Split Decision (10 page)
Bart hurled an inside fastball that jammed the Saints’ hitter. Bart charged forward and gobbled up the resulting weak grounder. He wheeled and fired to second, getting the force-out on the lead runner.
Unfortunately, Gannon’s zealously high throw over to first pulled Slaven off the bag. Holy Family still had the tying run on base. And now Jones, representing the winning run, was up—with a fat opportunity to help his own cause.
Uh-oh
, Cody thought, as he saw Jones take his low stance on the first-base side of home plate,
KJ’s switch-hitting—going lefty. And I know Bart hates pitching to left-handed hitters
.
A fastball at the ankles, a bouncer in front of the plate, and a neck-high changeup put Bart in a deep hole, at three-and-zero.
Cody relaxed on the next pitch, figuring that Jones would be taking it all the way.
He was as stunned as everyone else when Jones swung at a high fastball, which would have surely been ball four. Jones didn’t get all of the pitch, but it looped over second base and looked sure to drop in for a base hit.
Unless Cody could make like a sprinter and chase it down.
Chastising himself for not remaining vigilant, Cody dashed madly for the ball. He felt his baseball cap fly off his head, as if an invisible hand had grabbed it. The ball was plummeting toward the buzz-cut outfield grass now, and Cody felt panic surge through him as he feared he would be too late. He flung his body forward, extending his left arm like a starving man reaching for a scrap of bread.
He heard himself grunt as his torso bounced off the grass. He wasn’t sure he had caught the ball until he unclenched his mitt and looked inside.
This is better than any birthday present I ever unwrapped
, he thought, with a wince and a smile.
But it isn’t my present; it’s Bart’s.
Cody worked himself to a standing position— which, due to being almost breathless and feeling as if someone had used a hammer to pound a drum solo on his ribs—was a several-step process.
Tentatively, he began to jog toward Bart. He felt like crying out, “Ow!” with each stride, but he forced a smile across his face instead, holding the ball out in his right hand.
“Good win!” he managed to wheeze to Bart as he handed him the ball. “Way to pitch, dude!”
Bart said nothing. He merely grabbed Cody in a bear hug.
Ooh
, thought Cody.
This is so not good for the ribs. But it’s good for the heart!
C
ody lay in the infield grass, eyes closed. He drank in the aromas of track, an odd mix of tropical suntan lotions and the sharp medicinal odor of various liniments and muscle rubs.
He had just cheered Robyn to a third-place finish in the 200 meters and now had time for a quick ten-minute catnap before pulling for Gage McClintock in the 400. He found himself wishing Drew were nearby, but, as this was a freshman meet, Drew wouldn’t be competing.
I doubt that Drew will ever run a freshman meet
, Cody laughed to himself.
He’d probably lap everybody in the field, so what would be the point? Of course, at this point, I’m wondering if I will ever get to compete in a freshman meet myself.
“Looks like you’re doing a good job of resting those sore ribs,” Cody heard a voice say. He opened his eyes and looked up at Coach Clayton. “Yeah, Coach,” he said lazily. “A few more days of lying out here in the springtime sun and I’ll be as good as new.”
“I hope so, dawg. I can’t wait to see what you’re capable of this year. Drew thinks you will break five minutes in the mile. I tend to agree.”
Cody snorted in spite of himself. “Well, I don’t know about that. That’s pretty quick, and I didn’t even get within shouting distance of sub-five last year.”
“Yeah, but last year was a long time ago. You’re taller, stronger. If I look real close, I can almost see some muscle tone on those skinny legs and those long monkey arms of yours.”
Cody forced a laugh. “Well, that’s probably just because the sun’s in your eyes or something.”
After his coach had jogged away, Cody slipped to a restroom and pulled off the top of his track warm-ups. He studied his reflection in the mirror
. Huh
, he thought,
I do believe I am getting some muscle goin’ on. Guess I’ll leave this warm-up off—see if Robyn notices.
Like Cody, Pork Chop didn’t compete in the early-April frosh invitational either. But his left-handed shot put attempts were becoming less and less awkward and amusing. There was a chance he could compete before the season, if only at the freshman level. That meant, Cody knew, that it was time for the conversation he had been dreading.
The Monday after the freshman meet, Cody sat in the locker room, in front of Chop’s locker, waiting for his friend to finish his shower. You could distinguish Deke Porter’s locker from all the others, as it was peppered with dents and dings, as if someone had attacked it with a ball-peen hammer. In the center of the locker loomed “The Crater,” a deep indentation that Cody suspected was created by Chop’s helmet sometime during football season. What Cody didn’t know was if his friend’s head had been in the helmet at the time.
In his head, Cody began playing a highlight reel of Pork Chop’s Greatest Tantrums of the Past Sports Year—Chop hurling his helmet like a discus after giving up a sack during a midseason scrimmage. Screaming at—and then tossing—rail-thin Kris Knight for accidentally bumping into him in the hallway. Pounding his double-cheeseburger-size fists against his locker when he couldn’t remember his combination on the first day back from Christmas break.
“Chop,” Cody said softly as his dripping friend approached, a beach towel wrapped around his waist, “we need to talk. Let’s head to the Double D.”
“I’m worried about you, Chop,” Cody began, nibbling on a french fry. “This year, it seems like your temper has gotten the better of you sometimes. I mean, is everything okay? Something bugging you?”
Chop snorted. “Aw, don’t worry about me, little brother. I can handle my business. You just take care of you. I’m a fierce competitor; you know that.”
Cody let out a long, slow sigh. “Chop, it’s more than just the temper thing. You’ve also been acting kind of weird. I’ve noticed … Okay, I don’t know how else to say this. Are you, uh, on something?”
Chop narrowed his eyes. This was the way he looked at his sports foes. It was also the way he looked at Alston when the two of them squared off. Cody couldn’t remember “The Look” ever being leveled at him. And now, he wondered if he would ever be able to forget it.
“Code,” Chop began slowly, “you’re my best friend. You’re my boy. That’s the only reason you’re still conscious right now. But you need to hear this—leave it alone.”
The urge to back away and get out of the Dairy Delight pulled at Cody like an electromagnet. He fought against the force and looked at his friend. “I can’t, Chop,” he said sadly.
“Why not?” came the response.
“Because you’re my best friend, too. And I know something’s up. What are you now—220…225?”
“Oh, so that’s it.” Chop slid out of the booth and rose to his feet. “You’re jealous that I’m gettin’ all swole. Don’t look all shocked like that; I’m just keepin’ it real. Feel this, Co—I can’t help it if you’re a skinny white boy. Maybe if you wailed on your biceps and pecs the way I do—”
Cody stood and thrust his palm toward Chop’s face. “Come on, give it a rest. It’s
me
you’re talking to.” He scanned his friend from torso to toes. “You’re telling me that’s all natural, huh? Those bottles and tubes in your locker? That’s all on the up-and-up? For real?”
Cody saw his friend lower his gaze, as if he were trying to read his T-shirt.
“It says ‘Go against the Flow,’” Cody offered helpfully. “And that little drawing? That’s a Jesus fish.”
“I know what it is,” Chop muttered. “And I don’t owe you any explanation. Besides, if you think I’m dirty, maybe you’re not the friend I thought you were.”
Cody jumped on the sentence like it was a fumble. “If I wasn’t your friend, I’d just let you keep playing Russian roulette with your body. I wouldn’t stand up to you. But I am your friend. And if you’re doing what I fear you’re doing, it’s dangerous—not to mention illegal.”
Pork Chop arched his eyebrows. “Hey, the supps I take are legal—pretty much.”
Cody heard himself gasp incredulously. “Pretty much legal? Is that the same as ‘pretty much not pregnant’ or something? Chop, something is either legal or it’s not.”
Chop shook his head defiantly. “You don’t understand, dawg. You don’t understand the pressure that’s on me. To be like Doug. You know what it’s like to grow up in Doug Porter’s shadow—Doug Porter’s white shadow? Dawg, I was being compared to him when I was still in grade school. I gotta be a beast out there. Everybody’s lookin’ to test me, to take my head off. Because that’s the ultimate coup—to bust up DP’s little brother.
“And besides, maybe you don’t get it—pretty much all the football linemen, all the track weight men, are on something. How am I supposed to compete with them? What am I supposed to do, Cody? I’m a freshman who’s expected to compete at the varsity level, and compete well. Most everybody else can come up through the ranks, but not the Midnight Cowboy. Dawg, what am I gonna do?”
Cody paused a moment, then pointed at his shirt. “Go against the flow,” he said quietly.
Heading to the track the following day, Cody saw an obstacle in his path. A 225-pound obstacle.
“I just need to know something,” Pork Chop said flatly, drumming his fingers on the hand-to-elbow cast he still sported on his right arm. “You gonna tell Coach? You gonna put my business in the street?”
Cody studied his friend.
Chop’s cast is decorated with more hearts than a Valentine’s card
, he thought.
I bet every girl in the freshman class signed it— except Jessica. He’s proud of that cast, but right now it looks like he wants to club me with it!
Cody took a step backward. It had been a long time since he had been afraid of Pork Chop hitting him. But there was something different about the big man now. The old Chop would never have tossed a skinny, non-threat like Kris Knight across a school hallway either. At most, he might have playfully chided Knight for his inattentiveness.