Stealing Home (5 page)

Madison bounced up as if he were made of rubber, and marched toward third. “What was that?” he screamed, his head so close to Cody’s that the brims of their caps almost touched.

Cody shrugged. “I was running a straight line from second to third, and you were planted right in my path. You interfered.”

“What?!”

Cody glanced over his shoulder and saw Gage’s dad, who was coaching third, striding toward them. Then he returned his focus to his opponent. “You heard me, Madison,” he said, fighting to keep his voice from shaking—or shooting up two octaves. “You can’t interfere with the runner. I’m sure you didn’t mean to. After all, you’re more used to pitching than playing short. But still—”

Madison’s mouth fell open so wide that Cody could see his tonsils. “You must be crazy, homey. If we play you guys again and I’m pitching, you best watch your head!”

Mr. McClintock was between them now. “Settle down, son,” he said to Madison. “It’s just a game.”

Madison glowered at Mr. McClintock but said nothing.

Meanwhile, the Lincoln coach was at home plate, arguing with the umpire. Eventually he thrust both arms into the air, as if directing a choir, then stomped away. Brett had been called out at first, but Cody was officially awarded third base. Pork Chop came up to bat, smiled in Cody’s direction, and then laced the first pitch he saw deep into the gap in left field. Cody knew he could trot in safely, but he sprinted all the way home anyway, making sure to touch the plate.

He turned to see Pork Chop pull into second with a stand-up double. As Cody headed to the dugout, he could tell Chop was saying something to Madison, no doubt inviting him, “Hey, Madman—why don’t you stand in
my
way this time? They’ll have to bring in a team of archeologists to find your remains in the dirt when I’m done with you!”

Goddard struck out, and Lincoln went on to win in extra innings, but the Lancers seemed more angry than elated when the game ended. And as the two teams lined up single file for the traditional postgame handshakes, Madison was conspicuously absent.

Cody didn’t have time to agonize about the loss. Sunday was only a day away—it was time to see if his plan would succeed.

That night, just before he fell asleep, Cody whispered a quiet prayer. “God, I feel kinda weird. With
the game today, and my being so nervous about the funeral tomorrow, I sort of survived the day without being too sad about Mom. But now I feel bad. I don’t want her to think that the day wasn’t significant. I want her to know that I’m still sad she’s gone. So, if it’s okay to ask, please can you let her know that I miss her? And that what I’ve been working on these past couple of days is one way of honoring her? Thank you and amen.”

Cody paced nervously in the parking lot of Crossroads Community Church. He looked at his watch. It read 1:57. The service was going to start in three minutes. “Come on, guys,” he whispered, “where are you?”

He was about ready to give up and go inside when Doug’s Camry screeched around the corner, followed by Mr. McClintock’s minivan.

“You had me worried,” Cody said to Pork Chop as he spilled from the backseat. “What took you so long?”

Pork Chop looked at Doug, who slammed the driver’s-side door shut, then shot his little brother an accusing stare.

“It’s my fault,” Chop muttered. “I had a pants problem.”

Cody shrugged his shoulders. “A pants problem? What—did you get a hole in ’em or something?”

“Nah, man, it’s just that the last time I wore these pants, well, that was about ten pounds ago. I had to lie down on the bed to get these on—and, dawg, if I so much as sneeze, the little button at the top of these pants is gonna pop off so hard that it might hurt somebody.”

Cody wagged his head and heard himself laughing. “Well then, don’t sneeze.” He studied Chop’s navy blue suit. The cuffs of the pants hung at his ankle bones, revealing about an inch and a half of what Cody was sure were white athletic socks.
Well,
he thought,
at least he’s wearing socks. That’s better than nothing.

“You look sharp, Chop.”

“Thanks, dawg. You clean up nice yourself. I like that blazer. I haven’t seen you wear that since—” Pork Chop stopped himself in midsentence. “Ah, man, I’m sorry.”

Cody took a deep breath. “It’s okay. Besides, Mom’s funeral wasn’t the last time I wore it. I wore it Easter Sunday. You would’ve known that if you had come with me. Now, let’s get the rest of the team together and get inside.”

Someone had roped off the third row of pews on the left side of the auditorium. A somber usher directed
the twelve well-dressed teens to their place. Robyn was sitting in the fourth row. She gave Cody an understanding smile and nodded at him as he passed by.

A rail-thin man with wispy blond hair was playing “Surely Goodness and Mercy” on the organ as the Rockies filed into the pews. AJ and his father sat in a front-row pew, on the right-hand side of the church. Cody saw Murph’s dad turn around and then tap his son on the shoulder. Murph turned as well, and Cody’s eyes met his.

Cody didn’t speak, didn’t nod, didn’t smile. He just held AJ Murphy’s gaze for a few seconds. And when his new friend turned back toward the front of the church, Cody knew they had shared an hour conversation’s worth of thoughts and emotions.

Pastor Taylor stepped to the podium and began reading from Psalm 23. When he came to the end—“and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever”—Cody heard himself whisper, “Amen.”

Pork Chop, who was sitting next to Cody, made a fist and held it out to him. Cody made a fist of his own and exchanged daps with his best friend.

Pastor Taylor was addressing the congregation now. He said, “We have welcomed the Murphys into our community. And now we need to make sure the welcome doesn’t end. We must surround them with God’s love.”

Cody watched AJ as the service continued. And he felt again what it was like to endure the funeral of the person who gave you life. Mr. Murphy tried to comfort AJ occasionally, draping his arm around his son and squeezing his shoulder. But then he would withdraw his arm and bury his face in his hands, sobbing quietly.

Just before the service ended, Cody saw AJ play the role of comforter, putting his arm around his dad. The sight of it was like a kick to the heart. Cody swallowed hard.

Dear heavenly Father,
he prayed earnestly
, only you know how bad AJ is hurting right now—although I think I have a pretty good idea. Please comfort him. I hope the team being here will help somehow. I hope we can all show him he’s not alone. Please show us—show me—what to do.

After the service ended, the Rockies found AJ in the church foyer. They surrounded him and, one by one, offered their condolences.

“I’m sorry,” Cody heard Alston say, his voice halting. “I can’t imagine what it must be like. I don’t know if it will help, but just know that I’ll have your back when high school starts. I’ve got lots of friends up there. We’ll look out for you.”

Pork Chop was next. He wrapped a thick right arm around AJ’s shoulder. “Ditto what Alston said, man. My condolences to you and your family.”

When it was Cody’s turn, he stood in front of Murph, waiting for the right words to come to him.

They came to A. J. instead. “It hurts, Cody.”

Cody took a deep breath. “I know.”

“But it would hurt a lot worse if you and the team weren’t here. Thanks. I’ll never forget this.”

Later, after Cody and his fellow mourners had politely picked at an assortment of finger foods and desserts in the church fellowship hall, he stood with Blake and Pork Chop in the parking lot.

“You okay, dawg?” Chop asked.

Cody thought for a minute. “Yeah, I think I am. It’s weird. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I would give anything to have my mom back. But because of what happened to me, I was able to help Murph. Help him in a way I probably couldn’t have otherwise.”

Blake smiled thoughtfully. “Even in the most tragic circumstances, we know that God is still working for our good.”

“I don’t get it,” Chop said, squirming and sweating in his too-tight suit. “You’re not saying Cody’s mom was supposed to die so he’d know how to help Murph, are you? ’Cuz that would be whack!”

“No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m just saying that God is working for our good even when the worst stuff happens.”

Chop shook his head. “Man, that’s weird.”

Blake smiled again. “Not weird, my friend. Mysterious. God can work in mysterious ways. Miraculous ways. Right, Cody?”

Before Cody could answer, A. J.’s father approached him. “Young man,” he said, leveling tired gray eyes at him, “thank you for what you and the team did today. You are a godsend.”

Mr. Murphy paused, appearing to search for more words. Then he turned and walked stiffly to the middle of the parking lot, where he stopped and craned his neck to the sky, as if looking for answers.

Cody could see he was beginning to cry. “It’s okay, Phil,” he heard someone call out to him.

Cody shuddered in spite of himself. He thought of the year that had passed.
No, Phil,
he thought.
It’ll be a long time before things are okay. But I’m gonna do all I can to make them that way for your son. And maybe somehow that will help you, too.

T
he Rockies sputtered to an anemic 2–8 regular-season record, which earned them the bottom seed in the postseason tournament—and therefore the dubious privilege of facing Lincoln in the first round.

Two days before the tournament in Colorado Springs, A. J. called Cody and told him he wouldn’t be able to play.

“I
feel bad that I’m letting the team down,” he said. “But I think I would let you guys down even worse if I tried to play, you know?”

“Don’t worry, Murph,” Cody assured him. “The guys will understand. And if by some miracle we beat Lincoln, I’m bringing you the game ball.”

“Well, I won’t hold my breath for that,” Murph said, mustering a brave laugh.

“This is a nice field,” Pork Chop observed moments before the first game of the tournament. “Big, too. Two-eighty-five to straightaway center. I’d love to send one out there.”

Cody looked in the direction Chop was pointing. The gently sloping hill behind the outfield’s chain-link fence looked like the world’s most bizarre checkerboard. An assortment of square picnic blankets—grays, greens, blues, yellows, and one with purple polka dots—were scattered across the grass.

Families sat, enjoying pregame picnics, while dogs and young children romped around. Cody smiled as he saw one toddler chasing another, wielding a plastic bat over his head like a club.

A few older spectators sat in lawn chairs with cup holders, no doubt sipping sodas and lemonade.

Cody glanced up at the nearly cloudless sky. “It’s a perfect day for baseball. Too bad we’re gonna get spanked.”

“Maybe not,” said Brett Evans, who was swinging his right arm nearby. “Maybe not.”

Pork Chop raised his eyebrows at Cody. “Dawg, Brett’s got his game face on.”

“Yeah,” Cody answered. “But so will Madman.”

Cody stepped to the plate to open the game. He felt Madison’s focus on him, like the pinpoint beam of sunlight through a magnifying glass, and shuddered. The glare seemed hot enough to burn a hole in his face.

He tightened his grip on the bat. He thought he saw Madison smirk as he rocked back and brought both hands up to his face.

Here it comes,
Cody told himself.
Focus!

Madison grunted as he released the ball. Cody forced his eyes wide open. The ball was speeding toward him, fast and high. He fought the urge to bail out—to lurch from the batter’s box or dive to the ground. He saw—even felt—the ball go speeding past his eyes, a buzzing white blur that seemed electrically charged.

Owens, Lincoln’s catcher, had to leap from his crouch to snare it. Cody heard him groan when the ball exploded into his mitt like a firecracker.

“Ball!” the umpire bellowed.

Cody stepped out of the batter’s box and tightened the Velcro strap on his batting glove as Owens tossed the ball back to Madison. “Man,” the catcher said as he settled back into his crouch, “Madman’s throwing fire today. I wouldn’t want to be you, Martin.”

Cody said nothing but felt his head nodding in agreement.
I’m not sure I want to be me, either.

Madison’s second pitch kicked up dirt two feet in front of home plate. Why he swung at it, Cody wasn’t sure. He heard Owens laughing as he dug the ball out of the dirt and handed it to the ump for inspection.

The umpire turned the ball over and over in his giant right hand, as if he were examining an apple at the grocery store. Finally he deemed the ball playable and lobbed it to Madison.

The third pitch was perfect—a bullet right down the middle of the plate. Cody thought the ball might have already smacked into Owens’ glove before he swung.

Madison’s next offering was a changeup. Cody was completely fooled by Madison’s whiplike arm motion. He swung before the ball was anywhere near home plate. “Strike three!” the umpire roared.

The Lancers’ pitcher shook his head and gave Cody a subtle bye-bye wave as he headed for the dugout.

Madison struck out the next two batters as well. Cody found himself feeling guilty that he was relieved when it happened.
Some team player I am,
he scolded himself.
I’m more worried about looking bad than I am about my teammates’ performance.

As the Rockies jogged to take their positions in the field, Cody saw concern, not the usual confidence, in
Pork Chop’s eyes. “We’re in trouble,” he said, shaking his head.

Brett Evans always kept his cap pulled down low on his forehead, so it was hard to tell what was in his eyes. But from the way he was pitching, it must have been fire.

Brett had no part of Madison’s arm strength, but he was smart—and a master at locating pitches. Through the first three innings, he moved the ball around the strike zone so well that no Lincoln hitter could solve him.

Cody smiled, thinking,
It’s as if Brett’s playing pin the tail on the donkey—without a blindfold.

In the fourth, Locke connected with a hanging curveball, but he got too far under it, and Alston gathered it in just a step in front of the warning track. Owens followed, lacing a hard liner toward Bart Evans, who had taken Murphy’s position at third. Bart went deep into the hole, backhanded the ball on one hop, and gunned a perfect throw to Chop at first.

After Owens was called out, Brett pointed at his brother, showing his gratitude.

“This is quite a pitcher’s duel,” Coach Lathrop observed before the start of the fifth. He looked at
Brett. “Both you and Mr. Madison have no-hitters going. You just stay focused, you hear? We can beat these guys.”

Cody was the second man up in the fifth, and Madison struck him out on three pitches, one of which Cody was certain he didn’t even see. Chop gave Madison a scare later in the inning when he smacked a two-out changeup deep into right field. However, it hooked foul at the last possible moment.

Madison pounded his mitt against his hip, muttering to himself. He looked to his dugout and then threw two pitches in the dirt. Pork Chop drew a walk, glaring at Madison as he jogged to first. Madison sneered back at him and then struck out Brett Evans on four pitches.

Madison blanked the Rockies again in the sixth, then got his team off to a promising start in the Lincoln half of the inning. He fouled off four pitches before drawing a walk. He took second on a passed ball that Goddard couldn’t dig out of the dirt.

Angry with himself for the bad pitch, Brett bore down and struck out the batter, as well as the next one he faced. However, Madison stole third in the process.

Lincoln sent out a left-handed pinch hitter to try to bring in the game’s first run. Brett missed badly on his
first two pitches but then found the zone. Madison hopped up and down in anger when the umpire called a waist-high fastball, “Strike three!”

“Last inning, men,” Pork Chop said in the dugout. “We can do this! Come on! Let’s get Brett a no-hitter, and us a big W!”

Cody saw Bart Evans whispering something to his brother, a hand on his shoulder. Brett nodded solemnly.

Gage McClintock led off the inning. After taking a called first strike, he laid down a decent bunt that trickled up the first base line. Madison charged after the ball, snared it, and whirled to throw to first. Gage was running hard, but Cody, who was on deck, shook his head dejectedly.

Gage has no shot,
he thought.

Cody thought wrong. In his zeal to throw out the runner, Madison sailed the ball two feet over the outstretched mitt of Nelson, the first baseman.

Before he headed to the plate, Cody felt himself being tugged backward. Coach Lathrop’s eyes were burning with intensity—or was it desperation?

“Listen to me, Martin,” he said, thin lips pulled tightly across clenched yellowing teeth. “I want this win. So we’re gonna manufacture a run. Madison’s been throwing inside at you all day. So I want you to lean into the strike zone and get yourself on base, you understand?”

Cody looked up at his coach. “But, sir,” he said, “my ribs are really hurting. They might even be broken. I, uh—”

“I don’t care if your ribs are broken. I don’t care if your stinkin’ heart is broken. You do what I say. Listen to me—you do
not
want to disobey me on this. Understand?”

Cody nodded. “Yes sir,” he said quietly.

Madison’s first two pitches were over the outside part of the plate—one a called strike, the other a ball. Cody swallowed hard.
Man, I never thought I’d be upset that Madman didn’t throw inside on me. I mean, Coach Lathrop can’t blame me for not leaning into those pitches, can he?

Madison was smirking as he went into his windup for the third pitch.
You are so cocky, dude,
Cody thought.
I wish I could send a line drive right back at your face—and if I weren’t almost petrified with fear, maybe I would.

The third pitch was more high heat. Cody dove to the ground, hoping he could get his head down before he got plunked.

As Cody got up and brushed the dirt off his uniform, he saw Madison standing on the mound, smiling smugly, arms crossed, as if he were posing for a
Sports Illustrated
cover. Owens, meanwhile,
had dashed to the backstop to retrieve the pitch, which he was unable to snag. Gage McClintock moved from first to second. Now Grant had a man in scoring position, with no outs.

“The count is two balls, one strike, on the batter, Cody Martin,” he heard the public-address announcer say.

As he settled into his stance, Cody looked at Coach Lathrop, who was glowering at him from the dugout. Cody could read his coach’s expression like writing on the wall—“You better let Madison hit you, or I’ll hit you myself!”

Cody swallowed hard.
God,
he prayed silently
, I’m way over my head here. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never disobeyed a coach’s orders in my life, but—

Cody’s prayer was interrupted by the next pitch, a scorching fastball right down the middle of the plate.

“Steee-rike!” the umpire called.

Cody shook his head in disgust.
That’s Madman’s first decent pitch of this at bat, and yet I’m still one strike away from being out.

As he dug his cleats into the dirt, anchoring himself for the next pitch, Cody sensed that Madison would throw inside this time. He shot a glance at Coach Lathrop. His hands were on his hips, and he looked like he might march to home plate any minute and grind his stubborn center fielder into the dirt.

Cody wanted to pray again, but Madison was already well into his windup. With a gorilla grunt, Madison fired his next pitch. Cody saw the ball bearing down on him like a heat-seeking missile. Fighting his instincts to run away and sign up for summer tennis, he leaned forward, dipping his shoulder toward home plate.

The ball hit him below his left armpit, the blow spinning him halfway around. The site of the impact felt as if it had caught fire.

Man,
Cody thought as he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, fighting back tears,
how can a
round
ball give such a
sharp
pain?
He felt his knees turning to gelatin, but he vowed not to go down.
I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction, Madman. No way.

“Son,” the umpire was saying to him, “you may take your base, but are you okay? Want me to call your coach out here?”

Cody looked to the dugout.
Coach Lathrop’s gotta know I’m hurting,
he reasoned.
Maybe he’ll send in a pinch runner. After all, he must have a heart somewhere in that barrel chest of his.

But all the coach did was glare at him—hairy arms crossed defiantly across his torso.

Cody inhaled carefully. His ribs felt like they would crack if he took in too much air. He prepared to speak, hoping his words wouldn’t come out as pathetic gasps.

“I’m fine, sir. Don’t need a coach, don’t need a trainer.”

“Okay,” the ump said, shaking his head. “Take your base, then. Batter up!”

Cody trotted to first. He could feel Madison’s eyes on him, so he fought the urge to wince with every stride.

Nelson greeted him when he arrived. “You okay, dude? That one looked like it left a mark. Man, Madison’s been throwing fire all year. But I think he’s getting stronger every game.”

Cody grimaced. “Just my luck.”

Alston stood at the plate, taking a few vicious practice cuts.
He looks focused,
Cody noted.
If anybody can get a hit off Madman, it’s gotta be TA.

Three pitches later Cody shook his head sadly
. Or maybe not,
he thought.
I gotta give Madman credit. I can’t even remember the last time I saw Alston whiff on three straight pitches!

As Pork Chop settled into his stance, Cody saw Coach Lathrop signaling something to Gage, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Madison’s first pitch was a low curveball, and Gage was off and running, right on cue.

He never had a chance. Owens popped up from his crouch and rocketed a perfect throw to third. Cody
seized the opportunity and stole second, but the Lancers had erased the lead runner and accomplished out number two. At best, they’d view Cody’s steal as minor collateral damage—if Madman could get Pork Chop out.

Madison tried too hard on his next pitch, rocketing it into the dirt to Owens’ left. Owens managed to trap the ball under his chubby catcher’s mitt, but Cody easily took third base on the play.