Safe at Home (9 page)

“Hey.” Halfway up the stairs already.

“Have fun at the fair?” he heard from behind him.

“Yeah.”

“I know this is probably a dumb question, after
an afternoon of junky fair food, but are you hungry? I’m going out in a little while, but I could fix you something right now if you want.”

“No thanks.” All the way at the top of the stairs now.

Closing the door behind him.

Trying to do what he had done behind closed doors just like this one a lot in his life: hope that tomorrow would be better.

Only right now, Nick couldn’t make himself believe that, no matter how hard he tried.

He was quieter that night at dinner than he had been on all the other nights since baseball season had started. Or maybe dinner was quieter than usual because it was just his dad and him. His mom had left a few minutes ago for a book club meeting.

Finally his dad said, “Nick, is there something bothering you?”

Nick, keeping his head good and low over his food, said, “I’m fine.”

Paul Crandall said, “Well, you don’t act as if you’re fine. Did something happen at the fair?”

Now Nick looked up. He could see his dad really wanted to know. But what good would it do to tell him the truth? Nick wasn’t even sure a
baseball
dad would have been able to understand—or explain—what had really happened in front of that dunking booth today.

“It was nothing,” Nick said, just managing to stop himself before he added “that you’d understand.”

“Sounds like something to me.”

Nick knew he wasn’t going to get away with the silent treatment this time. So, knowing he wasn’t telling it very well, he ran through the story as fast as he’d run away from that dunking booth.

The faster he talked, the less chance there was for him to start crying. That’s the way he looked at it.

When Nick finished, his dad just sat there.

Paul Crandall said, “But it was just some silly game at the fair. Not a real one.”

“That’s just it,” Nick said. “It
felt
like one,” then added, “because a lot of the guys from the team were there. All week long they’d seen me make bad throws, and now with them all standing there, I couldn’t make
any
kind of throw.”

“But you’re a wonderful thrower,” his dad said. “I’ve seen it myself. I realize I’m no baseball expert—”

Tell me about it, Nick thought.

“—but one doesn’t lose one’s ability to throw in a single week.”

“I did,” Nick said.

“You’re really being silly,” his dad said. “It’s not as if you’ve become a total failure at baseball in the span of a few short days.”

“You’re used to having all the answers, and you have no clue about this!” Nick yelled, slamming the table, rattling plates and glasses and silverware. “Like you have no clue about
me
!”

He couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t stop himself. It was as if everything that had been happening in baseball, everything that had happened all week at practice and now at the fair, came spilling out of him, spilling all over the table like water over the side of a tub, no way for him to stop it, even if he wanted to.

Which he didn’t.

“You don’t know anything about what it’s like to
fail!” Nick said. Still yelling. “You’re the one whose job it is to
tell
people when they’re failing.”

“Son, you’re missing the point entirely—”

Paul Crandall looked to his left as if his wife were in her usual chair, like he was looking for her to help him out.

Or save him from not being able to understand his own son.

“Well, you don’t have to tell
me
I’m failing,” Nick said. “Failing at school, failing at baseball…”

The last part just came out, one last part of this he couldn’t stop if he’d tried:

“… failing at being your son.”

For the second time that day, Nick ran.

First varsity game, at home, against Valley Falls.

And even though the school day seemed to take twice as long as usual, it was finally, at long last, time for the top of the first.

Nick hadn’t exactly thrown cheese during warm-ups. But he had done all right the few times he’d thrown down to Joey Johnson at second base.

At least I released the ball this time, Nick told himself after his first throw got to Joey on the fly.

Maybe I’m making progress.

His parents both had late classes today but said they’d try to make it for the last couple of innings. Gracie said she’d be there as soon as lacrosse practice was over. And of course Jack was there, Jack trying to relax Nick during warm-ups every chance he got.

“You want to know how I look at the whole situation?” Jack said while Nick was putting on his catching gear.

“Not really,” Nick said.

“Well, I’m going to tell you, anyway.”

“I was afraid of that.”

Jack grinned. “Since the worst thing that probably will ever happen to you already happened at the fair,” he said, “you’ve got no worries from here on out.”

Nick stopped fastening his shin guards, looked up at him. “That’s it?”

“It makes perfect sense, if you really think about it.”

Nick laughed then, but not because he felt like it. Mostly he did it to make Jack feel better, because he knew Jack was trying to be the best friend he could possibly be.

When Nick was in full gear, Coach Williams came over and said, “Let’s take a walk.”

Nick left his glove and his mask on the bench, and the two of them walked along the first baseline toward right field.

“I know you don’t think you’re ready for this, but you are,” Coach said.

“Their catcher is twice as big as me,” Nick said.

“And probably has half your heart.”

“I still can’t throw.”

“Anybody in this game today, including the pitchers, would kill to have an arm like yours. You just have to trust it, bud.”

“I can’t right now.”

“Sure you can. You just gotta figure out a way to get
out
of your own way.”

Over the coach’s shoulder, he could see movement in the stands now, saw Gracie and some of her lacrosse teammates taking their seats in the bleachers. Gracie was still wearing her blue practice lacrosse jersey and had her Mavericks cap turned around backward on her head.

“I’ve got a friend who tells me that all the time,” Nick said.

“He must be pretty smart,” Coach said.

“She,” Nick said.

Gary Watson struck out the side in the first inning, which meant that the only throws Nick had
to make were back to Gary or down to Conor Bell at third when they’d throw the ball around after another one of the strikeouts.

A one-two-three inning.

Just like that, Nick was an official varsity baseball player.

Coach Williams was batting him ninth, last in the order. The game was still 0-0 when he finally came up in the bottom of the third, two runners on ahead of him, nobody out. His first varsity at-bat and he had to come up in a spot like this. And in a scoreless game. But when he looked down at Coach Williams in the third-base coach’s box, he saw the bunt sign.

He wasn’t being asked to knock in a run, just lay down a good bunt.

I can do that, Nick told himself.

If he sacrificed the runners over, the Tigers would have guys on second and third for Joey Johnson, their leadoff guy, one of the best hitters they had.

As the Valley pitcher, a lefty, went into his stretch position, Nick was already squaring around, bat level and out in front of him. The lefty cooperated
by giving him a perfect pitch to bunt, belt high over the middle of the plate. Nick dropped the head of the bat slightly, caught the ball just where he wanted it, deadened it the way Coach Williams had been showing them—even put a little backhand on the sucker. The ball landed so softly near the first baseline it was as if Nick had tossed a rosin bag over there.

The only play the charging first baseman had was to tag Nick on his way by. Both runners moved up a base, and when Joey followed with a single, both of them scored. The Tigers were ahead 2–0.

Coach Williams came over to Nick at the end of the inning and bumped him some fist.

“
Great
play,” Coach said.

“It was still just a bunt, Coach,” Nick said. Thinking this was another time when the coach was making too big a deal out of something small he’d done.

“
Hey, look at me.
” Coach Williams’s words came out fast and hot, surprising Nick.

He looked up at his coach.

“If there’s one thing I know about you already, it’s that you’re a team guy,” Coach said. “And
you just executed a play perfectly that helped our team.” Now he grinned at Nick, relaxing. “You’re allowed to be happy is what I’m trying to say. Now, go get our pitcher through the top of the fourth so we hold on to the lead you just helped us get.”

If only it had worked out that way.

It started with an error by Jack, who’d gone in to play second.

He made a nice stop on a ball hit to his right, going to his knees to get it on the backhand. But he rushed his throw, Steve Carberry couldn’t dig the ball out of the dirt and Valley had only their second base runner of the game—their first since the second inning.

Nick knew the kid on first would be running.

The kid who’d singled in the second hadn’t gotten a chance to try to steal because the batter after him had hit a perfect double-play ball. But now, as the next Valley batter stepped to the plate, his manager was yelling at him to wait for his pitch.

Nick looked down at the runner at first and was more convinced than ever: Guy was going.

Nick’s heart was beating so hard he expected
to look down and see his chest protector flopping around.

The runner didn’t take much of a lead right away. When Gary looked over his left shoulder, checking him, the kid moved even closer to the bag. But as soon as it was clear Gary was coming to the plate with the ball, Nick heard what sounded like everybody in the infield yelling at him at once.

“Going!”

The batter swung at the pitch, trying to protect his runner. It didn’t slow Nick down even a little. He was on the move, up and out of his crouch, not feeling nervous at all in the moment, just feeling this was all stuff he’d done before, thinking only about making a decent throw.

Which he did.

The guy who couldn’t even make a throw at the fair made one now, shocked himself with how much he had on the ball.

That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that the ball and the runner and Joey Johnson’s glove all happened to arrive at second base at the exact same moment.

The kid sliding kicked up a ton of dirt, and Nick
couldn’t tell at first what had happened. He just hoped that Joey had somehow made the grab, because his glove was still sitting right on top of the bag.

Only the ball wasn’t in the glove.

It was rolling toward Les Roy, their center fielder, a kid from Jamaica who was easily the fastest player on their team. Les was charging fast now, fast enough to get to the ball and keep the guy at second.

It hadn’t really been Nick’s fault. He’d made a solid throw. Still, there the guy was anyway, nobody out.

Gary Watson came down to the foot of the mound, motioned for Nick to meet him there.

Not good.

“Get the ball
up
next time!” he said, putting his glove in front of his mouth the way the pitchers did on television when the catcher came out.

“I tried,” Nick said.

“Try harder,” Gary said. “I’m pitching my butt off out here.”

Still steamed at Nick, he walked the next batter. Now Valley had two runners on base and, with
their weak-hitting pitcher up at bat, they went for a double steal. Nick didn’t need anybody to yell at him now. With a left-handed hitter at the plate, he could see the whole thing, knew his best shot was the guy going for third.

He got this throw up, all right.

Got it up and over Conor Bell’s glove and over his head and down the left-field line.

Nick watched the ball from the plate, feeling totally helpless.

There was no outfield wall at Hayworth, just green grass that seemed to stretch forever as Nick’s throw refused to stop rolling.

By the time it did, the game was tied at 2.

The walk to the bench when the inning ended, the game tied, felt longer to Nick than if he were walking all the way home.

He kept his head down, glove in his left hand, mask in his right. Forget about the sacrifice bunt. And about being a team player. He might as well have been playing for the
other
team, because he’d just plated two runs for them as if he’d knocked them in himself.

Coach Williams tried to be head cheerleader as usual. He patted Nick on the back, told him not to hang his head, told everybody not to hang
their
heads, that they were going to get Valley back, get the lead back, right now.

Rah, rah, Nick thought.

Then Gary Watson looked up from the opposite end of the bench from where Nick was sitting and said, “How are we going to do all that with
him
behind the plate?”

Coach Williams’s head whipped around like it belonged to a character in one of Nick’s comics. “Zip it, Gary. We’re all on the same team here.”

But this time Gary didn’t back down or say what he really wanted to say under his breath. It was as if he wanted it all out in the open now, what he’d been thinking about Nick playing varsity the whole time.

“’Cept for the ones on the JV team,” Gary said.

Coach Williams was up now, halfway between Gary and Nick, face red. “This might be our first game,” he said, voice loud. “But this is the
last
time anybody on this team throws anybody else under the bus.”

Nick sat there more embarrassed than ever, less a part of the team than ever. Thinking, If I tried to throw somebody under the bus, I’d probably screw that up, too.

• • •

Valley stole bases on him the next two innings. But it happened with two outs both times, and neither one of the guys scored because Gary ended both innings with strikeouts.

Nick managed to get the ball to Joey on the fly both times, even if they were sad-looking, lollipop throws that had no chance of beating the runners. And the
really
sad part was that Nick didn’t care what the throws looked like, he was just happy that he hadn’t thrown the ball away.