Southpaw (2 page)
One other thing about the noise level in the apartment: Even with the TV on, you could hear the music coming from the store downstairs. They were used to it, and the store closed at nine. So it never interfered with their sleep.
When both games were between innings and car commercials were playing, Jimmy asked his dad to switch to the weather station. “I’m hoping it’ll be a little warmer tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll be able to get in a better flow at the tryouts.”
The local forecast was just beginning as Dad switched. “Perfect timing,” he said with a grin, and though it was just music playing over a printed forecast, Dad upped the volume to 21.
“How come twenty-one is okay?” Jimmy asked. “That’s an odd number.”
“It’s divisible by seven,” Dad said. “Twenty-one is three touchdowns and three extra points. So it’s not a problem.”
“And twenty-five is fine, too?”
“It’s symmetrical: five times five. But that’s almost always too loud anyway.” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’ll explain it again. The acceptable volume range, depending on the station, is fourteen to twenty-five. All even numbers are okay, plus twenty-five.”
“And twenty-one.”
“Yes. As I just explained.”
“So we can’t watch TV at fifteen, seventeen, nineteen, or twenty-three?”
“Right. We can watch those channels, but not at those volumes.”
“I got it.”
Dad switched back to the Yankees. “Now watch how Menendez follows through. He’s a righty, but his mechanics are sound. See? Immediately into a defensive stance after the delivery. You gotta work on that, be ready for a line drive or a grounder.”
Jimmy nodded but looked back to the street. Two kids a little older than he was were standing outside Tienda de Amigo, a men’s clothing store. One was dribbling a basketball and the other was drinking a bottle of soda. A younger kid whizzed past on a skateboard. Above the store, in an apartment that mirrored his own, a woman was preparing dinner.
Dad took a handful of pretzels from the bag that was next to him on the couch and began to chew very slowly and carefully. It was another of his little quirks—always mindful of making too much noise.
“Dad, just chew ’em normal!” Jimmy said. “It ain’t gonna bother me.”
“You want to hear the game, don’t you?”
“Which game? I can’t concentrate on two of ’em at once like you can.”
“Like I said, if you time it right—”
“You can see every pitch. I know.” Jimmy got up and walked toward his bedroom.
“Where you going?” Dad asked.
“I’ll be back in a while.”
He left the tiny living room and walked through the kitchen, where the faucet was dripping steadily. His small bedroom was beyond the bathroom, with its flickering overhead light. Across the hall was his dad’s room, the length of Jimmy’s room and the bathroom combined but still only seven feet wide.
That was the whole place. The door between the bedrooms opened to a narrow stairwell, down to the alley behind the building and up to the third-floor apartment of Mrs. Murphy, an old woman who lived alone with the two cats she wasn’t supposed to have. The landlord, Mr. Espino, knew about the cats but let it slide because Mrs. Murphy was such a good tenant otherwise.
Jimmy was feeling antsy. There was so much going on out there on the street, but he was trapped in here, in an apartment that wasn’t much bigger than the garage at their house back in Pennsylvania. Except for school and now baseball tryouts, he wasn’t allowed to go out on his own. “Not until we know the town a little better,” Dad had said. “When you get a little older.”
I’ll be fifty before I figure this town out,
he thought. But there was something about the place he liked—the energy especially, the faster pace. Kids around here were streetwise. He wouldn’t mind learning some of the ropes himself.
he thought. But there was something about the place he liked—the energy especially, the faster pace. Kids around here were streetwise. He wouldn’t mind learning some of the ropes himself.
As Spencer had said, Jimmy Fleming needed to know the score.
3
Bringing Up Flem
I
t was the worst kind of day for baseball—temperature in the mid-thirties, a misty rain making everything slippery and cold. Jimmy rubbed his hands together quickly, trying to generate some warmth as he waited in the on-deck circle for Willie Shaw to finish his at-bat.
t was the worst kind of day for baseball—temperature in the mid-thirties, a misty rain making everything slippery and cold. Jimmy rubbed his hands together quickly, trying to generate some warmth as he waited in the on-deck circle for Willie Shaw to finish his at-bat.
The week had flown by, and he’d shown what he could do, fielding most of what was hit to him, handling most of the batters he faced when called on to pitch, and getting in some decent cuts at the ball when he took his turns at bat.
By his estimation, he was better than at least half the players trying out, and as good as most of the others. Even so, he had no idea if he was going to make the team. He wanted to leave an impression with these last swings of the week.
Willie hit a soft fly ball that barely left the infield. Second baseman Lamont Wilkins trotted slowly backwards and got under it, making the catch.
Jimmy stepped up to the plate and took a practice swing. Out on the mound was Ramiro Velez, who took the throw from Lamont and kicked at the dirt with his toe.
Velez peered in and smirked at Jimmy. They had some classes together and had spoken briefly a couple of times this week. Nothing more than a “How’s it going?” or “Crappy weather again.”
Jimmy could hit from either side of the plate, but Ramiro was a right-hander, so he decided to bat lefty.
At shortstop, Spencer suddenly made an exaggerated hacking in his throat, pretending to bring up spit. “Heavy phlegm alert,” he said loudly.
The catcher, Jared Owen, made the same noise. Immediately all of the infielders followed suit. More or less in unison, they chanted, “Let’s go, Flem!” then made a loud spitting sound and laughed.
Jimmy turned toward Coach Wimmer, who was standing in the dugout. He was shaking his head but grinning. He caught Jimmy’s eye and said, “Looks like you’re developing a fan club.”
Ramiro was laughing too hard to pitch.
“Let’s see some action!” Coach yelled.
Ramiro bit down on his lip and nodded. The infielders switched to a more standard baseball chatter: “No batter, no batter, hey batter!”
Jimmy exhaled hard and went into his batting stance, tensed but alert, ready for the pitch.
Ramiro looked in at the catcher, went into his windup, and unleashed a fastball, a little low and inside, but hittable.
Jimmy swung and made contact, but the ball skipped out of bounds before reaching first base. He set the bat between his knees, rubbed his stinging hands again, and adjusted his batting helmet.
The second pitch was a curve, low and outside, and Jimmy gave it a good look but didn’t swing.
The rain was coming down harder now and he could hear it pinging against his helmet.
The “No batter, no batter” chant started up again, but that didn’t bother him. Every batter got razzed like that in baseball. The phlegm business was different, and he couldn’t quite tell if it was good-natured or slightly vicious. Maybe a little of both.
The third pitch was a fastball right down the middle, and he timed his swing well. The bat met the ball and sent it sailing down the right-field line, high and deep. It was out of the park for sure, but at the last second it drifted foul. Jimmy was nearly to first base, but he had his eyes on the ball.
He trotted back to the plate and picked up his bat, wiping some mud off the grip and onto his sweatshirt.
“Nice cut,” said the catcher.
“Thanks.”
Just straighten it out,
Jimmy thought.
Another one like that.
Jimmy thought.
Another one like that.
And here came the pitch, another fastball, a little lower. Jimmy took a hefty swing and was shocked to meet nothing but air. The ball smacked into Jared’s glove. Strike three.
He shut his eyes for a second and blew out his breath. Then he turned and walked back to the dugout.
“That’s it for today!” called Coach Wimmer. “We’d need webbed feet if we stay out here any longer.”
The players ran in from the field and took shelter in the dugout. Jimmy found a seat and leaned back against the wall.
Ramiro came in smiling and squeezed between David Choi and Jimmy. “Mowed you down, Flem,” he said with a smile.
“I think that wind helped you out,” Jimmy replied. “That drive to right should have been gone.”
Ramiro laughed, revealing his slightly crooked teeth. “The wind’s blowing the other way,
muchacho.
It would have been
more
foul if it wasn’t.”
muchacho.
It would have been
more
foul if it wasn’t.”
Coach held up his hand to stop all the chatter. “Nice workout, boys,” he said. “Now listen, I’ll be posting the roster outside my classroom on Mundy morning, so be sure to check it. If you’re not listed, don’t be discouraged; just work on your skills, get yourself into a summer league later this year, and try out for the eighth-grade team next spring. The rest of you, I’ll see you at practice.”
Jimmy felt his stomach sink when Coach mentioned the roster. He glanced around at the other players. There were three or four who were certain to get cut and ten or twelve who wouldn’t, but after that it seemed to be a toss-up. And Spencer had been right; there were a number of good pitchers.
Jimmy pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt and followed Ramiro out of the dugout. Ramiro was shorter and had thick black hair. He turned and held up his hand for a high five. “Just busting you about that foul ball,” he said. “I thought it was gone.”
“Me, too.”
“Just straighten it out.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Coach was stuffing some baseballs into a duffel bag near home plate. He looked up at Jimmy and Ramiro as they walked by. “We’re bound to get some baseball weather soon, huh?”
“You said it,” Ramiro replied. “Spring starts next week, don’t it?”
“Yep. Mundy. See you guys then.”
“You mean at practice?” Jimmy asked.
“What else would I mean?”
“You mean I made it?”
Coach looked around, then nodded quickly and said, “Yep. I see you two as my top relief pitchers. A righty and a lefty.”
Jimmy pumped his fist and then slapped hands with Ramiro, who was beaming.
“Keep it quiet, though,” Coach said. “Don’t go blabbing about that this weekend.” He rolled his eyes. “Me and my big mouth ... That’s confidential. Everybody else has to wait.”
“We won’t say a word,” Ramiro said. “But man, this is hype. I got cut last year
and
the year before. I was sure it’d happen again.”
and
the year before. I was sure it’d happen again.”
“You must have worked in the off-season,” Coach said.
“Every day.... Most days, anyway.”
“It paid off. Now get out of here before we all drown.”
Jimmy and Ramiro hustled off the field together. “Which way you headed?” Ramiro asked.
“Down to the Boulevard and a block over.”
“I can go that way. Come on.”
They ran to the Boulevard and waited for the light to change, then dashed across and headed for the back of Jimmy’s building. “You wanna get out of the rain for a few minutes?” Jimmy asked.
Ramiro shrugged. “I’ll just get soaked again. I got like six more blocks to go.... Maybe get a drink, though, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
Jimmy was surprised to hear something frying in the kitchen and the TV on.
“Dad?”
“Came home early,” Dad said, poking his head into the hallway. “Wanted to hear how it went.”
“It went good. This is Ramiro.”
“Howdy, Ramiro. You guys make the team?”
“Looks like it,” Jimmy said.
Dad’s whole face brightened, and he raised both fists. “No kidding? You a starting pitcher?”
“Reliever.”
“Awesome.” Dad gave his son a hug and turned to Ramiro. “You made it, too?”
“Yeah.”
Jimmy broke loose and grabbed some paper towels, wiping his head and handing some to Ramiro.
“Thanks,” Ramiro said.
“What position are you, Ramiro?” Dad asked.
“Same as this guy. We’ll both be in the bullpen, it looks like.”
“I’ll tell you what: You show your stuff in relief, then they’ll have to make you starters.”
“They already got good starters, Dad,” Jimmy said. He was glad enough to have made the team. No reason for his dad to go overboard about it.
“You’ll show ’em,” Dad said. “Be sure to call your mother and let her know you made it.”
Ramiro gave Jimmy a questioning look.
Jimmy felt his stomach squirm a little. “She’s in Pennsylvania.”
“Oh.”
“You still thirsty?”
“Maybe just some water, quick.
My
mother’s in Hudson City, and she’ll be wondering where I am.”
My
mother’s in Hudson City, and she’ll be wondering where I am.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Jimmy asked.
“Working.”
“Working?”
“Yeah. I wash dishes and stuff at my uncle’s restaurant, Jalapeños.” Ramiro drank the water quickly and glanced at the clock above the stove. “I gotta go,” he said. “See you Monday.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“You mean
Mundy.
”
Mundy.
”
They both laughed. “Yeah,” Ramiro said. “Sundy, Mundy, Tuesdy.”
Jimmy went to the front window and watched Ramiro run up the Boulevard.
“Guess we could have given him a ride,” Dad said.
“Yeah.”
“I wasn’t thinking. Was too excited that you made the team. Now things will really happen for you. Mark my words: If you keep working, you’ll be a star.”
Jimmy nodded. He didn’t care that much about being a star. He just loved to play. More importantly, he was glad to be on a team again.
“Yep,” Dad said. “Just keep working. Saddle up and go, right?”
“Right, Dad.”
Dad was always saying things like that, catch-phrases that made sense in a weird way. “Saddle up and go” meant something like “Face up to a challenge” or “Get on with it.” Dad said those things, too, but “Saddle up and go” seemed to speak for them all.
Jimmy headed for the bathroom to take a shower. He was cold and wet and muddy, but Dad was right. Things were definitely starting to happen.
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