Soar (8 page)

WE DON'T HAVE
to wait long for time to tell us.

COACH PERKINS ARRESTED

Winningest Coach in Hillcrest Hornets History

Accused of Giving Performance-Enhancing Drugs to His Players

That news runs through Hillcrest like a wild horse you can't catch. Coach Perkins is out on bail the next day and shuts himself up in his house. The sheriff seals off the locker rooms at the high school and the stadium as part of the investigation.

A pile of Hornets hats are thrown in front of the stadium.

A TV reporter stands next to the pile and asks, “Did he do it?”

Did he?

Everyone is asking that.

“He did not do it!”

Chip Gunther stands in front of his sports store, furious, and points a finger at the TV camera.

“I know this man. I was head of the committee that brought him here. He'd give his life for his players. The thought, the misrepresentation, that he would do such a thing is wrong. You hear me? Wrong! This witch hunt better end. I'm inclined to think there are people in other places who want to see this man fall. Well, he's a winner and he's going to win this battle! I guarantee it!”

The Hornets cancel their next two games.

“I know Coach Perkins,” Franny tells me. “I babysat for his kids. I made scrambled eggs in his kitchen!”

I don't know what to say to that.

Her eyes look so sad, like someone close to her has died.

I look for her at school—she's not there.

I look for her after school—she's not at the baseball diamond, and neither are the guys who always play.

Everyone has questions:

Are the Hornets taking steroids?

All of them?

Some of them?

When will we know?

So much is coming at us:

HORNETS SUSPENDED FROM LEAGUE PLAY

Will Six Championships Be Overturned?

And the biggest one yet:

DID STEROIDS KILL HARGIE CANTWELL?

“There is strong circumstantial evidence that steroids contributed to that young man's death,” the prosecutor says. “A charge of manslaughter against this coach is warranted.”

I'm on my front porch. I hear Franny's mother shout, “Bo, I can't imagine how you feel, but—”

“That's right, you can't!” Bo shouts back, and then he runs down Weldon Road. Mrs. Engers stands on her porch and watches him go.

Walt walks out holding the
Hillcrest Herald.
“This is tough stuff, my man.”

It sure is. “What do you think about it, Walt?”

“If Perkins did it, if he decided to break the law and willfully put the kids under his care at risk like that . . . then I hope they throw the book at him.”

I nod. “Coaches are supposed to protect their players, not hurt them.”

“That's right.” His face softens a little. “And listen, Jer, when things like this happen, focus on the people who are trying to do the right thing.”

I WANT TO
be the kind of person who tries to do the right thing.

I'm in the cafeteria, in line with my tray, trying to make an informed decision.

I shake the cafeteria helper's hand. She's wearing plastic gloves. “I'm Jeremiah Lopper.”

“Maude Denton.”

“If I were your son, would you recommend the turkey loaf?”

Heads turn.

“If you were my ex-husband, I wouldn't recommend it.”

Sky and Logo put their turkey loaf plates back.

I smile. “Thank you, ma'am. Lives have been spared.”

That cracks her up. I move to the premade salad section—the safe ones covered with plastic wrap.

“Want to eat with us, Jeremiah?” It's Logo.

“Sure.”

I follow them to their table, put my tray down, waste no time. “How's baseball practice going?”

“Aw, you know,” Sky says.

“Nobody wants to play much,” Logo adds.

“Why not?”

“Baseball's dying in this town.”

I look him in the eye. “You don't look like you're dying.”

Logo looks right back at me. “Steroid City. That's what people call Hillcrest now. My dad wants me out of baseball.”

“Quit baseball?”

Sky leans forward. “There's nowhere to go, Jeremiah. We don't have enough guys to play in the league. The Hornets are suspended. We're dead.”

I say, “I've thought a lot about dying.”

They look at me strangely.

“And I talked to this guy once.” He visited me in the hospital, actually, but they're not ready for that. “He played basketball and he told me about the best coach he ever had. The coach was in a wheelchair.”

They sit up.

“His legs were dead, but everything else he had made up for it. He could make a basket from center
court. You know what this coach told him?”

“What?” they say.

“He said, ‘Sometimes when you think you're finished, you're just beginning.'” I smile at them. “Every time I want to give up, every time I think it's over, I think about that.”

Franny sits at the table across from us, listening.

I eat my salad. “Can I ask you guys something? How good are you at baseball?”

I can see in their eyes they love the game.

“Sky can pitch fire,” Logo says.

“Logo always tags them out at the plate,” Sky adds.

I give them my eagle eye. “Do you know how many billions of people can't do that? Am I right, Franny?”

“You're right, Jeremiah.”

I look at the guys. “You're going to let the thing you do so well die?”

“I don't know!” Sky shouts.

I lean forward. “You know what I think? If an adult doesn't know how to be responsible, if they mess things up for their kid or the kids around them, then that adult shouldn't have the power to keep ruining things for everyone.”

I hear Franny take a deep breath.

Sky says, “We're dealing with a mess here.”

“Did you make the mess?”

“No!” they say.

“How many guys could you get to practice with you?”

Logo thinks. “A few more. The triplets would come. Their mother wants them out of the house. If we get more, then will you . . . you know . . . come and help us get better?”

I stand up, check my phone. “I'm free tomorrow afternoon.”

I'm free most every afternoon, but . . .

Sky says, “Okay. We'll get more players.”

Logo stares at him. “By tomorrow?”

Sky crushes his juice carton. “The rest of the league has played three games.”

“The league we're not in anymore,” Logo adds.

“We need more players to get back in. Right?”

Logo looks down. “Right.”

Sky stands. “You want to sit out the season or see if we can get a real team together?”

Logo coughs. “Can I get back to you on that?”

Sky throws pita bread at him.

Franny pinches his shoulder.

And, people, I feel the energy!

◆ ◆ ◆

“Jerwal, I'm home.”

Swoop.

I'm in the kitchen. Jerwal rolls forward. “I want to tell you something.” Jerwal waits. “I'm going to be a coach.”

Jerwal keeps waiting.

“Is that good or what?”

That's Jerwal's code phrase to twirl around and beep.

I put my hand up, he puts his arm up, and we do a high five, although technically he only has three fingers.

A little robot dance.

Shoulders up, shoulders down.

Freeze.

Okay, Lopper. Are you going to play around or get serious?

I pull out my baseball from the moving box in the corner. I hold the ball, just hold it. Walt says if you hold a baseball long enough, it becomes part of you.

I get my glove and head outside. It's not like I'm a pitcher or anything. It's not like I can run right now.

But I can stand.

I stand in the middle of our lawn. My fingers form the two-seam fastball grip.

Lopper takes his time. This kid knows how to wait.

The batter's getting nervous.

Lopper squints into the sun.

His arm comes back; he lets strength move through his legs.

He releases the ball like a bullet.

The batter never sees it coming.

“Strike three!” the umpire calls.

I HAVE FIVE
baseball books open on the long black table. Walt is checking his phone. He does this day and night, and probably while he sleeps. I've been reading about what it means to be a winner. Everyone seems to agree on this: You've got to think like one to be one. You've got to let it fill your head.

But is winning really everything? If you can only be satisfied when you win, I'm not sure you'll be a good ballplayer.

Walt is typing away on his computer. SARB is on the table going around in a circle.

“What makes people good at baseball, Walt?”

His eyes don't leave the screen. “Skill.”

Actually, that's deeper than it sounds.

“I want to help this team.”

“They've got to do the drills. Focus on the fundamentals. Catching, throwing, pitching, hitting. Over and over.”

That makes sense.

“Take pitchers.” Walt pushes back from the screen. “Sometimes they think the whole game's on their backs. In some ways it is. But they don't take their time to throw. They don't play the psych-out game they should to get the batter nervous.”

I'm taking notes. “That's good, Walt.”

Walt gets that Baseball Is Life look in his eyes. He's talking to me, but in his head he's back in high school playing ball.

“When you're out there, Jer, and you smell the grass, you feel the ball in your hand, you hear the crack of the bat, you feel your legs pumping to get around the bases, your heart is pounding, and they're cheering, and you slide into home—you don't even think about it, you just slide because that's what makes the play. You do it. You do what makes the play.”

“Okay,” I say. “That's good.”

He leans back. “You're gonna help them, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Walt nods. “Remember, take it easy at first. Change one thing at a time. That's what people can handle.”

“Is it like that with robots?”

“They're programmed. They do what they're told.” He sighs. “Unless there's a bug in the system.”

He throws SARB on the floor. SARB goes backward.

“No, no, no!” Walt says.

◆ ◆ ◆

I have to miss the first two periods of school because I have an appointment with my new cardiology team.

Walt and I are sitting in Dr. Dugan's office. Walt drops his phone when she walks in.

“You do that a lot,” she mentions.

Walt mutters, “Sorry.”

Two men in white coats follow her, Dr. Paul and Dr. Bonano.

“We're very encouraged about your blood work, Jeremiah. And your monitor readings are pretty good, considering. We're going to make a small adjustment in your medication that will make you feel better, but first,
I want to do a biopsy. Dr. Bonano will handle that.”

I've had a lot of those—especially the first year after my transplant. It's how they double-check to see if there are any signs your body is rejecting the new heart. Believe me—I want to keep this heart!

“Low blood pressure can zap energy,” she says.

I know that. I've gotten used to being tired.

Dr. Dugan closes the folder and leans forward. I can see her freckles and her blue eyes. She says to me, “So now, tests and numbers aside, how are you doing?”

“I want to play baseball.”

“Me too,” says Dr. Paul. “Center field for the Yankees.” Everyone laughs.

Dr. Dugan looks at me and waits. I raise my right hand that's holding the baseball. “I know I can't, but I want to.”

“You're carrying a baseball around with you?”

I slept with it, actually. I kept rolling over on it and waking up, but that's not the point.

“It helps me.” That's the point.

“Are you playing?” she asks.

“No.”

“Can you play catch?”

I look to Walt, who says, “We used to; we haven't done that for—”

I sit up straight. “I can play catch.”

“And if you miss the ball,” Dr. Dugan says, “how do you get it?”

I know this is a trick question. The normal answer is, I run after it, scoop it up, and do a hop and a skip and a fierce throw to Walt using everything I've got.

I don't say that.

“I walk slowly like a snail, pick it up, walk slowly back, and throw it to Walt.”

She laughs. Walt does, too, and drops his phone.

Dr. Dugan writes something on a pad and hands it to me. “Give this to the principal at your school. Doctor's orders.”

I look at the “prescription.”

Please allow Jeremiah Lopper to carry his baseball around school. It's for physical therapy.

Sarah M. Dugan, MD

She stands up. “Jeremiah, you have the kind of vision that gives you great energy for living. I don't want
to hold you back, but there are limitations to your life right now. Listen to me—when you're tired, don't ignore it. Cut back.”

Walt looks at me. “I will,” I tell her.

She smiles. “But I feel very strongly that the two of you need to start playing catch.”

◆ ◆ ◆

I want to play catch immediately, but I have to go to school.

I walk into Hillcrest Middle School holding the ball in the two-seam fastball grip. I hand Mr. Hazard the note from Dr. Dugan.

“I need to hold this in school, sir. It won't interfere with my work, I promise.”

Mr. Hazard looks at the baseball, at the note.

“It's a big thing for me, sir.”

“All right, Jeremiah.”

I walk past Sky and Logo, toss my ball up in the air, catch it, and keep walking.

“See you later, Jeremiah!”

“Later.”

I hold it in my left hand during my Civilization class because I have to take notes. Mr. Aronson is telling us
about lies, deception, and intense treachery in ancient Greece.

“Mythology is full of nastiness,” he says. “Gods using their powers to get whatever they want, no matter the cost.”

A friend of Franny's raises her hand. “Did they have steroids back then?”

The class laughs.

“Actually, they sort of did. They had their own form of PEDs—performance-enhancing drugs. Ath- letes would eat things that we would find disturbing because it enhanced performance. Winning at all costs was valued by their society.” He takes off his glasses and looks at us. “Is it valued in our society?”

That gets us going. Lots of hands go up, mine included. At the end of class we take a vote.

Are cheating, lying, and breaking laws to win acceptable in America?

Acceptable: 7

Unsure: 3

Not acceptable: 16

Mr. Aronson puts our results on the wall outside his classroom.

He says, “The sixth graders of Ancient Civilization class have spoken.”

Will anyone listen, I wonder?