Soar (3 page)

PACKING FOR THIS
trip is the same as packing for life. I'm bringing too much, but I am easily bored. I pile up my forty-seven baseball and coaching books, which come up to my waist. They can fit in the trunk. I'm bringing my glove, my bat, my baseball.

Before my heart got that virus, Walt and I used to play catch every day, even in the winter—we painted a ball neon red so we could find it in the snow.

I'm all about dedication.

Yaff is sitting on the bed. “You're coming back, right?”

“In a couple of months.”

Yaff looks unsure.

“All my doctors are here.”

Yaff stretches out his leg. He got the first operation
to lengthen his leg last year. We met at the hospital in an elevator. We were both wearing Cardinals caps.

“It doesn't look like it, but my leg is growing,” he said to me.

How can you not be friends with someone like that?

“I asked my mom if you could stay with us while your dad is in Ohio, Jeremiah. I told her you could train Powderpuff.” That's Yaff's mother's extreme little white dog. “I told her this would change life in our family. My mom said if she had more strength and courage, you could.”

“Thanks.” Yaff's mother is a great mother role model. She always tells you how it is, and she gives you credit for understanding.

Time to pack the robot. “Jerwal, go to sleep.”

Jerwal shuts down.

“My mom said Jerwal can stay with us, Jeremiah.”

“He is needed elsewhere.” I put Jerwal in a box, tuck a blanket around him for padding. Jerwal was a big friend of mine when I was in the hospital.

I hand Yaff a little card I printed. “Don't forget.”

He turns it over, looks at it, and nods. “Yeah. I won't.”

I don't give these cards to just anyone.

Yaff and I go back to watching the eagle cam from the Nature Conservancy. We are watching live-as-it-happens moments of two baby eagles in a nest as they deal with the unfairness of life. First, three days ago, their mother was killed. Now they're waiting for their father to come back with food.

Yaff shakes his head. “I don't think the father's coming back.”

“Bet you he does.” It's still hard to watch this.

“Loser cleans the winner's room.”

This is an unfair bet because Yaff's room, according to his mother, has “the ambience of a Turkish prison.”

The eagle cam is watched by so many people; it's been a big connect for me as an eagle watcher. I don't think my mother had any idea what she started when she got me that stuffy. I look over at Baby, who is in a plastic bag for safety. Her talons aren't what they used to be.

“Baby,” I say, “what's your best guess on the father?”

Baby keeps things to herself, but now on the eagle cam, there's a swoosh of wings and the father swoops into the nest.

“Yes!” I shout.

People are commenting online:

It's another eagle!

It's a predator!!!!!!

I type,
This is what father eagles do, people . . .

The father eagle has food for the babies, and he is patient. The baby eagles seem like challenged eaters, probably because of all the earlier trauma.

I win.

Yaff cleans my room like he cleans his room—badly. He shoves things in the closet and under the bed while I pack Baby. Yaff is the kind of friend who understands the power of historic stuffies. He still has Fiend, his king cobra stuffy. He wraps it around his neck on Halloween.

I'm going to need to find a good friend fast in Hillcrest.

I tape Baby's box shut. “Later, Baby,” Yaff says.

I wish Yaff could come with me. He puts his arms out like wings. I do, too.

“See you in the summer, Eagle Man.”

◆ ◆ ◆

“I think this is an unwise decision,” Aunt Charity announces. “I am concerned on multiple levels.” She drove over to say good-bye.

Walt hugs her. “We're going to give it a try.”

“And if it's a disaster?” she demands.

I don't want to think about that!

He smiles kindly. “You'll be the first one to know, Char.”

“Call the doctor first, then me.” Aunt Charity hugs me and messes up my hair like I'm still eight years old.

We get in the car; she stands there waving until we turn the corner.

“I love her, Walt. I do.”

“I know.”

And we are off to live in Baseball Land . . .

◆ ◆ ◆

We are driving by the Gateway Arch—the tallest arch in the world. It's made of stainless steel and manages to glisten even on a cloudy day. We've been to the top of it four times. Every time I see it, I remember the early pioneers who pushed west to see what was
beyond Missouri. That's what the arch is for—to help you think about courage.

Those people had strong hearts and vision.

My heart's not strong, but my vision makes up for it.

I take out my folder. On the cover I drew my signature mark, two curved lines coming together, like wings:

“I've been researching the high school team, Walt. The Hornets' star pitcher, Hargie Cantwell, has an ERA under two!”

That's earned run average. That means when this Hargie kid pitches seven innings, the other teams can only score one or two runs against him.

Walt was a pitcher in college. “That kid's got some heat.”

“Last year the Hornets were undefeated.”

“Impressive.”

“They have a stadium. People call it the Hornets' Nest. And on this map”—I hold up a map of Hillcrest—
“it looks like the house we're renting is close to the stadium. How excellent is that?”

“I'm glad you're looking forward to it.”

“There's a game today at four o'clock, Walt.”

He drives a little faster. Three hundred and eleven miles to go.

We're on I–70 East in Illinois, zooming toward Indiana.

I remember when we moved from Indiana to St. Louis. We needed to be near Aunt Charity so she could help take care of me.

A lot of my time in St. Louis was spent in the hospital or at home. First, I got medication to make my heart pump better. But everything the doctors tried worked for a few months and then stopped. For two years I was in and out of the hospital; I could only go to school for part of the year. Aunt Charity and Walt tutored me. Walt is a cool tutor—we built our first robot (pre-Jerwal), we took a computer apart and put it back together, we built a radio. Aunt Charity made me write three-paragraph essays like “How Adversity Has Made Me Stronger” and “Why I Will Never Give Up.” I tried a shortcut on the giving up one.

Why I Will Never Give Up

by Jeremiah Lopper, Age 10

I will never give up because I have too many cool things to do to waste time being negative.

The End

Walt had that on the refrigerator for the longest time. Walt's uncle Jack (my great-uncle) laughed when he saw it. “Kid,” he told me, “you're going places.” I made a copy of it for him and he carried it in his wallet. He died last year when his heart gave out. Right before that he told me, “The best thing Walt ever did was bringing you into the family.”

Two hundred and eighty-three miles to go.

“Are you up for more data, Walt?”

“Shoot.”

“There are 12,761 people in Hillcrest, Ohio.”

“Soon to be 12,763,” he says.

“Right. The town motto is, and you're going to love
this, ‘Life is a game. Baseball is serious.'”

Walt laughs. “I guess we know what they're about.”

“Totally. They have two ice-cream shops and only one pizza place.”

“Only one?”

“Junk Ball Pizza. It's near the stadium, which is only one-point-seven miles from our house. I can walk one-point-seven miles, Walt.”

“Sometimes you can.”

“Let's be positive.”

Walt chuckles. “I found a hornets' nest once when I was a boy. That was not fun.”

Lots more driving.

I've got questions:

Who will my friends be?

What are they doing right now?

Will they know right away that they need a new friend, or will I have to convince them?

“What do you think it's going to be like in Hillcrest, Walt?”

He smiles. “We'll know when we get there.”

“I want to know before we get there.”

“Takes the fun out of it, Jer.”

Lots more driving.

Lots.

And then a huge baseball bat glistens on a little hill.

And after that, we see the ultimate sign:

TO THOSE WHO SAY IT'S ONLY A GAME,

WE SAY IT'S MORE.

TO THOSE WHO SAY IT ISN'T IF YOU WIN OR LOSE,

WE SAY IT MATTERS.

WE ARE WINNERS.

EVERY DAY.

EVERY YEAR.

PUSHING TO BE THE BEST.

WELCOME TO HILLCREST, OHIO.

WE DRIVE BY
the stadium, or try to. The traffic is crazy. It's like this town has a major league team.

An amplified voice blares out:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have three hours till game time.”

People on the street cheer.

“The game, Walt. We can't be late!”

“We won't be late.”

In front of the stadium are huge posters of the players. Music blasts.

You've gotta know

You've gotta know

You've gotta know

What it takes

To win.

Two kids wearing Hornets hats are dancing.

You've gotta know

You've gotta know

You've gotta know

What it takes

To win.

It takes full commitment to have this kind of attitude. The best coaches talk about dedication. I put my hand over my heart. It's totally inspiring here.

The new heart I got was from a fourteen-year-old girl who died in a bike accident in California. I had to wait for eleven months and seventeen days to get a close match. I wanted to know her name so I could write to her parents and tell them I was taking good care of their daughter's heart. Dr. Feinberg said no.

Well, I'd named my stuffed eagle Baby and my cardiac defibrillator Fred. So I named my new heart.

I call it Alice.

Do you know what
Alice
means? You're going to love this.

Noble. Possessing excellent qualities. Grand or
impressive. Having a superior mind or character.

I pat my chest.
Alice, get ready. This is going to be an awesome sixty days!

◆ ◆ ◆

Walt drives past Chip Gunther's Sports Store on the corner of Hyland Road and Oakley Avenue. This store has a huge
GO HORNETS
banner in the window and a giant stinger jutting out from above the door.

A guy on a red motorcycle races in and out of traffic.

“Slow down, pal,” Walt says to him under his breath.

The motorcycle swerves too fast around a corner.

Finally, we're on our street, Weldon Road. Walt pulls into the driveway of a small gray wooden house set back from the road and surrounded by trees.

Swoop. The Eagle has landed.

I pull down the visor in the car; I look in the mirror at my piercing brown eyes that are on fire with vision, intense determination, and the extreme love of baseball.

Lopper, I've been watching you. You've got the moves, you've got the heart, you've got the courage. I want you to go out there with the best you've got and do it . . . for
your team, for your family, and for your fans, who are counting on you. It's all in there, kid. All the hours of practice, all the losses, all the wins. They've brought you to this place. Get out there and make it happen!

“The key's supposed to be under the mat, Jer.”

I look in the backseat. “We're here, Jerwal.”

He lights up in the box.

I get out of the car. I can hear the music from the stadium. I do the robot dance up the path, driving my shoulder down toward the ground. I move to the left and stop, to the right and stop. Jerwal and I do this together sometimes. I can see a woman looking at me from the window of the house next door. I jerk my head and freeze. She leaves the window.

It takes time to get used to me.

Walt is lugging our suitcases to the porch. “Under the mat, Jer.”

I look under the mat. No key. I try the door handle. Locked.

Shoulders up, shoulders down.

We walk into the little backyard. No mat at the back door. This door is locked, too. The deck has broken steps and a sign:
DO NOT USE
.

Walt calls the Realtor, leaves a message, but let me tell you, this is a great yard. There's a little stream running through the back, and a wooden bridge crosses over to rocks so big you can sit on them. I walk across the bridge, plop down on a flat rock.

This will be an excellent place to sit and think.

I need to sit a lot.

But I always work to keep my head in the game.

Lopper approaches the batter's box. The crowd is on their feet. He's got one goal: to hit the ball hard and far. He fixes his mind on that, stays loose. The pitch comes . . .

“Jer!”

I get up. “Yeah?”

“I can't reach this woman!”

Walt is referring to the Realtor, but Walt also has a lot of trouble getting a date. He gets so nervous asking women out.

I walk to the front. Across the street, a girl around my age and a boy a little older are having a fight. There's a car with bumper stickers parked in their driveway.

Peace, Love, Baseball.

You are following one great coach.
Thou Shalt Respect the Game.

The license plate reads:

EL GRANDE

I like these people. I head to their yard.

The girl has long brown hair that curls below her shoulders. She is not happy.

“Bo, I swear, Mom said you need to clean the garage or she's going to set fire to all your stuff!”

Bo, the guy, throws a baseball in the air and catches it behind his back. Nice catch.

“Bo,” she shouts, “do it!”

He throws the baseball up and away from him and runs to catch it. “Come on, Franny.”

Her eyes turn from mad to sad. “Do you know what day this is?”

“Opening day.”

“Think about it. Four years ago. What happened?”

Suddenly, Bo's eyes get sad, too. “Tell Mom I'll be right there.”

Franny shouts, “It's got to be on fire for you to get it!” She heads into the house.

Bo looks at the screen door slamming shut. “I forgot, okay?” He heads to their garage.

This might not be the best time to ring the doorbell, but being desperate . . .

I do ring it.

No answer.

I ring again.

A man shouts, “Get it, Franny!”

She opens the door. It's good I'm not like Walt, who drops his phone around pretty females.

She waits.

I cough.

How to introduce this?

“What?” she says.

I push my hair out of my face. “Do you have a paper clip?”

She looks at me like I'm crazy. She's got greenish eyes.

“My dad and I just moved across the street, and the Realtor forgot to leave the key.” I stick out my hand; she looks at it. “I'm Jeremiah Lopper. We moved here from St. Louis. I need to break into my house.”

◆ ◆ ◆

I straighten out the paper clip. “I saw someone do this on TV. You have to jiggle the point like this.” I jiggle it
as Franny looks on. “And then, the door is supposed to open.” I try that. It unlocks.

Franny looks impressed.

“It's good this works,” I tell her, “but am I the only one who's nervous about how easy it is?”

She laughs. “I have to go.”

“It was nice to meet you, Franny. Do you go to the middle school?”

“Yes.”

“I start sixth grade on Monday.”

She studies me. “Sixth grade started in September.”

“Timing's not my greatest strength. How old are you?”

“Twelve,” she whispers.

“I'm probably twelve, too.”

She smiles strangely.

Of course, I could be older. Medical science isn
'
t always exact.

“So this middle school—how good is it? I need the truth.”

She glances at her house. “It's pretty good. The teachers are okay.”

“Only okay?”

“The food in the cafeteria won't kill you.”

“Is there a baseball team?”

“Kind of . . .”

“What's a ‘kind of' baseball team?”

“Well . . . um . . .” She seems nervous. “Do you play?”

I hate this question. “Not exactly.”

“Franny!” An older man stands on the porch and calls her.

She looks relieved. “Coming.” She runs across the street. She's fast.

That could have gone worse.

It could also have gone better.

“See you Monday,” I say to her back.

Where is Walt?

A dog sits on the lawn next to Franny's house and looks at me. I whistle low. The dog cocks his head, trying to decide what to do. I cock my head just like the dog, whistle again. The dog stands and almost takes a step forward.

The old woman next door pokes her head through the bushes. “That dog hasn't moved since his owner died last year.”

The dog has black and white markings like a spaniel.
You can do this, dog.

“Who are you?” the woman asks.

“I'm Jeremiah Lopper, ma'am. My dad and I just moved here from St. Louis.”

She pinches up her face. “Penelope Prim.”

“Nice to meet you.”

I look at the dog. “You can come if you want.”

The dog leans forward, but doesn't come.

Walt walks around from the backyard. “I still can't get the Realtor.”

I point to the open door.

“How do you do these things, Jer?”

I show him the straightened paper clip.

He carries his suitcase inside. “I'm grateful you use your gifts for good.”