Soar (15 page)

IT'S INTERESTING WHAT
happens when people get encouraged. Walt taught me that when someone decides not to give up on you, it's proof positive that you'd better not give up on yourself.

There wasn't enough gum or encouragement in the world to help the Eagles win, but I will say we looked tough losing, and we didn't lose by much: 3–2. If Logo hadn't dropped the ball at home plate when a Thunderbolt runner raced in to score, if Benchant hadn't bobbled the ball when Greenville's first baseman bunted and brought the kid on third base home, if the umpire wasn't half blind, we might have won.

But two big things happened.

Our fan base is growing. We had six parents cheering for us, but no one shouted as loudly as Mr. Hazard,
who, as a vice principal, has a big voice and isn't afraid to use it.

The other thing was, the loss didn't seem like the others. It almost seemed like a win.

Back on the bus, El Grande says, “I saw some nice plays. Sky, you were throwing to Logo's glove and finding that strike zone. Alvin, you caught two high flies on the run.”

Alvin smiles. “My goal was to catch one.”

El Grande nods. “Anyone else have a goal for this game?”

Danny says, “I'm not trying to be a moron, but—”

“You don't have to try, Danny,” someone says.

“Let him talk. Go on, son.”

“I didn't want to leave the field embarrassed.”

“I had that goal any number of times when I was playing. And did you?”

“No, sir. I wasn't embarrassed.”

Mr. Hazard claps. “I like that!”

“We're going to start looking at personal bests we want to achieve in each game. Jeremiah's going to help you figure out what to work on.”

Absolutely!

Franny and Benny are in the bus riding back to the
school with us. Benny is looking out the window, waving to people.

El Grande says, “How's that arm, Sky?”

“A little sore.”

“How much did you warm up? How many throws before the game?”

“Uh . . .” Sky isn't sure.

“One seven,” Benny says.

Seventeen. El Grande and I look at each other.

Benny waves at a car.

El Grande looks back at Benny. “Were you counting pitches, Benny?”

Benny doesn't answer.

Franny says, “Benny, how many pitches did Sky throw today?”

“Six three.”

I keep track of these things during a game. I check my phone. It wasn't sixty-three. It was forty-six. But wait a minute. Forty-six during the actual game plus seventeen in warm-up. That's sixty-three!

I show El Grande.

“Benny,” El Grande says, “are you writing the numbers down?”

Benny doesn't answer. He looks out the window.
“Sky pitched six seven pitches before that.”

“At the Badgers game, Benny?”

He doesn't answer.

I go through my numbers on that game. Sixty-seven pitches. He's right. Why didn't he get the practice ones?

“Was that the game we came late to, Benny?” Franny asks.

“Six seven,” he says, bouncing in his seat.

El Grande says, “Did you keep score with a pencil and paper?”

Benny looks confused. He points to his head. “I see.”

“You see it?” Mr. Hazard sits by them. “Benny, how many people are there on this bus?”

Benny doesn't look to check. “One eight,” he says instantly.

I count. It's seventeen, actually. Twelve Eagles, me, El Grande, Franny, Benny, and Mr. Hazard. You can't bat a thousand.

But wait a minute. I forgot the bus driver.

That's eighteen!

Mr. Hazard says, “Benny, what do you see on the street?” He points out the window.

“Two one, five, six, five seven.”

I don't know what he is counting, but I doubt he's wrong.

The bus pulls into the school parking lot. We get off. Kids are telling Benny, “Way to go.”

“You've got a gift, son,” El Grande tells him. “One whale of a gift.”

◆ ◆ ◆

That night I make the cards.

BASEBALL IS BACK AT HILLCREST MIDDLE SCHOOL

Below that is a picture of a soaring eagle. In the lower right corner it reads:

The Eagle has landed. Come watch us play ball.

We need name recognition fast. I print a ton of these cards.

“Pass these out around town,” I tell the Eagles. “Let them know we're here. And don't act dumb about it. We want people to love us.”

I SHOW ONE
of the cards to Adler, who sniffs it. “Tell the other dogs, Adler. You need to do your part.” I'm watching Franny's house—no sign of her yet this morning. “Adler, it's Saturday. I want you to let me know the minute you see Franny, okay? I need to talk to her.”

Adler cocks his head and looks at me.

“You could go by her front door like you're injured. You could cry and whine. What do you think?”

Adler doesn't want to do that.

“Okay, so we're waiting here.” I take out my phone. “Adler is an unusual name for a dog. Do you know what your name means? My name, Jeremiah, means ‘exalted of God,' which is a lot to live with. Let's see. Adler . . .” I'm scrolling through names. Aaron, Abner . . .

You've got to be kidding. I look at this dog. “Adler,
in German your name means ‘eagle.' This is deep. Do you understand? You're one of us!”

Adler wags his tail, and now Franny walks out her door, dressed like she's going for a run.

I wave. “Can I talk to you, Franny?”

She jogs over.

“I need to tell you something.”

“What?”

Last night Walt told me he thought we'd be here through June seventh, which is not a lot of time. “But,” he told me seriously, “I'm hoping that will change.”

“Me too, Walt. Is there anything you—”

“It's complicated, Jer. I don't mean to be mysterious.”

This is not like my dad, but when you're not sure how many days you have left in a place, you have to decide to not let things stop you.

So I tell her. About the snack room, and Walt finding me, and my mother leaving the baby eagle for me to gnaw on.

“You're kidding.” She sits on the grass.

I tell her about the note on my baby chair. My heart transplant. I tell her almost everything, except the fact that I almost died and that my new heart is named Alice.

She sits there looking at me.

“And I don't know, Franny. I've always thought something hard, maybe not like that exactly, might have happened to you.”

She sighs deeply and folds her arms tight across her chest. “Something did happen.”

I wait for her to tell me and she doesn't. I don't think this is fair.

“I told you close to everything about my life, Franny.”

“What did you leave out?”

“Unimportant, random stuff.”

“Like what?” She's waiting.

Okay, you asked for it.

“My favorite color: gold. Favorite food: barbecue.”

She leans back on her elbows.

“Favorite baseball player: Jackie Robinson. Second favorite: Lou Gehrig. Third favorite: Roberto Clemente. Is this boring you?”

She laughs. “A little!”

“Then tell me what happened to you or I won't stop.”

She shakes her head.

“Favorite cereal: Cheerios.”

“Cheerios?”

“Everyone loves Cheerios. Favorite small, adorable animal: brown bunny.”

“Awww . . .”

“Favorite large, ugly animal: rhinoceros.”

“Baby rhinos are cute!”

“Favorite arthropod: centipede. Favorite punctuation mark: semicolon. Favorite scientific fact: stars die but keep shining.”

“They do?”

“Favorite cookie: potato chip. You crush a whole bag of chips to make them. Favorite seven-word joke: A duck walks into a bar. Ouch.” That always broke Uncle Jack up.

She doesn't laugh.

I'm speeding through. “Favorite superhero: Iron Man. Favorite eagle: golden. Favorite city: Toronto. Favorite pizza: meatball. Favorite flavor: coffee. Favorite life moment: when Walt found me. Favorite word—”

“Baseball,” she says.

I shake my head. “Soar.”

“Soar?”

“It's what eagles do more than other birds. They wait for the right air current and they ride it higher than the clouds.”

She looks at me. “I've never met a boy like you, Jeremiah.”

“Good. I try to be memorable.” I lean back, exhausted.

“My dad left,” she says.

I sit up.

“Four years ago.”

“I'm sorry.”

Mrs. Prim is on her porch, trying to listen.

“I don't want to talk about it here, Jeremiah.”

“Let's walk. Adler, we'll be back. Good dog.”

◆ ◆ ◆

We are walking through the Peaceful Lutheran Church parking lot, which is a very interesting place, beginning with the sign:
LORD, MAKE ME AN INSTRUMEN
T OF YOUR PEACE
.

“I've never seen that in a parking lot before, Franny.”

“They don't have enough parking spaces on Sunday. People get pretty worked up.”

We're about to sit on a bench. It reads:
TH
E WAGES OF SIN IS DE
ATH
.

I'm sure that's true, but I don't want to sit on it.

The bench in front of the fountain has this:

BE STRONG AND VE
RY COURAGEOUS
.

Much better. We sit on that.

And she tells me . . .

“My dad up and left four years ago and never came back. He left a good-bye note saying he was sorry; he couldn't be part of our family anymore. Bo found the note when he came down for breakfast. It was on the kitchen table.” She starts to sway a little. “I don't know why he left. I wonder if it was something about me.”

“No,” I tell her. “It was about him.”

“You didn't know him.”

“But I know about this.”

It's like a faucet turns on. “He left most of the money and the car. He took his clothes.” She's looking at the ground, rocking back and forth. “We were in shock. Benny's mom found out and she came over and cooked for us and helped me and Bo with homework. She helped Mom get out of the house. She was amazing . . . I would do anything for her.”

That's why you take care of Benny, I bet.

“And I don't know why, Jeremiah, but I don't remember much about my dad. I can't remember his voice or what we were doing around the time he left, or even what he liked to do. I mean, I know he played baseball. He was on a minor league team. He never made it big. El Grande says he went through life being disappointed.”
She closes her eyes. “And I don't want to be like that!”

“You're not.”

She shakes her head. “Mom got an investigator to try to find him to pay child support. There was some talk he'd been seen in Canada . . .”

Canada. Okay . . . now I get it.

We sit here on the
BE STRONG AND VERY COURAGEOU
S
bench.

“Did you ever get your dad's trunk open? The one Bo found in—”

“Yes. We opened it.”

I wait. “What was inside?”

“Baseball stuff.” She's rocking again. “And a map of Canada. That might not mean anything.”

Or it might. I wish I had a trunk. A clue.

It starts to rain. “You want to be my best friend in this town?” I ask her.

She looks at the fountain. “Yeah. I think I do.”

WE CAN HEAR
the thunder pounding outside. It's supposed to rain for three days, soaking the baseball fields. But inside the batting cages, all is dry.

I convinced Franny to come with the team to practice—it wasn't easy. Benny doesn't come because the sound hurts his ears.

“This pitching machine can be your best friend,” I tell them, “or it can beat you bloody. Fast, slow, medium.” Every one of the Eagles picks slow. “We'll start there. I want you to keep your eye on the ball, and remember, these will keep coming at you.”

Four guys are in four cages.

Four guys swing hard and miss most of the pitches.

Danny in cage three falls down, shouting he's getting attacked by baseballs.

Donald, Terrell, Alvin, and Handro are next. And Donald is on this. He's swinging through, not hitting everything, but he's hitting some. There's a big smile on his face.

“Yes!” I shout to him.

He keeps swinging. “I think I figured out what I'm doing wrong.” He turns to me and gets attacked by balls.

“Shut off the machine, Donald!”

Franny is standing there. “I want you to do this,” I tell her.

Terrell gets hit by a ball and comes out of the cage rubbing his arm. “Good luck, girl.”

She goes inside the cage.

“You turn on the—”

“I know what to do.” She turns on the machine to “medium” and stands there, knees bent, bat ready. First pitch, she nails it. Second, again. Third, fourth, fifth—this girl doesn't miss. She's focusing in.

Wham.

Some of the guys are gathering around.

Logo says, “She's good for a girl.”

Those words hang there.

“I didn't mean that the way it sounded, I swear!”

Franny glares at him. She turns the machine to “fast.” Ball after ball.

Wham.

Crack.

Connect.

Hit after hit.

“That's a homer right there!” I shout. “We win!”

The guy who runs the place comes by. “That's better than yesterday, Franny.”

I look at her. “You were here yesterday?”

The guy laughs. “She's been here every day for two weeks. She's a serious hitter.”

She shrugs. “Okay, so I'd like to be an Eagle.”

“You already are one.”

The guys cheer.

◆ ◆ ◆

Batting practice.

Not in a cage.

Walt gets off at four o'clock to come and give us some pointers. He shows us what a fastball looks like coming at you. A curve. A junk ball. One that's going in the dirt.

“Get used to what they look like,” Walt says, “and
you'll know when to swing and when not to.”

Not swinging isn't one of our specialties.

“Here's a curveball,” Walt shouts, “that will not be a strike. Don't swing at this. Watch.”

Walt throws and Sky the pitcher watches it whiz by in the dirt.

“Patience is one of the biggest lessons a batter has to learn,” Walt explains. “Only swing at the good pitches.” Donald is listening to this like his life depends on it. “Make the pitcher throw strikes. You stand there and ignore the junk. Come on, Donald. Batter up.” Donald gets in place, waiting. Walt gets ready to throw again. “This is going to be high. You don't bother with this. Watch . . .”

Donald stands there and doesn't swing as the junk ball comes in.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, Mr. Lopper. Okay.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Warm-ups. Sidesteps. Crossovers. Skipping. Walking backward.

El Grande has the team doing it all.

He and I practice signals—and these get weird. Ear
tugging, one nose tap, two nose taps, chest pats, left arm up, right arm up, tug your earlobe.

Benny is very good at copying this. He'll stand next to me and tap his nose and raise his hand exactly right. He's loving the walking backward and the running, too.

“Benny,” I say, “you're a good runner.”

Benny grins and runs away from me when I say it. He's kind of our mascot and ball boy and statistician rolled into one. Benny's dad, Mr. Lewis, sits with him now that Franny is playing.

A few people come to watch us practice. Hargie's dad comes and sits with Mr. Lewis, but doesn't stay long. “I appreciate what you're doing!” he shouts to us.

Rabbi Tova comes with her little daughter, Hannah, who wants to play first base for the Red Sox. She asks Franny for her autograph. Franny signs it,
Girls on First.

Mr. Hazard has the team walk onto the stage at assembly as the Hillcrest Middle School marching band plays “We Will Rock You” really badly.

We haven't rocked anybody yet.

Or maybe we have.

Mr. Hazard shows up wearing an eagle costume and starts dancing by our bus. He says he's been looking for
an eagle costume since we changed our name. “Most of them looked like chickens,” he tells us. “And I wasn't going there.” He's a very different man when he's in this outfit.

We've got a new name, a mascot, and a rabbi. Now all we have to do is win.

◆ ◆ ◆

Winning keeps not happening.

We play badly against the Falcons, and eagles should beat falcons with one wing tied behind their backs. Danny injures his throwing arm in that game—he can't play. Franny takes first base, and Benchant replaces Danny on third.

Our pitching falls apart, too.

We almost win against St. Catherine's, but Logo bobbles the ball on a close play at home plate and we lose, 4–3.

Danny comes to practice in a cast. “I can't play, but I can cheer!” He sits with Benny and they yell, “Go Eagles!”

Yeah, that's us now. But something else is happening. El Grande says it: “A few weeks ago, I would have said you weren't good enough to win, but now you are.”

There is something about those words that sends a whoosh through the Eagles, like an air current lifting us higher. We are so ready for our next game against the Tornadoes—we played them before, and now we'll get another shot. But we get rained out! Sky screams that he can pitch in the rain.

“Save that energy for the next game,” El Grande tells him.