Parts & Labor (8 page)

Curtis
behind the plate was a C student so he didn't think twice about blocking pitches
in the dirt, and Cade on the mound was the star of the team. Mom said he was a prima donna, which means he thinks he's special. He did. He fussed at the
umpires if they called balls when he was pitching and strikes when he was
batting, he griped at us for committing errors and ruining his win-loss record,
and he wore a cup that was way too big for an eleven-year-old kid. But he was
the best pitcher and hitter on the team, and he was Coach Slimes' son, so we
had to put up with his All-Star attitude.

But
that's little league.

Outside
the fences, the dads paced back and forth, coaching from the sidelines—"Come
on, Johnny, you're killing me, son! You gotta turn on that ball!" The
moms sat in the stands drinking their mocha-coca lattes and chatting or texting
on their cell phones, but every other game you'd get the helicopter mom who
yelled out to her son, "Ricky! Let me know if you need help with your cup!"
Funny, sure (for everyone except Ricky), but that kind of thing could scar a
kid for life. Anyway, the stuff going on outside the fences was often more
entertaining than that going on inside the fences.

That's
little league, too.

Kids
my age and skill level—in the 10/11 rec fall ball instructional league—we
played "daddy ball." All the coaches were the players' dads—the dads
coached so their kids could play. Most, though, didn't have a clue how to instruct
in the fundamentals of baseball since their only prior baseball experience had
been daddy ball when they were kids; but they coached so their sons would get
to play their favorite positions even if they weren't any good. (Mom called it "nepotism," but I didn't know what that meant; all I knew was that I was
stuck playing outfield.)

Anyway,
my dad had been our coach before he deployed. He had played baseball in
college, so he taught us the correct fundamentals. And he knew that you
couldn't master the fundamentals of baseball at ten. So he didn't go ballistic
when we committed errors, which was often. There were a lot of errors in
little league. If I let a grounder go through my legs or dropped a pop fly, he
never yelled at me. Baseball was about having fun. He would always say,
"It's not about winning, boys, it's about having fun. Let's have some fun
today." I always had fun when he coached.

Baseball
wasn't as much fun without my dad.

It
was so weird to look over to our dugout and not see him standing there. He had
coached every one of my games the last three years except for a couple when he
had to put out a burning house or rescue a utility worker from a telephone pole,
which I understood. I mean, saving a house or the telephone guy was more
important than watching me strike out three times.

But
Coach Slimes now stood where my dad had stood. He was wearing a white Dodgers
jersey that was tight around his big belly and stretch knit coach's shorts that
dropped down in the back and exposed his crack, which sort of made me nauseous.
(Mom said he looked like a plumber in a baseball uniform.) Coach wanted
desperately to win the rec league championship, as if putting the cheap little
trophy on his mantel would make his life. He counted the days until his son
Cade signed a multimillion-dollar major league contract, probably with the New
York Yankees. "He's another Mickey Mantle," Coach had said a hundred
times.

I
wasn't.

Coach
said I was more Mickey Mouse than Mickey Mantle. Funny, but he never said that
kind of stuff when my dad was the head dad and he was just an assistant dad. My
dad said I was going to be a late bloomer, which was better than being an early
bloomer. He said a lot of guys he grew up with were stars in junior high but
didn't even play in high school. They had bloomed early, then wilted.
"Max," he said, "when you bloom, watch out." Which sounded
good, but I couldn't help but wonder,
What if I never bloom?

Cade
was an early bloomer. He was tall and lean, and he actually had muscles. He had
struck out every batter so far, which was good for the team, but it made the game
boring for an outfielder. My mom waved at me from the bleachers behind the
home plate fence. I waved back.

"Max,
quit waving to your mommy and pay attention!" Coach Slimes yelled.

Mom gave him a glare. She said Coach Slimes was a moron. I liked that about her. I also liked
that she didn't act like the other moms and tape my every movement at every
game on a camcorder or call me "Big'un" or yell "You da
man!" whenever I got up to bat or run out onto the field screaming
"My baby! My baby!" every time I took a fastball in the ribs and
collapsed to the dirt and writhed in excruciating pain. Whenever that
happened, my dad always walked over from the dugout and squatted next to me and
said in a real calm voice, "I know it hurts, Max. Just breathe deep and
slow and the pain will ease. Deep and slow. That a boy."

Coach
Slimes just yelled from the dugout: "Man up, Max!"

"You're
up, Max!"

Coach
always put me last in the batting order—my batting average was exactly .000
because I had struck out every single at-bat—so I didn't bat until the bottom
of the third inning. My dad always said, "Remember, Max, Babe Ruth struck
out one thousand three hundred thirty times in his career. But he also hit
seven hundred fourteen home runs." I always thought he made a good
point. Problem was, while I was chasing the Babe's strikeout record, I had yet
to hit a single home run. Or triple. Or double. Or single. Or to reach base
on a fielding error.

My
bat had never even made contact with the ball!

I
walked up to home plate. I was left-handed, so I dug in with my left foot deep
in the batter's box. I dug in and stayed in. I never bailed out of the box.
I wasn't afraid of the ball; I just couldn't hit the dang ball.

We
were playing the White Sox. Vic was their catcher. He and his crew played
baseball too because their Pony league football games were on Tuesday
afternoons and the baseball games were on Saturday. He had regained some of
his nerve over the past two days, so he taunted me from behind his mask.

"Maybe
you should play softball with the girls, Max. The ball's as big as a
grapefruit, maybe you could hit it."

I
made a throw-up sound and leaned toward him, which made him jump back.

"Fooled
you," I said.

Vic's
eyes flashed dark. "Get ready to duck."

In
rec league, the biggest and strongest boys always pitched because they could
throw the ball the hardest. The White Sox pitcher was really big, and he could
throw a baseball really hard. He threw the ball really hard now—right at my
head.

I
dove to the ground.

Vic
laughed. I spit dirt from my mouth, picked myself up and dusted myself off,
then proceeded to go down on three called strikes. After that first pitch, I
was too nervous to swing.
Great—now I'm afraid of the ball
. I dragged
my bat back to the dugout but glanced over at my family in the bleachers. Mom yelled encouragement.

"You'll
hit a home run next time, Max!"

She
always said that but it never happened. Norbert seemed fascinated by the game
and my big sister, Scarlett was reading her teen vampire romance book, and
Maddy was running back and forth in front of the bleachers like Butch, the backyard
neighbor's pit bull, in his dog run. When I got back to the dugout, Coach gave
me a look of disgust. I figured this was as good a time as any to ask the same
question I asked every game.

"Coach,
when can I play first base?"

"When
there's a Republican in the White House."

"Does
that mean no?"

"Yes,
that means no."

"Yes
means no? That's confusing."

"Get
out to left field."

I
was standing out in left field the next inning trying to get my cup adjusted. The
sun was blazing down, and it was getting pretty hot. I had broken out in a
full-body sweat, which made my skin chafe under the cup. Man, I was probably
going to get a nasty rash. The game was scoreless, but the White Sox had
loaded the bases with two outs. Vic was coming up to bat; he was their best
hitter. Cade, our pitcher, had walked three straight batters, so you couldn't
really blame me for what happened next. But I knew everyone on the team would.
I was paying really close attention until someone yelled at me.

"You're
a dork, Max!"

I
turned to see who it was—Biff, Bud, and Rod were taunting me from the visitors'
dugout, which was down the third base line not far from where I was standing—and
I was thinking of a witty retort when I heard the
ping
of Vic's aluminum
bat hitting the ball. When I looked back to the field, everyone was looking at
me, which meant only one thing: the ball was coming at me. I looked up just
in time to see the ball before it hit me in the head.

Three
runs scored.

I
was lying on the ground, but I heard the fans laughing—you learn pretty fast
that spectators at a youth sporting event are a tough crowd. Coach Slimes and
my teammates were gathered around, and I was gazing up at them, but they didn't
seem at all worried that I might have a concussion. I didn't, because the ball
hit the bill of my cap and bounced off, but you'd think Coach would have at
least asked if I was okay. Instead he said, "Max, that's a three-run
error! You cost us the game!"

Coach
knew how to make a kid feel good.

Vic
stood on third base with a big grin on his face. He yelled, "Thanks, Max!"

I
got up off the ground to a weak smattering of applause because I hadn't suffered
permanent brain damage. Thankfully my mom had stayed in the stands; if she had
come out to check on me, the guys would have teased me mercilessly. The next
batter grounded out to first, and I trudged over to the dugout. The other kids
gave me the evil eye and acted totally disgusted with me.

"Way
to go, Max," Mitch said.

"You
lost the game for us, Max," Skipper said.

"I
had a shutout, Max," Cade said, "and you ruined it for me!"

"You
walked three batters," I said.

"That
umpire's blind!"

I
sat on the bench and fought tears. I turned to the bleachers. Mom's head hung low. Scarlett's hands covered her face. Maddy had finally come down from her
sugar high and crash-landed in Mom's lap. Her eyes were shut. Norbert's were
not; he was staring at me. It was weird, but his expression made me think he
could hear what the other kids were saying to me. I gave him a lame shrug.

It
was now the bottom of the last inning, and we were in the dugout. We were
still losing 3-0, so everyone had already put this game in the loss column and
moved on to other more pressing matters. O-Rod and Curtis were debating whether
Emmitt Smith or Michael Irvin was the best ex-Dallas Cowboy to compete on
Dancing
with the Stars
… Joey and Skipper were arguing over which video game
offered more blood and guts,
Modern Warfare II
or
Medal of Honor
… Mitch was sitting next to me and telling me about how his stepmom was a
mean witch but his dad didn't believe him because she was twenty-five and
looked like a supermodel … and Ronald was pacing the dugout like a TV
preacher addressing his congregation:

"The
stimulus was a joke. They're raising our taxes and choosing our doctors, and if
this cap and trade passes, there won't be any jobs for us when we get out of
college!"

No
one ever paid any attention to Ronald. His weekly political rants had become
routine. Mom said that's what happens when kids are home schooled—they watch
Fox
News
all day.

Coach
Slimes abruptly turned from his position at the entrance to the dugout—I
thought he was going to yell at us for not paying attention to the game—but he pointed
at O-Rod and Curtis and said, "Emmitt was the best, hands down," then
he pointed at Joey and Skipper and said, "
Medal of Honor
," and
finally at Ronald and said, "No politics in the dugout! Although you are
right."

"Coach,"
Ronald said.

"What?"

"I
gotta pee."

Coach
exhaled and dropped his head.

"Little
league," he muttered.

The
first two batters grounded out, but then the game took a surprising turn. Mitch
walked, Cole singled, and Joey got hit by a pitch. The bases were suddenly loaded
… which I didn't know because I was sitting on the bench finishing off a
Baby Ruth bar (I tried to eat sunflower seeds in the dugout like the big
leaguers do, but I kept choking on the shells) and again thinking about that all-beef
hot dog smothered in mustard at the concession stand after the game—
boy,
that's going to taste good
—when Coach's loud voice interrupted my thoughts.

"Max—you're
up!"

What?
I'm up?

"Dad," Cade pleaded, "pinch hit for
Max. I can still get the victory."

Coach
shook his head. "I would, but I can't. The rules don't allow it. Max
has to bat."

Not
exactly the vote of confidence I was hoping for. Coach turned to me.

"Max,
we have two outs. So don't swing. Our only hope is that he walks you."

"But
if I don't swing, he might strike me out."

My
words came out funny because I was chewing on the Baby Ruth.

"What?"

"If
I don't swing, he might strike me out."

Still
funny. Still chewing.

"Max,
I can't understand what you're saying. Swallow the candy bar."

I
swallowed the rest of the Baby Ruth, which took a few seconds because of the
chewy caramel center. Coach now had his hands on his hips.

"I
said, if I don't swing, he might strike me out."