Since the Mariners game, Curtis and Antonio had been getting along. When Curtis heard where our final game was being played, he told Antonio he’d be there, which meant Antonio had to be there too. “We’re cutting down a couple of old cedars in Woodland Park,” Curtis said, “so I can stop by during my lunch. You’d better do something good. You hear me?”
At noon, when the game started, gray clouds were heading our way from Puget Sound. Trees were swaying in the breeze, dropping the first leaves of fall; some of the walkers circling the lake were wearing long-sleeved shirts.
I’d found my rhythm against the Kirkland Owls, and I’d stayed in the zone after that. Against the Gophers, I threw easy—so easy—yet the ball shot across the plate. They had no chance.
Curtis arrived as I took the mound to pitch the bottom of the third. As he walked from his pickup truck toward the diamond, he waved. For an instant I thought he was waving to me, but his eyes were on Antonio. That threw me off for a few pitches, but then I rediscovered my rhythm. Three up; three down. Two pop-ups and a groundout.
In the top of the fourth, Dawit razzed me on the bench. “This is boring, Laz. Let them hit. We want some action.”
“Make some action f-for yourself,” I joked, looking down the bench. “Get some h-hits; score some r-runs.”
And they did, banging out three singles and a double. Two runs had already scored when Antonio stepped to the plate with two on and two out. He worked the count to 2-0 and then smoked a line drive into right center that plated both runners and brought Curtis to his feet. “Yes! Yes!” His voice boomed from behind me as Antonio slid safely into third.
“Last at bat,” their coach called out as I headed to the mound for the bottom of the fifth. I took the ball in my hand, turned around, and checked the fielders. Then, from nowhere, a wave of sadness broke over me.
Summer was done. Summer baseball was done. There wouldn’t be a North Central baseball team in the spring. This was my last time pitching with my guys from my neighborhood behind me.
“Let’s go!” a parent shouted from the sideline, and I snapped out of it.
It took eleven pitches for me to strike out the side.
Shutout.
No-hitter.
Perfect game.
PART
TWO
One
When I was little, the first day of school had been exciting. When had that stopped?
Antonio and I left early, trudging off in a light drizzle. “It’s going to be weird at school,” Antonio said as we neared North Central. “All those years, with everybody knowing I didn’t have a dad, and now I’ve got one.” He paused. “For as long as he stays.”
“He’ll s-stay.”
“How do you know?”
“I just feel it.”
Once we reached the campus, kids started calling out to him. “Hey, Antonio what’s up?” . . . “Antonio, who you got for gym?” . . . “Antonio, when’s your lunch period?”
It was as if I were invisible. The same thing happened every year and—in a smaller way—every day. I gave him a quick nod, and he nodded back. Then I headed to my first period class.
I’d barely passed Algebra I, so Algebra II—a state requirement for graduation—had me terrified. My teacher, Mr. Eagan, was new to the school and also looked like a brand-new teacher.
Eagan’s voice was shaky and his smile way too big as he introduced himself. It was the first period of the first day, but ten minutes into the class, kids got rowdy, leaning back and talking to kids rows behind him. Thirty minutes in, they had cell phones out and were texting or playing games. A girl made a phone call and then covered one ear so she could hear. Mr. Eagan—his smile gone—said, “Please, no phone calls during class,” but she kept talking.
During lunch, I joined a long line outside my counselor’s office. It took nearly the entire period before I was able to see Ms. Wilhelm, and she was not in a good mood. When I told her I wanted a different algebra teacher, she leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Seriously, Laz? One day? Not happening.”
I started to argue, but she flapped her hands in front of her face. “Goodbye, Laz. Door is right behind you.”
I had my hand on the doorknob when she suddenly snapped her fingers. “Wait one second. You’re the baseball player, right?”
I nodded.
“Sit back down.”
As I settled into the chair, she fumbled with papers on her desk. “You heard there’s not going to be a team this year?”
“I h-heard.”
“A man from Laurelhurst High called this morning,” she said as she shuffled through a stack of papers on her desk. “Here it is. Bill Thurman. He’s someone involved with their baseball team. He wants to talk to you about playing for them.” She slid the slip of paper to me. “You must be pretty good. Normally Laurelhurst doesn’t want anything to do with us.”
Two
For the rest of the day, I kept feeling in my pocket for that piece of paper, afraid I’d lost it. When sixth period ended, I headed to the library and found a study carrel in the back. I’m always in dread that I’ll stutter on the phone, and Mr. Thurman had to be Ian Thurman’s father, which made it worse. I took deep breaths for a few moments before I punched in the numbers.
“Bill Thurman,” a gravelly voice said after one ring.
“Hello,” I said, making myself speak slowly, “this is Laz Weathers returning—”
“Laz, glad to hear from you. You might remember me. You had quite a game against my son’s team this summer. The Seattle Marauders. We talked a little after.”
“I re-remember,” I said.
For the next few minutes he asked how I was doing, how my arm was feeling. In the dark of the carrel, my stutter mostly stayed hidden.
“Well, here’s why I called. Since your school won’t have a team this year, we here at Laurelhurst would like you to pitch for us. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds g-great.”
“Good. Listen, our off-season training program begins in a couple of weeks. It’s totally voluntary and has nothing to do with Coach Vereen or the school team, though most of the Laurelhurst players will be there. You’re welcome to participate, get a feel for what Laurelhurst baseball is about. Interested?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Officially, it’s the YMCA that runs the program, and they have forms that need to be filled out and signed. Talk to your parents and then call me with a good time for me to stop by. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Any questions you have for me?”
I swallowed. “My b-brother plays baseball, too. He’s a g-good hitter and a g-good fielder. He’s the one who g-got a d-double against your pitcher. He c-can come, right?”
There was a pause. “Sure he can. Like I said, the workouts are open to everyone. No guarantee that he’ll make the Laurelhurst team, though. No guarantee for you, either, for that matter, but you’re both welcome to try out.”
I thanked him and cut the connection. Then I carefully folded up the piece of paper with his phone number on it and tucked it into my wallet.