Super-sized Slugger (2 page)

“Chunkster?”

“Yeah, I get that one a lot.”

“Tubby?”

“No, that's old school.”

“Fat boy?”

“Yep. One of my new, uh, admirers loves that one.”

“Tub of goo?”

“
Mo-mmm!
”

“Sorry, sweetie. Just kidding. It's just that Letterman once called someone that on his TV show. Terry Forster. A pitcher for the Atlanta Braves.”

“Well, no one's called me that yet. Don't give them any ideas.”

“Don't worry, they won't.”

Cody and his mom were at the kitchen table in their new house on Bosley Road, the sun streaming through the bay windows on a warm Saturday morning. They were just sitting down to a breakfast of orange juice, sausages, and blueberry pancakes, which Cody drowned in a puddle of maple syrup.

Cody's dad, a detective with the Baltimore Police Department, had just left for work, pulling on his jacket and grabbing his laptop as he dashed out the door. As usual, the sight of the gun and holster on his hip made Cody's mom wince. Even after all these years, she hated being reminded of the dangers of police work.

Maybe that was why she tried to turn everything into a joke, to help her forget the scary stuff. She was listing all the names overweight kids get called. It seemed like there were dozens, maybe even hundreds. Cody figured he'd heard just about all of them—quite a few recently, in fact. It turned out mean kids weren't any more creative in Maryland than they were in Wisconsin.

“The point is, they're just words,” his mom said. “Sure, they can be hurtful. But only if you let them.”

“I know,” Cody said. “But being the new kid is hard enough. When you're heavy too, and the other kids are calling you names like Cody
Porker
…”

Kate Parker sighed and shook her head. “You're right, dear. I'm sure it's not easy. But the names will stop, once they get to know you. For now, try to ignore it.”

Cody was quiet for a moment, staring down at his plate.

“I miss our old house,” he said finally. “And my friends back home.”

“I know you do,” his mom said. She reached across the table, squeezed his hand, and smiled softly. “But this is your home now. Your dad had a job offer he couldn't pass up. And you'll make a ton of new friends. You're smart, you're funny, you're athletic—”

“And fat,” Cody said morosely. “Kids in school remind me of that every day.”

“Uh-uh, no feeling sorry for yourself,” his mom said. “You have too much going for you. And you won't be big forever. That baby fat will come off in no time.”

“I'm thirteen years old!” Cody said. “How long does baby fat stick around? Until you're thirty?”

His mother smiled again and sipped her coffee. “Listen to Mr. Cheerful,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Mr. Upbeat.”

For the next few minutes, the two ate in silence. Finally, Cody put down his fork and pushed his plate aside. Today he had eaten just one pancake, instead of his usual two or three, and only one sausage.

He was tired of being the butt of jokes everywhere he went. This morning he had made the decision to start eating healthier and lose weight. He hadn't shared this with his parents yet, although now he saw his mom gaze questioningly at the uneaten pancakes.

Cody stared out the window, lost in thought. For as long as he could remember, he had been bigger than the other kids. It wasn't hard to figure out why. He simply—duh!—ate more. But
why
did he eat more? That part he wasn't so sure about. It almost seemed as if he
needed
more food than other kids.

Instead of having one slice of pizza like everyone else, he'd have two or three. Instead of two chocolate chip cookies, he'd have four. He remembered being shocked at the end-of-the-year cookout at his old school in Milwaukee when, at the end of the meal, all the other kids ran off to play dodgeball. That time he had almost shouted:
Wait,
they've got more burgers on the grill! The party's just
getting
started!

And maybe his mom and dad were right about the way he scarfed his food. “You eat so fast, your brain doesn't register that you're full,” his mom was always saying. Okay, guilty as charged on that one.

It wasn't as if he didn't get any exercise. Baseball was his first love, but he liked dodgeball, basketball, football, and soccer too—anything you played with a ball. And he was pretty good at every sport he ever tried.

Just like in baseball, kids who didn't know him would tease him about being fat. They'd break out names like Wide Load and The Bacon-ater and all the rest. Then they'd watch him kick a soccer ball forty yards downfield, or throw a perfect touchdown pass on a dead run—or what passed for a dead run for a big, lumbering kid—in touch football. And suddenly all the teasing would stop—just like that. Often, the kids who were initially his biggest tormentors ended up becoming his best friends.

Cody was hoping that would happen here in Baltimore too. Sports were always his refuge from taunting. If you were a hefty kid, they were the great equalizer. But he also had to admit he hadn't been playing outdoors as much as usual over the past few months. First he'd been busy getting ready for the big move to a new state. And since the move, he'd been spending a lot of time at the computer, chatting with his friends back in Wisconsin.

“Tell me more about how baseball practice went yesterday,” Kate Parker said, standing and clearing the dishes.

Cody's spirits lifted immediately. Except for that embarrassing whiff when he tried to smash the ball to Mars, he wasn't sure you could have a better first practice—especially with a brand-new team. He had definitely impressed his new Orioles teammates with that second home run, the one that cleared the fence by twenty feet and was probably still rolling somewhere.

His mom gave him a quick sideways glance as she loaded the dishwasher. “Could that be a smile I see on Ol' Stoneface?” she said.

“It was pretty fun,” Cody said, nodding. “I like Coach Hammond. And I think he likes how I play. Most of the guys on the team seem nice too.”

No point in bringing up Dante, Cody thought. His mom didn't need to hear any of that. She was trying to adjust to their new life here in Baltimore too, working hard to make things easy for Cody and his dad while also getting her home-decorating business up and running.

Besides, maybe the whole thing with Dante and third base would blow over. Maybe Dante would just accept that Cody was the better infielder and be content to play another position.

Yeah, right. Well, a guy could dream. And Cody knew one thing: he was almost as good at dreaming as he was at baseball.

Cody arrived forty-five
minutes early for practice. He asked his mom to drop him off at empty Eddie Murray Field so he could jog around the bases and do some stretching to loosen up. Which was true, but it wasn't the whole truth.

As soon as she left, he began pacing the parking lot. Fifteen minutes later, a black Ford pickup with oversized tires and Yosemite Sam
BACK OFF
! mud flaps pulled in.

The driver's-side door swung open, and out jumped Coach Hammond. He walked back to the bed of the truck and pulled out a canvas bag filled with balls, bats, helmets, and catcher's gear.

Cody took a deep breath and waved.

“Hey there!” Coach said, obviously pleased to see him. “You're here early. Or maybe I'm late. Another exhausting day of crime fighting in America. So many bad guys to lock up, so little time.”

Cody had heard that Coach was a Baltimore police officer. He wondered if his dad and Coach had met yet, maybe at a crime scene that they both happened to be working. Not that Cody's dad would ever say much about it. He rarely talked about his work—probably so as not to upset his wife. Lots of times, it didn't make for great dinnertime conversation.
Honey, pass the roast beef and let me tell
you about this guy we found with multiple gunshot wounds
today.…

“Coach,” Cody said, “I was wondering if—”

“You're playing third base?” Coach said, tossing the equipment bag over his shoulder. “You sure are, son. That was some display of fielding you put on the other day.”

Cody nodded and looked down.

Coach chuckled. “Well, that's a first,” he said. “Usually when I say that to a kid, he's ready to do cartwheels.”

“Coach, I can play other positions too,” Cody said. “In fact, outfield might be—”

“Nope, you're our third baseman,” Coach cut him off, clapping a beefy hand on Cody's shoulder. “You have a strong, accurate arm. And you're a great hitter too. For a big kid, you move real well out there.”

Cody nodded again and forced a smile. I might not be moving too well when a certain tall, cranky teammate hears about this, he thought.

He helped Coach unload the catcher's gear and water bottles from the truck as the rest of the Orioles began to trickle in.

“Cody!” said a kid, holding up a ball. “Warm up with me?”

It was the guy who had done most of the catching the other day, Joey. Soon the two of them were joined by the little second baseman, who introduced himself as Willie. Cody kept looking around for Dante, but the big guy was a no-show so far. Maybe he was blowing off practice, Cody thought. Maybe Dante had even quit the team, ticked at Coach for getting on him about the cursing.

Fifteen minutes later, they heard the squealing of tires and saw a battered green Jeep careen into the parking lot with the radio blaring. A scowling older boy was behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette; another boy the same age occupied the passenger seat. The rear door was flung open and a familiar figure jumped out.

“Fellas, fellas, fellas!” he cried. “What's up with the Orioles on this fine afternoon?”

Dante Rizzo was in the house. Those other two guys must be the Rottweiler Twins, Cody thought.

As the rest of the Orioles stared and Coach looked at his watch and shook his head, Dante swaggered onto the field and began stretching.

A boy they called Gabe slapped hands with him and said, “What's going on, D?” But Cody noticed most of the other boys seemed to edge away from Dante. Cody and Joey moved away too. But not before Dante spotted Cody and snickered.

A few minutes later, Coach called the Orioles together.

“Boys, I'm excited about this team,” he began. “We have some real talent and a great shot to do well this season if we play sound, fundamental baseball. With focus and the right teamwork, we have a chance to be really special. Now, let's go to work.”

For the better part of an hour, they had fielding drills: hitting the cutoff man, reviewing where to position themselves for bunts, throwing down to second base on a steal attempt with runners on first and third, etc. Cody was relieved to see that Coach shuttled Dante between third base and left field for the drills. And the big guy didn't seem too upset about the arrangement. At least he wasn't glaring at Cody and making throat-slashing gestures.

But that'll probably change, once he discovers I'm playing third, Cody thought. At which point my life will be over.

Cody could also see that Coach was right about the Orioles' chances of having a great season. Connor and Jordy were both terrific all-round players. Willie Pitts, the slender second baseman, was by far the fastest kid he had ever seen—Cody couldn't imagine anyone being able to throw him out on the base paths. Joey Zinno was an excellent catcher, with a cannon for an arm.

Dante was a far better left fielder than he was a third baseman, and Yancy Arroyo in center field was so smooth he seemed to glide effortlessly to fly balls. Even Gabe Molina in right field looked like a solid player who was not going to embarrass the Orioles.

The pitching seemed outstanding too—at least what Cody saw of right-hander Robbie Hammond, the coach's son, throwing on the sidelines. Robbie was the Orioles' number one pitcher, and Mike Cutko, the short lefty throwing beside him, was their number two.

The only player Cody couldn't figure out was a skinny, gawky-looking kid who took turns alternating with Gabe in right field. The boy never seemed to stop talking, even when he was chasing fly balls and line drives. He talked to anyone who would listen. And when they stopped listening, he kept yammering anyway.

“C'mon, you're better than that!” the kid yelled at himself after dropping an easy fly ball. When he misjudged a line drive a few minutes later, he cried out, “Get your head in the game, Marty!”

When the team finally took a water break, Cody sidled up to Connor and asked, “What's with the chatty guy in right field?”

Connor grinned and waved over Jordy and Willie.

“Jordy,” he said, “give us the scouting report on Marty.”

Jordy pretended to pull a notebook from his back pocket and thumb through several pages. “Ah, here it is,” he said. “Loopus, Marty. Can't hit. Can't catch. Can't throw.”

“Wait, there's been an addition,” Willie added, acting like he was reading from his own notes. “Says here the boy's slower than your grandma on the bases too.”

The three of them laughed. Cody cringed a little, feeling a sting of embarrassment on Marty's behalf. Cody knew how it felt to have kids judging you all the time.

But then Connor held up his hand. “Marty's actually great to have on our team, 'cause he's always trying to make us laugh,” he said. “He's probably the smartest kid in the whole school too. I heard he's never gotten anything but straight
A
's on his report card—since he was in kindergarten.”

“Doesn't help much when we're down in the last inning and need a big hit,” Willie said with a grin. “But if we ever go up against the other team in positive and negative integers, Marty's the man!”

Now all of them laughed together as Coach waved them back on the field for batting practice.

For the next forty-five minutes, the Orioles put on a show. It was one of those days when everyone was driving the ball. The whole team seemed totally focused—
scary
focused, actually—at the plate. Even Dante was spraying balls to all parts of the field, although he had a looping, totally unorthodox swing, like a guy hacking his way out of a jungle two-handed with a machete.

Connor, Jordy, and Cody, hitting back-to-back-to-back, were outstanding. Each ripped the ball hard on every swing, and each sent two balls soaring over the outfield fence. As Cody's final blast cleared the left-field fence and came to rest near the concession stand, the Orioles who were shagging balls in the outfield began bowing and chanting: “We're not worthy! We're not worthy!”

“Six bombs by three different guys!” Willie shouted. “Coach, you might as well tell the league to give us the trophy right now!”

On the mound, Coach nodded and grinned. He took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Something's going on!” he agreed. “Apparently everyone took their vitamins today!”

Well, almost everyone.

The only batter who struggled was Marty, who seemed to bounce the ball weakly back to the mound every time—when he made contact at all.

After whiffing on his final three swings, Marty threw his bat down in disgust. “Hitting is overrated,” he said, pulling off his batting gloves.

Leaning against the backstop, Connor nudged Cody and silently mouthed: “Watch this.”

“What about pitching and fielding?” Connor asked Marty.

“
Totally
overrated,” Marty said, rising to the bait. “Baserunning too. Who cares how fast you are? It's baseball, not a track meet.”

Connor let that statement hang in the air for a moment.

Finally he said, “So if hitting's not important, and pitching's not important, and neither is fielding and baserunning, how do you win baseball games?”

Marty shot him a knowing look. Then he placed a bony finger to his temple. “You win them up here, guys,” he said. “Brain power. Superior IQ. Or as I like to call it, the Loopus Factor.”

At this, all the Orioles within earshot cracked up. Marty grinned and said, “My job here is done,” and sauntered away. Cody realized it was the first time he had laughed that hard in weeks. He was amazed at how good it felt.

Why can't the good feelings ever last? he wondered as Coach signaled practice to a close. Then Cody remembered the two girls in art class this morning. When he sat down across from them, they had looked at each other and puffed out their cheeks like,
Check out the chunkster
.

Oh, yeah
, he said to himself.
That's why.