Soar (14 page)

THEY DIDN'T ALLOW
TV cameras in the courtroom during Coach Perkins's preliminary hearing, but the
Hillcrest Herald
published parts of the transcript (the actual wording of what people said). None of the names of the Hornets players were used because they are under eighteen.

Did Coach Perkins give you pills?

—Yes.

What did he say they were for?

—He said they were vitamins.

Did you receive injections from Coach Perkins?

—Yes. I mean, he didn't give them. A lady came and gave the shots.

Who was this woman?

—I don't know.

Why did you consent to this?

Objection, Your Honor.

Objection overruled. Answer the question, please.

—He said they would help our muscles bounce back from injury. I just figured he knew. I trusted him. He was my coach.

Did you feel different after the injections?

Objection, Your Honor . . .

Did Coach Perkins tell you what you might experience after the injections?

—He said we would feel more pumped, but that meant it was working.

Did you experience side effects?

—My mom said I talked back more . . . I got zits on my back.

Another player said:

—We should have known. We should have thought about it.

Mrs. Rooney said:

—I missed some clues along the way. I'm ashamed to say that, but I did.

Coach Perkins said:

—I love these boys like they are my own. I'm saddened by this—I can't tell you how it grieves me. But the pills I gave them were vitamins. I don't know what they got into on their own, but they didn't get steroids from me.

That got people screaming in town.

It's good to know these things, but Walt said not to focus on it. “Jer, you've got higher business to take care of.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Right before English class, Mrs. Ogletree waves me to her desk.

“Jeremiah, I think you're a good and concise writer, but I'm concerned that you're only writing about
baseball. I would like to see you branch out . . .”

“I wish I could,” I tell her. “But I need to stay focused right now.” I hand her my sentences that show hyperbole, which is a fancy word for exaggeration. I worked hard on these.

◆ The weight of the world was on the coach's shoulders as he looked at the scoreboard and knew his dream of winning the World Series was only a mirage.

◆ When he pitched, the screaming eagle swooped over the plate, coming in for the kill.

◆ The outfielder was so hungry, he could eat a horse.

She looks at my paper and back at me. “We'll need to talk about this again, Jeremiah.”

“After the season is over, ma'am.”

I take my seat behind Franny, who whispers, “Our game with the Vipers got canceled.”

“Why?”

She shrugs.

Logo leans in. “They decided not to play us.”

Just great! I expected more from vipers than this.

We need to do something before we rust.

I forgot it's a half school day because the teachers have an afternoon meeting. That means no practice after school.

But as my bus pulls out, I see Donald Mole on the field throwing to Terrell. Again and again. And he's getting it. I wish these bus windows opened! I shout, “Yes! That's the way!” The kids on the bus look at me like I'm strange.

I am strange! “Baseball is back from the dead!” I shout.

I'm not sure if this is hyperbole or just plain fact, but not one person cheers.

◆ ◆ ◆

“You want to walk with me, Jeremiah?” Bo asks. “Not far. A couple blocks.”

“Okay.” I figure he might want to talk. “How are you doing?”

He shrugs, looks at the envelope he's holding. We turn right on Old Church Road and walk to Fullerton. At Spaulding, Bo turns left.

I know where we're going.

Bo walks toward Hargie's house. It's painted white.
All the shutters are closed. The flowers in the garden are dying. It feels like sadness has crept over everything on this block. We stand here. Then Bo puts the envelope in the mailbox.

“I wrote something to his parents. You know.”

“That's nice,” I say.

Bo shrugs again. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks at the house.

“I don't think he knew. I don't think Hargie knew what he was taking.”

I just listen.

“Because he loved the game. He lived it.”

Bo stands there some more. The sun is shining over the Cantwells' roof, glowing bright and sure.

“I wanted to be on that team,” Bo says. “I wanted to be a Hornet bad. Coach Perkins told me, work like a demon on the middle school team. Do more, be better than anybody, never quit. That's how you become a Hornet. When he talked to me, it was like . . . he knew everything. He had this power about him. You wanted to do whatever he said.”

Bo picks up a stick and throws it.

“The middle school coach, Bordin, said if we
complained, we were babies. The umpires hated him, the other coaches hated him. He got thrown out of games for shouting that they were idiots. I kept my mouth shut, I did the drills, I played hurt. Perkins told me, keep it up. I'd be a Hornet. Hargie said when it happened, it would be the best day of my life. I did summer baseball last year before I started high school. I threw out my pitching arm. I can play catch. That's it. Not enough to . . .” His voice trails off.

“That's hard, man.”

“Let's go.” We cross the street, head back home down Old Church Road.

“Thanks,” he says to me.

I nod. He sits on his porch steps thinking. I stand there wondering.

Is Bo right? Did Hargie not know?

Did his parents not see him changing?

Did the other players get fooled?

Are we being fooled?

The sun is brighter now. I'm picturing it warming the sky over Hargie's house of sadness.

El Grande comes on the porch, smiling. “Craziest thing,” he says. He takes off his glasses, cleans them
on his shirt. “Dr. Selligman of the middle school called me and asked if I would consider coaching the baseball team.”

I freeze.

“And old fool that I am, I said yes.”

Bo is grinning. I'd better smile.

“That's great!” I shout.

“And,” he continues, “Bo, if you're ever inclined to stop by after school and lend a hand, we could use your wisdom.”

I smile big, so big it hurts, so big that no one can see that I feel like a heavy door just got slammed in my face.

“That's great!” I say again.

El Grande's phone rings. This is good—I can leave.

The sky is so blue. A perfect baseball day . . .

I wave and walk across the street.

Head up, Lopper. Shoulders strong.

I go inside my house, close the door, shut my eyes.

No crying.

Ex-coaches don't cry.

I HAD ALL
these plans. Not that I told anybody.

I pictured Walt getting off early once a week and helping me coach. I pictured us winning after a few more games and someone doing an article on me as the youngest coach ever.

The problem with picturing is it's not real, even if you put a frame around it.

I sit in our kitchen feeling like I just got fired. That's stupid, I know, seeing as I was never hired . . .

“Jerwal, wake up.”

A glow, a beep. He's waiting for my next command. I don't have one.

This was supposed to be a fun place. I left my science fair project and Yaff for baseball and robots. Most of the robots are still falling over. Baseball doesn't need me.

“I'm not their coach, Jerwal.” He rolls over and
stops near me. “But I loved being out there. I felt like I was really part of a baseball team.” He lifts his arm and glows.

A knock at the front door.

I don't feel like getting up, but I do.

“Come on, Jerwal.”

Jerwal and I head down the hall.

El Grande is at the door.

I open it.

“Hello, Jeremiah.” He looks strangely at my robot. “And you again.”

Jerwal makes a robot noise. El Grande coughs. This might be more than he can handle.

“Jerwal, go to sleep.” The robot shuts down.

“We've got business to discuss,” El Grande explains. “You left before I could tell you. Here's what I told that principal.” He points at me. “I said if I took that coaching job, I'd want you to help. Full-time.”

What?

“I'm a good coach, and I've always worked my tail off. But if you think I'm going to stand in front of fifteen middle school baseball players every day—”

“The team is shrinking, sir. We're down to twelve . . . maybe eleven.”

“Well, even more proof I need a serious right-hand man to keep me on track.”

“That's me?”

“That's you, son. You decide if that works for you. Talk to your father. I'll talk to him, if you want.”

“Wow. I would love to do this.” But I can't not tell him about Walt's contract. “Full disclosure, El Grande: I'm hoping we'll be here through June, but I don't know.”

“Hate to see you go, but I'm willing to take whatever we can get of your time. You're a valuable asset.”

I am?

We shake hands. I try to act like I do this all the time, but who am I kidding?

I grin. “What do you want me to do, Coach?”

He folds his arms across his chest. “Whatever I tell you.”

◆ ◆ ◆

El Grande gets out of his car and walks slowly to the baseball diamond.

It's like a movie western when the sheriff comes to town to clean up whatever.

The wind blows across the field. El Grande nods at
me, and I feel his power. He takes his glasses off, cleans them on his shirt, puts them back on, and squints. Squinting is a big part of baseball management.

The guys look at him.

“You've got a game,” he says.

They chew and spit.

He nods. “What are you guys best at?”

“Losing,” Logo says. Terrell pushes him; the others laugh nervously.

Arms crossed tight. “Is that right? I'm standing here with a bunch of losers?”

They look at me. El Grande does, too. “Is that right, Jeremiah?”

“No, I don't think so. I think we've lost some games—three, actually—but that doesn't make us losers.”

El Grande walks back and forth. His right leg has a little hobble in it. “What makes a loser?”

They look down.

“Jeremiah?”

“Uh . . .” I take out my phone. Technically, I'm not in school, I'm on the field, so the phone rules don't apply. I go to my thesaurus. Loser . . . loser . . . This is bad.

El Grande points to me. I cough. “Well, a loser isn't
just someone who gets defeated. A loser is a failure, an underachiever, a write-off, has-been, misfit, freak, unpopular person, flop, washout.”

El Grande asks the guys, “Are you losers?”

Terrell steps forward. “No, sir.”

The rest of the boys step forward and say no and drag Logo with them.

“So let's redefine this. You started late in the season. You've lost a grand total of three games in a row.”

Handro raises his hand. “We got booed once.”

El Grande pushes his glasses down his nose. “Looks like you survived.” He's walking again. “Need I remind you of the great turnarounds in baseball history? The New York Yankees won the pennant after losing seven straight games. The Atlanta Braves rose to the World Series after crushing losses. The Cincinnati Reds couldn't even find their locker room for the first month of the 2012 season, but they came back hard and fast to make the playoffs. How did they do that?”

The team looks to me.

“Jeremiah?” El Grande barks.

“Uh . . . well . . . They got down to . . . I'm making a guess here . . . the fundamentals of the game.”

El Grande nods. “That is absolutely right.”

Whew.

Hands on his hips. “Fundamentals, gentlemen. Getting on base. Baseball is about getting on base.”

The guys spit, which I think is appropriate. Donald misses the ground and spits on his shoe.

“You've got some attitude going here. I like that. We don't have time to practice—we've got a game. But I'm going to tell you what winners don't do. They don't look down or slump their shoulders.”

The team is standing up, squaring their shoulders, chewing big.

“I'm giving you one tip. It's for everybody, no matter what position you play. Keep your eye on the ball. You're . . . What's the name of this team?”

I swallow hard. “The Muskrats.”

El Grande looks at me. “Where did that come from?”

“No one knows, sir.”

El Grande again: “I mean, a muskrat is . . .”

I take out my phone, look it up. It's not good. “A large semiaquatic North American rodent with a musky smell, valued for its fur.”

The team looks at one another.

“Benchant smells pretty bad,” Danny mentions.

“Shut up, Lopez.”

El Grande looks at them. “Is
Muskrat
on your uniforms?”

“No, sir! They just say Hillcrest Middle School.”

“We can be grateful for the little things.”

Alvin says, “There's a Muskrat banner in the gym.”

“But it's ripped,” Alex says.

“Rodents rip stuff,” their brother Aiden adds.

“Are you three together?” El Grande asks them.

“They're the Oxley brothers,” I explain. “Our outfield.”

El Grande nods. “We've got oxen in the outfield.”

Everybody laughs. He looks at the team. “Have you thought of another name for the team?”

I smile. It all becomes clear to me. “I was thinking, sir, we could be the Eagles.”

This rips through the air like a strong wind.

El Grande: “I like that, Jeremiah. I like that very much. An eagle heart. Good eyesight. Fierce.”

“Hey.” Danny sticks out his hands like they're wings. “I'm a flying muskrat.”

“You're our third baseman, son?”

Danny nods.

El Grande thinks about that in a way that should
make Danny nervous. “I'll be having meetings with your parents. We want them to know what we're about. We want them to be part of this effort. Now let's get to that game.”

We climb in the bus. Mr. Hazard is sitting in the back. “You're looking strong, guys. Looking tough.”

“We got a name transplant!” Danny shouts.

No. A transplant is a lot more complicated. I pass out gum. The team looks at one another, chews, and nods. Nobody slumps.

Franny and Benny climb on the bus. Franny's wearing her glove.

“It doesn't mean anything, Jeremiah.”

“We're eagles now,” I tell her.

“You always were eagles.” She says it loud so everyone can hear.