Center Field (5 page)

Coach Cody pulled him out of his last class of the day, a study hall for jocks, and walked him toward the front offices. “Talk to me. Saturday. Zack Berger.”

“We took computers to the senior center in Bergen Falls, brought them back.”

“What were they computing?”

“I think they were teaching them to send emails and pictures.”

“Think? What were you doing?”

“I wasn't paying much attention.” Thinking about center field. He wondered if he should ask about that.

“Got to stay in the now, wherever you are,” said Cody. He put a hand on Mike's shoulder. “A lot of intangibles go into how I set my roster, you know what I mean?”

“No,” said Mike. He looked Coach in the eye, but broke contact first.

“There are a lot of ways to help the team,” said Coach.
“Stay awake next week. I want to know exactly what they're up to. Go get ready for practice.”

 

By the time Mike dressed and ran out to the field, Coach Cody and his assistant coaches were running positioning drills. They would be repeating them all season but never as intensely as now. Coach always said that fatigue lost games and fundamentals won them. Maybe he'd read Billy's book, too. The basic drills taught you what to do and how to do it while the Ranger Runs made sure you had the stamina in the late innings to concentrate and execute.

Today they were drilling outfielder positions on balls hit to infielders. It was routine on most plays, backing up the infielder in front of you. Follow the ball. It would become more complicated soon, Mike knew, depending on the score of the game, how many outs, how many runners on base. He loved that part of baseball, the thinking and remembering part, the math and science of it, as much as the pure athletics of running, catching, throwing, and hitting. He twisted his fist in the oiled pocket of his glove.

Oscar was all over center field, moving at the
ping
of the ball against Coach Cody's silver bat. Oscar was quick enough to back up Eric in left and Ryan in right, and he charged in so fast on balls that scooted through the hole that he often had the chance to throw out the runner at
first. His arm was a live whip. Oscar was always in the right spot.

Mike wondered if he had attended one of those baseball academies in the Dominican Republic he had read about in
Sports Illustrated
. They were operated by major league clubs. They were set up like real schools except kids didn't study much besides baseball.

After a while Coach Cody waved Oscar in and sent Mike out to center. As they passed near second base, Oscar gave Mike a wink. Hector Ortiz saw the wink and said something in Spanish. Hector and Oscar laughed.

Mike pushed down his anger and focused on Cody at home plate. “Sharp now. One out, runner at third.” He signaled Oscar to run at third.

One out, thought Mike, sacrifice fly, tag-up situation. Depending on the batter and the score, he might play deep or shallow. Just be ready. Easy drill. Done this a hundred times.

Soft fly to center. Ryan and Eric ran over to back him up. Mike moved in, set himself, felt the ball settle into his glove. Oscar was running. Andy had moved over from first to set up a line from center to home, to guide the throw. He'd cut it off if Oscar went back to third, otherwise get out of the way.

Should be an easy out.

Hector ran to his right to cover second in case Mike dropped the ball. That was right. But Hector was yelling at Andy, what the hell was he saying? For an instant Mike lost concentration. He paused in his throw as Andy got out of the way. The catcher was crouched at the plate, waiting. Mike pegged home.

Oscar was sliding under the tag. He bounced up, dusting off his pants and laughing. Hector was laughing, too.

Had he distracted Mike to make him look bad? Come on, that's really paranoid. You let yourself get distracted. But Andy was yelling at Hector and Cody was shouting, “Stay alert, Mike.” Just what he needed to hear. Now say it in Spanish for the illegal.

It didn't get better. Oscar ran out to replace Eric in left and beat Mike to a soft fly in short left center. Could have been either fielder's ball, but the center fielder, the stronger fielder, usually takes those. Then Coach Cody waved Mike to left and Oscar back to center. Give me a chance to get settled into my position. It is my position, right?

“Men on first and third, no outs, we're leading by one run in the seventh.” Coach lofted a high fly deep into left center. There was plenty of time for Mike to get under it and set himself for the throw to nail the runner at the plate and prevent a tie game.

It was the left-fielder's ball, Mike thought, my ball, as he
took a few steps toward center. But if Eric was in left and I was in center, I'd probably poach, take it because I was a better fielder with a better arm. Billy Budd would have taken it if his best friend Dwayne Higgins was in left. Mike sensed Oscar moving toward him, but that was okay, he was supposed to back up the left fielder.

Just to be sure, Mike called, “I got it.”

Oscar yelled, “I got it.”

“Mine,” yelled Mike.

Oscar ran into him. They both went down. The ball dropped and they both bounced up, cursing and swinging at each other. Todd and DeVon Morris, the third baseman, were there before they could dig in their spikes and connect with real punches. They snarled but they separated.

Coach Cody was laughing. “Got to work on that.”

Work on what, Mike thought. Me in left? The thought of it made his stomach hurt. He hated left field, right field, too, the cramped space, the foul line, all those tricky angles, none of the wide-open purity of center.

They ended practice with wind sprints. Mike made sure he beat Oscar, but he wasn't sure Oscar was going all out.

Back in the locker room Andy said, “It's happening everywhere.”

“What?” said Ryan.

“If the Chico was under the ball and called for it and
Mike ran into him, it would be considered a bias crime. Zack Berger would be out demonstrating.”

“Not so loud,” said Mike.

“You gotta do something.”

“Like?” Mike looked around. Oscar was in the showers.

“Check his immigration papers,” said Andy. “Check his age, he could be too old for high school ball. He might have a pro contract already. He might not even live in the district. Check his address, he might be ineligible.”

“Get a life.” When Andy shrugged, Mike said, “What did Hector yell at you?”

“Said to get out of the way, you had a great arm.”

Somehow that didn't make him feel better, and he scowled at Hector when the little second baseman came over tugging Oscar. “He got something to say, Mike.”

“Sorry, man,” said Oscar. He looked sorry, eyes down. “Back home I take everything.”

You're not in your home now, you're in mine, Mike thought, but he nodded and mumbled, “Forget it.”

After they walked away, Ryan said, “Don't sweat it, bro, you'll start in center. You can't have an illegal in center field, it just isn't right. Joe D. and Mickey would roll over in their graves. Even Billy Budd would be out demonstrating.”

The sun came out for the opening game.

The school day had lasted forever but passed in a blur. Sunlight hammered the dusty classroom windows, blotting out words on the page, drowning teachers' voices, making Mike jittery. Move it, he urged the clocks on the walls. He winced remembering the last time he had said, “Move it.” To Zack.

Dr. Ching asked if anyone had the answer to the dropped anchor problem. Does the water level rise or fall? No one raised a hand. Mike knew the answer but he couldn't get his mind focused. He was thinking about center field. Am I starting today?

“Buoyancy,” prompted Dr. Ching.

One of the math brainiacs finally raised a hand, but she needed help from Dr. Ching to make her answer clear to the class.

Anything that displaces water is buoyed upward by the
weight of the water displaced. The boat and everything in the boat must be displacing an equal weight in water, otherwise the boat would sink. While the anchor is in the boat, the anchor displaces an anchor's weight in water.

But when the anchor is dropped, it sinks, displacing an anchor's volume of water. Since the anchor is denser than water, an anchor's volume of water is less than an anchor's weight of water. So there is less water being displaced, and the overall level of the lake drops slightly.

The water lowers, not rises, when the anchor is dropped.

I could have done that, thought Mike. Did I choke? Will I choke in center field? Will I get the chance to choke in center field?

Lori stopped him in the hall. “You okay?”

“Why?”

“You're, like, sleepwalking?”

Luckily he was called on only once, in Contemporary Social Issues. Ms. Marsot asked him to make comparisons between immigration today and a hundred years ago, but before he could even say “Huh?” Andy shouted out, “It's mostly illegal now,” and Kat said, “But it's still supply and demand.” Ms. Marsot leaned back with a smile and let them take over the class.

He usually tuned out the Andy-Kat Show and drifted into his own thoughts, but today he kept watching Kat.
Those deeply set dark eyes under thick eyebrows made her seem even more intense. He remembered her body while she sat on the edge of the whirlpool machine, soaking her leg, her breasts against the old man's head at the senior center. She kept those muscular curves pretty well covered in class. Today she was wearing a loose sweatshirt and jeans baggy enough to fit over the brace. You'd never know how packed she was.

He pushed his thoughts back to center field.

 

Coach Cody waited until they were finished with batting practice and warm-ups and had turned the field over to the visiting team before he made his pregame locker-room speech. It was usually a short review of the scouting report and a few things to remember during the game, but this afternoon he was revved up. He strutted to the front of the locker room after the assistant coaches herded everyone together.

Chest out, muscles bulging through his Ridgedale uniform, cap pushed back on his shaven head, Coach Cody looked like he could take anyone on the team in a cage fight. The rumor was he had racked up kills in Panama, Kuwait, and Somalia as a Ranger. He rocked heel to toe a couple of times, scanning the team until everyone was in their places and quiet. Seniors were sitting on the floor up front. Mike, Andy, Ryan, and the other juniors were right behind them.

“We are about to embark on a mission,” said Coach Cody, “in which we will seize the state championship.” He tamped down the whistles and cheers with his thick hand. “A three-month mission by a band of brothers, elite athletes with the training, the skill, the heart, and the smarts to make their will prevail.

“Just like the Army Rangers who fight and die to protect our country, you are focused, dedicated young gentlemen who know how to shut out everything that doesn't contribute to the success of our mission.”

“Mission?” whispered Andy. “It's baseball.”

Mike elbowed him quiet. He wondered if Coach had heard. He was looking at them when he said, “Not everyone in this school is on our side. There are teachers who don't like jocks and girls who want to drag you down and the pukes who hate you because they can't ever measure up.

“You need to stay together, listen to your coaches, support your teammates, follow the rules, execute with pride, and play your guts out. No one is shooting at you Rangers, but just because we call it a game doesn't mean that winning isn't real, isn't important. Just because we call it a game doesn't mean that your willingness to work hard, to sacrifice, to put the team ahead of yourself, isn't the best thing you can do.”

“What crap,” whispered Andy. Mike ignored him.

Coach put his hands on his hips and grinned. “The envelope please.” He took a blue sheet of paper from a manager as if he were at the Academy Awards. He began to read, pretending to be surprised. “Leading off and playing second base for the champion Ridgedale Rangers, it's…Hector Ortiz.”

“Like he doesn't know his opening-day lineup,” said Andy.

Mike's mouth was too dry to tell him to shut up. He managed, “Sssss.”

“Batting second, at shortstop, Captain Todd Ganz.” The team whistled and clapped.

“Bastard's playing with our heads,” said Andy.

Coach might have heard but he didn't react. “Batting third, in center field…Mike Semak.”

It wasn't until Ryan yelled, “Yo, Mak,” that his mind processed the information. He was starting. In center field.

“Batting cleanup, in left field, Oscar Ramirez.”

There were groans from the seniors. The regular left fielder, Eric Nola, was a popular guy.

Dimly Mike heard Ryan Gates in right and DeVon Morris at third and Mark Rapp at first base. The sophomore had beat out Andy. Jimmy Russo was catching and batting eighth. Craig Wiebusch was pitching.

“That's today's lineup, gentlemen, and it will change as
you change.” Mike thought Coach was looking at him. “I will choose the best player for each position. Every inning of every game is a test of the best.” He clapped his hands. “RIDGEDALE!”

Everybody grabbed for the nearest two teammates and roared, “RANGERS!”

The subs led the way out of the locker room, then the starters. Mike didn't have time to say anything to Andy. He jogged out to center field between Oscar and Ryan. Both of them were nodding and smiling. Once they were in position, they began throwing a ball around.

The stands weren't crowded, but they weren't empty either, a good turnout for a baseball game in a football and basketball school. He looked for Mom and Dad. Maybe they'd come later. The band was playing and the cheerleaders were doing cartwheels. They only came out for opening day and the postseason tournament.

Tori and Lori ran out. They looked hot in their blue and gold tights as they danced through their devil stick routine, juggling a baton with two control sticks, sometimes passing batons between them. They were good—they would be competing in a national championship tournament in a couple weeks. Lori threw him a quick smile and a head wave without losing her rhythm.

He swept the stands one more time. Mom and Dad said
they'd try to make it, at least one of them, but it would be tough. The floor was being laid in the new store, and in a flooring store it had to be perfect. He didn't see them.

He spotted Kat on the sidelines aiming a video cam up at the principal, Dr. Howard, who was high in the grandstand waving a Ridgedale pennant in a group of teachers. He watched Kat limp over to the stands and sit next to Zack, who had a pile of leaflets on his lap. Kat raised her camera. It was too far to tell if she was aiming at him or at the scoreboard behind him.