Pinch Hit Page 2

  His bedroom was far away, on the opposite end of the house, but he still beat his mother to the dark blue Bentley waiting for them just outside the ten-car garage. Trevor couldn’t see his own personal batting cage behind the garage, but he knew it was there. He could find his way to it in the dark. He felt a pang of thankfulness for all the time he’d spent there, because today his endless hours of practice would finally pay off. The Bentley’s chrome gleamed in the California sunlight, and the car sat softly rumbling, delivered to the spot by one of more than a dozen workers—mostly unseen—who cared for every detail of the massive estate.

  Trevor’s mother climbed in, wearing big white sunglasses and a silk scarf tied about her blond mane of hair. She took time to refresh her red lipstick in the mirror before frowning at his cleats.

  “Those things in this car?” she said.

  Trevor shrugged. “You need them to run the bases.”

  His mother shrugged back and put the big boat of a car into gear. She called into her office on the speakerphone and had her assistant begin to connect her to the calls on her phone sheet. Trevor wiggled in his seat, but then sat rigid after they passed Beverly Hills High School and every park between their Bel Air home and the 101 Freeway. If he was going to join a league, those were the places he’d have to go. He glanced at his mom, fearing she was too engrossed in her phone conversations to remember where they were headed.

  When they got on the freeway heading south, Trevor looked back over the seat at the Hollywood hills disappearing behind them, then up ahead at downtown Los Angeles.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, wondering if in fact they were going to some special place where a travel team might be practicing.

  It was almost too good to be true, but Trevor pinched his arm and knew it wasn’t a dream. He was a kid people said had everything: money, fame, a loving family. But all those things had been given to him. Trevor wanted to compete for something, to use his own skills to try and win. And, if he didn’t win, he would lose, and that would be okay once in a while. No more scripted lines and parts written just for him, but a real battle on a real team.

  Trevor didn’t spend much time with his father, and they almost never played sports. One time, though—when his father had been delayed for an afternoon trip to London because a part had to be replaced on his jet—the two of them had gone out into the yard with two gloves and a ball. Trevor had a glove signed by A-Rod, but Trevor’s dad had a glove that was old and faded and well-worn. It turned out to be his father’s own mitt, a mitt he had used as a player for the college team at Yale. Trevor never knew his father had been an athlete, and when Trevor threw well—earning a smile and some praise from his father—he made up his mind at that moment that baseball would be his sport, too.

  Since that afternoon he’d dreamed of it, of playing, being part of a team, hitting home runs, making outs. Maybe one day he’d even play for Yale. But all his life there were reasons why he couldn’t. No time. Family travels. Too much of a distraction from his work as an actor. Too difficult to deal with all the drama that came from being a kid who was not only a movie star, but the son of a movie star and a famous Hollywood producer.

  Trevor’s mother didn’t seem to have heard his question, so he asked it again. “Where are we going?”

  She clucked her tongue, muted the phone on her agent, and shook her head. “A surprise from your father and me.”

  “But I’m playing baseball?”

  “I said you were. Relax. You only turn thirteen once. I said it’s a surprise. Where we’re going is part of the fun.” His mother checked her lipstick again in the mirror and tucked the bra strap on her shoulder back into her shirt. She took the mute off and started talking again.

  When they got off the freeway at the exit to Dodger Stadium, he knew it couldn’t be a coincidence. They circled the stadium, then drove right up to the front of the team offices. His mom parked where it said “No Parking,” got off her phone call, and got out while two different camera crews surrounded the car.

  “What are these guys doing?” Trevor asked.

  “Your father wanted to see it all,” his mother replied. “Come on, pretend they’re not there.”

  Trevor’s father was on location in Australia. His studio was shooting a blockbuster with Russell Crowe. Having a film crew hovering around him wasn’t anything Trevor hadn’t seen before, and even though it was annoying, it didn’t distract him for more than a few seconds. He followed his mother through the offices, where they picked up two men and a woman, all wearing suits and fussing over his mother while saving plenty of smiles, chuckles, and nods for him. His mother didn’t give them much attention in return. She began sending text messages and appeared—at the same time—to have her sights set on the field.

  When they walked out onto the grass, Trevor blinked and shielded his eyes from the sun. His mind swirled with the possibilities of just what kind of travel team could possibly have the clout to practice at Dodger Stadium. And he knew it must be some kind of a travel team since they already passed by all the schools and parks near where they lived.

  Out on the diamond, figures swayed in the heat. A cloud passed in front of the sun. Trevor lowered his hand and blinked.

  What he saw made his stomach clench like a boxer’s fist.

  4

  SAM

  “Do you know who you look like?” the man asked. “I’m sorry, my name is Donald Fuller. I’m VP of Central Casting. Do you?”

  “I know I don’t look like my father,” Sam said, feeling foolish.

  “Your father?”

  “I was waiting for him to sign that part of the application. I’m sorry. He’s at a pitch meeting.”

  Fuller nodded. “You look like Trevor Goldman. The blue eyes. Blond hair. That long straight nose.”

  “Trevor Goldman? Me?”

  “Do me a favor, will you? Pull your hair back off your face. Use your hands.”

  Sam didn’t quite understand until Mr. Fuller showed him. Sam did it, pulling his hair back like he was going to put it into a ponytail. Fuller just stared.

  “It’s scary,” Fuller said in almost a whisper. “It’s unbelievable, and you could wear a hairnet or a wig. You know what a stand-in is?”

  “Not really.” Sam wrinkled his face at the mention of a wig. “Like an extra?”

  “Like an extra, but more. A lot more. You get paid ten times what an extra gets paid, and you look enough like Trevor Goldman that I want to sign you up for Dragon’s Empire. You heard of it?”

  Sam shook his head. “I’ve heard of Trevor Goldman, though.”

  “Of course you have. Dragon’s Empire will be his next blockbuster. The stand-in we had got sick. The computer spit you right out. Same height, weight, facial features—it’s all done electronically—and now that I look at you, whoa, you could be twins. Your skin is a little pale and your hair’s too long, but that won’t matter for a stand-in.”

  “What is a stand-in?”

  Fuller looked to make sure Sam was serious. “You just stand in for the star while they’re setting up the shot.”

  Sam nodded. “Like when you bat for someone, a pinch hit?”

  “Kind of, but that’s baseball; this is the movies. It’s kind of boring, truthfully, but the money’s big, big, big, especially on a blockbuster like Dragon’s Empire. So, are you in?”

  Sam started to wonder if the money was big, big, big enough to buy them that condo by the design school, but before he could ask, there was some commotion outside and a loud knock at Fuller’s door. Sam’s dad appeared. His red face had turned hot, and his nose shone like a stop light.

  “You don’t just take someone’s son away and meet with him behind closed doors,” Sam’s father said, stepping into the room and standing rigid. “I know how things work around here. I’m at a pitch meeting with this studio, and I come back and someone’s trying to cut a deal with my son? I’m a player in this town.”

  Fuller was on his feet. “Mr. Palomaki? It is Mr. Palomaki, isn’t it?”

  “I said I was the boy’s father.”

  “Mr. Palomaki, I’m sorry, it’s just that he looks so much like Trevor Goldman and we’re shooting Dragon’s Empire and the stand-in got sick and Sam popped up on the computer. I ran right out to get him because the studio’s in a bind.”

  At the mention of the studio, Sam’s father settled down a great deal and he put a hand over his heart. “If I can help the studio, I’m happy to do it. After the meeting I just had, I think I’ll be working on my own project here in the very near future.”

  Sam secretly rolled his eyes because he’d heard his father talk big so many times before, even though nothing ever came from it.

  “You got a green light?” Fuller’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s wonderful.”

  Sam’s father cleared his throat. “Not quite a green light, but very close. They’re talking about the terms of an option right now.”

  Sam looked at the floor and shook his head, but not so anyone would notice.

  “Ah,” Fuller said, seeming to know quite well what that meant.

  “So,” Sam’s dad said, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “A stand-in? Not bad. He does look like Trevor Goldman. I should have thought of that.”

  Sam could almost see the wheels turning in his father’s head. They could pick up some extra money and do the studio a favor.

  “Look? I swear, without the hair, they could be twins,” Fuller said.

  “They say everyone has a look-alike,” Sam’s father said. “How long is the shoot?”

  “June and July.”

  “Day rate?” Sam’s dad licked his lips.

  “Better. Background performer. Time and a half. That’s two hundred a day, a thousand a week, guaranteed.”

/>   “Make it double time.” Sam’s dad scowled. “You said ‘twins.’ Think of what it’ll save you on lighting and makeup.”

  Fuller ground his teeth and picked up his phone.

  5

  TREVOR

  The entire LA Dodgers team stood in a group near the pitcher’s mound. They broke into polite applause when they saw Trevor. One of the cameramen circled him, getting his reaction in a kind of three-sixty scene. The other took a wide shot that included his mom. Trevor’s mom slipped the phone into her purse and clapped her hands like a child as she bounced up and down with excitement.

  Trevor regained his wits and squeezed out the best smile he could muster.

  “You want baseball?” His mom grinned so hard her sunglasses shifted on her face. “We give you baseball, angel.”

  “It’s great, wow, meeting the Dodgers.” Trevor tried hard not to sound disappointed in front of the cameras; it wouldn’t be polite.

  “You’re not going to just meet them!” His mom’s voice continued to rise with enthusiasm and volume as she expertly turned her face toward the cameras. “You’re going to play with them!”

  “Great.” Trevor kept the smile burning. “Wow. Okay. Great. Ready?”

  His mom waved a finger in the air and like magic, half the Dodgers went to their places in the field while the rest of the team headed for the dugout.

  “The Dodgers versus the Dodgers with Trevor Goldman!” Trevor’s mom shouted, holding up a single finger.

  Chad Billingsley, the Dodgers’ top pitcher, called out from the mound. “You’re up, Trevor. Let’s see what you got.”

  Trevor’s mom and the rest of the adults, including the camera crews, chuckled and hooted like everyone was in for some real fun. Trevor choked out a laugh and picked up the nearest bat against the fence. Don Mattingly, the Dodgers’ manager, emerged from the dugout, handing Trevor a different bat.

  “You’re leading us off, so use this. It’s from the ’06 series, a little gift from me and the team. Go get ’em, kid.”

  The Dodgers in the dugout gave Trevor thumbs-ups from their seats. Trevor swung the bat, loosening his shoulders as he approached the plate. Rod Barajas, the catcher, smacked his glove like the real thing. “Get ’em, Trevor.”

  Trevor had to admit that when he stepped into the box and Billingsley went into his windup, he felt a real thrill. Even that fizzled, though, when the pitch came on a slow lob right down the middle. Trevor swung instinctively, connected, and took off like a shot. He had good speed, but even as he sprinted down the first-base line, he could see Rafael Furcal, the shortstop, snatch up the ball. After a moment he pretended to fumble with it, then drop it before scooping it back up. Trevor’s foot slapped the base, and Furcal fired the ball.

  “SAFE!”

  Trevor was stunned to see a real umpire, decked out in his official uniform as if it were a live Major League game.

  “Almost got him!” Furcal shouted.

  “Kid’s good,” said James Loney, the first baseman.

  Trevor’s face felt hot with embarrassment, but he played along, running the bases until he scored and everyone cheered. Several of the Dodgers on Trevor’s team met him at home plate, clapping and mussing his hair on the way back to the bench. His mom clapped wildly, walking along beside them.

  The director of the camera crew approached and asked, “Can we do that again, only this time get him sliding? And maybe they could make a throw to home, and Trevor could slide just under it. I think that would be something to remember, and I know your husband would love that.”

  Trevor caught his mom’s eye and shook his head with a pleading look. The whole thing was bad enough without having to stage him sliding into home plate.

  “That’s okay, Louie,” his mother said, waving him off and taking the phone out of her purse so she could get back to work. “Let the boys play. Just get what you can.”

  Louie hung his head, but went.

  After Trevor scored, the rest of his team promptly struck out.

  “What position, buddy?” the manager asked.

  Trevor started to say he’d go wherever they needed him, then stopped himself. They didn’t need him anywhere. To get the whole thing over with, he said, “How about second base?”

  “Trevor’s got second!”

  Trevor’s team jogged out onto the field.

  “Great.”

  “Let’s shut them down.”

  “Shut them out.”

  Three times in a row, the pitcher laid in a pitch and the batters dribbled grounders right at Trevor. When he threw them out at first, everyone cheered. After the final out, everyone cheered louder and for real. Trevor’s teammates slapped his back and shook his hand all the way to the dugout. Louie and his crew circled the bunch, recording it all. Trevor did an acting job for his father, grinning at the camera and pumping his fist. He knew anything less and his mother would insist that they do it again to please his father.

  His mother hugged him and the entire team circled around him for a photo, then they all shook his hand again and filed into the clubhouse without a word.

  “Well,” his mother said, taking a deep breath and letting it out, “what did you think of that?”

  “Incredible, Mom. Thank you. Uh, can I just use a bathroom somewhere?”

  “Oh!” the woman administrator said, as if she should have known. “Of course you can. Go to where the players went, and there’s a bathroom on the right-hand side just before you get to the locker room.”

  Trevor followed her instructions, walking up a ramp and stepping into the bathroom, where he froze. He could hear the sounds of two men talking and washing their hands at the sinks. Their spikes clattered on the floor, telling him they were players. Trevor heard his name and flattened himself against the wall so they couldn’t see him.

  “The kid wasn’t a bad kid,” one player said.

  “I know, I know, it’s just such a joke, us having to stick around for that. I mean, why doesn’t the kid just play with other kids? That’s one thing that makes me sick about this town. Everybody’s kid has to be a star. If you want to be a movie star, be a movie star, okay? Isn’t that enough? Now you gotta be a sports star, too? It’s just ridiculous.”

  “Well, the kid’s dad is big-time. He was the best man at Mr. McCourt’s wedding. That’s how it works in this town. I don’t hear you complaining about the paycheck.”

  The players’ spiked shoes clacked toward Trevor, and he scooted back outside and down the ramp before turning on his heel and marching up again like it was the first time.

  Furcal and Billingsley emerged from the bathroom and waved to him.

  “Hey, kid.”

  “Nice job.”

  “Yeah, nice job.”

  Trevor smiled and waved and went into the bathroom, where he hung his head and took deep breaths, trying hard not to throw up.

  6

  SAM

  “I got a kid here looks just like Trevor Goldman,” Fuller said into the phone before pausing. “Yes, I do, they’re almost identical, and his father’s in the business. He’s suggesting double time. I offered time and a half.... No, you’ll have a tough time telling them apart, I promise. It’s amazing. Okay, just wanted to make sure it was good with you. It’s your budget.”

  Fuller hung up the phone and offered a false smile. “Double time it is. If you’ll be so kind as to finish filling out the required forms, I’ll have the contract drawn up before you go.”

  Sam raised his hand like he was in school. “Mr. Fuller? When do I finish?”

  “Finish?”

  “Every day. Do they finish at five? And what about weekends?”

  Fuller shrugged. “Most times it’s nine to five, Monday through Friday. I can’t promise, though. If they get behind, you might have to shoot all night, day and night, seven days a week. It just depends. That’s Hollywood. Why?”

  “Uh…” Sam shifted in his chair. “Dad, can we talk?”

  Fuller seemed to think that was funny. He chuckled and got up. “I’ll leave you two alone. I’ll have my assistant get the paperwork together.”

  Sam watched Fuller go, then turned to his dad.

  “I can’t,” Sam said.

  It was his father’s turn to chuckle. “What do you mean, ‘can’t’?”