Beanball (7 page)

so I pretended to like it.

 

I teach piano, and when Luke was young,

I gave him lessons for three years.

He decided he'd rather practice baseball.

I think that's a shame.

There comes a time when people can't play sports.

Music lasts forever.

I wonder if Mom told Grandma

it's prom night.

Grandma drove all the way over to see me,

and she gave me the new Cave People CD

I've been meaning to buy.

She said, “I asked your mother,

and she said you don't have this one.”

 

Grandma is cool.

She stayed for a long time

and listened to the whole CD with me.

I didn't go to prom. Nobody asked me.

I doubt that Luke would have,

even if he'd been in school.

There are lots of other girls he would have asked

before he even considered me.

 

Daddy always tells me I'm smart and funny and pretty.

He has to say that. That's his job as a father.

He wondered why I wasn't going to the prom.

He thought I should have lots of guys inviting me.

 

I told him it was because

I haven't been at Oak Grove long enough

to get to know anyone.

That's not it, though.

I just can't bring myself to go up to a boy

the way some girls do

and flirt and make him feel important.

I can't play that game,

and I don't want to.

 

Jenny Lipton told me Carl Scruggins likes me,

but I guess he couldn't work up the nerve to ask me.

He's even quieter than I am.

It probably would have been the quietest date in history.

 

I don't know if I would have said yes.

I might have,

just to be able to say I went to my junior prom.

Some prom.

I wasn't very excited about going in the first place.

Now I wish I hadn't spent all that money.

Peggy danced more with Lanny Carpenter

than she did with me.

 

The girl Lanny brought, Dana Travors,

spent most of the night sitting alone.

I bet she wasn't too happy, either.

 

If this were a movie, Peggy would have left with Lanny,

and I would have left with Dana,

and all four of us would have had a great night.

 

But it wasn't a movie.

The team's playing better than I expected.

When Luke Wallace got hurt,

I figured Oak Grove would just lie down and die.

But the opposite is true.

The kids are playing with intensity,

with fire.

They might even go all the way to State.

I'm happy the team is winning.

But I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt

knowing the team can win without me.

Doesn't everybody want to feel he's indispensable?

Or at least missed?

Sometimes I wonder if Luke

even wants me to come see him.

He's so quiet—

not at all the way he was before he got hurt.

It's mostly a monologue when I'm there.

I try to be upbeat.

I try to talk about funny things

that happened at school.

He doesn't seem interested.

 

Each time I go to the hospital,

I tell myself that my being there

will help cheer him up,

but it doesn't seem to.

Each time I leave, I tell myself I'm not going back.

But I do.

I say I'm doing it for him.

Am I just kidding myself?

I was surprised the first time Sarah visited me.

I'm surprised she keeps coming back;

I know I'm not good company.

It's not
her
fault I don't feel much like laughing.

 

The first few times she came, I wished she was Melody.

It's pretty clear Melody's not coming back,

and now, I have to admit,

I kind of look forward to Sarah's visits.

She's got a nice smile and a great sense of humor.

She always tells me funny things

that have happened at school.

A few of them I've already heard about,

from either Gordie or Andy,

but the way she tells a story makes it seem funnier.

 

Here's an example:

Principal Jenks gives the morning announcements.

He's got a high-pitched voice you wouldn't expect

from somebody as big as he is,

and he always ends the announcements

with a quote from a famous person.

Some of the quotes are so dumb,

everyone in homeroom groans.

 

Anyway, Sarah's got his voice down cold,

so when she imitates him

giving one of his dumb quotes,

it almost makes me laugh.

I know Sarah's trying to make me feel better.

I guess she kind of does.

I don't know if I should have done it, but I did.

I printed a bunch of articles off the Internet

and sent them to Luke—anonymously.

I don't know how he'll take the information,

and I don't want him to be mad at me.

It's just that I can see how depressed he is.

I thought the articles might help.

 

They're about people who are successful in sports

even though each of them has vision in only one eye.

There's a professional hockey player,

a college baseball pitcher, and a lot of others.

 

I want Luke to know he doesn't have to give up

the things he loves because he's lost an eye.

I want to do something to bring his smile back.

I got an envelope today . . . full of articles

about athletes who still compete,

even though they're blind in one eye.

 

I didn't realize it was possible.

I read them over and over,

until I was too tired to read anymore.

 

Later on, I realized

there was no name on the envelope,

so I don't know who sent the articles.

My first thought was Coach Hucklebee.

But he would have given them to me in person.

He would have talked to me about them.

Same with Mom or Dad or Andy.

 

What was he thinking, the guy who sent them?

Why was he afraid to let me know?

Did he think I'd be pissed, that I'd cuss him out

and tell him to mind his own business?

 

Would I have done that?

Have I been that nasty to people,

that hard to talk to?

When I went into Luke's room, he was reading.

He's supposed to avoid eyestrain,

but some reading is okay.

I asked him if it was a school assignment,

and he didn't answer.

Then, when I said it was time to change his dressings,

I realized he hadn't even noticed I was there—

he'd been so engrossed in what he was reading.

 

The next time I went to his room, he was asleep.

A sheet of paper was still in his hand.

 

 

 

 

Luke showed me an article

about a college pitcher who was blind in one eye.

He asked me if I'd sent it.

I told him I hadn't,

but if I'd seen it, I
would
have sent it.

“If this guy can do it, you can,” I said.

 

Luke shook his head. “If I were a pitcher, maybe.

But pitching's not the same

as catching fly balls or hitting fastballs.”

 

“You don't know until you try,” I said.

 

“Sure,” Luke muttered. “Remember when

Mrs. Trucelli quoted some writer

about the difference between lightning

and the lightning bug?”

 

“Yeah,” I said. “Mark Twain.”

 

“Well,” Luke said, “there's a big difference

between
playing
and just playing.”

 

I told Luke he was no Mark Twain,

but I knew what he meant.

Sure, maybe I lied just a bit.

But not all lies are bad.

Andy Keller asked me if I would talk to Luke,

let him know it's possible

to play good baseball with just one good eye.

The truth of the matter is, I doubt it.

I've never seen a one-eyed baseball player.

 

I know the down side—

the problems with depth perception:

picking up the flight of a ball,

the spin on a pitch.

But I wasn't going to focus on the problems.

I told Luke that the loss of an eye

shouldn't keep someone from excelling.

It all comes down to attitude, to mental toughness.

It's mental toughness that helps athletes

overcome physical disabilities.

 

Who knows? Maybe I'm right.

Luke seems more upbeat

than at any time since he got hurt.

Part of it, I'm sure, is because he knows

he'll be able to come home soon.

 

He's been so active his whole life,

and for weeks now he's been stuck in that hospital bed,

barely able to move.

He must feel relieved,

knowing it won't be long before he'll be outside,

running around again.

 

The doctor said if everything goes as expected,

Luke should be able to resume normal activities

in a few weeks.

His only limitations will be those imposed

by his impaired vision,

and he'll just have to find out for himself what's possible.

 

I was so worried,

but now it looks as if I'll have Luke back after all.

 

Maybe God really was listening.

Luke and I talked today.

Really talked.

It was the first time since he's been here

that he's said more than just a few words to me.

He showed me some articles he's been reading.

He told me he thought I'd sent them to him,

but I said I hadn't.

 

One was about a professional hockey player.

Luke said if someone with only one eye can play hockey,

as fast paced as it is, then maybe it's possible

to play baseball or football or basketball.

“Sure it is,” I said. I told him there wasn't any reason

he shouldn't be able to run and swing a bat

and throw a pass and shoot a basketball.

 

“I don't know,” he said. “But I want to give it a try.”

I just got a visit from Kyle Dawkins.

It was awkward for both of us.

I was alone when he came to my room.

 

“I'm so sorry, Luke,” he said.

Then he also apologized for not coming earlier.

He said he'd been wanting to for weeks,

but he'd always backed out at the last minute.

He said he was ashamed to face me.

 

I didn't know how to respond.

Ever since that game, I've pictured him in my mind:

6′4″ and a solid 220, without an ounce of fat.

I see him staring in before that final pitch,

the ball in his right hand,

gleaming bright red like a fireball.

 

At least that's my vision of it.

I think of how I could fling my bat at him,

knock him right off the mound

before he can deliver the pitch.

But I've known all along he didn't hit me on purpose.

I've played against him in three sports; he's a decent guy.

 

“You going to be okay?” he asked.

I thought of a dozen different ways to answer—

none of them nice.

I thought, “I'll be damned if I say something

to make you feel better.

You can hurt a while longer, the way I have to.”

But then I looked at him, this powerful athlete,

brushing his hand across his eyes

to wipe away tears.

And finally I said, “Sure, Kyle. I'll be fine.

Don't sweat it, man.”

 

After he left, I wondered if I'd said the right thing.