddsite. It opened with a montage
of Billy making jumping, diving, sliding catches while John Fogerty sang “Centerfield,” the greatest song ever written. That had given Mike the idea of using the opening bars of the song for his own cell phone ring.
Put me in, coach.

The Yankees were heading back from spring training for opening day at the Stadium. The daily Billyblog was all about how excited Billy was to start the new season. Mike clicked past the links to donate to Billy's charitable foundation for poor kids; to order Billy's book,
IMs to a Young Baller
; to buy T-shirts, jerseys, wristbands, batting gloves, posters, street signs, the wastebasket, the bobble-head doll, the bumper sticker that read
WHAT WOULD BILLY BUDD DO
? and came with a booklet of twenty-five moral situations and how Billy would deal with them.

Over the years, mostly through birthdays and Christmases, he had gotten everything Billy. He had read the “What Would Billy Budd Do?” booklet a dozen times. It covered everything from injuries to designated driving, but he couldn't remember anything about how to act if some new kid is going to take your position. C'mon, Mike, you're being paranoid. For all you know, Coach was just trying to shake everybody up. He likes to keep us from getting complacent. Andy was talking out of his butt, as usual.

He looked up at the Billy Budd posters on his wall. His favorite was Billy looking straight at him, his mouth slightly
open as if he were ready to say something. Every so often he imagined a conversation with Billy, but he didn't feel like having one right now.

He clicked past the Buddline, where you could send Billy a personal question and get a personal answer. He had never sent Billy a question. His questions had always seemed too trivial to bother Billy. And sometimes he thought how bad he would feel if Billy never answered him.

He clicked onto his favorite link, the Billyball instructionals. For the hundredth time he watched Billy position himself to throw home after catching a sacrifice fly.

But he watched it without seeing it and he finished the sandwiches and milk without tasting them. Usually when he felt down, the Buddsite could lift him back up, but it wasn't working today. He felt jostled out of his zone. The new kid. The girl in the locker room. Forget 'em, Mike. As Billy always says,
Keep your eyes on the prize and never quit, young ballers, never quit.

Center field is the prize. But Mike had a bad feeling that keeping his eyes on it and never quitting wasn't going to be enough.

He had realized how much he loved center field during the last football season. Playing safety was a little like playing center field. The similarities had made him more impatient for the baseball season. In both sports you're a lone rider in
your own territory and the game is spread out in front of you. You start moving the moment the action begins. You follow the ball knowing you are the last line of defense. Everything is in your hands. Everyone is depending on you.

But in a football game there are too many variables—enemy jerseys coming to take you out, your own guys getting to the ball carrier first or getting in your way.

Baseball is simpler, purer. Baseball isn't really that much of a team sport. As much as you might be down with the guys and support each other, everybody has his own job and pretty much does it alone. When that little white pill comes off the bat and over the infield, it's all yours. Track it, time its drop, pick it out of a bright, dark, patchy, blue gray sky. Feel it settle into your glove, close your hand around it and then, if there are men on base, maybe someone tagging up to score, turn into position for the long throw home.

He felt better thinking about the fundamentals.

Just before he logged off the Buddsite, a blinking alert popped up. The site was announcing an A Day With Billy contest. He read the rules: The contest was open to any male or female high school varsity baseball or softball player in the metro area. The winner of the best two-minute video essay about what baseball means to him or her would get to spend an entire day with Billy, including a visit to the clubhouse and a meal in the stadium. Mike tried to imagine
what that would be like, but his cell phone interrupted the thought, singing, “Put me in, coach.” He checked the ID. It was Lori. He felt guilty about letting the call go. She was always so nice, never gave him a hard time. Can't imagine her storming into the boys' locker room. He felt warm remembering Katherine Herold's body perched on the whirlpool ledge.

His eye caught the poster of Billy Budd looking at him accusingly. Billy was big on respect to women. In the IMs book, he wrote:
The mark of a real man is how he treats women, children, and all others weaker than himself.

You call Katherine Herold weak?

 

Homework made him feel better. The fundamentals again. Mike's Applied Math teacher, Dr. Ching, had assigned a problem that caught his interest: You are in a boat, on a lake that has a fixed volume of water. You drop your anchor overboard. Does the water level rise or fall? The answer, Dr. Ching said, involves the principle of buoyancy. The problem dated back to Archimedes of Syracuse. Dr. Ching called Archimedes “that ancient dude” and made him sound cool.

Mike enjoyed getting lost in the problem. In math there's always an answer, right or wrong. In baseball games you win or lose. You play or you don't. He liked life simple, like a dog, not complicated, like a cat.

Mike loved the Ranger Runs, especially on a damp, chilly morning like this one in late March when the wind drove grit from the track into his cheeks and rattled against his plastic goggles. He'd gotten the idea for the goggles from Billy Budd's book.
Always protect your eyes,
Billy wrote,
because you can't see the ball without them.
The Yankee center fielder would like the Ranger Runs, too. Billy had written that athletes need to keep pushing themselves so their performances are never affected by fatigue. Too many ballplayers give up in the late innings because they are tired or afraid of losing. The tough ones love the challenge and step up their game.

The runs were part of Coach Cody's plan to make them mentally and physically tough for the new season. Coach was running alongside the team, a silver bat in his hand, chanting, “I wanna be a Ridgedale Ranger, I wanna
laugh at fear and danger.”

Mike led the team with a long, easy stride. The ankle complained softly. He had taped it at home and wore high-top running shoes for extra support. After the first lap the team began stringing out behind him. Hector and Todd, scrappy little middle infielders, were right behind him, followed by the sophomores trying to suck up to Coach.

Ryan pounded along in a pack of other outfielders and pitchers. Andy was cruising in the rear with the catchers and managers. He looked as if he were bird-watching. Didn't he want to start?

Coach Cody came up alongside Mike. “Pick it up, Mighty Mak.” Coach rapped the silver bat against his thigh.

Mike felt big and hard, leader of the pack. Billy always led the Yankee runs in spring training and the pregame sprints. Mike cranked up the pace, chanting to blot out the pain beginning to bloom in his ankle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the tall, skinny kid from yesterday run onto the track behind the stragglers. He was wearing white Nike running shoes now and a black Nike warm-up suit. A white Swoosh cap. Pretty duded up for a Ranger Run, Mike thought. After a few steps the kid pulled out of the inner lane and began moving up on the outside.

Coach hollered, “Let's go, Oscar, see what you got.”

Oscar lengthened his stride. He glided past Andy and
was running with Ryan's pack.

Without thinking, Mike ran faster. Coach fell back to Hector and Todd.

It took Oscar less than a lap to pull alongside Mike. They looked at each other. Oscar had a long, dark face with a wispy mustache and a goatee. He did look older than a high school kid. Oscar grinned and raised his eyebrows. A silent drag-race challenge. He put on a burst of speed.

Mike knew better. This was a training run, not a race. A cold morning a few days before the season began was the perfect time to wreck your ankle, pull a hamstring. Be smart and cool, Mike. Let the hotshot go.

Mike took off after him.

Kid's fast, Mike thought, but baseball fast, not Olympic fast. I can take him.
Never quit, young baller
. He zoned into the race, concentrated on bringing his knees up, leaning into the sprint, getting his arms into a rhythmic pump. He heard his teammates cheering him as he pulled up to Oscar.

Coach Cody was standing in the middle of the track near the locker-room entrance, holding up the bat to signal the end of the race.

They finished in a dead heat. Mike was breathing hard. He couldn't tell if Oscar was winded, too. He was smiling at Mike. Friendly-like.

Mike didn't feel like talking to Oscar, but he thought,
What Would Billy Budd Do? He stuck out his hand and said, “Welcome to Ridgedale. I'm Mike Semak.”

“Thanks, man.” Oscar smiled and pumped his hand. He had an accent. “Oscar Ramirez.”

“Where you play, Oscar?”

“Center field.”

He said it as if I should have known already, Mike thought.

“See you later.” Mike forced a grin and headed for the lockers.

Andy fell into step beside him. “Making nice with the illegal? Gonna give him amnesty?”

“Knock it off,” snapped Mike. “He might be on the team.”

“Might be?” echoed Andy. “Why do you think he's here?”

Mike walked away, showered and dressed quickly. Coach grabbed his arm on his way out of the locker room.

“I liked the way you welcomed Oscar. That's something a team leader does.”

Mike felt a warm flutter. Billy was the Yankee captain. In a few weeks Coach would be talking to the seniors about next year's captain. The seniors made the final selection during a secret ceremony in which the candidate would be blindfolded and run through a gauntlet. Not so secret. It
was a tradition, everybody knew about it.

He remembered Oscar.

“Oscar's on the team?”

“Nice kid. Dominican. He can play.”

Mike's mouth was so dry, all he could say was “Thenter field?”

“Maybe. Two practices till opening day,” said Coach. “We'll see who deserves center field.”

The ankle buzzed with pain as he walked to homeroom trying not to limp. Anger bubbled up to his chest. He'd waited all his life to start in center field for the varsity and now some new kid shows up to steal it. Immigrant. Probably illegal.

Slow down, you're starting to sound like Andy. You don't know anything about this kid. And who says he can take center field away from you?

“Got a minute for the planet?”

At first he thought it was one of Andy's riffs. He liked to mock environmental activists. Mike was in no mood for Andy's crap today. He said, “Bite the planet.”

As he said it, he saw the clipboard with a pile of papers and Zack Berger's tangle of curly black hair.

“It's your planet, too, Mike, and unless we…”

The anger was in his chest. “I'm late for class.”

“It's late for Earth,” said Zack. He had a deep, older voice that Mike had heard for years in political debates and election speeches, and in announcements for the Cyber Club. Mike could usually shut it out, but today it scratched his nerves.

“You're in my way.”

“This is really important,” said Zack. His eyes were boring into Mike. He had the clipboard inches from Mike's face. He was almost as tall as Mike, but he was narrow, a skinny neck and no shoulders. You could tell he never played ball. As usual, he had his dorky black bag slung across his chest.

“Important to you.” Hot and bitter, the anger stung his throat.

“We all…”

“Move it.”

Zack didn't move. “…have to step up…”

Mike pushed the clipboard aside, scattering the petition and a pile of colored papers on the hallway floor. Some of the papers were green. Mike thought of new grass.

Zack held his ground. “…even dumb jocks who think the planet exists just for them.” There was spittle in the corners of his mouth.

Mike hit him.

Mike didn't think he hit him hard. More of a shove than
a punch, a thump to the middle of Zack's chest with the heel of his hand. The kind of hit they threw in the showers all the time. Nobody ever went down.

Zack went down. He flopped like he was trying to con a referee into calling a foul, thought Mike. And then he banged his head on the hallway floor. The sheets of paper Mike had knocked out of his hand were spread around him.

There was a silent moment. Kids in the hallway froze. Then teachers rushed over to Zack.

Coach Cody materialized out of a wall.

“What's going on?” He grabbed Mike's left triceps, digging in hard, holding him in place until one of the teachers helped Zack to his feet and nodded to Cody. Then Cody steered Mike to his office. He had forgotten how short the coach was. His shaved bowling-ball head only came up to Mike's chin. And how wide. The man was thick, all muscle. He was built like a Hummer.

He didn't let go until they were inside his office, door closed. He pushed Mike into a wooden chair. He perched on a corner of his desk. His friendly position. He sighed. He didn't seem that angry.

“Bad blood between you two?”

Mike shrugged.

Coach Cody leaned forward. His face was inches away.
“Talk to me.” He smelled of soap and cologne. He had just taken a shower, too.

The anger had drained out of Mike. He felt empty. Weak. “No excuses.”

“No kidding. Tell me a story.”

“We had words,” said Mike. “It got physical.”

“You got physical. What did he say?”

“Nothing much.” How could he say that the kid was winding up to give him a lecture and when he called him a dumb jock I lost it? Dumb, maybe. But not much of jock if I'm not going to start.

“A skinny computer nerd says something and you knock him down. What's wrong with you?”

Mike shook his head. I don't know what's wrong with me, he thought. A half hour ago in the wet cold I felt great. Now I feel like crying. He clenched his teeth to keep his stony expression from cracking. I'm not going to cry. You can expel me. I don't care.

Send me to jail. I'll play center field in jail.

“You're a prospect, Semak, not a suspect. A coachable kid. A starter this season. A team leader. Something's going on here. What is it?”

Without the anger, Mike felt small and weak. What is going on?

“Jocks are the heart of this school, Mike. Focused,
disciplined, strong. Role models. The other kids look up to you.”

Nobody needs to look up to me, thought Mike. Just let me play. He looked down at his tan work boots. He wore them during the season so spikes would feel lighter on his feet. Make him faster. Billy did that.

“You react to someone like Zack Berger, you make him a victim. People feel sorry for him, maybe even listen to him. Jocks are bigger than that. You tracking me?”

Mike nodded.

“Can't hear you.”

“Yes, Coach.”

After a while Coach Cody said, “Sit tight.” He marched out of his office. The two-way radio in his back pocket crackled something about an ambulance.