Ian Thurman was such a big star that even when the lowly North Central High Eagles played Laurelhurst a Seattle Times writer would be there, and so would major-league scouts. They’d come to see Thurman, but if I could dominate, then one scout from one team might write my name down in his notebook, and that team might someday give me a chance to prove myself in their minor-league system. That’s all I wanted: a chance.
I couldn’t do it alone, though. I needed the guys behind me to play the way they had early in the season. I thought about calling a team meeting, pictured myself standing tall on a bench, rallying the guys to give it their best shot: We play hard and smart, and we can beat these guys!
Then I reran the film, the second time seeing how it would actually play out. We p-p-play hard and s-s-smart, and we c-c-can b-beat these g-g-guys.
Six
Money is tight around our house, so Antonio and I both have jobs. He works at Home Depot watering plants; I work at the Aurora Driving Range, which is directly behind the trailer park. Mr. Matsui, the range pro, hired me when I was fifteen, and I’ve worked there ever since. I drive a John Deere Gator with a metal cage around me so I don’t get conked in the head by golf balls. The Gator has roller arms that gather up the golf balls and spit them into attached metal baskets. When the baskets are full, I dump the balls into a chute that leads to a ball dispenser, starting the cycle again.
I have a driver’s license, but I almost never get a chance to drive my mom’s Corolla, so tooling around in the utility vehicle is almost fun. There’s nothing fun about refilling the ball dispensers, though. A single golf ball doesn’t weigh much, but lifting basket after basket over your head makes your muscles burn. Still, I push myself to heave those baskets high. More arm strength means more miles per hour on the fastball.
When I finished work on the Friday night before the Laurelhurst game, Antonio wasn’t at the back fence with Garrett, which was great. Instead, he was waiting for me by the entrance to Jet City. “The guys are going to a movie at Oak Tree. Eight thirty. You in?”
I always play catch the night before a game because I want my arm to be a little tired when I take the mound. If I’m too rested, I overthrow and I’m wild. For years, Antonio had been my partner. Since he’d started hanging with Garrett, Mr. Leskov, the grizzled old guy who runs the community center, had taken his place.
“Come on, Laz,” Antonio said after I’d turned him down. “The movie is supposed to be hot. Lots of nice-looking girls. Nicer looking than Leskov.”
“C-C-C-C—”
Antonio waited. He always did.
“C-Couldn’t we go tomorrow night? After the game?”
He shook his head. “The guys are going tonight.”
At eight, while Antonio and the rest of them were walking to Oak Tree Cinema, I was playing catch with Mr. Leskov on the grass under the parking lot lights. The baseball went back and forth. Finally Leskov caught one of my throws and held the ball. “We stop now,” he called out. “You have good pitches in your game tomorrow. You strike three those boys.”
Seven
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened. Somebody—or a couple of somebodies—sneaked jugs of wine into the movie theater, and the wine got passed around.
The movie was one of those Girls Go Crazy films. Every time one of the girls took off her top, the guys stomped their feet, whistled, and hollered. They made such a racket that the manager turned on the lights and told them to hold it down.
They didn’t.
People watching other movies in the cineplex complained. The manager turned on the lights again and told them to leave.
They didn’t.
The manager called the cops. As the cops rousted the guys out, they found the wine. Nobody owned up, so the cops gave every kid a Minor in Possession citation and drove them home.
I was in my room listening to the Mariners game when the police knocked on the door of our trailer. Antonio wasn’t drunk and he hadn’t copped an attitude, and the officer told my mom that.
“What happens next?” she asked when she saw the citation.
“Juvenile court, then a class on drug and alcohol abuse. Your boy stays out of trouble, and they’ll wipe this off his record. He doesn’t, they won’t.”
Saturday morning, when I came out from my room, Antonio was eating cereal at the kitchen table, his face glum. As I moved to join him, Mom’s cell, which was sitting on the kitchen table, started ringing. Coach Kellogg’s name popped onto the screen. Antonio and I looked at each other, unsure what to do. Before we had to decide, Mom’s bedroom door burst open. She grabbed the phone and took it to the sofa. We stopped eating and listened.
Kellogg did most of the talking. All Mom said was, “Yes . . . Yes . . . That doesn’t seem fair . . . If there’s no choice, there’s no choice . . . I’ll tell him.”
After she cut the connection, she glared at Antonio, then turned to me. “Laz, that was your coach. He knows about last night. Your brother and the rest of them are off the team. League rules. Your coach says he won’t have enough players to field a team, so he’ll have to forfeit all the remaining games. Your season is over.” Her eyes returned to Antonio. She started to say something, but stopped.
After I finished my cereal, I walked the gravel roads of Jet City, kicking at rocks, my head pounding, my guts empty. Sure, I still had my senior year, but I’d be a no-name senior pitching on a terrible team, and when my senior year ended, I’d be just another guy who pitched a little in high school.
* * *
I followed every game of the state playoffs, even though it was like picking at a scab. Laurelhurst made it to the quarterfinals before getting shut out—again—by Jesuit High’s Fergus Hart. The Seattle Times article said it was the seventeenth time Pop Vereen, their coach, had taken a Laurelhurst team into the state playoffs and the seventeenth time they’d been knocked out, making him the winningest losing coach in high school baseball history. Jesuit went on to capture the state championship for the third straight year, and Fergus Hart, not Ian Thurman, was Washington Player of the Year.
Eight
Select baseball teams cost money, so that was never happening for me or anybody from North Central. But every summer, Mr. Leskov rounded up enough guys to field a sandlot team, wrangled a local sporting goods store into donating T-shirts and a few bats and balls, and then called coaches of real teams to arrange games.
Considering the way the school season had fizzled, I didn’t think Mr. Leskov would be able to put together a summer team. “I’m not sure any g-guys will want to p-play,” I told him.
He waved his hands above his head. “Don’t worry, Laz. We’ll get a team together. You and me.”
North Central Community Center has a basketball court, a swimming pool, tennis courts, a weight room, a video room, a TV room, foosball, Ping-Pong tables, and fields for soccer and baseball. It’s the best thing in North Central, and it’s where kids who want to stay out of trouble hang out.
Mr. Leskov quickly signed up Dawit and a handful of other guys who’d played on the North Central team. We needed more players, though, so Mr. Leskov and I walked around, badgering guys who barely spoke English into signing up to play a game they barely understood. Actually, it was Mr. Leskov who did the badgering. He knew about my stutter, so he had me stand next to him holding the sign-up sheet. “What else are you going to do?” he demanded of random kids. Then he pointed a finger at himself and tapped it hard against his chest. “You see me, old white man with funny Russian accent? But I was once young buck like you. Trouble call for me like it calls for you. You play baseball, then no drugs, no drinking, no getting girlfriend with baby. Here, put your name down. Baseball is America.”