Soar (9 page)

LOGO AND SKY
actually found nine players.

I've spent an hour watching them play, although two of them—Casey and a big kid named Benchant—tell me they're not sure their parents will let them be on the team. Casey can field and pitch, but he can't pitch as well as Sky. Benchant could be an awesome hitter if he learns to focus.

The triplets, the Oxley brothers, are in the outfield. They keep running into one another, and I just want to shout, “Play your positions!”

I'm taking it in, taking notes.

“All right,” I say. “Here it is.” The team looks at me. “I'm seeing things that will keep me up at night! You've got attitude, but not discipline. I'm seeing good players not trying hard, I'm seeing throws that aren't close to the bases. Why is this?”

The team looks down.

“'Cause you know what? Some of you guys are good, and the rest of you can get good, but you've got to want it.”

Franny and Benny walk to the side of the field and sit down.

I say, “It's all about the three
W
s. Are you ready?”

The guys shrug.

“Ready!” Benny shouts.

“Want, work, wow,” I tell them.

They don't get that.

“You've got to want to do this. You've got to work hard to get there. You've got to push for the wow in your playing. Say it.”

Alex Oxley raises his hand. “Which part?”

“Wow!” Benny shouts.

I repeat the three
W
s.

Want. Work. Wow.

We say it over and over until they get it.

Benny is shouting it out, even when we stop.

The big guy, Benchant, steps forward like he hates the whole world. “How do you know this, Lopper?”

“I study the game.”

Benchant's in my face. “How come you don't play?”

“'Cause I can't.”

“Why not?”

I push back. “Because I've got a weak heart.”

Everyone is quiet.

Now they know.

“Come on.” Terrell throws the ball to Benchant.

I shout, “That's the way.”

I sit with Franny and Benny. Benny's got a board out and is moving baseball players around the diamond. “Want, work, wow,” he says.

Benny keeps his eye on the field, then his board.

I want to ask him,
What do you see, Benny?

Franny is wearing a baseball glove. I point to it.

“This means nothing, Jeremiah.”

“Did you play?”

She shrugs.

“I miss playing,” I tell her.

She nods. “But you don't have a weak heart, Jeremiah.”

“I had to have an operation and—”

Franny shakes her head. “I mean the other kind of heart. That one in you is strong.”

You don't know what you just said to me, Franny.

◆ ◆ ◆

“Just see it, Jer,” Walt reminds me. “Remember, it's all that you see.”

“It” is the baseball.

Walt is throwing easy to me, like I'm six years old. I decide not to mention this. I've only missed a couple of throws.

I toss one in the air that he has to run for. Walt groans and reaches for it. He gets it.
Just
gets it. He grins at me, and I grin back.

He throws it a little left so I have to reach. I miss that one. I do my snail walk to get it.

“I'm planning on running one of these days, Walt!” I throw long. He bobbles it, but doesn't drop it.

We're both rusty, but this is so excellent. You don't need to think much when you play catch; you just keep your eye on the ball, follow the rhythm, and let everything else go.

Throw.

Catch.

Throw.

Catch

Focus.

We go for twenty-two minutes, then Walt says we should stop.

“Why?” I can keep going.

“We're not overdoing.”

I know not to fight this. “It was good, Walt.”

“It was, Jer.”

He taught me to catch a ball when I was three and a half. I'd rather play catch with Walt than go to a World Series game.

Okay, maybe not that, but you get the idea.

“JEREMIAH, HOW ARE
you doing?” Dr. Bonano asks.

“Okay.” I'm lying on a table.

“I'm guiding the catheter now.”

That's a thin tube that he placed in my vein. It's on its way to my heart.

Welcome to my biopsy.

“You with me?”

“Uh-huh . . .” I feel dopey from the medicine they gave me.

“Lie still.”

A nurse checks a machine. “All right now . . .” Dr. Bonano is checking another screen. “You know how this goes. I'm going to remove a few little pieces from your heart muscle.”

Sorry, Alice.

“Here we go, Jeremiah.” I try not to picture chunks of my heart being snipped. “And another one . . .”

I close my eyes. I feel pressure where they put the tube in. My mouth is dry. Lying still isn't the easiest thing during a biopsy.

“And one more piece for good measure.”

“Breathe slowly,” the nurse tells me.

I do. In and out . . . nice and slow . . .

I've had so many biopsies.

“Okay, Jeremiah, you're doing great. I'm going to bring the catheter out now.”

I can see the moving picture of this on the screen.

Okay, Alice, you're looking great. Looking strong.

Now
this
would make a great science fair project!

“Almost done, my friend.”

“You're doing fine,” the nurse says.

I lie so still. I just want it to be over.

The anesthesiologist nods and says, “We are A-okay.”

On the screen I see my heart inside my chest, beating away.

This biopsy is to make sure my new heart is behaving itself.

The tube is out now. The nurse rubs my hand. “Nice job.”

I nod. I get a bandage, then Walt comes in. We've been through this a lot, me and my dad.

“Hey, pal.”

“Hey.” I try to clear my head. “How are the . . . Reds doing against . . . um . . . ?”

“LA?” Walt laughs. “Do you ever not think about baseball?”

I shake my head.

“So how are they doing against LA?” Dr. Bonano wants to know.

Walt describes the game like an announcer. He knows I don't want to miss a thing. He knows just about everything about me, except for those first nine months.

◆ ◆ ◆

I'm home and a little sore—just a little. I don't remember when they said we'd get the results. I hate waiting, but actually, I'm pretty good at it.

Kids say things like, “I'm waiting for my mother.”

“I'm waiting for my sister to get out of the bathroom.”

“I'm waiting to see what grade I got on the test.”

That's not real waiting.

Real waiting is long and hard, like waiting eleven months and seventeen days to see if you'll get a donor heart so you can keep living.

All that waiting with nothing happening, then everything happens faster than you can imagine so the donor heart stays strong.

I know about waiting.

I AM NOT
supposed to overdo. I am supposed to cut back when I'm tired.

But I would like to mention that baseball takes time and energy. Developing talent in people does, too. It isn't easy. You have to put yourself out there, hoping like crazy you'll get a break. Hoping sucks up a lot of energy. People don't think about that.

We have ten players now. Donald Mole wants to play. The problem is Donald Mole can't hit, run, catch, or field.

But if we get one more player, just one, then Mr. Hazard says the Lincoln Middle School Tornadoes will play us tomorrow. This is huge, but as I emphasized to Walt, this is not overdoing!

The problem is, we can't find that eleventh player.

I look at Franny, who says, “I don't know anyone.”

“But do you play?”

“No.”

So we practice drills and footwork and running and hitting. We practice catching on the run, how to stand at the plate, how not to drop the ball.

“You hold on to it like it's a wad of money,” I tell them. “And I want you to hustle. On and off the field. Your mother tells you to do the dishes? You do it with energy! Get excited. And bring it out on the field every day!”

I tell Donald, “Picture in your mind where you want that ball to go when you hit it.”

“I can't,” he says. At least he's honest.

“Where would you like it to go, Donald?”

He thinks hard. “Between the second baseman and the shortstop in Yankee Stadium.”

“Keep thinking big, Donald.” I turn to the team. “Does anyone know one more player?”

Donald Mole raises his hand. “I know lots of players, but they don't want to play.”

“Why not?”

“They don't understand what's happening here,” he says quietly.

I wish I could teach you to play, Donald. You've
got the heart, but absolutely no talent.

I end practice on this: “If you can find anybody for tomorrow, bring them.”

Danny Lopez says, “The Tornadoes will kill us.”

Sky says, “Not playing is killing us more.”

“We're dead either way.” That's Logo.

“No death allowed,” I tell them. “Nobody's out there alone. We're a team. Remember?” I read the roster. “We've got Sky pitching, Casey as relief pitcher, Logo catching, Benchant on first base, Donald on second, Danny Lopez on third, the Oxleys in the outfield.” The triplets cheer. “Terrell Younger—shortstop.”
We hope and pray Terrell will cover second base, too.
“Good work today.”

The team heads home. I stand alone on the field and look at the tree the school planted in Hargie's memory. It's surrounded by a little fence to protect it because (for lack of a better garden explanation) it's a baby.

I'd like to put a protective fence around my guys. They won't need it forever, but just for a little while. I think of an eagle's nest that's built to last—high up in a tree to avoid predators. It's a condo. It's a fort.

I think of all the coaches in history who stood on their fields hoping their teams wouldn't embarrass
themselves. There are so many great coaches out there. Why did Hillcrest get stuck with two such bad ones?

I look at the huge baseball bat glistening on the little hill.

“Jeremiah!” Mr. Hazard walks toward me, waving. “I've spoken to the coach of the Tornadoes. They have two injured players and are down to ten, like us. They agreed to play a game tomorrow. What do you think?”

I shake his hand. “Mr. Hazard, I don't know if we can win, but we're going to play our best.”

“I like that attitude, Jeremiah!”

“We've been focusing on hustle, sir.”

“Keep it up!”

And he's off. I walk across the street and take out my phone. There's a message from Walt.

Your biopsy results came back normal, Jer. You don't need the monitor.

I knew it! I feel totally free! I love being normal—I mean, medically normal.

I don't know how to contact all the players, but the ones I can get this:

Tomorrow it begins. 10 players. 7 innings. Be there with your best and stop the Tornadoes. Pass it on.