Painting the Black (13 page)

He was right. I didn't pay attention to the throw I made to him. I just threw it. I got the ball to him, but my throws were everywhere: high, low, left, right.

So I worked on it. He'd pitch, then hold his glove up, and I'd try to hit it—the same throw every time, the same speed to the same place.

Little by little I got better. Finally he'd hold up his glove and my throw would be on its way. Smack! He'd go back to the mound, pitch again. I'd catch it, fire it back. Smack! Pitch . . . catch . . . throw . . . catch . . . pitch . . . catch . . . throw . . . catch. We had our own rhythm.

Once I had that down, we moved to signs. On television they seem simple enough. One finger means fastball; two fingers means curve; three is the slider; four is the change.

The problem was that after I'd call for a pitch, I'd sometimes forget what pitch I'd called for. Josh would be into his wind-up and I'd be wondering if he was coming with heat or if he was throwing the curve. Even worse were the times when I was certain I'd called for a fastball and he'd throw me a breaking pitch, or the other way around. Everything feels wrong when that happens. It's like when you go to sit down in a chair and some fool has pulled it out from under you.

As the weeks passed we moved on to other parts of the game. On infield pop-ups, it's the catcher who decides what infielder makes the play. Josh explained how to decide based on where the sun was, where the baserunners were, and who was the best fielder. He told me what bases I backed up on ground balls and fly outs. “On throws to home plate from the outfield,” he said, “the catcher decides whether to cut them off. If you scream out ‘
Cut one,
' it means you want the infielder to cut the ball off and throw behind the runner at first.
Cut two
means go to second.
Cut three
and the ball goes to third. Don't let a throw come through if you have no play at the plate. You can stop a lot of rallies by cutting the ball and nailing a careless runner.”

The last thing we worked on was the throw to second. When he saw my form and my velocity, he let out a low whistle. “That's good,” he said. “Really good. You're a natural at that.”

I should have told him about Grandpa Kevin, but after feeling like I knew nothing for so many weeks, it felt good having him think of me as a natural for once.

Hitting was the joker in the deck. Whenever I started thinking that I was catching pretty decently, I'd imagine myself whiffing every pitch that came across the plate. So I kept putting off asking Josh to pitch to me. Finally he asked me if I wanted to take some swings.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I'll bring my bat tomorrow.”

“No need. I brought mine today.”

He could have made an idiot of me. If he'd changed speeds, thrown me all the pitches he was capable of throwing, I would have swung and missed over and over. That would have destroyed me. I wouldn't have been able to hit anybody.

But he brought me along like you'd bring along a little kid. He started by throwing fat fastballs right down the middle. Over and over he grooved them, and I spanked them around the park. We'd go pick them up, and then he'd groove another dozen to me.

He'd talk as he pitched. “If a pitcher has got control, then go up there swinging. But if he's wild—and most of them will be—then take. Once you get ahead in the count, look for your pitch in your zone.”

Eventually we simulated game situations. He'd tell me there was a runner on second with nobody out, and that my job was to hit the ball to the right side and move the runner up. Then he'd pitch, and I'd take my hacks at hitting grounders toward second base.

“You got to get used to failing,” he said. “Because you're going to make more outs than hits. When I'm pitching, the guys that scare me are the guys who shrug off a strikeout or two or three. If I fan a guy and see him brooding on the bench or in the field, then I know I've got him for the whole game. But if he's still got his head up, then I've got my work cut out for me.”

I'd been a solid hitter in Little League, and with practice my swing came back. I was spraying line drives all around the park. I wanted to feel good about what I'd accomplished, but I knew Josh was babying me along, and that no other pitcher would.

“Look,” I said one day when he was about to start throwing, “maybe you should pitch me tougher. Nobody is going to throw fat fastballs and hanging curves to me.”

He shook his head. “You're dead wrong about that. You're going to see lots of fat fastballs and hanging curves. They're the pitches you're going to hit.”

I thought about that. “But what happens when I meet a really good pitcher, a pitcher like you?”

A mocking smile crossed his face. “Then you strike out.”

It was my turn to smile. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”

He shrugged. “Just telling you the truth.”

I knew he hadn't forgotten about Monica Roby, any more than she'd forgotten about him. But I did think that they'd reached a sort of truce. If she spoke in class, he didn't laugh or talk or sneer. On her part, she'd put out another issue of the
Viper.
I went through it word by word, expecting some new dig at Josh, but there was nothing there.

Then came the football scholarship fiasco.

The first week of February Josh started getting real tense. His eyes were always in the distance, and he hardly spoke. When he did talk, it was always the same. “Three schools are looking at me,” he said again and again, “but it all depends on what other guys do.” Then he'd bite his lip. “If we'd made the state tournament, if they could have seen me against the best, I'd have a lock on it.”

Letter-of-intent day came and his phone didn't ring. And it didn't ring the next day either. Not Washington State, not San Jose State, not Nevada-Reno. Sunday afternoon we were back at the diamonds throwing the ball. I could feel his anger in the speed of his fastball. “The coach at San Jose says I can walk on,” he told me between pitches, “and that if I make the team he'll give me a scholarship next year.”

“That's something, isn't it?” I answered. “Lots of walk-ons end up being starters.”

“I'll do it if I have to.” Then he looked at the baseball he had in his hand. “But if I pitch like I
can
pitch, I'm not going to have to.”

All through the lunch period on Monday, a steady stream of guys came up and asked if he'd gotten a scholarship. Time after time he explained he hadn't. “You want to eat outside?” I asked after he'd gone through it for about the sixth time.

“Why should I?” he said, his voice challenging.

I shrugged. “I thought you might be sick of questions.”

“They can ask whatever they want. I don't care.”

But when yet another guy came up, Josh picked up his tray and walked out of the cafeteria. I let him go.

You read in the newspaper how big stars complain they don't have any privacy, but you don't feel sorry for them. You think: I'd trade privacy for fame any day. But I felt for Josh that day. It was as though he had an open wound, and everybody kept coming up to look at it.

Then came the final insult. Just before the dismissal bell the intercom crackled, and Mr. Haskin came on. His voice was excited, bubbling with pride. “For the first time in four years, Crown Hill High School can count a National Merit Scholar among its students. Congratulations to Monica Roby on her great achievement. Hard work and study do pay off!”

Josh didn't say anything about Monica. Not while we were throwing that afternoon, not afterwards when we went to the Ballard Bakery and ate scones and drank orange juice. But I knew it was working on his mind. His bitterness came out the next day in English.

We'd just finished reading
The Pearl.
It's a decent book about this dirt-poor pearl diver, Kino, who lives in a fishing village somewhere in Central America. One day Kino finds this huge black pearl. But when he goes to sell it, the pearl buyers in town don't offer him much. They tell him the pearl is too big, that its color is too strange, that nobody wants it.

Kino is sure they're trying to cheat him, so he refuses to sell. When word gets out that he's still got the pearl, everything falls apart. People try to rob him. They burn his house down and wreck his boat.

His wife, Juana, blames the disasters on the pearl. She snatches it from Kino and runs toward the ocean to chuck it back. Kino chases her down, slaps her, and takes the pearl back.

He decides his only chance is to take his family to a big city and sell the pearl there. So one night they sneak out of town. But on the road more robbers attack. Kino kills them, but in the gunfight they kill his baby. He's so depressed by his son's death that he drags himself back to his village and throws his perfect pearl into the ocean.

I felt for the guy. It seemed like he did everything right, but that everything turned out wrong. Monica saw it differently. “He says he loves his wife and his son,” she said during the class discussion, “that he's doing it all for them. But look what happens. He beats up his wife and he gets his baby killed. There's true love! All he really cares about is his silly male pride.”

“Anybody else have anything to say?” Ms. Hurley said. “Somebody must have sympathy for Kino.”

Probably lots of kids did, but Monica was worked up and no one wanted to tangle with her.

Then, out of nowhere, came Josh's voice: “It's not silly to want to keep your self-respect.”

Monica didn't give him a second. “Self-respect?” she retorted in disbelief. “How can a man who beats his wife have any self-respect?”

Josh leaned forward. “He doesn't beat her. He slaps her that one time when she's about to throw the pearl away. He can't let her do it.”

“Oh, I like that,” she said scornfully. “He can't let her throw the pearl back. Oh no. He beats her when she tries. But it's perfectly okay for him to throw it back. Very logical.”

“It
is
logical,” Josh said. “It's
his
pearl, not hers. What happens to it has got to be up to him. He can't let her throw it away. Not and still be a man.”

“But he can slap his wife around and still be a man. Is that what you're saying?”

Kids groaned. “It's just a book, Monica,” someone said.

Monica didn't back down. She stared at Josh. “I want an answer. Is it okay for a man to slap his wife around?”

Josh glared at her. “He had to get the pearl back, no matter what it took.”

“Even if it meant hitting her?”

“Since that was the only way, then yes.”

Monica looked to the ceiling, her eyes rolling up as if he'd said the stupidest thing she'd ever heard in her life. “That is such a jock mentality,” she said. Then she looked right at Josh. “You just don't get it, do you?”

“All right, Monica,” Ms. Hurley said, “that's—”

Before she could finish, Josh interrupted, his finger jabbing the air. “Don't you tell me I don't get it. You're the one who doesn't get—”

Ms. Hurley clapped her hands. “That's enough out of both of you.” Her voice was commanding as she looked from Josh to Monica. Both of them were furious, glaring at one another. Ms. Hurley kept staring at them as she spoke to us. “You can have a study period for the last ten minutes of class today. And I mean study. No talking at all.”

I didn't talk to Josh about what had happened. I didn't know what to say. But the next day, when Ms. Hurley bravely took up the discussion right where she'd stopped it, I felt my hands go cold. Nothing happened, though. Josh barely paid attention, and Monica had the field to herself.

The whole incident reminded me of something that occurred on a camping trip I'd once taken with my father to Mink Lake. It had been a gray day, and as night fell the sky clouded over. It was so dark we couldn't see the water, though we were only about twenty feet from it. As the hours passed, the air grew thicker and thicker. Then, around midnight, great bolts of lightning lit up the sky. We could see the whole lake more clearly than we'd ever seen it in the daylight. The storm lasted about ten minutes, and then suddenly it was over, as if it had never been.

That's how their argument was. While it was going on, you could see the hostility between those two. But once it ended, everything seemed normal again.

It's funny how things work. When tryouts were two weeks off, I was chafing at the bit, dying to get out there on the field and show my stuff. I was cocky, sure I'd be both a good catcher and a good hitter.

But the night before the tryout, I was a total mess. All the old fears came back: I wasn't fast enough; I wouldn't be able to hit. Ten times that night I decided that I wouldn't try out at all.

What got me onto the field was knowing Josh would be there. I pictured the two of us playing catch, the ball going back and forth, back and forth—just like at the Community Center.

But when it came to it, the tryout was a lot different. As soon as he stepped inside the locker room, Josh was surrounded by Santos and Ruben and Wilsey and other guys from the football team. They were patting him on the back, telling him how great it was that he was trying out and how good the team was going to be. Josh ate it up. He was the guy with the golden arm, and they all knew it. I was nobody.

I dressed quickly and wandered out onto the grass. A group had formed around Josh. Other guys stood together with their friends. I was the only player standing by himself.

It was a relief when Coach Wheatley, a silver-haired guy who didn't teach at Crown Hill, blew his whistle and called us to him. “Twenty-five jumping jacks!” he barked. “Fifty sit-ups!” “Twenty pushups!”

Once we'd all broken a sweat, Wheatley laid some orange traffic cones on the outfield grass. “All right,” he shouted. “Time for windsprints. Form groups of six. Come on! Get a move on!”