“Ball one.”
The pitcher attempts a pick-off but it’s more like a courtesy than anything and my teammate on first gets back without effort. His name is Matt too and he plays for Linden High so he knew most of the guys at camp before this summer. They call me “Matty 2,” which sounds a lot like Mateo but is definitely better than “Icha Icha.” They haven’t let that die all week.
“Foul!” the umpire barks as I take a hard swing and manage to get a piece, but the ball slides harmlessly from the catcher’s glove into the dirt behind the plate. Matt steps back to first, head low. I’m the last out of the game.
“Come on Matt, eye on the ball!” my father screams, even louder now, and I dig into the box again, forgetting to check the third base coach for signs. If this were the high school team I’d have to run laps at the next practice but the camp is over today, I don’t have to think about baseball or my teammates or my father’s constant screaming—like what does that even mean, where the hell else would my eyes be—I just want this camp to be over and summer to be over, so I can get back to school and get back to Stick. Like we used to be.
The pitcher sets up in the stretch and takes a long time to wind up, but I have his delivery figured out, or timed right, I was pretty close on the last one. It’s another fastball, I can tell from the spin on the seams, and I stride forward with my left leg, planting hard on my right, the slight uppercut I’ve perfected at camp driving the ball into play.
I take off for first as the ball clears the second baseman, skidding along the grass into the gap between right and center and picking up speed. I round the base and glance across the diamond at the other Matt, sprinting for third, but my cleats start to slip on the cracked infield dirt and I ease up at once, afraid that my ankle might give, it’s just I’m already committed to second, too far to turn back, and I see the right fielder pick up the ball and release.
I try to speed up again—the cleats sliding left then right but hovering enough just to push off the surface and I’m pretty fast, I’ve always been fast—but there’s only so fast that a runner can go before a throw from the outfield will cut him down at second base. The other Matt is rounding third, heading for home, and if I make it in safe, we’ll tie the game. I’m not going to make it.
The ball arrives before I can slide but it’s not a great throw—it’s too low—and if I slide just right I can avoid the tag and actually survive this. I’ve been afraid to slide all camp, like really slide when it matters on my bad ankle, so I’ve tried leading with my knee and my hip to keep my ankle from getting hit but lately, more often, I’ve gone head first—even though the coaches at camp tell me not to, that I’ll get hurt much worse, break a finger or jam a wrist and then it’s over, beyond any ankle injury. But this is the moment—no coach would blame me—I need to make this base to tie the game and I can’t be cautious and I can’t be nervous I just waited too long to decide so I slide too late and I stumble, shoulder first into the shortstop with an unplanned barrel roll that knocks him back off his feet and knocks me clear off the base, flat on my face on the hard cracked infield.
The shortstop finds the ball and tags me on the shoulder and the umpire calls me out. Either from the tag or the illegal slide or for making a massive ass of myself in front of everyone in the stands. I lie on the ground for as long as I can with a sharp pain shooting up from my wrist. There’s dirt in my eyes and I can’t feel my fingers. I just lost us the game.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
We’re in the car in the parking lot and Dad isn’t facing me, he’s got that vein bulging at the corner of his head, by the ear below the temple. I’ve seen it forever and I’m afraid it’s going to pop, in one angry burst of frustration. Sometimes I dream.
“Didn’t you know there were two outs? What were you doing on the on-deck circle?” He looks at me through the rearview mirror. “You need to know the goddamn game situation before you step up to the plate.”
I’ve got ice on my wrist from the first aid kit, the blue packs you need to crack when you embarrass yourself with a slide so bad you might have broken your wrist but you don’t want to admit it.
“You have to get your goddamn head in the game. You’re off in your la-la land dream world all the time, I can see it, I can see it in your eyes. Playing with those stupid cartoons all night.”
I’ve been watching Naruto every night after practice, not the baseball games like we used to, like Nico does now with Dad, but I stopped watching before this summer—why is he just noticing now—and if Stick and me were still hanging out, I’d be spending every night with him, not stuck in my basement watching Japanese anime.
“You ruined your whole day with that stupid play,” Dad says, finally looking at the road instead of the rear-view mirror. “Just when I thought you were actually making progress.”
My teammates weren’t that mad, I mean to them it’s only a game and camp is over and they probably won’t ever see me again anyway. Someone shouted “typical Icha” and got a rise from the others but I wasn’t paying attention, I stuck close to the dugout, receiving treatment on my wrist from one of the assistants. He told me to keep icing it until the swelling went down, to put a wrap on it overnight and keep from moving it too much. He said I should probably see a doctor to make sure it’s not broken.
“In what world does it make sense to try to take second there? The play is right in front of you!” Dad speeds through the parking lot to the exit. “It’s like you’re in another fucking world.”
“Jay, stop,” Mom says, more than a little late.
“What? He needs to hear this. He needs to learn.”
The wrist is swollen and discolored, turning thirty-eight shades of black then blue, from the ice or the instant bruising but it doesn’t hurt as much as when I hurt my ankle. I don’t think.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid. What did I tell you about game situations, Nico?”
“I think the first base coach was waving him on,” he says.
“First of all that wasn’t a fucking coach, just a kid on his team.”
“Jay!” Mom says. “Language.”
Jay don’t give a fuck. He’s not even looking at her, still focused through the mirror on the backseat.
“You don’t even look at the first base coach when the play is to right field. The goddamn ball is right in front of you!”
Nico shrinks into the seat and smacks his ball into his glove, and I give him a glance in appreciation even if his attempt didn’t work but he scowls at me because why wouldn’t he. Dad’s pissed enough to spread his anger around and no one can save me. I hate him.
“I can’t believe we sat in those stands for three hours to watch you blow the game for the whole team.”
I stare out the window, at the other cars in traffic, trying to concentrate on brake lights and store lights and the wailing sound of an ambulance in the distance but he’s already getting to me. I hate that he’s getting to me. I cried after a game last year, when I struck out with the bases loaded on a pitch above my head. Dad called me a sissy and said I should keep my head in the game.