Out of Control (4 page)

I know one thing will haunt me:

The dream I left behind.

 

I'm pretty sure it's about baseball.

CHAPTER
10

T
he road to Zoey's place was already crowded when we drove over Friday night. Hummers, Escalades, and every model of Mercedes could be seen. Of course there was a gate at the entrance where security guards were checking invitations. It took us a half hour to get inside the villa, even though we were early.

We'd be playing out by the pool. All the sound equipment was provided. When it was our turn we'd just have to plug in. My bandmates were gawking at the estate. The main house was designed to look like a French country mansion, and to get to the front you drove around a tree-circled artificial lake dotted with fountains. To one side were garages and an acre of cobblestone where the guests could park, and it was already filling up. Valets circled around in golf carts, ferrying guests to the house.

Since we had equipment, the valet took us straight to the back. Beyond a huge expanse of lawn and trimmed hedges were the white marble columns that surrounded the
big
pool. The smaller one apparently was right behind the house. When Manny saw the pool he whistled. “Wow, man, this will be like playing in an arena!”

The bandstand was at the far end of the pool; the patio that surrounded the water was probably bigger than the parking lot, and all around it were tents and tables with things to eat and drink. Lisa had told me that Zoey's mom was totally strict about underage drinking; if you tried for the champagne you'd get carded. I wasn't tempted anyway—I'd had beer a couple of times and I didn't like the way it made me feel—but I'd seen parties get rowdy because of kids drinking and doing other stuff, and I was glad this wasn't going to be one of them. Assuming the adults behaved themselves.

We weren't going to play until around sunset—ten or so—so we put our stuff in a safe place and went looking around. As the crowd grew, we all saw kids we knew from high school. But most of the people here would be relatives or folks Zoey's mom, Nadia, knew. After half an hour I spotted Lisa, who was looking for us.

“Hey, Trip,” she called, and then came over and gave each of us a hug. “Nice place, huh?” Manny's eyes were still big as he took in everything.

“Yeah,” I said. “Any idea how many guests?”

“Three or four hundred invited, plus whoever they bring,” Lisa said. “Come on up to the house. I want you to meet the birthday girl.”

We followed a wavy marble path back across the lawn and entered the house through the back. A huge hall with a ceiling two stories high stretched straight through the house from front to back. Zoey and her mom were at the front, greeting guests. We walked up, and Lisa said, “Zoey, this is Trip Costas and his band.” Zoey turned around, and I caught my breath. She was a green-eyed blonde, about my height, with a smile that left me, and I expect a lot of guys, tongue-tied.

“Hi Trip,” she beamed. “Lisa talks about you all the time.”

“Uh, happy birthday!” I said and introduced her to the guys. While I was searching for something clever, but not too clever to say next, her mother noticed us.

“Nadia,” she said, and shook each of our hands. She had a heavy accent. “Trip, you're Julio's boy, aren't you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well I can see his features, but you're taller.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well,” she said when she realized I was not good for much more than single syllables. “Make yourself at home. I'll look forward to hearing you fellows play.”

Lisa put a hand on my shoulder as we all headed back to the pool. Leaning over, she whispered to me, “In case you're wondering, she doesn't have a boyfriend.”

I looked at her mischievous grin and laughed. “You are hilarious, girl.” But she was also smart. I
had
been wondering.

 

. . .

Celebrities. By the time were setting up I'd seen a dozen. I guess they were fans of Zoey—and the makeup line. Somebody said Justin Bieber was there, but I didn't see him. It was crowded around the pool, and the lights were turned on as the sun was setting.

Our set went well. There was a place where people could dance if they wanted. But you could tell that a lot of them were just listening. That's what we wanted—for the sound to get people's attention.

For our last number we'd worked up something new. “Thank you,” I said. “Our last song is special to me because it was written by my father. I hope you'll like what we've done with it.”

Dad's version has a full orchestra—more than full, it's got about a million strings—and a bunch of dramatic high notes. We started it a little more up-tempo, but we let the wistful melody do its thing. What I'd added was a short guitar solo after “I know one thing will haunt me”: a few bars based on a Venezuelan folk song Dad used to sing to us when we were little. It slows things down, and there really is something haunting about it, before I speak the last line without any accompaniment: “The dream I left behind.”

It worked. There was a second of silence before the applause started, and we were saying our final thank-you when I noticed one of the guests who wasn't applauding, just looking at me with an expression I couldn't read: my dad.

CHAPTER
11

T
he party, I'm told, went a lot later than a sixteen-year-old usually gets to stay up. We didn't stay long, though. After we played I couldn't find Dad, but Zoey came up with Lisa.

“Thank you,” she said to all of us. “That last song,” she touched my shoulder lightly, “it made me cry. In a good way.”

On the way home, my head was spinning. Zoey, Dad, and the deadline Coach said he'd set for the weekend: play Trip or fire the coach or I'll throw the team into money trouble. When I got to our house there was still no sign of Dad. So I went to my room and wrote him a letter. I put it on the desk in his office; that was always the first place he went in the morning.

 

Dad,

First, I'm sorry about what I said when we had our fight by the pool. I wish you could hear how I feel about baseball right now without taking it personally. Right now I'm making mistakes on the field because I'm bored, burned out. My mind wanders away from the game.

A lot of times it wanders to music. I saw you at the party last night, and I wonder what you thought of the band. I wonder what you thought about our cover of your song.

Please talk with me about all this. Don't hurt Coach or the team because you're mad at me.

Trip

 

. . .

When I got up the next morning, my head was still buzzing. We had a practice scheduled. There was a local game on Sunday, and then next week the Runners were flying to the Beach Blowout, a big tournament in San Diego. I went to the breakfast room, but Dad wasn't there. I made some toast in the kitchen and was going to get milk when I saw an envelope with my name on it taped to the refrigerator door.

 

Trip,

I'm sorry too about our fight. We both have Latin tempers.

I don't want to hurt Coach Harris or the team. But I have a son with special gifts, and if I let him waste those gifts I am failing as a father. The best thing for you right now is to play through your difficulties. That's best for your team as well. Taking your skills away from them because you are “bored” is self-centered.

You seem to think I am using my money as some kind of unfair power. In fact all the power is yours. All you have to do is play baseball the way you always have, and all the problems you are worried about will go away.

I'll be at practice today. I have a surprise for you.

Dad

P.S. I was touched that your band played my song. Thank you.

 

I was really confused. I loved my dad and my team. But I was sure that the despair I was feeling about baseball was more than just selfishness. Was Dad saying, “Just go through the motions, even though you want to be a hundred miles away?” That wasn't like him. We had more in common than our tempers: we were both perfectionists. And playing without caring was a kind of betrayal—of my team, of my coach, and of myself. I was glad Dad and I were communicating, even if it was by letter. But his note proved that he still didn't get it.

And what was the surprise?

CHAPTER
12

W
hen I arrived at practice, Dad was in the parking lot with a youngish guy who looked like he'd stepped out of a
GQ
article on “How to Dress for Watching the Game.” Blue-and-white-striped silk shirt, chinos, Italian loafers, and a very expensive watch—
Patek
something. He had thick black hair cut short and a genuine tan. He also had Ray-Bans in his shirt pocket.

Dad waved me over. He was beaming. “Brian,” he said to the guy, “this is my son Trip. Trip, this is my good friend Brian Muller.” We shook hands.

“Brian wants to watch you practice,” Dad said. “He represents the New York Yankees organization, and he'll be at the game tomorrow as well.”

What? The Yankees? Dad had gone nuts. Maybe this would have excited some guys. But to me it looked like a trap. Like being forced to date someone you didn't like just to please a parent. Except this was more than a date my dad was trying to arrange. It was my life. I felt like throwing up.

Another guy came over. He was younger than Brian, but he looked like he was taking his fashion lessons from the boss. I learned that he would be helping Brian “observe” the practice.

I didn't want to embarrass Dad. So I said, “Great,” to the Yankees' guys. “Thanks!”

Right then I made a decision. I still can't be positive it was the right thing to do. But I was angry at Dad's manipulation. I was going to convince the scouts that I was no one they would be interested in.

 

. . .

I dogged it on the workouts. I let a lot of balls get by me. In the batting cage I tried to look clueless.

When I came out of the cage I just about collided with Dad. “What in God's world do you think you're doing?” he hissed.

“Dad, you still don't understand, do you? I don't want to give my life to baseball. Right now, I don't even want to play.”

Dad's voice got cold. “You will play tomorrow. Your coach has agreed. You let me down today, but I know you will not let down your team.”

After practice I found Coach.

“Dad said you'll play me tomorrow.”

“Those are my orders, from all the backers,” Coach said. “They want to cooperate with your dad, and he has said they'll have more time to negotiate if you play in the meantime.”

“You do whatever they say?”

“Trip, I have to think about the whole team. Without your dad's support, our season might end. That's twenty kids, some of them with nothing in their life except baseball, who would be left with no season. And what was that from you today? Was that on purpose?”

“I wanted to chase Dad's scouts.”

“Trip, I completely understand. If I was your dad, I'd tell you to take a break. But I'm not. I think honesty is the best policy. I'll do what I can; you do what you can.”

 

. . .

In less than twenty-four hours the Runners would be meeting the South Denver Miners. We usually beat them, but word was they had a new pitcher—a knuckleballer. Following the majors, it's easy to think of a knuckleball as something a pitcher develops because he's getting older or just doesn't quite have the stuff of the competition.

Of course the rare knucklers that exist in the majors are, well, the best. But a few amateurs do work on that pitch, and word was that Dewey Wilkins, the new guy for the Miners, had one of the best at our level.

The fact that I was even thinking about this now proved that Dad had me pegged. I didn't want to let down the team. So I would play. And I made up my mind to play as well and as hard as I could, because I'd decided this would be my last game.

CHAPTER
13

O
n the day of the game, Wash gave us a little talk on how to hit a knuckleball. None of us had ever before seen one in a game.

“My grandfather threw a knuckleball in the Negro Leagues,” he told us. “He called it his ‘butterfly' pitch. He used to say the knuckler is hard to hit because you don't know where it's going. But neither does the pitcher. The ball could accidentally wind up right where you want it.”

Wash grabbed a bat and took a stance. “The first thing is to move up in the box a little. You'll give the pitch less time to move around. The next thing is to be patient. The knuckler comes in slow, so wait on it and watch it as long as you can.

“When you're ready to swing don't look up. Watch the ball hit the bat.”

Carson was on the mound for us. As we got started, I spotted Dad and the Yankees' guys in the seats off the third baseline.

The first batter grounded to second for out one. Carson walked the next guy. The umpire wasn't giving him much on the low side of the strike zone, and that might mean trouble. Carson's fastball has a natural sink to it, and he gets batters to hit a lot of ground balls.

That's what happened with the next hitter. He hit the ball hard on the ground to my left. I caught it on the run and flipped it to Zack, who turned the double play. I could hear Dad yelling his approval from the stands.

Dewey Wilkins took the hill in the bottom of the inning. The Miners' catcher was wearing a mitt the size of a trashcan lid. Darius was up first, and frankly, he looked a little silly trying to hit the ball. After he struck out, he came back shaking his head. I heard Wash say, “Be patient.”

Gus actually made contact with the ball, hitting a high foul behind the plate that the catcher grabbed. Nellie, our power hitter, got the count to 3–2, but he fanned on a pitch that wound up in the dirt. It looked like Wilkins had his stuff.