Playing the Field (16 page)

I glanced over at Serena to see what she
thought of Brian’s challenging me like this, but I couldn’t tell
what was going on in her mind. She was just watching me, waiting to
see what I’d do next.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll jump one of your
stupid little mounds.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard a
voice, probably Coach Manetti’s voice, telling me this was a
foolish thing to do. I didn’t listen. A guy didn’t walk away from a
challenge like this, at least not while Serena Kimball sat there
watching. Besides, I could make the jump. I knew I could.

I rode my bike over to one of the middle
sized mounds and got in line behind a couple of other guys. They
hadn’t heard Brian’s challenge to me, but they didn’t seem
surprised I’d joined in their line anyway.

“Hey, McKay, you gonna jump?” one of the guys
asked me.

“Sure. I thought I’d give it a shot.”

Brian was still over by Serena watching me. I
guess he’d decided he’d better stick by his girlfriend in case
anyone else tried to muscle in on her attention.

The guy in front of me went over the mound.
He skidded a bit on landing, but all in all made a successful
jump.

So now it was my turn. I took a deep breath,
checked to make sure my bike helmet was in position, then took off
toward the mound. There was one small moment when I was in the air
and felt myself coming down, that I felt a bubble of panic in my
chest. But it only lasted a moment. Then I was on the ground and
steering my bike back toward Serena and Brian. “See,” I shrugged.
“Nothing to it.”

“Well, sure, you went over the smallest
jump,” Brian said—out-and-out lying, I might add. “Any
fourth-grader could go over that one. Why don’t you try the big
one?” He pointed in the direction of the three-foot mound.

“Okay,” I said. “Right after you.”

“No problem.” Brian got back on his bike and
peddled over to the big mound. I followed behind him. He only
paused for a moment in front of the mound, then got up his speed
and went over. He was in the air for probably three seconds before
his bike thumped back onto the ground. It wobbled, but he
straightened it up and rode back toward me. “Your turn now.”

“No problem,” I called back to him. I
positioned my bike in front of the mound. And you know, it was
funny, but as I sat there surveying it, the mound suddenly looked a
lot bigger than it had before. I peddled toward it and scolded
myself for being nervous. If Brian could manage to jump it, so
could I. Then we’d see whether Brian was still gloating. I’d ride
right back to him and Serena and say, “See, jumping your silly
little mounds is tons easier than hitting a baseball. Hitting a
baseball takes talent. Any idiot can ride his bike over a pile of
dirt.”

And that’s when I rode mine over. At the top
of the mound I lifted the front wheel of my bike and flew through
the air. It was a beautiful thing. It was how the baseball must
feel as it’s soaring toward the outfield fence. And then I touched
the ground. Literally. My bike landed, and for a second I thought I
was going to be okay, but only for a second. My front tire skidded
across the dirt. My back tire spun around like it was trying to get
in front of me, and then suddenly I was on the ground with my bike
on top of me.

I’m sure it was a spectacular crash to all
those who were watching—which unfortunately, was everybody.

I don’t know what was worse. The pain that
shot through my entire body, or knowing I’d just made a complete
fool of myself in front of Brian and Serena. I lay on the ground
for a moment to catch my breath. Before I was able to sit up, a
couple of the guys came and hovered over me.

“Are you all right, McKay?” one of them
asked.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “I’m just laying here
admiring the dirt.” I sat up slowly and pushed my bike off of
me.

“Cool crash,” the other kid said.

I stared back at him. “Yeah, cool.” He’d
obviously been in one too many bike wrecks himself, and his brain
was misfiring.

I tried to ignore the sharp pains throbbing
in my foot and leg as I stood up. I brushed dirt off of my pants
and shirt, and was glad to see I didn’t have blood gushing from
anywhere.

At this point Serena and Brian came and
hovered around with everyone else. She looked concerned. He looked
smug.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Your bike doesn’t look so good though.”
Brian picked up my bike. Instead of pointing forward, the front
wheel was bent sideways.

“Too bad,” I said, “Or I could try that jump
again. I’d have been able to land right if I’d timed my lift
better.” I knew I couldn’t even walk let alone try another bike
stunt, but I wasn’t going to let Brian know this. I would have
hopped one-legged all the way home rather than ask him for
help.

“You almost made it,” Serena said. I knew she
felt sorry for me.

I bent over my bike and tried to bend the
wheel straight. Serena must have noticed I was keeping all of my
weight off of my left leg. She kept staring at me. “Are you sure
you’re all right, McKay?”

“I’m fine.” I had no idea how I’d make it
home. Even if I hadn’t just pretzelized my bike, I doubt I could
have ridden it. I imagined myself limping down the street while
simultaneously dragging my bike behind me. I fiddled with the front
wheel, because I didn’t know what else to do.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to fix it,”
Serena said. “And you also have a nasty scrape on your chin, McKay.
You should call your parents to come and get you.”

I put my hand on my chin. With all of the
other pain throbbing around in my body I hadn’t even noticed my
chin. Now it stung, and when I took my hand away there was blood on
it. Great. Not only had I wrecked my bike, and in all probability
broken my leg, I was now disfigured as well. Things just kept
getting better and better.

Serena must have remembered I didn’t have a
cell phone. She pulled out hers. “Actually, I’ll call my mom. She’s
closer. It will be faster.”

I didn’t argue with her about that. I had no
pride left, and I just wanted to go home.

While Serena called, I returned to the task
of fiddling with my front tire so I wouldn’t have to say anything
to the other guys. They had already moved their bikes to another
mound and were now cheering each other on to perform more acts of
daring and stupidity. Brian was about to do another jump, this time
only using one hand to hold onto his handlebars.

“Hey McKay,” he shouted over at me. “Watch
and learn from a pro!”

I hoped he’d skid and fall and his bike would
spontaneously explode when it hit the ground, but none of these
things happened. It was a perfectly smooth jump.

Not much later, Mrs. Kimball pulled up in
their minivan. She looked me over, sighing, and put my bike in the
back of the minivan.

I staggered into the van after her. The whole
way to my house, my leg throbbed. All I could think was, this
injury is not going to go away any time soon. I would most likely
miss our last three games. Coach Manetti was going to kill me. That
was, if I didn’t kill myself first. How could I have done something
so foolish? Right at the end of the tournament was not the time to
think I could take on Brian Vander’s ego, my mortality, or the law
of gravity. What had I been thinking? Well, I knew what I’d been
thinking. I had been thinking about Serena, and I was going to stop
thinking about her right now. Girls. Who needed them? They were
nothing but trouble in eyeshadow. I refused to even look at Serena
for the entire ride.

When we pulled up to my house, I mumbled a
thanks to Serena’s mom. She offered to help me inside the house,
but I said I could manage, so she just unloaded my bike while I
dragged myself to the door.

Mom, to say the least, was surprised to see
me in this condition. She didn’t even bother changing out of her
Saturday cleaning clothes. She just put hydrogen peroxide on my
chin and then drove me to the urgent care clinic.

Chapter 13

We had to sit in the waiting room for a long
time, so Kirk tried to make me feel better by reading me stories.
Mom always read stories to him when he was sick, so he was certain
it would make me feel better too. He picked up a magazine and
opened it to the first page. It was a car advertisement. “Once
there was a family who went for a ride.” He turned the next page
and saw an ad for soap. “They got dirty.” On the next page was a
picture of a Timex. “Even their watches got dirty.” He looked up at
me. “Do you feel better yet?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re still bleeding,” he said. “I’d better
read to you some more.”

He went through the whole magazine that way.
The family in the story didn’t actually do anything, but they took
lots of car rides.

I finally got to see a doctor. He poked and
prodded my leg and ankle—I apparently wasn’t in enough pain to
begin with—then sent me for X-rays.

After the X-rays were completed, I went back
into the doctor’s office with Mom and Kirk to wait for the results.
A few minutes later he came back.

“You’re a lucky young man,” he said as he sat
down. “It’s only a sprained ankle.” Then he lectured me about the
dangers of jumping bikes and how I could have easily broken bones,
gotten a concussion, or something worse. He waved his pen at me and
said, “I don’t ever want you to jump a bike again. You might not be
so lucky next time.”

“When will I be able to play baseball again?”
I asked.

“You won’t be able to run on that leg for a
couple of weeks.”

So when you came down to it, I wasn’t that
lucky after all. I slumped in my seat. I didn’t hear anything else
the doctor said. He gave Mom instructions of some sort, but I
didn’t listen. Why should I? The next three games would decide the
district title, and I wouldn’t be able to play any of them. I was
going to miss everything I’d worked for during the last season. I’d
let my team down. Life, basically, was worthless.

I only remember one other thing which
happened at the doctor’s visit. While I sat there and tried not to
humiliate myself by doing something like crying in front of the
medical staff, Kirk knelt down and surveyed my leg. After a moment
he leaned over and gave it a quick kiss. Then he stood up and
whispered in my ear, “I kissed it all better so you’ll be able to
play baseball again.”

Once I got home, I lay on the couch with ice
packs on my leg and sulked. What I wanted was a miracle. I wanted
all of the swelling in my ankle to suddenly go down, the pain to go
away, and for it to not look purple and green anymore. I wanted to
get up off the couch and practice ball with Kirk in the backyard.
One lousy miracle was all I was asking for.

I thought about calling Tony so I could have
someone to complain to, but I didn’t dare. I didn’t want to have to
talk to Coach Manetti. I dreaded telling him the McKay cannon had
been defused. I dreaded hearing what he’d say. It was easier to lie
on the couch and hope for a miracle.

As it turned out, my mom made the call to the
coach. While I was still on the couch feeling sorry for myself, I
heard her in the kitchen explaining the situation to him. After
she’d told him the news, a few moments of silence followed and then
she said, “Mmmhmm,” and “We’ll see,” and then “I’ll tell him.”

She came back into the family room, and I
said, “You’ll tell me what?” It probably had something to do with
the coach wanting to break my other leg.

“Mr. Manetti said to tell you he’s sorry you
got hurt, and he hopes you feel better soon.”

I guess coaches don’t tell mothers what
they’re really thinking.

“He says if you’re feeling up to it during
any of the games, you can still bat and have someone run for
you.”

My outlook immediately brightened. I could
still bat, couldn’t I? I had forgotten that was allowed. As long as
I could run to first base, I could have a pinch runner go the rest
of the way for me. That might be impossible for the next game—it
was only a few days away—but the other two games, surely by then
I’d be well enough to stagger to first base. “I’ll feel up to it,”
I said, and pulled myself up a little on the couch to prove the
point.

Mom looked at me skeptically. “Let’s not rush
anything. We’ll see how you’re doing at game time.”

Mom walked out of the room, and Kirk walked
in. He carried a plate and very proudly set it down beside me.
“Here, I made you a sandwich to help you feel better.”

“Thanks.” I picked up the sandwich and looked
it over suspiciously. Kirk has never caught onto the fact that not
all sandwich contents go together, and he has a habit of making all
sorts of peculiar combinations. Then he actually eats them. Things
that would make any normal person gag, Kirk wolfs down with glee.
I’ve even caught him eating spoonfuls of mayonnaise from the jar.
“So what kind of sandwich is it?” I asked.

“Peanut butter and mustard.”

“Oh.”

He watched me expectantly, waiting for me to
take a bite. And really, what could I do? When I thought of him on
the counter top by himself making a sandwich for me, I knew I had
to at least choke down some of it. I took a bite and chewed it
quickly. “Mmm. Thanks, Kirk.” It could have been worse, I suppose.
It could have been a peanut butter and jelly and mustard
sandwich.

“I’m glad you’re my brother,” I told him, and
I meant it. It was nice to know that no matter what kind of stupid
things I did in life, Kirk would be there for me. Even if being
there only meant he read me stories in the emergency room and then
made me sandwiches. He was my brother, and that would never change.
“You’re a pretty cool guy,” I added.

“I know,” he said.

I put the sandwich back on the plate. “I feel
kind of bad making you move into the office.”