Parts & Labor (9 page)

"If
you swing, you'll strike out for sure."

"I
could try to put down a bunt."

"Yeah,
and I could try out for the Yankees. Don't swing that bat, Max."

I
put on a batting helmet and grabbed my aluminum bat. I dragged the bat to home
plate. Vic was grinning behind his catcher's mask. He held up two fingers.

"Two
outs!" he yelled to his teammates. "And my little sister's a better
hitter than Max!"

Actually,
she was. She played tee ball and had real extra-base power for a kindergartner.
But everyone in the place heard Vic and laughed—except my family. Mom's hands were clenched in front of her face as if she were praying—

"Please, God," Kate Dugan whispered in the
stands, "let him get a hit. He needs a hit. Just a little hit, or an
error, that'd work, too …"

—Scarlett
was again hiding her face in her hands, and Maddy was still sleeping in Mom's lap. But Norbert was gone. He was no longer sitting in the bleachers next to Scarlett. I
searched the crowded bleachers and found him standing at the fence right behind
home plate. Our eyes met, and he said, "Swing with great force,
Max."

I
glanced over at Coach. He flashed me the "take" sign—a slap on his
right leg—and mouthed "Do not swing." I turned back to Norbert.

"Swing
with great force, Max."

I
swung with great force at the first pitch and missed the ball by a mile.

Coach
yelled, "Max, did you miss the sign?"

He
gave me the "take" sign again, real emphatically this time—he slapped
his leg so hard I thought he might hurt himself. I looked back at Norbert.

"Swing
with great force, Max," he said again.

I
swung with even greater force at the next pitch and missed again.

Coach
threw his hands up and yelled even louder: "Max! What are you doing? I
gave you the take sign!"

He
stepped onto the field and called over to the umpire.

"Blue!
Timeout!"

The
umpire called time. Coach waved me over like there was an emergency or
something, so I walked over to him. He leaned over and put his hands on his
knees and his mouth in my face, close enough that I knew he had bacon for
breakfast and not that organic turkey bacon Mom makes us eat but real bacon,
the fatty kind that tasted great and caused heart attacks.

"Max
… DO—NOT—SWING—THAT—BAT. Do you understand me?"

I
nodded.

"If
you take that bat off your shoulder, Max, I'm gonna take that bat and …"

I
could tell he wanted to say something inappropriate that might get him kicked
out of little league coaching for life, but he calmed himself.

"Just
don't swing, okay?"

I
nodded then returned to the batter's box. I dug in again then glanced back at
Norbert.

"Swing
with great force, Max," he said again.

He
gave me a thumbs-up, just like my dad used to do. Like he believed in me just
like my dad always believed in me. My dad's thumbs-up always made me feel more
confident, like I could hit the ball; I never did, but I thought I could. For
some reason, Norbert's thumbs-up had the same effect. I felt confident. I took
my stance and dug my back foot into the dirt and waggled the bat. I was determined
to hit that ball. The big White Sox pitcher wound up, reared back, and threw
the ball really hard.

But
the ball didn't come at me hard.

It came at me slowly. V-e-r-y … s-l-o-w-l-y.
I glanced around. The whole world had suddenly shifted into slow motion. The
players in the field, the fans in the bleachers, Vic and the umpire behind the
plate—everyone was moving in slow motion. Coach yelled, "M-A-X … D-O … N-O-T… S-W-I-N-G!" His words came out long and slow. Everyone was
speaking and moving really slowly. Except me. I looked back at the ball. I
could actually see the laces rotating—the pitcher had thrown a four-seam
fastball. The ball seemed to be hanging in midair. I had heard great athletes
talk about being "in the zone" when the game seemed to slow down for
them. I didn't have a clue what they were talking about … until now. I
was definitely in the zone. And I knew I could hit that ball. So I kicked my lead
leg high like the pros do, then rotated my hips hard and threw the barrel of
the bat at the ball with all my might just like my dad had taught me and I—

—hit
the ball.

Just
as suddenly, the world returned to normal speed, like God had hit the PLAY
button on the remote right when I had hit the ball. I heard the resounding
ping
of the metal bat making impact with the hard leather-wrapped baseball, and I felt
an exhilarating vibration run down my arms and through my entire body. It was
the best feeling of my entire life, except for that time Mom made double-fudge chocolate
cake for my birthday, the kind with the pudding in the middle. I dropped the
bat and stood at home plate and watched the white ball rising higher and higher
into the blue sky and flying farther and farther and the fans in the bleachers shouting
louder and louder and Coach and my teammates running out of the dugout and jumping
for joy as the ball flew over the fence and out of the park.

Max
Dugan had hit a home run.

A
walk-off grand slam to win the game 4-3. I jogged around the bases like the
pros do and jumped on home plate with both feet. My teammates mobbed me and
hoisted me onto their shoulders, and the spectators gave me a standing ovation,
like I was a big-leaguer who had just hit a home run to win the World Series. I
glanced over at Norbert. He was smiling. Mom was crying, Scarlett's mouth was
hanging open like that time we had walked into Güero's and come face to face
with Matthew McConaughey, and Maddy was jumping up and down and clapping her
hands. I had done something that no ten-year-old or eleven-year-old or
twelve-year-old kid had ever done in league history: I had hit a ball out of
the park. Dead straight over the 295' sign in center field. Vic had pulled
off his catcher's mask, but he remained frozen in place behind home plate, staring
at the outfield fence with a stunned expression.

"How'd
he do that?"

Boy,
I wished my dad could have seen that.

 

 

After
my games, Dad would always carry Maddy on his shoulders over to the concession
stand, and we'd walk next to him. He was big and he was strong and he made us
all feel safe. The world didn't feel as safe without him. Someone slapped me
on the back hard enough to knock me off stride.

"I
knew you could do it, Max."

Coach
Slimes. Grinning down at me as he walked past, as if I'd forgotten his
"Don't swing, Max!" instructions and all was forgiven. I hadn't, and
it wasn't. So I just nodded back. We were walking to the concession stand.
When Coach was far enough away not to hear, Mom said, "What a jerk."
I liked Mom when she said stuff like that, when she didn't worry about being a
role model for us, when she was just a regular person who thought Coach Slimes was
a big fat jerk, too.

"Excellent
home run, dude," Norbert said.

"Man,
I was really in the zone."

I
stuck my fist out to Norbert. He stared at it with an odd expression.

"Are
you attempting to strike my body?"

"
What?
No, dude, I'm giving you a fist-bump." Being home schooled, he obviously didn't
know how to properly execute a fist-bump, so I said, "Make a fist."

He
did.

"Stick
it out to me."

He
did.

"Now
we bump fists."

We
did.

"That's
a fist-bump."

"And
what is the purpose of this act?"

"It's
a male-bonding type of thing, like a chest-bump."

"And
what is a chest-bump?"

Man,
that's sad.

"Congratulations,
Kate," a passing dad said. "You got a real hitter there."

"Uh,
thanks." When the dad was gone, Mom turned to me and said, "Why is
he congratulating me? I didn't hit the home run. You did."

"Oh,
that's daddy ball," I said.

"Daddy ball?"

"Yeah. The dads get to bask in the glow of their sons'
glory. With you, I guess it's mommy ball."

"Max,"
Scarlett said, "that home run was the most amazing thing I've ever seen.
How'd you do it?"

"I
told you. I have superpowers."

She
didn't laugh this time.

We
walked past Vic and his boys hanging out on a bench. I didn't tell Mom that they were the bullies who crushed my iPod because she might get in their faces and call
the cops—or at least their parents. They gave me a look all the way past, like
they didn't know what to think of me. Of course, I didn't know what to think
of me, either. Once we were past them, Vic called out, "Who's the dwarf,
Dugan?"

I
ignored him, but I glanced at Norbert. He didn't seem to know Vic had meant
him.

"Great
hit, Max," another player said as he jogged past.

People
were pointing at me and saying stuff like, "Big hit there, Max," and
"Way to go, Max," and "You da man, Max." A little kid
stopped me and asked for my autograph. "You're gonna be famous one
day," he said.

Mom dug a pen out of her purse, and I signed the kid's Hot Tamales box. He skipped off like I
had made his day.

"That's
got to make you feel good," Mom said.

It
did.

A
boy whistled at Scarlett, but she ignored him. At the concession stand, more
parents and kids slapped me on the back. A girl Scarlett knew came up to her
and said, "Scarlett, your little brother's a real stud."

"
Max?
"

The
girl left, and Scarlett said, "Max, you made us famous. It's like a
reality TV show."

For
the first time in my entire life, I felt special. Like maybe I wasn't the lame
second child after all. I stood there and basked in the glory of a grand slam while
Norbert gazed at Scarlett like she was an ice cream cone.

"Her
beauty haunts my thoughts," Norbert said.

Boy,
he had it bad.

I
inhaled the aroma of concession stand food. I often heard the neighborhood
moms talking about all the great restaurants in Austin (after they talked about
Mrs. Cushing), but for my money there's nothing better than concession stand
food. Hot dogs, popcorn, cotton candy—I loved cotton candy, but when I bought
a stick earlier in the season, I got teased brutally for carrying a big pink
fluffy gob of spun sugar. So I didn't buy cotton candy anymore. Now, standing
there and staring at the cotton candy machine, it was like looking at a
favorite toy from my childhood.

Game
day was one of the few times we could have food that was bad for us, so I always
made the most of the opportunity. The concession stand lady handed me my foot-long
hot dog. It felt warm in my hand. I stepped over to the condo … conda … condominium table and squirted two lines of mustard the length of the hot dog
then took a big bite. Man, that tasted good. Mom smothered Maddy's hot dog in
ketchup, which was dangerous because she might slap the thing on her head.

"What
do you want on your hot dog, Norbert?" my mom asked.

Norbert
stared at my hot dog as if he'd never seen one before.

"Mrs.
Dugan, your food often gives me gas. Do you think a hot dog would give me
gas?"

Mom laughed. "
Our
food?"

"Everything
gives Max gas," Scarlett said.

I
nodded. "That's true."

"You've
never had a hot dog?" Mom asked.

"No,
I have never experienced a hot dog."

Mom and I glanced at each other. Home schooled.

"Dude,
you gotta try one. Hot dogs are, like, one of the greatest inventions of
mankind. Well, maybe except for cotton candy—I mean, how can they make sugar
do that?"

Mom handed a hot dog to Norbert.

"You
want mustard on it?" I asked.

"I
do not know mustard."

I
squirted a line of mustard the length of the dog. Norbert looked at it oddly,
then took a big bite. He smiled.

"Excellent."

I
nodded. "All beef."

Norbert
downed his hot dog in four big bites then stuck his fist out to me. I gave him
a fist-bump.

"Max,"
Mom said, "I think a home run deserves Amy's."

"Yes!"

Norbert
farted loudly then nodded. "The hot dog gave me gas."

Amy's
Ice Cream is an institution in Austin. I think it's the best ice cream in the
world, although I've never had ice cream anywhere else in the world, except one
time when we went to the beach on Padre Island. The Amy's on South Congress
across from the Austin Motel is a little walk-up place with a big board on the
outside wall which displayed that day's flavors: sweet cream, white chocolate,
Mexican vanilla, Belgian chocolate, black velvet, pistachio, just vanilla, and
coffee. My mom's favorite was white chocolate. My dad's was sweet cream.
Mine was Mexican vanilla with crushed Oreos in a chocolate-dipped waffle cone.
(Hey, when we go to Amy's, I go for the gold.)

"What
flavor would you like, Norbert?" Mom asked.

"Do
you think ice cream would also give me gas?"

Mom laughed again.

"Don't
tell me you've never had ice cream either?" I said.

"No.
I have not."

"What
planet are you from? Norbert, you gotta try Amy's ice cream. It's
awesome."

Norbert
eyed my cone.

"Here,
you can have mine," I said. "I haven't licked it yet."

I
held it out to him. He hesitated, then took it. Then he sniffed it.

"Go
ahead," I said. "Get down on that bad boy."

"I
am not a bad boy," Norbert said.

"Not
you. The cone."

"The
ice cream cone is a bad boy?"

"Just
lick the dang thing."

He
licked it. His eyes lit up.