Mudville (24 page)

“The next time you hit someone, I'll flatten you.”

“You're the one I'll plunk first,” he mutters. “Brace your-self for a ten, Roy. A twenty, even.”

“Yeah? Well, I'll throw the ball right back at you,” I tell him. “I'll do a little head-hunting of my own. See how you like it.”

“Hey, hey,” says my dad, coming out of the office. “What's going on?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Just a little smack talk.”

“Settle it on the ball field, okay?”

“Oh, that's what I plan to do,” says Sturgis with a sly grin.

Much later, when we're supposed to be sleeping, I shake Sturgis awake.

“Did you know that we're related?” I ask him.

“Yeah. We're cousins.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Sure you did. That's why you call my dad Uncle Bill all the time.”

“Well, I'm sorry. Are you going to flatten me now?” He's still fuming about how I threatened him.

“You should've told me. I never lied to you.”

“You lied to me about Yogi.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You told me he had an accident and that was how he lost his tail. Well, I looked it up on the Internet, and Manx cats just come like that.”

“I didn't lie exactly,” I sputter. “I just didn't go out of my way to tell you the truth.”

“Well, same here.”

“That's different.” I try to think of a good reason why it's different.

“Can I go back to sleep now?”

“I guess,” I tell him. “I don't care anyway.”

He's out cold in seconds. The secret-keeping traitor sleeps like a baby. Meanwhile, me and my clean conscience toss and turn.

There are big cardboard boxes waiting in the dugout on Sun-day morning.

In the boxes are new uniforms. They're white with silver and gold pinstripes, and the caps have the letter
M
in bold, fancy script. The logo of the realty company where Steve's mom works is sewn on the sleeves. I guess that takes the mystery out of who paid for them.

“These are awesome,” I tell Steve.

“She saw everything your dad did and wanted to do her part.” He grins, and I know he's thinking the same thing as me. She wanted her fair share of the publicity.

We don't have proper locker rooms yet, but the pool hall across the street lets everyone change in the back room. The girls go first, then us.

“We look like a real baseball team!” says David after he changes.

“I sure hope we can play like one,” I reply.

We proceed not to. Suddenly everyone on the team is tripping over ground balls in the field and striking out at the plate. As morning turns to afternoon, we just get worse. The usual crowd of spectators are quiet, most of them shaking their heads in misery. However, a few Sinister Bend supporters hang around to heckle.

I knew the Sinister Bend team had some good players, but I was hoping there were a few weaknesses we could exploit. No such luck. Google tells me (with Miggy translating) that
the Sinister Bend team is tough all the way through the order. They can hit the ball, and they play good defense. With Sturgis pitching, they'll be hard to beat. All the more reason to wince with every misstep and blunder as we practice.

When Anthony bounces a ball over the pitcher's mound and into center field, though, I lose my temper.

“No, no, no!” I shout. “That should have been a double-play ball, not a double! What are you doing, Rita? You're not done with the play after you pitch. You have to field your position!”

“It was over my head.”

“You can reach for it,” I tell her. “It wasn't that high. If you can't catch it, at least knock it down. And, Kaz, why aren't you backing her up?”

“I didn't know I was supposed to.”

“This is ridiculous! We're playing tomorrow, and we're not even close to ready.”

“We're trying, Captain,” says Rita.

“I know, I know,” I say. “But we don't get any outs for trying. We have to execute.”

“We've only been playing a few weeks,” says Kazuo. “We've come a long way, all things considered.”

“I know. I just feel like we're moving backward.” I look around at everyone. A couple of guys lower their heads, just like I'm a real coach hollering at them.

“Look, I don't care if they beat us. I just don't want to beat ourselves.” It's a lie, of course; I do care if they beat us. It would be worse if we made it easy on them, though. “Steve,
that means no hotdogging. You're not Ozzie Smith. Kazuo, that means throwing to the right base. Rita, that means not being afraid of the ball when it comes back at you. Google, that means—never mind, you're perfect.”

“Search me,” he says with a grin.

“Shannon, that means looking in for signs. I might need to shade you over. Look on every pitch. I mean it. You get bored out there and stop paying attention. Miggy and Tim, do what Shannon tells you. And keep the ball in front of you, Miggy. Don't overrun it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says.

“Look, Roy,” says Bobby, coming out. “I wonder if I can talk to you a second.”

He takes me aside and talks in a low voice.

“Look at your team.”

I look at them, scuffling around in the dirt, and feel queasy.

“We'll never be ready,” I say, shaking my head.

“I think maybe you kids need some time off. You're not going to become major leaguers this afternoon, so why not call it a day and come in fresh tomorrow?”

“I guess you're right,” I say. The truth is, I need the break more than anyone. I'm beat.

“All right,” I announce, heading back to the group. “We're taking the rest of the day off. Take it easy and get a good night's sleep. We have a baseball game to play tomorrow.”

The team looks sort of confused at first, then relieved.

“All right, Captain, see you tomorrow,” says Rita with a friendly tap on the back.

They slowly scatter, while the most die-hard fans offer a smattering of applause, yelling “Let's go get 'em!” and junk like that.

I have a hard time leaving the field. I just look out at the grass, the new bleachers, and the scoreboard. I think about all the team captains who've stood here the day before the big game—none of them recently, of course—each one nervous and excited for the next day. Some might have felt they had a chance. Others probably felt hopeless, as I do. I remember Peter's stories about how it just felt like the Moundville team was fated to lose.

“We'll get creamed,” I say to Bobby.

“Then you'll be part of a long tradition of Moundville baseball,” he says.

I notice my mother is in the stands after everyone else has wandered off.

“I've been wondering what you're up to,” I tell her. I haven't seen her since the first time she came to practice.

“I didn't want to be a distraction,” she says. “I know how it is.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe we can catch up now? I'll buy you a soda and a sandwich.”

“Sure.” I'm not too comfortable with it but can't see any way around it. Besides, I'm hungry.

We pop into the downtown diner. As soon as I walk in, people are elbowing each other and pointing me out. The booths are all taken, but some people vacate theirs and let us sit down.

“Good luck tomorrow, Roy,” they tell me.

The waitress rushes over to clear the table for us.

“What can I get you, champ?” she asks.

I order a chili dog with fries and a root beer.

“Lots of onions on the chili dog,” I tell the waitress.

“You got it, champ.”

My mother just gets a Diet Coke.

“Lot of people rooting for you,” my mom says with a smile as the waitress runs off to put in our order.

“Sure,” I say.

“Your father among them,” she says. “I hear he rebuilt the ballpark, just so he could see you play. He wants you to win, Roy.”

“He's been acting kind of neutral,” I tell her. “Since Sturgis is on the other team, he's trying to be impartial.”

“Deep down inside, your dad is a Moundville boy,” she says. “This place brings out the hero in him.”

“You mean his defining moment?” I ask.

“What?”

I remind her how his base hit forced a rain delay, saving Moundville from a horrible defeat, even if it didn't get them a win.

“I remember it well,” she says. “He was up there forever. I couldn't help but love him, the way he fought off all those
pitches. It was so heroic. Even though part of me died when he got that hit, I was proud of him.”

“Part of you died?”

“I was rooting for Sinister Bend, silly. I'm from Sinister Bend.”

“Oh, right.” I sort of knew that but forgot. “What about tomorrow?” I ask her. “Who are you rooting for?”

“Now that's a chili dog!” She changes the subject, but when I see the plate, I understand. They've completely drowned the dog in chili, and there's so much chopped onion piled on, it looks like a ski slope. There's also shredded cheese and jalapeño peppers and a couple of handfuls of Fritos thrown in for good measure. As the waitress puts it down, the whole crew gathers around her and cheers. It's like birthday cake with no candles.

“I'm a lucky girl,” my mom says. “I'm on a date with the biggest hero in town.”

“Please don't say weird things like that,” I ask her as I grab the mustard from the end of the table.

“You need mustard, too?”

“It's not a hot dog without mustard.” I sploosh it on.

For a while, I focus on my hot dog and root beer. My mother sips her Coke and steals a couple of my fries, dipping them in the wildly excessive chili and cheese on my plate. Meanwhile, I discover there are
two
frankfurters hiding under the mess of toppings. It's absolutely the best meal I've ever had.

“Your father might think life is about defining moments,”
my mom says, “but it's not. It's about what you do day to day. He's not a hero because of what he did in that game. He's a hero because of what he did after.”

I look at her blankly.

“Roy, your father helped save this town,” she says. “He found a way to save people's homes and keep them here.”

“It's just his job,” I tell her.

“Then it's all the more heroic,” she says. “He could have chased his own dreams, but he stayed behind and did what he had to do.”

I sip my root beer and scoop up some chili dog drippings with a French fry. My silence says more than enough.

“Oh,” she says sadly. “I didn't, did I? Roy, I was just a kid when I got married. Barely out of high school. It was always raining, and I was really unhappy. I guess I just needed to leave, to save myself.”

“It's okay,” I tell her. I don't sound like I mean it, but then, I don't mean it.

“I knew your father would raise you right, and he did.”

“I guess,” I tell her.

“He's doing great with Sturgis, too,” she says.

“I guess,” I say again. “He doesn't drag him to dogfights anyway.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

I recount the story about the dogfight in Sutton, but it sounds lame even to me. I remember Rita saying it sounded made up. It probably is, I realize.

“Roy, Sturgis was hurt in the same car accident that killed his mother. Carey was drunk and insisted on driving home from some party, wherever they were that night. He crashed into another car. It hit the passenger side, and Evelyn, your aunt … she died immediately, and Sturgis was badly hurt by shattered glass. Carey wasn't hurt at all. They found him on the highway, running, scared out of his mind, and so drunk he couldn't remember any of it later.”

So maybe Sturgis had scabs of his own he didn't want to pick at. I suddenly feel queasy and claustrophobic. I want to be doing anything other than talking to my mother in a crowded diner. I'd rather be digging ditches in the rain.

“I need to go,” I tell her.

“You'll be okay?”

“Why would I not be okay?” I ask her. It's not her business to ask anyway, I think. It's not like she can check in every few years and buy me a chili dog and ask me if everything is okay.

I brush by the people in the diner, nodding politely, not hearing whatever they shout in my ear. I go out the door, across the street, and back to the outfield grass Sturgis and I laid out with our own hands. I go to the dugout and lie down on the brand-new bench. I pull my cap low over my eyes and sink down until I'm invisible.