She wasn’t eating—I guess she was waiting for Curtis—but she sat with me. “What are you thinking?” she asked when I was about done.
“N-Nothing.”
“Something’s on your mind. Laz. Tell me.”
I used a crust of the toast to push the last of the egg onto my fork. I kept my head down. “What was my d-dad like?”
I hadn’t planned on asking. I’m not even sure I knew I was thinking about him until the words came out.
Mom sat back. “Your dad was just a boy, Laz. Just a boy.”
I kept my eyes on my plate. “Do you ever t-try to g-get in touch with him?”
“No.”
“Do you think he m-might—”
“Laz, your dad is gone, and he’s not coming back. I’m sorry.”
Seventeen
We had a game a couple days later. Antonio had missed two of the last three games, and when it was time to head over to the community center, he was missing again. Whenever he didn’t play, the team was flat, the effort not there. If he kept skipping games, other guys would skip, too.
I texted him. Game. North Acres. 1 hour. U there?
I stared at the phone, waiting for a reply. It came ten minutes later: try 2 b
As I warmed up, I kept looking for him.
Then, as the game was starting, Garrett’s Subaru pulled into the parking lot. The passenger door opened, and Antonio stepped out. He made it to the bench as Dawit, leading off, strode to the plate. The guys on the bench all called out to Antonio, glad he’d shown up, but I was angry.
“Where were you?” I asked.
He picked up on my irritation. “I’m here, Laz. Okay?”
We were playing Bitter Lake, a team not even close to the Seattle Marauders in talent. If I’d been on my game, I would have dominated, but I couldn’t get settled. And I was unlucky, which made everything worse. They hit some balls hard, but even their weak hits seemed to find holes. We lost 10–0.
During our last at bat, I’d seen Antonio on his phone. And while the rest of us were shaking hands with the Bitter Lake guys, he was driving off with Garrett.
* * *
When we got back to the community center, I helped Mr. Leskov unload the equipment, got Pushkin out of his orange shirt, and then walked to Jet City. Inside the trailer, Curtis was sprawled on the sofa, his feet up, watching SportsCenter on his big TV. I headed into the kitchen, where I made myself a peanut butter sandwich, and was just sitting down to eat when Curtis appeared in the doorway. “Where’s Antonio?”
“I d-don’t know.”
“He wasn’t at the game?”
“He was there. “
“So why didn’t he come back with you?”
I shrugged.
“You two don’t hang out?”
“Not t-too m-much.”
I took a bite of my sandwich, hoping Curtis would go back to the sofa, but he stayed. “So, are you kind of the nerdy older brother? Is that what I’m seeing?”
He was smiling, as if he were making a joke, but I felt a sting.
“I g-guess.”
“His friends. They’re okay, though. Right?”
Just then the front door opened and Mom stuck her head in. “Hey, can somebody give me a hand with the groceries?”
“You got it,” Curtis said. Within minutes, grocery bags were on the kitchen table and I was in my room.
Eighteen
I had another rotten start against the Kirkland Owls, maybe because Antonio had skipped out again. In the van, Dawit said he’d seen him and Garrett heading downtown on Aurora Avenue. “Did he quit the team?” Dawit asked. “Because if he quits, I think I’ll quit, too.”
“He didn’t quit.”
My mind wasn’t on baseball when I took the mound. I walked the first two guys and then threw a wild pitch to the third hitter, allowing the runners to move up to second and third.
Then came something I wasn’t expecting. Mr. Leskov, for the first time all season, called time and strode out to the mound. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “Your head in sky.”
“I’ll do better.”
“We get new pitcher? Maybe Dawit. Maybe Nelson.”
“N-No. I can p-pitch.”
He glared at me. “You pitch then. You strike three these guys or someone else try.” With that, he stomped back to the bench.
I turned and looked out at my teammates, comical in their bright orange T-shirts. They didn’t know Joe DiMaggio from Joe Montana. Still, they were doing their best, just like Leskov—who knew nothing about baseball. With or without Antonio, I needed to do my best.
I didn’t worry about painting the corners. I poured pitch after pitch across the plate, trusting my stuff. And it worked. I struck out Kirkland’s three-hitter and their cleanup guy. I thought I’d strike out the side, but the number-five batter looped a soft line drive toward short right. Ivan Burgos raced back and then dived. The ball stuck out of the top of his glove like a scoop of vanilla ice cream, but he hung on for the third out. The guys came in from the field excited, pounding Ivan on the back and giving me knuckle bumps.
We scored twice in the second to take the lead. In their half of the inning, I got the first two outs quickly. With two strikes on the next hitter, I threw a curve that sat in the middle of the plate like a pumpkin.
The Owl batter swung from the heels and caught the ball in the sweet spot, sending a towering drive to center. I was sure it was over Dawit’s head, but that guy can fly. At the last moment he reached up and snagged the ball before tumbling head over heels to the ground.
Dawit grinned as he ran in. When he reached second base, he stopped and did a little dance on the bag. The infielders, who’d all waited for him, gave him high-fives. We ended up winning 8–0—the first game we’d won without Antonio.
In the van going back to North Central, with Pushkin’s paws digging into my thighs, I texted Antonio, giving him the score and a couple of highlights. No response. I held the phone as the miles clicked away. Where was he? What was he doing?
Finally it vibrated.
C grats.
Nineteen
Back at the community center, I helped Mr. Leskov put away the bats, balls, and gloves, then headed to my job. When someone called my name, I turned and saw Coach Kellogg walking toward me. None of the teachers or coaches at North Central High lived near the school. Why was he here?
“Laz, good to see you. How’d your game go?”
“P-pretty good.”
“Did you win?”
“Yeah. Eight to zip.”
“Shutout. That’s more than pretty good.” He motioned to a couple of chairs by the window that looked out at the jungle gym. “Got a minute?”
We sat, and he tugged at his scruffy beard. “My wife just had a baby, a little girl. I’ve taken a teaching job at Lake Stevens High, which is close to my home, so I can help out more. I wanted to tell you in person and to thank you for all you’ve done for the baseball program at North Central.”
I paused, trying to figure out what to say. “I’ll m-m-miss you, Coach,” I said, the right words finally coming. “The whole t-team will.”