Screaming at the Ump (19 page)

But it would depend on who was telling that story. And how they were telling it. The way
I
saw it, I was there, the first time, anyway, to keep Zeke out of worse trouble—by keeping him from breaking into J-Mac's dorm room. And I was there the second time because I felt bad for Sly when her mother forgot to pick her up after Brownies. If I were telling that story, maybe I'd have even mentioned how I made Sly the No-Produce Enforcer at You Suck, Ump! Day
. And how she got a whistle.

It was all about getting a good angle, seeing the play, and making the right call.

But in umpiring, there was one right angle for viewing the play. With reporting, it seemed like there were so many different angles, and I had no idea which one was the best. Or which one was right. Or if best and right were even the same thing.

I pulled my notebook out of my backpack and I started to write.

***

I thought I'd have a whole awkward encounter with Bob the Baker the next morning, both of us heading to the shower or something, but I forgot the one awesome thing about Bob the Baker: He's a baker! And bakers start their day before dawn. I was asleep by the time he came home and still sleeping when he left Monday morning. Woo hoo for baker hours!

My mother drove me to school. We only talked a little, and it was a long, long way from comfortable. But when she said, “I'll see you next week,” I tried to think about it the way she might, to see it from her angle, and it was hard to call her the bad guy for wanting to spend time with her kid.

A
T
the newspaper meeting after school, Mr. Donovan asked, “Have you all turned in your article proposals, or your first drafts?” Mr. Donovan and Chris Sykes were both looking right at me.

“Oh, I have something,” I said. Sykes rolled his eyes and started nodding in his sarcastic way.

I had pictured this moment, this wait-until-you-see-what-I've-got-here moment. All eyes on me. My hands tightly gripping the hard copy of a soon-to-be-award-winning article.

The reality, the now of it, though, wasn't that at all. “I forgot to hand these in,” I said. “I sold two ads. One to Angelo's Pizza and one to Ralphie-O's Landscaping. They're both half-page.”

“That's great, Casey,” Mr. Donovan said. He looked surprised, or maybe confused. Probably relieved. “Isn't that great, Tomas? Chris?”

Tomas said, “Good job, Snowden.” I was surprised he knew my name.

When I walked out into the hall after the meeting, Chris was there. Waiting for me. “How come you didn't resubmit that article to Donovan?” I
knew
Donovan was going to tell him about that. “Don't tell me you decided to accept the rules all of a sudden.” His words weren't that nice, but there didn't seem to be as much meanness in his voice this time.

“I have my reasons.”

I didn't need to tell him that I'd written the story the best way I could. In my notebook. In fact, I'd written that story three different ways, and I still couldn't tell you which one was best. The truth was I still had a lot to learn. It was bitter and stinging, but it was the straight-up truth.

“But that doesn't change the fact that I think your rules suck,” I said.

“You taking the late bus?” Chris asked.

I nodded.

“Me too,” he said.

“So can I ask you something?” I said.

“I guess.”

“What if we change that rule for sixth-graders, maybe for the kids who join the paper next year?”

He was quiet as we walked out the side door to the bus. “I'll have to think about that.”

That kind of silenced me. I had expected some nasty response. I considered asking him why he'd always hated me, but it seemed both impossible and kind of pathetic. My dad had kept him from playing in a tournament, and he'd been mad at me. Anger isn't always logical.

Chris walked to the back of the late bus, where the eighth-graders sat, and I sat up front, wondering a little what it would be like when I sat back there.

***

When I reached BTP's front gate, I had to look three times before I realized what I was seeing. There was a couple there, a guy and a woman—she had to be June Sponato—just standing there. But there was something really weird about it. The guy handed June something really fast, like he was scared of getting caught holding it. It was almost funny—they were acting like little kids. I walked a few steps closer and confirmed that it was June Sponato. Holding a cigarette. That Soupcan had handed her in a hurry when he saw me coming. It made me think of the reform-school boys who must have snuck smokes on these grounds, probably right here near the front gate.

June dropped the butt to the ground and stepped on it. Soupcan shook his head and walked away, like he was too embarrassed to even look at me. June headed back toward the fields.

“You can quit again tomorrow,” I called after Soupcan, but he was still shaking his head. He didn't look back.

***

As I headed toward the fields, Dad walked away from the students, mid-drill, to meet me, even though he was in the middle of student evaluations. That had never happened before, and I got a sick, panicky feeling as I looked around for Pop, but I spotted him right away out on field two, finishing up before break.

“How was your time at your mother's?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“I want to talk to you for a few minutes,” he said. “Come on over here.” We sat on the ledge outside the cages.

“I've been thinking since I dropped you off, and I decided there are a few things I need to tell you.”

It sounded so serious, and I knew it was coming, how I was going to be sent to stay at my mother's. I looked around at this place that I loved, and I couldn't even breathe. Maybe when he'd asked how it went at her house I should have said it was awful, the worst night ever. Rewind! I needed to rewind!

“Overheard conversations are out of bounds,” Dad said. “If you're listening to things you shouldn't be listening to, you're stuck with the consequences.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“And now I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to give me an honest answer.”

This did not sound promising.

“What did you know about Zeke's TV-show idea?”

How did he know about that? “Um, I did know he was thinking about it. And I knew that was why he was videotaping on You Suck, Ump! Day
. It was his own idea, but, um, how do
you
know about it?”

“Did you see a guy in a Phillies shirt, a really tall guy?”

I nodded and I knew it was really coming now, the whole Phillies spring-training complex thing, moving to Florida for January, no more Academy for me.

“He was some kind of scout for some show about a new reality TV show, some contest Zeke entered. Your Show Here, maybe?”

“Are you serious? That's who he was? And he talked to you? Why didn't you tell me?”

“You had enough on your mind with visiting your mother. And running You Suck, Ump! Day
. And I needed to think through some things myself.”

Pop walked over and rubbed my head like I was a much-loved dog. “Everything okay here?” We nodded, and Pop headed toward the water cooler.

“They didn't pick Zeke's idea. Did they?”

“They're considering it. They were checking to make sure it was okay with me.”

“Is it?”

“Now
I'm
considering it. I'm not sure, but who knows? Maybe a little TV exposure would get more people interested in our school.”

I did not drop to the ground, but it took some effort.

“What about Florida?”

“I had already decided about Florida,” Dad said.

“Oh,” I said. I looked around at the fields and felt all the great memories—setting up roommate pairs with Zeke; watching students progress from spazzy to serious umpires; the big ceremony on the last night when they announced which students were going on to Cocoa.

“When I thought about giving up our New Jersey Academy, I realized that on a good day, it's more like a gift than a responsibility. Florida will still be there when you've grown up,” Dad said. “And it's not like I'm suffering, being here. This is a good life.”

My brain was revving like a lawn mower that wouldn't start up, ready for bad news, sputtering, ready to shout, “But, but, but, but, but . . . ,” unable to adjust to the not-bad news he'd actually said. Suddenly, it felt like my blood was having an easier time flowing. Like there was less mess in the way of the oxygen getting where it needed to go.

“Last night, Pop and I were talking, and we agreed that this was one of the best You Suck, Ump! Days we could remember. You worked hard to make that happen, and you did it all. There are more than two generations of Snowdens, more than just me and Pop; you've got a stake in this place too.”

Out past the fields, I saw Zeke on his skateboard, heading our way. I couldn't wait to tell him that Dad was actually thinking about his umpire-school reality show idea. I couldn't wait to tell him that I wasn't going anywhere, that maybe his real claim to fame was saving me.

“But here's what I want you to know, Casey: What I'm choosing is the whole thing. To continue Academy here. But beyond that, to be here as your dad. To be in your life until you grow up. That's not just a responsibility. It's the best thing I get to do.”

There were no words big enough for all I wanted to say, so I just reached out and hugged him. Without a second of surprise or hesitation, he hugged me right back. I could feel some of the worry and suspicion that had been with me every minute the past couple of weeks start to fade. It really wasn't so bad that Dad had thought about going to Florida, so long as he'd decided to stay. And he had.

We were just patting each other's backs and separating when Zeke rode right by us, stretching out the word “S T A R V I N G” as he rolled past, heading toward the house for a snack. How did he know Dad had just been shopping for food?

His head was going to fall off when I told him everything.

“Catch you later, Casey,” Dad said.

I was turning to follow Zeke before he had a chance to eat all our good stuff, and I nearly walked right into the massiveness that was J-Mac. “Hey,” I said.

“Hello, Casey.” There was something weird, almost like a question, in his voice.

“Thanks for talking with me the other day; I loved hearing your stories. I'm still thinking about some of the stuff you told me.”

“If you're going to ask me to speak on the record about —”

“No,” I said. “I wanted to tell you—I decided not to write that article.”

It took him a while to answer. “I was starting to wonder if you were planning to bring me down or what,” he said with a little laugh that almost sounded nervous. Or just uncomfortable.

“I really wanted to write that article,” I said. I really did want to write that article. “You know, a lot of people would love to know what happened to you. But I was thinking that maybe
you
should write about what happened. If you decide to. Someday. What I finally realized is that it should really be your story to tell.”

“But, Casey, were you—” A few seconds passed, though it sure felt longer than that, and he didn't say anything else. He just smiled and reached out his hand for a shake.

As we shook (let it be known: J-Mac had a VERY tight grip), he put his left hand on the top part of my right arm and gave me one of those gazing-right-at-you looks. It was a moment. J-Mac and I had ourselves a moment. There was more than thanks in it. It almost felt like respect.

He turned to walk away, and I took a minute to just look around. At this place, this third-best-in-the-country umpire school, with all its old reform-school buildings and fields full of people pretending to play baseball.

What a weird world my world was.

I looked out at field one. A runner was racing down the third-base line. I couldn't tell who the plate ump student was, but he was in perfect position. Beyond him stretched a beautiful field of green, still and glistening in the late-afternoon sun, and beyond that, I could see my house, my home. With his arms parallel to the ground, the student extended his hands slowly outward. His voice was crisp and loud and deep; it rang out with confidence:

“SAFE!”

This is a work of fiction. Clay Coves, New Jersey, is an imagined town, and Behind the Plate is a made-up umpire school.

There are, however, two umpire schools in Florida, and the method of umpire selection described in this book—with the ultimate evaluation and ranking being done at the Professional Baseball Umpire Corp. in Cocoa, Florida—is real.

So many smart, generous people helped me with this book in different ways at various stages. I wholeheartedly appreciate every one of them.

Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich has always looked out for Casey and Zeke, maybe because she met them before she met me. This almost makes up for her insistence that Derek Jeter wears mom jeans. Kim Marcus somehow figured out that Jackson Alter was using before I did, and has held my hand through every draft of this book. Stacy DeKeyser gave me a wonderful weekend of writing and showed me where this story really began. Liz Scanlon and I wrote together daily, across 1,500 miles, and she's a kind of scary genius. I will always think of Casey and Liz's Ivy as literary cousins. Amy Hill Hearth cheered me on and met for Thai lunches whenever the need arose. Pamela Ross always wears her pride in her friends like a mama.

I worked on this book as a student in Patti Gauch's Heart of the Novel workshop, and she taught us all so much. I am grateful that she shares her wisdom so freely. My thanks, too, to all my Heart of the Novel mates for their feedback.

I want to thank everyone at JEAPU, especially Jim Evans and Dick Nelson, for patiently answering a rookie's questions and allowing me to watch an umpire school in session.