Joey Pigza Loses Control (10 page)

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Authors: Jack Gantos

BOOK: Joey Pigza Loses Control
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“That's my caveman,” Dad said. He put down his beer bottle and curled his arm around my shoulder as we marched for the car.
“I've been thinking,” he said, as soon as the car door closed. “Once you win this game I want to get my skull tattoo reworked, and if you want you can get your ear pierced.”
“I want to,” I said, fiddling with my earlobe, “but Mom doesn't want me to.”
“What are you? A mama's boy? Get it pierced.”
“I shouldn't,” I said. “I told Mom I wouldn't.”
“Look, your dog's ear is pierced, so why not yours?”
“That was an accident—”
“Some accidents are good,” he said. “Like you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. But instantly I knew what he meant because I knew what it meant when parents called their kids “accidents.” It meant they didn't plan for them, and probably didn't want them, that they were mistakes. And when Dad said “accident” it made me think I was less than wanted when I arrived—and suddenly I remembered when we were at Storybook Land he laughed at the Old Lady Who Lived
in a Shoe and said she had a “few too many accidents.”
“Joey,” Dad said, “just chill. I didn't mean anything by it.”
“I want to call Mom,” I said. “I want to ask her if I was an accident.”
“She'll tell you the same thing I have,” he insisted. “You were a happy accident.”
“If it was so happy how come you took off?”
“Because I wasn't happy,” he said. “I was messed up.”
“And what are you now?” I asked.
“Better,” he said. “I think you're rubbing off on me in a good way.”
He reached out to rub my head but I scooted across the seat to my door. I didn't talk to him anymore and instead flicked the automatic door lock up and down about a million times because it was better to listen to that click, click, clicking sound than to him saying over and over that I wasn't an accident.
As soon as the car stopped in the parking lot I grabbed my gym bag and jumped out. “Come back,” he called. “It was an accident that I called you an accident.” But by then I was headed for the bathroom where there was a pay phone.
“Think about this, Joey,” he hollered behind me. “Would I want you here now if it wasn't my plan to keep you for good?”
That's all I heard because after that I was only listening to my cleats crunching the gravel and the sound of my breath sucking in and pushing out. I wanted to call Mom and ask her if I was an accident but I didn't have any phone money on me so I turned around. I lowered my head and kept walking. I passed Dad. I passed the players. I walked all the way out to the mound and marched around and around the edge and stomped the dirt down flat and nobody bothered me until the catcher threw me the ball and I threw a few warm-up pitches then said, “I'm ready.”
The other team batted first.
“Come on, caveman,” Dad hollered. “Bury this kid.”
I lobbed an easy one in there and the batter knocked it out of the park.
“Time-out,” Dad yelled to the umpire, and trotted out to the mound. “Something wrong?” he asked.
“It was an
accident,
” I said, and smiled. “A mistake.”
“Joey, we can talk about that later,” he said. “But for now, just pitch the ball.” He turned and trotted to the coach's box.
I walked the next batter. And the next one.
“Time-out,” Dad called. He trotted out to the mound again. “What's the problem?”
“Get me Leezy's telephone,” I said. “I want to call Mom.”
“Not now, Joey,” Dad said impatiently.
“Either I call Mom now, or I'll walk the whole team,” I replied.
“what's gotten into you?” he asked angrily. “Huh?”
“You,” I said.
He sighed. Then he held up a finger to the ump. “Family emergency!” he yelled as he ran over to Leezy, pulled the phone out of her purse, and returned.
“Stand outside my circle,” I said to him as I took the phone, then dialed the number. He backed away.
“Hi, Mom,” I said when she picked up, and before she could say anything I blurted out, “Was I an accident?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“You know, was I a baby accident you didn't want?”
“No,” she said right back. “No. Not at all. Who told you that?”
I could tell she was getting mad. Really mad. “Dad told me,” I said. “Do you want to speak to him?”
“Yes,” she said harshly. “Put him on.”
I held out the phone like it was a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. Dad reached for it. He turned away from me and they had a few sharp words and finally he growled, “We don't have all night to discuss this. We're standing on the mound in the middle of a playoff game.” In a moment he handed me the phone.
“Joey,” Mom said, changing the subject, “are you taking your medication?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I have a patch on right now.”
“Then listen to your father, Joey. I'm sure he can't be happy with you talking on the phone during a game. And I'm not either. Now give your father back the phone and play ball. We'll talk later. Okay? Call me after the game.”
“Okay,” I said. “I just want to know that I'm more than an accident.”
“You're my reason for living, breathing, and grinding my teeth,” she said with a laugh. “Now mow those players down and bring that trophy home for me.”
“Okay,” I said. I handed Dad the phone. “I feel better.”
“No more tricks,” he warned me. “Or else.”
He walked off as the umpire was walking toward the mound and the other coach was yelling and the players were shouting at us from the dugout and even some parents were booing and calling for us to forfeit the game.
But after Dad left I settled down and struck out the side and that made everyone quiet. I went back to the dugout and sat with my hat down over my face. Then I remembered I had my tape player in my bag so I got it out and ran the wires up the back of my shirt and put the speakers in my ears and turned it on really loud. I started rocking back and forth and scratching at my head again.
“Hey,” Leezy said, surprising me as she tugged a speaker out of my ear. “What's wrong with your noggin?
You're scratching like you got a family of fleas up there.”
“Yeah,” I said, and lifted the hat off my face. “I have fleas. Pablo gave them to me,”
“Well, we'll get a flea collar for you,” she said. “And a matching one for Pablo too.”
I smiled.
“Your dad said you're nervous,” she ventured. “Anything I can do to help?”
According to Dad I was supposed to help myself. I knew she was trying to be nice to me and I wanted to be nice back, but there wasn't anything in me that wanted to talk. My mouth was dry and I just felt itchy all over and the only thing that made me feel better was the music. So I covered my face with my hat, jammed the little speakers even deeper inside my ears, and nodded along, and that was good until she tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the mound.
“You're on,” she mouthed.
I stood up and lifted my hat. I shoved the tape player into my back pocket and ran out to the mound and with the Brass playing “Tangerine” it seemed that I wasn't nervous at all and I calmed down and just pitched and kept getting batters out and rolling along. Our team scored a few runs and I kept their team from doing any damage. But by the fifth inning my tape player batteries started to wear down and the songs got all loopy and I started to feel loopy too. I
had two strikes on a batter when I looked over to Dad.
“Time-out!” I hollered, and popped the speakers out of my ears.
Dad trotted up to the mound. “What is it this time?” he asked.
“I need new batteries,” I said.
“For your arm?” he asked.
“My tape player.” I turned around and showed him the player in my back pocket and the wires running up my shirt and out my neck. “It helps me concentrate,” I said.
“You just don't want to hear me hollering at you,” he replied.
“I don't like it when you yell,” I said, agreeing. “I'm just trying to do my best.”
“Then just
pitch,
” he said. “And I won't yell. This isn't a dance. It's a baseball game.”
“No batteries,” I said, “no pitching.” I held out the ball for him.
“Come on,” the ump called out. “Let's keep the game moving.”
“Give me an inning to get them, Joey,” Dad said. “Be reasonable. I don't have batteries in my pocket.”
“Okay,” I replied. “One inning.” Dad ran back to the coach's box and I struck the batter out.
By the time I returned to the bench and scratched my itchy spot some more, Leezy ran up with four batteries.
“Joey,” she asked, and pointed to my head, “are you telling me the truth about you being okay?”
I loaded the batteries in my tape player. “Giant fleas,” I said.
“Your head's bleeding,” she replied, and tried to touch me, but I hopped up and put my hat on.
After I struck out and our team scored a few more runs I went back out to the mound. We had a four-run lead when I looked over to Dad and smiled. He smiled back and looked very happy. I waved to him. He waved back.
“Time-out!” I yelled, and turned my tape player off.
Dad ran straight at me like a bull.
“What is it this time?” he asked.
“I want to have a conversation,” I said. “It's been bothering me that I came all this way to see you but you never told me why you never came to see me.”
“You want to talk about this now?” he snarled, spitting out his words and jabbing at me with his finger. “You spend the entire day with me and you don't say boo and now you want to talk?”
“That's because you do all the talking,” I said.
“Well, I'm not talking now,” he replied. “No way. Pitch!”
“Come on, son,” the ump hollered. “This is your final warning. We can't do this all night. Either you play or you pack it up.”
“Bring me Pablo,” I said. “I want Pablo with me.”
“Let's go,” the ump said.
“Pablo,” I repeated. “Get him.”
“Next inning,” Dad said with his face as tight as a fist. “And you can throw him for strikes for all I care.”
The ump started toward the mound. “One more time-out,” he threatened, “and the kid is ejected.”
“Don't blow this for me,” Dad said under his breath. “Or else.”
I turned the music back on as he pranced away with his arms and legs slapping together like a set of wind chimes. Once he was back in the coach's box and the umpire took his place, I went into my windup then rolled the ball all the way to the plate.
“Strike!” I yelled, and threw my arms up into the air like a champion.
“This isn't bowling!” Dad hollered.
“I'm throwing strikes,” I yelled back, and I knew I had got him just about as mad as I wanted him to be, so then I pitched real strikes the rest of the inning. And a few innings later, when I finished the game, I had my tape player blaring and Pablo inside my shirt curled up like a beer belly hanging over my belt. We won six to three but Dad looked like he had fallen off the bungee bridge without the cord and I felt the same way.
The first thing he said to me when I came to the dugout was, “You are going to drive me to drink.”
“Don't be mad at me,” I said. “I need some medicine.”
“You're taking this
hyper
thing too far,” he said angrily. “You don't need medicine. You need to get a grip on yourself.”
“Fine,” I said. “I'll get a grip.” I wrapped my arms around myself and spun around in circles. Dad grabbed me by the shoulders and I squirmed away and did a jagged little dance while he tried to settle me down.
“Okay, boys,” Leezy ordered, and got her arms between us. “Let's walk it off.” She turned him around and shoved him toward the scoreboard.
“Dad,” I yelled, and stuck out my hand. “Give me five and let's make up.”
“Don't push your luck, Joey,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “I've had enough of your tricks for one night.”
Leezy reached out and took my hand. “Time to go home,” she said calmly. “You've had a long day.”

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