Pinch Hit (2 page)

Sam's dad taught seventh-grade English in a poor district of LA, but looking like a middle school teacher was no way to sell a screenplay. To sell a screenplay, his dad had told him time and again, you have to
look
like you know how to play the game of life, and win. So, he had spent every cent he could possibly spare on the expensive dark suit that matched his eyes, a pair of slightly used five-hundred-dollar shoes, and a car worth twice as much as their home—a car he polished to a shine the night before even the most low-level meeting.

To Sam, pitch meetings were like pennies. If you had enough of them, they could probably add up to something, but each one held so little value that it was hard to get excited about. Still, Sam's dad plowed on, writing and rewriting script after script, determined to create the next great horror flick. Since he could remember, Sam had heard the same optimistic exclamation hundreds, if not thousands, of times: “This is it! This guy gets it. He believes in this script. We're going to get a
deal
, the green light, any day now. Any day.”

So far, the deal hadn't come, but the pitch meetings continued, and his dad swore
Dark Cellar
was the ticket.

Maybe a better comparison would be a
lottery
ticket, Sam thought. Very unlikely to pay off, but if one ever did, it would be some kind of payday.

“Sam.” His father stopped short and pointed at a small sign posted on a battered metal door.

“So?” Sam said. He raised a copy of
The Count of Monte Cristo
to show his dad that he had plenty to keep him busy without being a face in the crowd on some movie set. The nice thing about the studios was that they all had benches parked under shady trees spread across their lots. Sam could get a lot of reading in while his father pitched scripts.

“So,
you
,” his dad said. “I'll be in town every day this summer anyway with pitch meetings for
Dark Cellar
. You could make a few extra bucks.”

“I've got baseball, too, Dad.”

“Not till after dinner. Sam, think of the opportunity. When I do this deal, I want you to have a role in it. If you have some experience, it'll only make it easier to convince the director.”

Sam studied his father's thin face, the short, wiry orange hair and matching mustache and the freckles that went from his face all the way down his neck. Given Sam's milky white skin and long, straight, hayblond hair, no one ever confused them for father and son. “Can I use some of the money to buy that new Nike mitt? I think it'll make it easier for me to snag those line drives.”

“That's the spirit!” his father said. “You go up and get the papers. When I'm done, I'll stop back by and sign whatever I have to. Sound good?”

“I'll be here,” Sam said, and he swung open the door as his dad hurried off.

Beginning to climb the metal flight of stairs, Sam saw two people coming down. One had a face Sam recognized from television, and the actor's name was on the tip of his tongue, a tall cowboy with a gray beard. The second person was a woman with black plastic glasses, a sharp nose, and bright red hair. There was barely room for them to pass each other because the woman was wide and didn't try to move aside.

Sam leaned into the railing, but as they went by, he slipped and stepped on her foot. The woman tumbled down the last three steps, landed square on her big butt, and let fly a thunderclap fart. Her face went as red as her hair. The cowboy tried not to laugh, but Sam couldn't help himself.

“Why, you little brat!” The woman's voice echoed through the stairwell and Sam hurried away, pressing a fist against his mouth to muffle his laughter.

As the door swung closed behind him, Sam heard her say, “You'll get yours, you clumsy little fool.”

Sam found the line of applicants. It stretched down an entire hallway. He got into it, still chuckling to himself and thinking how glad he was that he'd never see the woman again. When his turn finally came, Sam put on a serious face and stepped in front of a camera to have his picture taken. He gave his height, weight, and name before being handed an application and pointed toward a cluster of tables. Sam filled out the paperwork with the exception of his father's signature, then opened
The Count of Monte Cristo
. He figured his dad would show up soon.

He was reading when a man in a suit and tie came out from the back and shouted, “Sam Palomaki? Is Sam Palomaki here?”

Sam stood up and raised his hand while everyone stared.

“Why don't we have your application?” the man asked, obviously annoyed. “You had your picture taken.”

Before Sam could answer, the man said, “Come with me.”

Sam grabbed his application and held it up, hoping he could make everything okay, but the man didn't look back. Sam followed him through a doorway in the back of the room and down another hallway, feeling certain he'd spoiled any chance for becoming an extra and making the money for that mitt, and wondering if it all had anything to do with the farting woman who had been so angry.

They passed by a secretary, and the man pushed open the door to a corner office looking out over the lot. “Here. Sit down.”

Sam sat down in a chair facing the polished desk, still holding the application.

The man squinted at the application, then at Sam. “Don't you know why you're here?”

“You wanted to play baseball, right?”

Trevor nodded.

“And that's what you're going to do. It's your father's and my birthday present.”

“Real baseball?” For the past two years, Trevor had begged to play on a travel baseball team, or at the very least in a local league.

“As real as it gets.” She smiled that famous smile he sometimes saw on billboards advertising her latest films.

Trevor's mouth dropped like a bomb. In a life of extreme privilege, it was a rare thing to be surprised or excited, and nearly impossible to be both at the same time, but this was it. He nodded his head.

“When?” Trevor spouted his words. “How?”

“It's a surprise. Now, go get that smelly glove and let's go.”

Trevor's throat tightened. It didn't even bother him that before the last word left her mouth, his mom was opening another message on her phone. He hurried back into the entryway, where a worker was already up on a ladder cleaning the statue's head with a sponge. Trevor ran up the long sweeping staircase that curved around the marble entryway and then down a long hall.

His bedroom was far away, on the opposite end of the house, but he still beat his mother to the dark blue Bentley waiting for them just outside the ten-car garage. Trevor couldn't see his own personal batting cage behind the garage, but he knew it was there. He could find his way to it in the dark. He felt a pang of thankfulness for all the time he'd spent there, because today his endless hours of practice would finally pay off. The Bentley's chrome gleamed in the California sunlight, and the car sat softly rumbling, delivered to the spot by one of more than a dozen workers—mostly unseen—who cared for every detail of the massive estate.

Trevor's mother climbed in, wearing big white sunglasses and a silk scarf tied about her blond mane of hair. She took time to refresh her red lipstick in the mirror before frowning at his cleats.

“Those things in this car?” she said.

Trevor shrugged. “You need them to run the bases.”

His mother shrugged back and put the big boat of a car into gear. She called into her office on the speakerphone and had her assistant begin to connect her to the calls on her phone sheet. Trevor wiggled in his seat, but then sat rigid after they passed Beverly Hills High School and every park between their Bel Air home and the 101 Freeway. If he was going to join a league, those were the places he'd have to go. He glanced at his mom, fearing she was too engrossed in her phone conversations to remember where they were headed.

When they got on the freeway heading south, Trevor looked back over the seat at the Hollywood hills disappearing behind them, then up ahead at downtown Los Angeles.

“Where are we going?” he asked, wondering if in fact they
were
going to some special place where a travel team might be practicing.

It was almost too good to be true, but Trevor pinched his arm and knew it wasn't a dream. He was a kid people said had everything: money, fame, a loving family. But all those things had been given to him. Trevor wanted to
compete
for something, to use his own skills to try and win. And, if he didn't win, he would
lose
, and that would be okay once in a while. No more scripted lines and parts written just for him, but a real battle on a real team.

Trevor didn't spend much time with his father, and they almost never played sports. One time, though—when his father had been delayed for an afternoon trip to London because a part had to be replaced on his jet—the two of them had gone out into the yard with two gloves and a ball. Trevor had a glove signed by A-Rod, but Trevor's dad had a glove that was old and faded and well-worn. It turned out to be his father's own mitt, a mitt he had used as a player for the college team at Yale. Trevor never knew his father had been an athlete, and when Trevor threw well—earning a smile and some praise from his father—he made up his mind at that moment that baseball would be his sport, too.

Since that afternoon he'd dreamed of it, of playing, being part of a team, hitting home runs, making outs. Maybe one day he'd even play for Yale. But all his life there were reasons why he couldn't. No time. Family travels. Too much of a distraction from his work as an actor. Too difficult to deal with all the drama that came from being a kid who was not only a movie star, but the son of a movie star and a famous Hollywood producer.

Trevor's mother didn't seem to have heard his question, so he asked it again. “Where are we going?”

She clucked her tongue, muted the phone on her agent, and shook her head. “A surprise from your father and me.”

“But I'm playing baseball?”

“I said you were. Relax. You only turn thirteen once. I said it's a surprise. Where we're going is part of the fun.” His mother checked her lipstick again in the mirror and tucked the bra strap on her shoulder back into her shirt. She took the mute off and started talking again.

When they got off the freeway at the exit to Dodger Stadium, he knew it couldn't be a coincidence. They circled the stadium, then drove right up to the front of the team offices. His mom parked where it said “No Parking,” got off her phone call, and got out while two different camera crews surrounded the car.

“What are these guys doing?” Trevor asked.

“Your father wanted to see it all,” his mother replied. “Come on, pretend they're not there.”

Trevor's father was on location in Australia. His studio was shooting a blockbuster with Russell Crowe. Having a film crew hovering around him wasn't anything Trevor hadn't seen before, and even though it was annoying, it didn't distract him for more than a few seconds. He followed his mother through the offices, where they picked up two men and a woman, all wearing suits and fussing over his mother while saving plenty of smiles, chuckles, and nods for him. His mother didn't give them much attention in return. She began sending text messages and appeared—at the same time—to have her sights set on the field.

When they walked out onto the grass, Trevor blinked and shielded his eyes from the sun. His mind swirled with the possibilities of just what kind of travel team could possibly have the clout to practice at Dodger Stadium. And he knew it must be some kind of a travel team since they already passed by all the schools and parks near where they lived.

Out on the diamond, figures swayed in the heat. A cloud passed in front of the sun. Trevor lowered his hand and blinked.

What he saw made his stomach clench like a boxer's fist.

“Do you know who you look like?” the man asked. “I'm sorry, my name is Donald Fuller. I'm VP of Central Casting. Do you?”

“I know I don't look like my father,” Sam said, feeling foolish.

“Your father?”

“I was waiting for him to sign that part of the application. I'm sorry. He's at a pitch meeting.”

Fuller nodded. “You look like Trevor Goldman. The blue eyes. Blond hair. That long straight nose.”

“Trevor Goldman? Me?”

“Do me a favor, will you? Pull your hair back off your face. Use your hands.”

Sam didn't quite understand until Mr. Fuller showed him. Sam did it, pulling his hair back like he was going to put it into a ponytail. Fuller just stared.

“It's scary,” Fuller said in almost a whisper. “It's unbelievable, and you could wear a hairnet or a wig. You know what a stand-in is?”

“Not really.” Sam wrinkled his face at the mention of a wig. “Like an extra?”

“Like an extra, but more. A lot more. You get paid ten times what an extra gets paid, and you look enough like Trevor Goldman that I want to sign you up for
Dragon's Empire
. You heard of it?”