Split Decision (5 page)
“So,” Drew said, after lowering his arms, “what about you, Cody? I bet you break five minutes in the mile this season. That’ll place you at the freshman conference meet, for sure.”
“There’s no way, Phelps,” Cody scoffed.
“C’mon, Code. Don’t talk like that. Remember what I always tell you—Believe it; then achieve it.”
Cody shook his head dismissively. “You don’t understand, dude. I’m not breaking five minutes, because I’m not running track. I’m playing baseball.”
Drew took two steps backward, like a boxer who had just been tagged with a stiff jab. “What?!” he said. “I can’t believe this! What about all those morning runs we’ve taken this year? We’ve talked about track a lot. I just assumed that we … I mean—when did you decide this, Cody?”
Cody felt the muscles in his neck constricting. “Uh,” he began, “I guess I didn’t really make some big formal decision. Coach Curtis just asked me a few days ago if I was going to play baseball, and I said yes.”
Drew put his hands on his hips. “But
why
did you say yes? I don’t get it. You’re a natural runner; I’ve told you that. When he was handing out legs and lungs, God smiled on you, big-time!”
Cody felt like he wanted to squirm out of his own skin. “I don’t know what to tell ya, Phelps. I guess it’s just that I’ve always played baseball—ever since I was big enough to whack a ball off a tee.”
“But Code,” Drew said, his voice sounding wounded, “baseball has been a
summer
sport for you, not a school sport. Now you’re gonna have to make a choice. Just like Chop did when he picked basketball over wrestling this year. And, do you have any idea of how bad Clayton’s gonna freak? He’s so psyched to move up from eighth-grade head track coach to high school distance coach. He was counting on you. So was I.”
Cody tried to swallow. It felt like he was trying to swallow a hard-boiled egg—shell and all. “Well, I’m sorry, Phelps. But I’m kinda committed now. I can’t go back on what I told Coach Curtis. Besides, it’s like seventy-five percent certain that Chop’s gonna move this summer, and it’s only right that we have one last sport season together.”
Drew arched his left eyebrow. “Uh, Code,” he said, words flowing slowly, like thick syrup, “when practices start in a coupla days, what makes you think Chop’s playing baseball?”
Cody felt panic ripple down his spine. “What? Did the big man say something to you? Because I know Chop’s a total seam-head, just like me. He loves baseball. It’s safe to assume—”
“Cody,” Drew said in an unsettling parental tone, “it’s never safe to assume. Remember, I assumed you were running track with me. That’s the problem with assumptions. Try giving assumptions on your next algebra test—instead of answers. See what happens.”
“Whatever,” Cody said wearily. “I’ll file that advice under More Wise Words from Dr. Phelps, but, meanwhile … What do you know about Chop and track? I can tell you’re holding out on me!”
Drew cocked his head suspiciously. “You two haven’t talked about this? That’s hard to understand. He’s your best friend!”
Cody exhaled impatiently. “We’ve had more important stuff to talk about—especially lately, okay? I thought about double-checking with him a couple of times, but he’s always been more into baseball than track. And all that’s beside the point anyway—Now, you know something, so spill it!”
Drew dipped his head. “You better hear it from Chop, directly,” he half-whispered.
After Drew departed for the locker room, Cody ran home in his street clothes and old basketball shoes.
Even in this sorry gear, I bet I’m running a five-minute mile now
, he thought.
I’m such a bonehead. If Phelps is right about Chop … awww! I don’t even want to think about it! How could I not have made sure we were in synch about this?!
Sweaty from the exertion and the stress, Cody charged through the front door of the Martin home and marched purposefully toward the phone in the kitchen. He sighed as he heard Mr. Porter’s bass growl on the answering machine. “Chop,” he said, after the beep, “you gotta call me tonight—as soon as you get this message, okay? I don’t care how late it is. It’s really important!”
He started to cradle the receiver, then froze. He returned the phone to his face. “And, uh, I don’t mean somebody’s dead or maimed—it’s not
that
kind of important. And Dad and Beth aren’t getting a divorce or anything. It’s all still newlywed bliss for them. But, still, this is pretty crucial. Oh … and it’s not about Robyn either. I didn’t ask her to—”
Cody heard a sharp
click
in his ear. “Great,” he muttered, “I just bored Chop’s answering machine to death!”
He sat down in a kitchen table chair and felt his sweat-soaked T-shirt sticking to his back. “And to top it all off,” he mumbled, “I just wasted a perfectly good shower.”
Luke and Beth Martin returned from their dinner date up in Denver to find Cody slumped across the living room couch, staring glassy-eyed at the TV, which was turned off.
“You okay, dude?” Beth asked. Her voice was cheery, but also concerned.
Sandwiching his face in his hands, Cody began to relate the track versus baseball saga. He told his father and new bride how Chop had returned his call, confirming that he was indeed going to throw the shot put and discus, rather than man first base for the Grant frosh and/or JV baseball squads.
“That rather surprises me,” Mr. Martin said, steepling his slender fingers in front of his face. “Deke has been a fixture on all your baseball teams. Your mom used to say, uh …” Mr. Martin paused, casting a nervous glance at Beth. “Anyway, I guess that’s neither here nor there. The point is—”
“So,” Beth said, rescuing her husband from his apparent embarrassment, “what made Chop choose track over baseball anyway?”
Cody slowly pulled himself to a more posture-friendly sitting position. “I guess it was a lot of things,” he sighed. “I think he was feelin’ kinda beat-up after football and basketball. He told me, ‘Dawg, think about it—at a track meet, I heave the shot and hurl the disc a few times in the morning. Then I get to spend the rest of the day chillin’ in the infield, soaking up the sun and watching all the fly honeys running around the track in singlets and short-shorts. Beats the tar outta standing on first base all day— then getting up to bat and having those no-guts pitchers pitch around me to get to the next hitter.’”
“Well,” Mr. Martin said, stroking his chin, “he does have a point.”
Beth giggled. “You better mean he has a point about the baseball stuff, not about ogling track girls,” she mock-scolded.
Mr. Martin offered an exaggerated shrug. “I plead the Fifth Amendment,” he said.
Beth dug her fingers into her husband’s ribs. He giggled and pulled away, stumbling into the coffee table in the process.
Okay
, Cody thought, observing the scene in near-disbelief.
My dad just
giggled.
I never thought I’d put those two words, “dad” and “giggle,” in the same sentence. This whole thing is kinda creepin’ me out, but I have to admit—he sure seems happy. It’s like Chop says—he’s like a fat baby with lots of cookies!
“That’s a good suggestion, don’t you think?” Cody jerked away from his thoughts to look up at his dad. “Uh,” he began, feeling the same sense of doom he experienced when he’d daydream in World History class, only to have Mr. Dellis interrupt him with a question. Usually, he could bluff his way through an answer with Mr. Dellis, but could he pull it off with his dad?
“Uh,
what
?” his father was saying, arms now crossed.
“What I mean is,” Cody said tentatively, as if tiptoeing from one word to the next, like rocks in a stream, “Beth’s advice does seem good, but think of the possible downside.”
“What downside, dude?” Beth asked accusingly.
“Well,” Cody said, forcing a laugh, “isn’t that rather obvious?”
“Dude,” Beth said, sounding near exasperation, “you’re just a freshman. Freshmen are notoriously flighty. They change their little minds all the time. I mean—look at Pork Chop. How many girlfriends has he had so far this year? Listen to me—your coach will understand.”
Cody widened his eyes. “You don’t know this particular coach, Beth. I mean, Curtis is like a bulldog. He looks like one; he probably bites like one. He’s got a short temper, and being understanding isn’t exactly his strong suit.”
Beth frowned. “Cody, if he’s been entrusted by Grant High School to coach young student athletes, I’m sure that he’s a reasonable man!”
Cody fought to stifle a smile as he recalled the previous football season and how Coach Curtis had made all of the defensive backs run gassers in a driving rainstorm—all for the unforgivable crime of committing three pass-interference penalties in a game. Cody’s practice uniform had become so soggy-tight that he feared it would take a team of EMTs to cut it away from his body. And it had taken him twenty minutes to scrape the mud and grass from his cleats.
“Yeah,” Cody said finally, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Coach Curtis is real reasonable. That’s his nickname, you know—Mr. Reasonable.”
“Oh, please,” Beth said, rolling her eyes. “You make all your coaches sound like evil dictators. Give me a break.”
Cody thought for a moment. “I never say stuff like that about Coach Clayton,” he protested. “He’s the coolest coach I’ve ever had.”
As soon as those words spilled out, Cody put his hand to his mouth, as if trying to shove them back in.
Yeah
, he thought, feeling a fog of doom engulfing him,
Coach Clayton is the coolest ever, and my decision has dissed him big-time. He’s gonna be so disappointed.
O
n a cold Wednesday morning, the first day of March, Cody sat in the locker room before PE class.
I hope I can avoid Coach Clayton
, he thought.
Of course, that’s about the stupidest thought I’ve had all day. After all, I am in PE class, and Clayton is my PE teacher.
On cue, the rangy coach appeared near the locker room entrance. His eyes met Cody’s, and he bounded toward him. “My dawg,” he said, smiling. “Don’t go pullin’ a hammy in class today, Mr. Martin. I got a real special first-ever high school track practice planned for you this afternoon!”
Cody looked up, realizing he was chewing nervously on the inside of his lower lip.
Coach Clayton half-stooped and clapped him hard between the shoulder blades. “Watcha got in your piehole, dawg,” he chuckled. “That’s not a wad of chaw, is it? That’s against team rules. Or is it a note from the classy Ms. Robyn Hart—and you’re tryin’ to destroy the evidence?”
Cody stood quickly and veered toward the toilets. “I think I’m gonna be sick, Coach,” he called over one shoulder.
As he resumed his journey, Cody heard his coach laughing behind him. “Yeah, I’ll bet you’re sick. Lovesick, maybe.”
Cody stood facing a dirty white commode that looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks.
Okay
, he prayed,
please, God, don’t let me get sick here. I don’t wanna have to get down on my knees and get up-close-and-personal with this disgusting toilet. Please, let this pass.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Presently the wave of nausea he had felt rushing upon him ebbed away.
