Thrown a Curve (8 page)

I nodded, though I had no idea where she lived. I was happy that the kitten was okay, but kind of pissed that it belonged to Trudy.

“You should come over and see him sometime,” she suggested.

Leaning down to tie my shoes, I gave my usual response. “Maybe.”

“Remember, next week after games, we do pizza at Lou’s Place.”

I just nodded.
Sure.

After she left, I thought about what she’d said. Justin and I a couple? Funny. I considered telling Justin about the conversation, but I figured nothing good could come of it. Either he’d laugh and say, “Yeah, right? Me and you, a couple?” Or he’d say . . . What
would
he say? Was the idea that crazy?

E
vansville High School’s varsity baseball team was famous for only one thing—losing. They hadn’t had a winning record for the past ten years. It was one of those losing streaks that seemed to last forever. Today—the first game of the season—we were playing Highland Regional. Though it was still April, it was a hot, humid day.

I was hanging out in the locker room before the game, dressed in my uniform, staring at myself in the mirror. Uniforms didn’t lie. I really was on the baseball team. And I was afraid to go out to the field.

“Looking good, Taylor,” Trudy Harris said as she pulled her hair into a ponytail. “Your uniform is so much better than ours. You have real jerseys. All we get are these cheap t-shirts. I’m so jealous.” She pulled on her t-shirt. “Why’d you pick number 8?”

I slapped my hand against my glove and answered, “Eh, no reason. Just a number, I guess.” But I did have a reason. I had been eight years old the last time I’d played baseball on a real team. And I was eight the last time I’d felt sure about myself. I’d give anything to be eight again. Of course, I couldn’t throw like this when I was eight.

I started to feel a small thrill run through me. Though I wasn’t scheduled to pitch today, I felt it—the feeling that made you all
of a sudden run as fast as you could . . . the feeling you got when your favorite team scored that winning run . . . Okay, now I was ready to venture out of the locker room.

Trudy and the softball team were also heading out. “Wait up,” I yelled to Trudy. I figured I could walk out with them and not look so lonely.

I jogged to the dugout on our field.

“Okay, everybody get in here and sit down,” Coach was yelling. “Time for the first game talk.”

I was trying to squeeze onto the bench, but no one was making room for me. The coach, standing with his hands on his hips, was eyeing me impatiently. Every time I’d try to sit, someone would move to block the space. It was like a bad game of musical chairs, and I was the only one still standing.

“Dresden, find a seat,” Coach said quickly.

My efforts to get onto the bench were still being blocked by the boys.

“Whatever it takes, Dresden. Get a seat,” said a very frustrated Coach. “Do it!” He was raising his voice now.

I was so embarrassed. I had to get a seat before my face turned purple. I spotted Joey Zeigler. He was a really short kid who lived next door to Justin. He reminded me of my little brother. I aimed right for him.

“Excuse me,” I said and shoved his leg over with my glove, forcing him sideways. All the boys cracked up.

“Hey, Zeigler, she played you!” someone yelled.

The coach was pissed. “I don’t know what you guys are
laughing at! You think that’s funny? No one here has proven themselves to me yet. I don’t care if you’re male or female, or blue or green. This is a team, and if we’re going to turn this team around, then you’d better start acting like one. If anyone has a problem with that, please speak up now.”

No one said a word. I thought I’d stopped breathing. I knew they didn’t like me. They looked at their feet and gloves. No one looked at me. I’d never felt so uncomfortable. For a moment, I wished I was on the softball team—but just for a moment. And then the game began.

Watching from the dugout was a thrill. I could hear everything the players said on the field. The “tink” sound the aluminum bat made when a player hit the ball was ringing in my ears. Just the thought I was going to pitch the next game was keeping me interested.

The team’s performance, however, was disappointing. By the middle of the second inning, we were already down by two runs. Carlos Fiero was pitching for us and came into the dugout cursing and kicking at things. I remained quiet and sat at the very end of the bench. Rick Bratton was up at the plate, and he actually got a hit—our first of the game.

“All right, Rick,” the guys yelled as he rounded first.

I didn’t feel like I was allowed to cheer for any of my teammates. But I wanted us to win. Unfortunately, we lost 6-3. I walked back to the locker room in my clean uniform. I knew that if we were going to win the next game, I’d have to be really good. Obviously, this team wasn’t good at scoring runs, and
because of the lack of quality pitchers, I was in the regular rotation. When I pitched, I’d just have to keep the other team from scoring any runs.

T
he Friday after our first home game was another Sacamore day. When I got to his office, he was sipping his herbal tea and fooling around with the CD player on his computer. The herbal tea smelled like honey and apples, and it made my stomach growl. I eyed the dish of chocolates on his desk.

Sacamore took another sip of tea. “Thirsty, Taylor? I could make you a cup if you’d like.”

I still wasn’t sure about this guy. “No thanks,” I said. “But can I have a piece of candy?”

“Of course,” he said, pushing the dish toward me.

I gulped down a piece and wished I could take another. But I didn’t want Sacamore to think we were buddies or anything.

As usual, he was chipper. “So, I hear you’re pitching the next game.”

“Yeah.”

He finally stopped fiddling with the computer and turned toward me. “Are you nervous?”

I was so nervous I hadn’t slept in days. “A little,” I said.

“Hmm. Well, how about I tell you a story? It might make you feel better.”

“Sounds good to me. I always feel like I’m the one who has to talk in here.”

He laughed and pushed the dish of chocolates toward me. “You just sit and relax.”

I took another piece of candy and settled myself comfortably in the overstuffed couch.

“I grew up in Michigan—East River, a little town by the lakes. The only good thing about the town was that it was so cold, the lakes were always frozen over.”

“That’s a good thing?” I chimed in.

“I thought you were just listening,” he said, pretending to be annoyed.

“Sorry.” I rolled my hand for him to continue and then unwrapped another piece of candy.

“Anyhow, it was good for me because I loved to play ice hockey. My older brother was always on the lake with his friends, and I was always begging him to let me play with them. But he said I had to be at least ten before the guys would let me play.”

I put my feet up on the coffee table, trying to see how much Sacamore would let me relax. “Thrilling story so far, Mr. Sacamore,” I said sarcastically.

He got up from his desk and sat next to me on the couch. “I’m getting to the point. Take a chill pill.”

He was so corny, but I was entertained and comfortable.

“So, finally, the day came. I turned ten on February 18th—in the dead of winter. As usual, the lake was frozen. I suited up, taped up my stick, and followed my brother out the door that morning. He warned me about certain guys I should stay away
from, and told me to always keep my head up. That was his phrase—‘Keep your head up, Luke.’ I can still hear him saying it.”

His first name was Luke. Weird. “So, what happened?” I asked.

“Oh, so now you’re interested?”

I smiled and tested him with, “Come on, Luke.”

He pointed his finger at me. “Watch it, sister.”

“Sorry. Go ahead, Mr. Sacamore,” I said and bowed in his direction.

“That’s enough candy for you,” he said, sliding the dish away from me. “So, I got down to the lake. The guys let me play on my brother’s team. As soon as they dropped the puck, I skated like a madman toward it, but I forgot what my brother had said, and I didn’t see Wayne Bracco coming at me from the right.
Blam!
” He stood up and pretended he was checking me into the boards. “I fell flat on my face. My front tooth went sliding across the ice, leaving a thin trail of blood.”

“Ooh, that must’ve hurt,” I said, wincing.

“You bet your butt it hurt.”

“So, then what happened?” I asked. “You played anyway and scored the winning goal?”

“Nope. I started crying, and my brother had to take me home,” he said, leaning back on the couch.

I was confused. I’d thought this story would have some great moral that was going to help me with my game. I shook my head and asked, “That’s it? That’s the whole story?”

“Pretty much.”

“I don’t get how this story is supposed to help me with my pitching today.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I learned something that day.”

“What?” I asked, waiting for the big lesson.

“Even though I lost my tooth and only played for ten seconds, it didn’t change the fact that I loved hockey. Messing up out there couldn’t take away the thrill of finally getting the chance to play. It couldn’t take away the feelings I had all those years of wanting to get out on the ice. And that’s what sports are all about—the desire to try, not whether you win or lose.”

I smiled. “Oh, it’s that old ‘not whether you win or lose’ business.”

Sacamore leaned forward. “But you have to remember,” he said, “
how
you played the game isn’t as important as the fact that you actually played it.”

I laughed. “So you’re saying it’s okay if I suck?”

“Exactly,” he said, relaxing back onto the couch.

I nodded at him, half confused about what Sacamore had just told me, and half relieved that the bell was about to ring. He sat on the couch, smiling at me. I liked the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

“So, you’re telling me I’m going to bomb when I pitch?”

He shook his head. “I’m telling you it doesn’t matter if you do.”

The speaker above my head shook as the bell sounded for next period. I jumped a little when I heard it. I grabbed my book
bag and walked slowly toward the wooden door.

“Bye, Mr. Sacamore,” I said, opening the door.

“Bye, Taylor. Have fun out there.”

W
e’d lost our first game at home last week, and now we were at our first away game. It was my first game as a high school pitcher—a
girl
high school pitcher. I thought if I tucked my hair under my hat, maybe no one would know I was a girl. “Taylor” could be a boy’s name, I figured.

The guys on my team still didn’t talk to me. None of them had been outright mean, though—at least not yet. Curtis, the shortstop, told me they all figured they should keep their mouths shut because Coach Perez had threatened to kick them off the team if they didn’t act like “team players.” Hey, it worked for me. I preferred to be unseen and ignored.