Say It Ain't So (4 page)

He grabbed the milk off my tray. For a brief, disturbing second I thought he was going to take a
poop in it. Instead, he just chugged it in one big gulp, then threw the carton onto the ground.

Mr. Donovan, the hefty social studies teacher, came jogging (more like waddling, AM I RIGHT??) over, presumably to see what the fuss was about. Or maybe to tell Davis to pick up the milk carton. Davis ignored him, and made a rude gesture with his hand and stormed toward the exit. Mr. Donovan looked shocked. He slowly bent over to pick up the milk himself and followed Davis toward the door. Mr. Donovan moved so slowly Davis would probably be in Ohio by the time he caught up to him. The rest of us sat in silence.

I expected Other Mike to say something stupid, like how it would be sort of impossible for us to
solve
the mystery of the disappearing dork-buckets if we ourselves were the ones dead and buried. Which actually
wouldn't
have been a stupid thing to say, but rather a valid point. Anyway, Other Mike thankfully let it go. The bell rang. Lunch was over. Davis was off somewhere, probably pooping in milk cartons and/or getting detention again.

“Thanks, Mike,” I said in a whisper. And I meant it.

From that day forward, I knew what I had to do. I knew I had to help Mike make the team. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't at least do that? Soon the ground began to thaw and the birds started to return to their springtime squawking. Phils preseason games were visible on TV, shooting up like sprouts in the cold ground.

And then Mike's dad did something awesome: he built a pitcher's mound and backstop in the backyard. He got some dirt from wherever you buy dirt from. (Note: My fallback career from baseball announcer could be dirt salesman. Seems pretty easy. Dirt is everywhere. You just walk around picking it up in the woods and then put it in a bag to sell to people in the suburbs. Genius.)

Mr. Mike was pretty great at that kind of thing. One time when we were little he built an ice-skating
rink in the front yard. And of course he invented the lawn couch. Heck of a guy. But he really outdid himself with the pitcher's mound. There was even a backstop and a real home plate fifty feet away. It was everything a budding catcher needed to learn to ply his trade. The only thing missing was someone to pitch to him.

Now, I mentioned before that I was not exactly a great baseball player. As a hitter, I was the type of kid who considered it a success if I managed a foul tip even when the coach pitched. You could tell he was trying really hard to hit my bat with his ball, but somehow the ball always jumped over my bat like a fly avoiding a fly swatter.

In T-ball, I usually just hit the tee and in fact broke enough tees and delayed enough games that I was nicknamed “the Human Rain Delay” (my first of many bad nicknames). This got me briefly banned from a kindergarten league. Kind of impressive, sure. But once we moved up to actually hitting live pitching was when my true stinkiness really started to shine. I went entire seasons without managing so much as a foul tip. The greatest day of my life was when I was hit by a pitch and got to experience the vast beauty of first base.

First base was so wonderful. So big. So white.
So soft. Like a velvety pillow. I wanted to lie down right there on it and fall asleep. Of course what you're supposed to do when you're on first base is run to second, especially if someone hits the ball. But there I was, lost in my beautiful joy of standing on first. The next batter was a girl named Martha Spearman, who actually was a good hitter. She laced the first pitch into right-center. I didn't notice and was immediately thrown out on a very rare putout from center field. Score it eight to four. Fielder's choice. Martha Spearman was sort of obsessed with her batting average and was furious that I had cost her a hit. And I was pretty sad my time on the base paths was over. I never returned.

So if you love baseball and stink at hitting, it makes sense to try to become a pitcher, right? That's what I thought. But somehow I was even worse at pitching than I was at hitting, if you can believe that. I read lots of tips on how to throw. I studied the moves of all my favorite pitchers. I got lessons from coaches and parents and friends. I'd take my spot on the mound, wind up, and fire what I was sure was going to be a strike right down the middle. Nope. Each time I let loose a pitch, the ball would take on a life of its own. It would bounce
ten feet in front of the plate. It would sail over the backstop. On occasion, yes, the ball would fly backward out of my hand and land somewhere near center field or perhaps South Jersey. My dreams of being a star pitcher were pretty much dashed before I logged an inning.

So you can imagine that I was pretty skeptical when Mike called me up one Saturday to tell me about
my
role with the pitcher's mound.

“Dude, Len, you'll never believe what my dad did,” he said.

“Oh, I'll believe it,” I said. I don't know why I said that.

“He built a pitcher's mound in the backyard!”

“Awesome!” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It's just the thing I need to practice my catching.”

“Well, it's not
just
the thing,” I said. “Unless he also built a pitching machine.”

“That's where you come in,” he said.

“I—I don't know how to build a pitching machine,” I said. “Remember when we were supposed to build a car out of a mousetrap and I came in last place?”

“You also almost killed Mr. Thurston when the car exploded and shot a screw at his head.”

“Good old Thirsty Thurston,” I said. “I'm glad I didn't kill him.”

“So listen, Len, I don't need you to build a pitching machine. I need you to
be
a pitching machine.”

I saw where he was going with this. “Um, I think we know the only thing I'm worse at than building cars from mousetraps is pitching.”

“Exactly why you're the man for the job, Norbeck. Remember when you almost killed Mr. Antonucci in gym class? He wasn't anywhere near home plate and your pitch knocked off his hat,” Mike said.

“Man, I sure have almost killed teachers a lot of times. I'm, like, a stone-cold criminal. I don't know why you'd want to be my friend.”

“Like I said, Lenny,” he shot back. “You're just the man for the job.”

“I don't get it. You want me to pitch to you
because
I stink at pitching?”

“Well, I didn't say you stink.…”

“Let's not beat around the bush, Mike,” I said. “I seriously hate it whenever people beat around the bush. I'm, like, totally anti-bush-beating-around.”

“Well, see, here's what I'm thinking: I'm never
going to be great at throwing guys out because I have this stupid weak shoulder. My game is going to have to be mostly about blocking pitches. I have to be the best at handling pitchers, stopping wild pitches, smothering anything that comes near me. That's the only weakness Davis Gannett has.”

“You mean besides the fact that he's a terrible human being?” I said.

“Well, yes, there is also that,” he said. “So will you do it?”

“You just want me to come over there and throw terrible pitches all over the place off the mound so you can practice blocking wild pitches?”

“You got it.”

“You want not just a pitching machine, but a lean, mean,
wild
-pitching machine?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Leonard Norbeck, it would be my honor to request your presence at this pitcher's mound tomorrow. The pitcher's mound in my backyard that my dad built needs you. Because you are the world's greatest lean, mean, wild-pitching machine.”

“I'm in, Mike,” I said. “I'm in.”

Sunday morning I got up bright and early. I found my baseball glove. It was easy to find. I had nailed it to the wall. Even though I don't really use it anymore, I convinced Mom to spare it from the carnage of Discardia. Things that didn't make it through the carnage: Pokémon cards, a telescope, some video games, and a set of juggling balls. I never learned how to juggle, but I really missed that stuff. Well, not really the telescope, which I hadn't used since I was about seven and briefly considered a career as an astronaut. Or astronomer? Astrologer? Something with
astro
—and not the Houston Astros. Anyway, I kept the glove just for, you know, sentimental reasons. That wasn't enough for Mom, so I took a nail and hung it on my wall and called it art. Getting it off was a pain, but finally I was ready.

Dad stuck his head in my room while I was pulling the glove off the wall.

“I thought that was your art?” he said.

“Yeah, well, surprisingly I need it to actually play baseball with.”

“Good thing Mom didn't throw it away,” he said. I was starting to guess that Dad wasn't the biggest Discardia fan in the world either. “I should have told her my golf clubs were art too, nailed them to the ceiling.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“So what inspired the need for the baseball glove?” he asked. “I thought you retired from the game.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the world needs a wild pitcher, and I'm the wildest pitcher that ever pitched a wild … pitch.”

He looked a little confused. Like a man biting into a soft pretzel and finding it unexpectedly filled with cottage cheese.

“Going out for the team?” he asked. “Gonna be the secret weapon that helps the Mustangs win it all?”

“Nah,” I laughed. “Just helping Mike. He's going to try out for catcher. I'm going to throw him some balls in the dirt, help him practice.”

“Cool,” he said. “Have fun. And, hey—if you see Mr. Mike, tell him I guess I'm out for golfing this spring.” He sighed and shook his head glumly.

“Discardia sucks,” I said.

Dad didn't say anything. He was honoring that unwritten rule that parents have to always stick together. But I could tell he agreed with me by the way he narrowed his eyes and rubbed his hand over his bald head. He walked down the hall staring at the ground. He looked like a toddler on the way to the naughty chair. Oh yeah, he agreed.

I got my bike out of the garage and headed over to Mike's house. This time I was not going to kick him in the crotch. This time I was going to throw wild pitches at him. The things we do for our friends.… It was kind of a chilly March day, the sky gray and hard. I rode quickly, pumping my legs, trying to get warm.

When I got there, Mike was already in full catcher's gear. He was standing in the driveway. He was doing that thing, banging his hands together to make them tough. It was weird, but at least he wasn't kicking himself in the crotch.

“Hey, Mike,” I said. He lifted the catcher's mask. He looked pretty natural with that mask on, I had to admit.

“Hey, Len,” he said. He spit on the driveway. “Come check out the mound.”

I dropped my bike in the grass and followed him to the backyard. The pitcher's mound was truly an impressive sight. It looked just like someone dug up a real baseball stadium and dropped it into suburbia. There was even a backstop, which was probably going to come in handy. There was no way Mike could catch my pitches.

“Ain't nothing to it but to do it,” Mike said. He slapped me on the rear end. He was taking this new persona as a catcher a little too far. Catchers were always doing that, slapping their pitcher on the tush.

Mike's dad had bought a whole bucket of balls, which Mike placed next to the mound. I picked one up, toed the rubber, and waited for Mike to take his crouch. It felt cool and I really wished that I was a
good
pitcher. It wasn't that fun to be asked as a freak. A wild-pitch specialist. Eh, what else was I going to do with my Sunday? Mom got rid of all my toys anyway.

“Are you going to give me signs or …?” I asked, shouting to Mike from the mound.

He yelled through the mask. “Do you have a lot of pitches I should know about?”

“Just the high cheese, the high cheese, and the high cheese,” I said. Calling a fastball the “high cheese” is, like, the funniest thing ever.