Say It Ain't So (22 page)

The next few days at school, everyone was talking about what happened at the baseball game. I mean, it
was
big news. A coach stealing signs from his own team? Kind of a crazy story. Kind of a big deal.

Still, what was Coach Zo thinking? Well, I'll just let you read the interview they did with Coach Zo in the
Schwenkfelder Intelligencer
. (Our newspaper has a weird name.)

I was famous!

It was hard to believe that it was our coach. Our own coach. The legendary Coach Zo—the man with the best winning percentage in school
history. He helped us
lose
a game.
He
was the one giving signs to the other side.

On Friday I sat with Mike and Other Mike and Davis at the lunch table. We went over the events again and again.

“Can you believe it?” Davis said.

“I can't believe it,” Mike said.

“I also can't believe it,” Other Mike said.

As you can tell, we could not believe it.

“Coach Zo, who would have guessed?” I said. “Oh yeah, me! I'm a smart boy!” I was gloating a little.

Then Hunter walked by, carrying his lunch tray. “I don't even want to hear that name,” he hissed at me.

“Come on, Hunter,” Davis said. “You have to forgive him.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “And you have to think twice about quitting the team.”

“No, I don't,” Hunter said. “I don't even need to think once about it. I'm glad I quit that stupid team. The Great Imperial Ashwell will never again pitch for that Coach What's His Name.”

“Coach Zo,” Other Mike said helpfully.

“I said he should not be named!” Hunter said.

“Sorry.”

“Come on, man,” Davis said. “We could really use you in the play-offs.”

“There is no chance on earth,” Hunter said. “I don't even want Schwenkfelder to win. I'm going to be cheering for Griffith to crush you.”

“No way,” Mike said. “That's not cool.”

“And you know what?” Hunter said. “Next year, I'm going to make
sure
Griffith wins.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“You'll see,” Hunter said. “You'll see. Oh, you'll see, all right. Yeah, you'll see.”

“I guess we'll see, then,” Other Mike said.

With that, Hunter walked away.

“Well, that was weird,” Mike said.

“We can still beat Griffith in a one-game playoff,” Davis said.

Because the silver lining to my costing us the chance to clinch first place was that we still finished the regular season tied for first place. This is fairly common in a league with three teams. We split our games against Griffith. Both Schwenkfelder and Griffith swept Highland. That left two teams tied for first. Since there were only three teams in the league, the play-offs were just two rounds, with one team getting a bye. Since there
was so often a tie, the ingenious method of a coin toss was developed to see who got to skip the first round.

As the Fates would have it, the Schwenkfelder Mustangs won that coin toss! We did it! We made it to the finals! Not that exciting really, considering it was just a coin toss. And also considering that Highland made it to the semifinals having lost every single game. And also considering that playing Highland was pretty much the same as getting a bye. Okay, they weren't that bad, but I knew Griffith would beat them. Which meant we would in all likelihood face Griffith in the finals.

“I know we can beat them,” Davis said. “Even without the Great Imperial Dork-Bucket or our coach.”

“I can't believe they're suspending Coach Zo for the rest of the season,” Mike said. “He was right—he didn't technically break any rules. There's nothing in the rulebook against giving signs to the other team.”

“Looks pretty bad, though,” I said. “Plus, his shenanigans got me punched in the eye.”

“Yeah,” Davis said. “You mentioned …”

“So Zo is really out the rest of the way?” Other Mike said.

“Yup,” Davis said.

“So who will coach the games, then? Coach Moyer?” Other Mike asked.

“Probably,” Mike said. “It won't be the same without Zo, but we can still win this thing.”

“Yeah, we can,” Davis said. They high-fived.

Then Other Mike raised an interesting point. “Well, if Moyer becomes the head coach, who will be the assistant?”

“Good question,” Mike said. “I guess we'll go with just one coach?”

“Or,” Other Mike said, “you could add a student-coach.”

“Is that, like, a thing?” Davis asked.

“Are you volunteering someone?” I asked. “Because I already have a job as announcer. Flattering and all. Really nice of you to suggest. I do have some thoughts about defensive shifts and bullpen management, but—”

“No,” Other Mike said. “I was volunteering myself.”

“Yeah?” Davis said. “You'd be great!”

“I thought you meant me,” I said, kind of sad. I mean, I liked announcing, but being a coach would be more fun. Plus, did Other Mike really know anything about baseball?

“Oh, I think I have a plan for you, Lenny,” Mike said.

“What?” I said.

“It's a surprise,” he said.

“I hate surprises,” I said.

“Too bad,” Mike said. “This is a good one.”

“Here's one question I still have,” Other Mike said. “Why were those kids attacking Lenny for snooping around the billboard at Griffith?”

“Well, just because they weren't the ones who put the telescope there doesn't mean they weren't in on it,” Mike said. “Coach Zo had to have an accomplice. He had to give the signs up to somebody. They had to have someone up in the scoreboard sending signals.” He turned to me. “They saw a guy snooping around and wanted to scare you off. They probably even recognized you as a Schwenkfeldian.”

“They
had
to be from the Griffith team,” I said, touching my eye. It had healed, but the memory remained. “Those jerks.”

“And the way to get back at them,” Mike said, “is to do it on the field.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Beat them good for me.”

Mike and Davis exchanged a look. “Why don't you beat them yourself?” Davis said.

“What do you mean?” I said, chewing on some cheese curls.

“Lenny,” Mike said. “Fine—that's the surprise. I told Coach Moyer about your arm.”

I stopped chewing. “What about it?” I said. I examined my arm. It just looked like an arm.

“All that time practicing throwing those wild pitches—you got really good.”

“Yeah, really good at throwing wild pitches,” I said.

“No, just really good at throwing. It's pretty unusual, but we could use an extra pitcher now that Hunter quit. Maybe you can make the roster for the play-offs.”

I almost choked on my cheese curls. Could I really do it?! “I think you can make it through the grueling one-game play-offs without me.” No one laughed. I thought we were just joking around. But they were being serious. They were being serious about me replacing Hunter Ashwell? The best pitcher in the league? The guy who threw a perfect game?

“Yeah,” Davis said. “And you obviously know baseball. Plus, you're tough. And not afraid of anything.”

I had no idea
who
they were talking about, but I decided just to roll with it.

Davis continued. “Being wild is not bad sometimes. Scares the hitters off. And next year I'll be in high school. You guys will have to carry this team. With Mike as your catcher here, you never have to worry about a wild pitch. I'll switch out to first base when they bring you in to pitch.”

“He
is
like a Bench,” Other Mike said. We laughed.

“Wait, do you mean it?” I said. “You really think Moyer will let me join the team? To pitch for the play-offs?”

“Yeah,” Davis and Mike both said at the same time.

“Unbelievable! I'm going to get to pitch? Will I be a starter or a reliever? Should we go over signs? Do you think I'll get a nickname? Should I be ‘Wild Thing' or maybe ‘the Fireman'? How about ‘the Heartbreak Kid' because of, you know, how my parents are cardiologists? Oh man, what number will I get to wear, and should I use eye black or go eye-black-free?” I asked.

“Um, maybe slow down a little,” Davis said. “Have the tryout first.”

I could not slow down. My mind was racing. “I'll take anything, but I have to have a nickname. ‘Firpo'? ‘Salty'? ‘Heinie' Manush? Those are real baseball names. Never mind. How about ‘Wild Bill'? Wild Bill Donovan was a good pitcher.”

“Your name is not Bill,” Other Mike pointed out unhelpfully.

“How about Boots Poffenberger?” I said.

“Now you're just making stuff up,” Mike said. I wasn't. That's totally a real baseball player. You can look it up.

“The Lunatic?” I suggested.

“Getting warmer,” Davis said. “Getting much warmer.”

So after school that day, I was to join the team for practice. Me! It was the team's last practice before the big game, which was scheduled for Saturday. They had a lot to go over, what with their new coach. For indeed, Coach Moyer ascended from assistant to head coach. The assistant coach spot was vacant. Could it really be Other Mike? They had signs to go over and strategy to consider. But before that, there was the matter of filling the open roster spot vacated by Hunter Ashwell.

Coach Moyer instructed the rest of the team to warm up in the outfield while Mike strapped on the catcher's gear and Lenny “the Lunatic” Norbeck climbed the pitcher's mound. But I knew the guys weren't going to take their warm-ups very seriously. They were going to have at least one eye on the mound.

“Okay, kid,” Coach Moyer said. “Newts said you got a pretty good arm, so let's see what you can do.”

He tossed me the ball, and through some small miracle, I caught it. My hand was so sweaty that it was hard to grip the ball. I tried to pretend that I wasn't about to try out for the team. I tried to pretend I was just out in Mike's backyard, flinging practice tosses to him. If he believed in me, I could believe in myself.

I went into my windup and fired one hard and fast, right down the middle of the plate. It smacked Mike's mitt with a satisfying thud. I considered yelling something about how I was the Great Imperial Lenny! But it didn't seem like the right time for a joke. I just nodded like it was something I had done a million times. Which, if you thought about it, I had. All those hours practicing with Mike were paying off. But my next pitch wasn't so good, and Mike had to dive to his left to catch it. And my next one hit a pickup truck in the parking lot. But the next few were right down the middle (more or less), and Coach Moyer had seen enough. My heart was pounding.