Force Out (18 page)

“Okay, what about after that? Ten years from now?”

Joey stammered. “The m-majors, I guess.”

“You guess? You'll never make it if you have to guess. It has to burn in your gut like a disease you can't shake.”

Joey didn't like that image, but he understood it. He even thought he might feel that. “I do.”

“If you do, then one or two years to fix a swing is nothing. It's just part of the program. That's what separates the great ones. It's an obsession, a disease in their minds they can never cure.” Coach V's eyes were definitely scary, and Joey was relieved when he turned them on Zach. “Get it?”

Zach nodded and tried again. This time the bat merely brushed the fence.

“See? You can do it. It feels like wearing your undershorts backward, I know, but you'll get used to it. All right. Back to the plate. I want to work on getting you to step through and start running, just like Ichiro.”

Zach grinned at Joey and winked.

They spent all morning there at the ball field before Mr. James took them to Denny's for lunch. When Coach V excused himself to wash his hands, Joey remembered to offer Zach's dad to help pay for whatever costs there were in bringing Coach V in to help them.

“You tell your mom and dad that I appreciate the offer very much, but I've got it covered,” Mr. James said.

“I think you got that running thing down,” Joey said to Zach as he sipped a chocolate milk shake.

“What about your power?” Zach said.

“I know. This was awesome. We're gonna win this tournament.”

“
V
for victory.” Zach held up the sign and so did Joey.

“Well, you know what I say,” Mr. James said. “The only sure thing is that there's no sure thing.”

Zach rolled his eyes.

The next two nights at practice, Coach Weaver couldn't help but notice Joey and Zach getting even better. He pulled them aside after practice when Coach Barrett wasn't around.

“I could honestly see you two both making it to the select tryouts,” Coach Weaver said. “You just play tomorrow like you practiced these past two nights and if we make it even to the semifinals, I think you guys are gonna be a lock.”

Joey and Zach made silent
V
signs to each other, and Joey grinned so hard his cheeks hurt.

For Joey, life was back on track. Leah made his blood rush. All he had to do was look at her text messages and remember her kiss to know that she liked him, too. He was on track to travel the world this summer, and Mr. Kratz and his dog seemed like something from a distant dream. All he had to do was play baseball the way he knew he could. There was nothing to stop him.

The night before the big tournament, Joey messaged on Everloop with Leah, talking about all sorts of things before wishing each other good luck. Him in baseball, her in lacrosse. Leah promised she'd see him in the finals on Sunday.

He typed:

if we make it

She typed back:

YOU WILL!
☺
xoxo

Joey went up to bed with a smile on his face. He started a new book,
Pop
by Gordon Korman, read four chapters, and fell into a dreamless sleep. When he woke, a songbird trilled outside his window. He pulled back the curtain, but instead of flying, it cocked its head at him and sang again. He stretched and yawned, then jumped out of his sheets when he saw Martin on the floor quietly and carefully filling his baseball mitt with a handful of cat litter.

He snatched the glove so violently from Martin's hands that his little brother sucked in a breath and held it, looking at him with bugged-out eyes and turning blue before he let out an earsplitting shriek. Joey winced and panicked and tried to give him the glove back to quiet him down, but it was no good. Martin only paused to gasp for more air to fuel his rage.

Joey's mom flung open the door and scooped him up. She glared at Joey and shouted. “What did you
do
?”

“Nothing, Mom. He had my glove.” Joey hated the whine in his voice. Just once he wanted to answer her without sounding as weak as a soggy worm. “He wouldn't give it back, and I have to go.”

She hugged Martin tight to her. Already he had begun to sniffle and go quiet. Joey saw the light go off in her head at the sound of his words.

“You're not going
anywhere
.” She snarled and left his room with Martin, slamming the door on her way out. Her voice roared through the wood. “You just sit there and
think
about it, mister.”

And as if he hadn't suffered enough and battled back through all kinds of adversity—with good intentions all along the way—it was over just like that. He'd heard of stories like this, good people who met with cruel injustice, but in the stories he read it never happened that way. Someone always stepped in to save the day. Not for him. He could tell by her words and tone, his punishment would be final. He threw his glove to the floor with a resounding thump. His little brother—a brat of epic proportions—had undone not just the all-star tournament today but therefore his baseball career and, yes, his entire life.

It began the way of a rainstorm, an ever-growing patter of muffled sentences between his parents that soon turned to a torrent of words that could be heard through the walls. Martin began to cry and Joey thought that might end all hope, but it didn't. Thunder began to rumble, and Joey knew that he had a chance, and he knew that chance was his father, again.

BOOM.

His mother began to stomp her feet.

BOOM.

It sounded like his father's fist on the kitchen table.

The whole thing horrified Joey as much as it fascinated him. He pressed his ear to the door of his room and began to make out their words, shrieks now like hurricane winds blasting up through the cracks in the walls.

“He does know what he's doing. He manipulates you all the time. He does it with
me
!
”

Joey wrinkled his forehead, then realized his father was talking about Martin.

“And you spoil Joseph. He can do no wrong in your eyes!” His mother's reply was bittersweet.

“He did no wrong. Martin stuffed his glove with cat crap. He took it away. What was he supposed to do?”

“Not bully him and make him cry!”

BOOM.

“He's crying now. Are you gonna make me stay home all weekend, too?”

“Don't pat my arm like I'm some kitten! That's what they did to my brother! They
bullied
him! That's how he died!”

BOOM.

“He is
not
your brother, Marsha. Joey isn't a bully, and our Martin is far from frail. You have to stop!”

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

And then, just like a rainstorm. It ended. And as the trees will shed the remains of a downpour with softly falling drops, so Joey's mom cried bitter tears that Joey had heard before and knew weren't entirely because of him or his actions.

Joey heard footsteps coming up the stairs and he retreated to his bed. His father opened the door. His voice was soft but strong. “Come on, Joey. We've got to get you to the tournament.”

Joey yanked on his uniform like some kind of magic act.

“Your glove.” His father pointed to the corner of his room where Joey had thrown it.

He retrieved the glove, shaking out the cat litter as he jogged down the stairs behind his father. It was like some kind of prison break, the way they both moved fast and silent. Joey sensed his mother in the den but didn't slow down. Into the Jeep they climbed and his father backed out of the driveway quickly enough that Joey rocked in his seat. They rode for several minutes in silence before his father spoke.

“Your mother doesn't mean anything by it.”

“I took my glove back. I didn't even touch him and he went nuts. There's cat litter all over it.” Joey raised the glove.

“I know you'd never hit him, even though I'm sure there's times you'd like to. You've been a great kid like that, Joey. Martin is a rascal, and even though he's just three, he plays your mom like a fiddle. I probably shouldn't have let her name him after her brother, but you know how she gets.”

“What happened to him?” Joey had never been told and had always known better than to ask. “Her brother, I mean.”

His father sighed. It took several minutes before he spoke. “He always had a tough time. He was quiet and—I don't know—there was always something a little off about him. I don't know, he might have been mildly autistic. They never would get him tested. Anyway, he got picked on a lot. He wasn't much older than you, Joey.

“You ever hear someone say, ‘Well, if so-and-so told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?' Well, that's what they did. Not really told him—the other kids were doing it, too—but Martin had no business being up there. He used to fall down the stairs at home for no reason at all. Anyway, they were all jumping off the bridge into the river. He didn't want to, but they tormented him—nothing new. It was very sad. He jumped and then tried to change his mind and ended up hitting his head. Your mom didn't talk for a month, I mean not a word to anyone. Nothing.”

Joey thought of all the times he could have been a little nicer to his little brother if he'd only known how much it would have meant to his mom. He promised himself to do better.

“That was fifteen years ago,” his father said. “That's when your mom decided she was going to be a policewoman and fight for all the Martins out there. To protect and serve, the perfect motto for her. That's why she's locked onto this thing with your teacher. She looks at him as this misunderstood, tormented loner. Someone like her brother.

“I think for your sake, she's waiting until after today so it's not uncomfortable with the Barretts, but after that, the gloves will come off.” His father shook his head. “God help whoever did that to his dog.”

Joey stared straight ahead. They pulled into the park. His dad wished him luck. He forced a smile, got out, and jogged for the field, where they had their first game of the tournament. Zach took one look at his face and asked what was wrong.

“Nothing. I'm fine.” Joey wasn't going to even get into it. His plan was to lose himself in the game. He was determined not to repeat his breakdown during the championship, and he was thankful he'd had a full night's sleep to carry him through the day.

No one would say it was a perfect day for baseball. It wasn't supposed to rain, but Joey wouldn't be surprised if it did. Overhead, fat clouds, dark as smoke, floated under a canopy of high, gray wisps. A stiff wind frisked his uniform, and he tugged his hat down snug to keep it from blowing off.

Coach Weaver called them together. He wore a long face. “So . . . we got a tough draw, that's all I can say. We play East Side right out of the gate, and they've got a pitcher that I'm not going to try to dance around about. Jack Atkins. He's good. Probably the best pitcher in the tournament. Good news is, even if we don't win—and I'm not saying we won't—we're not out of it. This is a double elimination tournament, so even if we don't get him this time, if we win back through the tournament, we can get another shot at him in the championship tomorrow.”

It was as if Coach Weaver had a crystal ball.

They lost to the East Side team 9–3. As Coach predicted, their top pitcher, Jack Atkins, was outstanding. He stood a head taller than the rest of his teammates and he played that way, too. Even Zach struck out on his first at bat, as did the next two up. Joey nailed a home run to start off the second, but that was it. With a 7–1 lead, the East Side coach pulled Atkins, presumably to rest him for the championship.

When Zach got up in the fourth, he hit a home run of his own against the number two pitcher. Joey blasted another in the fifth, but the rest of the team struggled, even against Atkins's backup. Neither Joey nor Zach got to the plate again.

On defense, Cole Price—Joey's nemesis from the Little League championship game—started out on the mound. He struggled, though, and after the second inning Coach Weaver pulled him for another pitcher. Joey heard the head coach tell Coach Barrett he wanted to save Price and knew he could do better tomorrow if they were lucky enough to work their way up the back of the bracket and into the finals.

“We'll need him if we're going to have a chance to beat these guys,” Coach Weaver had said.

“We may need him later today just to get the chance.” That was Coach Barrett's reply. “But he's got to get his head out of the dirt.”

Coach Weaver just frowned and jammed his hands deep in his pockets.

When the game ended, Coach Weaver brought them all together in a tight huddle. “Now, listen to me. I told you the Atkins kid was good, but we can
beat
them. Some of you didn't play as well as you can. I know we're better than just three hits. If we do our thing, we'll beat everyone else, and I'm telling you we're going to face these guys again tomorrow afternoon in the championship.”

That's what they did. After losing to East Side, Joey's team cut through their next two opponents like a meat cleaver through a cupcake. Everything that broke down versus East Side worked against the other teams. By the end of the day, they'd played three games. Joey had five home runs. Zach had three. The two of them stood out on defense as well. They both made some stunning plays—scoops and snatches by Zach at shortstop and some wild stretch and catch outs by Joey at first.

Saturday night, Joey fell into his bed, exhausted and in an apparent truce with his mom. She'd shown up halfway through the first game and stayed all day with Martin sitting between her and Joey's dad. Between games they ate pizza together as a family at one of the picnic tables under the trees by the playground. Joey even took time to roll a baseball back and forth to Martin in the grass. While there wasn't any anger in the air, Joey couldn't help noticing that his parents didn't touch each other like they usually did and they had a funny way of looking into the distance when they spoke to each other.