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  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “HOOT, HOOT, HOOTENANNY!” BENJI cried as he slowly rose from the grass, lifting the ball from his glove for the world to see. “Wahoooooo!”

  Benji did a little leap, then sprinted toward the infield—the ball still held high—to meet the rush of cheering teammates as they swarmed him for the game-saving catch. In the carnival of admiration, Josh found his friend. He held the back of Benji’s head and mashed their foreheads together, noses nearly touching and screaming their lungs out as they hopped about in the eye of the victory storm.

  On the bus ride back to the hotel, Callan let the other players know about Josh’s coaching him on the mound.

  “I’m telling you,” Callan told a bunch of eager faces around him, “it went down exactly like Josh said. He told me to just let the guy hit it, that our defense would make a play. We were toast if it wasn’t for Josh.”

  Josh felt his face heat up, but he enjoyed the praise, and when Camren asked if Josh could watch him pitch the next day and give him any pointers he thought of, Josh felt like maybe the whole all-star thing might work out fine after all. He joined in with the others, teasing Benji about falling to the ground when he made the big catch. Benji played right along with it, and in the laughter Josh didn’t even think about how disappointed he was to be rooming with Zamboni.

  The break in his discomfort didn’t last long. Josh hadn’t been back in his hotel room for ten minutes before Zamboni came in smelling like cigarette smoke.

  “How do you do that to yourself?” Josh asked.

  “What?”

  “Smoke.”

  “I don’t smoke,” Zamboni said. “Mind your own business.”

  “I can smell it on you,” Josh said. “And I know you smoked in the room when I wasn’t here.”

  “Smell this,” Zamboni said, lifting his leg with a wet, ripping sound.

  So loud and fantastic was the sound that Josh couldn’t help from bursting out laughing, even as he covered his nose with one arm. Zamboni looked suspiciously at him for a minute, then smiled crookedly and said, “Smells like bologna.”

  “Aw, gross,” Josh said. “I thought I got away from that stuff without Benji.”

  “If you were in a tight place, you’d want to come out, too,” Zamboni said. “Sounds like Benji is a man after my own heart.”

  “You both have special skills, I’ll say that,” Josh said.

  “That Benji’s okay,” Zamboni said. “I’m glad my mom got him on the team.”

  “What do you mean?” Josh asked, remembering how the number of games shouldn’t have added up for Benji to qualify.

  “Yeah,” Zamboni said. “Who do you think fudged the score books? He didn’t have enough games to be on the all-star team.”

  “Why did she do that? I mean, I’m glad she did and all, but…”

  Zamboni shrugged. “You were the one who said you wouldn’t play without Benji. She just made it happen. I know we don’t like each other, but even I gotta admit it, without you, we wouldn’t have won today. I’m glad she did it, from a baseball perspective.”

  Josh looked at Zamboni, unsure exactly how he felt, and said, “But not like a friend thing, right?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ZAMBONI STUDIED HIM FOR a moment before he said, “I think my mom put us together because she has some stupid idea about us all being one big happy family. That’s a joke. We’re not family; we’re not even friends.”

  “I’m hearing that,” Josh said.

  “But the baseball part of it,” Zamboni said, “that might be okay.”

  “What do you mean?” Josh asked.

  “I mean that if you see something that can help me the way you helped Callan? Just tell me.”

  “Like, coach you?” Josh asked.

  “I don’t need you coaching me,” Zamboni said. “You’re a kid, like me. Just a tip. If you see one. That’s all.”

  Josh nodded, and the next day, as they warmed up for their game against a team from Lowville, he did see something. It was early morning. Dew from a cool night still clung to the grass, and a chill squeezed goose bumps to the surface of Josh’s bare arms. Coach Q began peppering them with grounders.

  After a few, Coach Q said, “Men on first and second.”

  He then sent a high-bouncing grounder just past the third baseman, who quickly recovered and got to his bag. Zamboni was in left field and he attacked the ball, stopping it with his glove, but not cleanly. Zamboni reared back and zipped the ball high to third base. The third baseman caught it, but barely, and by the time he got control of the ball, his throw to second for the double play was pitifully late.

  “Got him,” Zamboni said.

  “You got the guy on third,” Josh said, “maybe.”

  “No, that would’ve gotten him.”

  “Maybe,” Josh said, “but, can I show you something?”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re the one that asked me,” Josh said.

  “Okay,” Zamboni said. “Tell me.”

  Josh glanced at Coach Q, who was cheerfully hitting a pop fly to the first baseman.

  “After you get a handle on the ball,” Josh said, “if you’re that close? You just toss it underhand to first.”

  “Toss it?”

  “Like a beanbag.” Josh paused to snatch up a grounder from Coach Q, tossing it underhand to the third baseman, who grabbed it bare-handed and then rifled it to second.

  “See?” Josh said, looking back at Zamboni. “Just a toss. Makes it easy for him to catch. He can even grab it without his glove. He snatches it and fires off the throw if there’s a double-play opportunity.”

  “It takes longer to toss it,” Zamboni said.

  “Right. But if you’re that close, it doesn’t matter. Trust me.”

  “Zamboni!” Coach Q shouted. “Move it back. You’re too close.”

  “You got it, Coach,” Zamboni said in a goofy voice before he jogged deeper into left.

  After warm-ups, the team jogged to the dugout and lined up for “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Coach Q gave them a pep talk and sent them back out onto the field.

  “Time for the playmakers to do their thing,” Benji said loudly as he clapped Josh on the back.

  “Playmakers?” Josh said.

  Benji looked at him as if in shock. “What? You don’t know that’s our nickname? You and me, the playmakers.”

  “Who gave us that nickname?” Josh asked.

  Benji looked insulted as he patted his own chest. “Me. Who else?”

  Josh just shook his head and laughed as he jogged to his spot in the infield.

  The first Lowville batter stepped up and Camren Fries went to work. The top of the Lowville order sprayed the field with well-hit balls, and it wasn’t until Josh made a diving grab for a line drive, then fired the ball from a sitting position on the grass to second for a double play, that the inning ended.

  As they entered the dugout, Camren found Josh and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” Camren asked. “These guys are smacking every curveball I throw. It’s not working. Did you watch me? What should I do?”

  Josh stole a quick glance at Coach Q, then leaned toward Camren’s ear and said, “I was watching your windup, and you’re tipping your curveball.”

  “Tipping it?”

  “I wasn’t sure until that last hit,” Josh said, “but I saw it, and the batter did, too. I think they know when your curveball is coming because you’re looking at the laces of the ball before your windup.”

  “Looking at the laces?” Camren said.

  “Yeah.” Josh showed him. “Like this. Every other pitch, you just adjust the laces behind your back, but a curveball, you look at it. So, all you got to do is stop. You think you can?”

  “Why not?” Camren asked.

  “Well, it’s a habit,” Josh said. “It’s harder than you think, but you can do it. Now you know about it, you’ll be able to.”

  Camren grinned hard
at Josh and said, “Thanks, Coach.”

  “You need something, Camren?” Coach Q asked, and Josh spun around.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “NO, COACH,” CAMREN SAID. “I was just telling Josh that we’re lucky we got such a good coach.”

  “Thanks, Camren,” Coach Q said before turning away to consult his BlackBerry.

  Camren just winked at Josh. The next inning, when he took the mound, Camren glanced over at Josh and gave him a thumbs-up. Josh returned the sign and Camren fiddled with the ball behind his back, finding the laces without looking at them, then going into his windup and delivering a wicked curveball.

  “Strike!” the umpire cried as the batter swung and missed by a mile.

  Josh and Camren grinned at each other, and then Camren picked the batters apart.

  The Lowville pitcher was no slouch either, though, Josh stepped up to the plate with just one out and a man on first, he half expected the pitcher to intentionally walk him. But, unlike in the first game, this pitcher wasn’t going to run from Josh no matter what. Josh gave him what, smacking it over the fence and driving in the runner on first before crossing the plate himself and taking a two-run lead into the bottom of the sixth. Despite a Lowville home run to bring the score to within one, Camren finished strong, pitching the entire game and giving Lyncourt their second win.

  When the team rushed Camren and raised him up on their shoulders, Camren pointed at Josh and said, “We ought to be carrying him.”

  Josh hung his head and faded away as the other kids greeted their parents. Josh watched as moms kissed their sons’ cheeks and dads messed up their hair. He felt a sharp pang of regret that his own parents weren’t at the game to see him. But, instead of feeling sorry for himself, Josh remembered that if he did make it to the pros one day, it would be a lonely life on the road, so he might as well get used to it now. Thinking of his situation as training for his future success put a smile on Josh’s face.

  Yet, even though he felt like things were coming together brilliantly with the Lyncourt team, Josh’s smile couldn’t survive the conversation he’d have later on, back at the hotel, with his mom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SHE DIDN’T TALK ABOUT her troubles, but Josh sensed a strain and weariness in his mom’s voice that screamed to him of her pain. His father had trained him well, though, and even though he was only twelve, Josh considered himself a baseball player. He knew he had to disregard the outside world if he wanted to be great. And now, more than ever before, Josh wanted to be great. He felt that if one thing could mend the broken pieces of his life, playing in the World Series was it.

  As far as his dad went, Josh knew he would have been there if he hadn’t had to coach the Titans in a tournament in Philadelphia. On the phone, his dad sounded upbeat and, without knowing it, he let Josh know he was on the right track by encouraging him to keep doing his best.

  “A champion always plays like a champion,” his father said. “No distractions. Just focus.”

  Josh did just that—he played like a champion. The next day, against a tough Schenectady team, as Josh rounded the bases after hitting a home run that brought two other runners home to win the game, he so thoroughly forgot his troubles that he looked up into the stands, expecting to see his dad’s and mom’s smiling faces. Not seeing them pricked his heart, but the pain quickly went away. There were other smiling faces: his teammates’. As Josh and his fellow all-stars changed from a bunch of players into a real team, working together, the magical effect it had on Josh became more and more powerful.

  Even in the periods of slowest action—like the round Niko Fedchenko pitched a two-hitter against Little Falls and Josh only touched a live ball once all game with his glove—Josh still lost himself in the sunshine, the grass and dirt, the anticipation, the banter, and the action of his teammates as they battled toward another win. On the field, playing and winning ball games, it was easy to pretend that life was grand.

  Zamboni was a perfect example. When they were in the dugout or on the field, Zamboni would sometimes smile at Josh and Josh would offer words of encouragement. Off the field, though, around the hotel and even on the team bus, Zamboni would sometimes whisper to one of the other players and chuckle, with his eyes flickering Josh’s way. In return, when Josh encountered Zamboni in a hallway or at meals, he would look away without a word, pretending Zamboni didn’t exist.

  One thing Josh couldn’t pretend away was his frustration with Coach Q’s lack of baseball knowledge. But, instead of complaining to his father when they spoke on the phone, Josh kept the coaching he did with his teammates to himself, even though he was proud of the way it seemed to be helping them win game after game. In five games he personally hit seven home runs with only two strikeouts. Word of his prowess quickly spread through the tournament so that people stared and pointed at him, whispering to each other that he’d been the standout player leading a travel team to the national championship at Cooperstown and had been interviewed on HBO with Bob Costas about his rivalry with the son of Mickey Mullen, one of the all-time greats in the game.

  Josh kept his head down around the stadium and at the hotel, avoiding eye contact with strangers and sticking mostly to his room, where he could read and relax.

  In the end, they won it all, qualifying for the right to move on to the state finals. Josh and his team cheered their way down the thruway, all 150 miles, pausing only for slices of pizza at a rest stop. They talked excitedly about playing in the state finals out on Long Island and even dared to dream about winning the Mid-Atlantic Regional tournament in New Jersey the week after that. They soon reached the Grant Middle School parking lot, where a small crowd of parents and supporters greeted them with banners, streamers, and wild cheering. Josh pressed his face to the window. Nowhere did he see his mom, even though she’d told him the night before that she’d be there to pick him up.

  The bus stopped and Josh hurried off, still scanning the faces, ignoring the applause, and barely feeling the congratulatory slaps on his back. He pushed through the crowd. Suddenly it parted, and he knew in his gut why his mom hadn’t shown up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “WHERE’S MY MOM?” JOSH asked, knowing that the question would make Diane squirm and pleased when it did.

  Diane recovered quickly, though.

  “We thought we’d have a little celebration,” she said, rolling her eyes at Josh’s dad. “Just you, your dad, me, and Marcus. You boys both played incredibly. It really is exciting.

  “And,” Diane added, with a wicked sparkle in her eye, “the two of us have a little business to take care of down in New York City, and we’re going to time it so we can do that and see you boys play in the state finals at the same time. Won’t that be special?”

  Zamboni shoved himself rudely into their midst and swung an arm around his mom’s waist, giving her half a hug. Josh’s dad held out a hand, offering to slap Zamboni five.

  “Congratulations, Marcus,” Josh’s dad said.

  Marcus gave Josh’s father a disgusted look and half-heartedly slapped his hand.

  Josh waited for his father to grab Zamboni by the neck and shake him up for showing such disrespect, but all he did was smile and nod. Josh felt the rest-stop pizza jump up out of his stomach and into his throat. He gulped it back to keep from vomiting. Before he could come up with a reason why he couldn’t go for ice cream with these people, his father spoke.

  “Celebration, as in a little Friendly’s ice cream,” his father said, grinning stupidly at Diane. “Banana splits on me.”

  “Mom,” Zamboni said, pouting, “you said we were going to do something special.”

  “We are,” Diane said. “You and me and Josh and his father are going for ice cream.”

  “Oh, great,” Zamboni said sarcastically, letting Josh know he meant the exact opposite. “That’s really special.”

  “Oh, come on, Marcus,” Josh’s dad said. “It’ll be fun.”

  Without even looking to see Josh’s re
action, his father turned and led them all to the parking lot, where he put on a pair of sunglasses and got in behind the wheel of Diane’s Audi convertible. He popped the trunk open and both Josh and Zamboni dumped their bags in. Diane opened the passenger side and tilted her seat forward. Zamboni climbed in behind Josh’s dad and slumped in the corner.

  Josh hesitated.

  He felt that if he got in, he was somehow committing himself to something bigger than ice cream, and that thing made him sick, everything about it. Diane with her bright red purse, skintight jeans, and high-heeled shoes. Zamboni, with his reluctant appreciation for Josh’s knowledge and skill. Josh’s feet told him to just run. Run across the parking lot, down Grant Avenue, and into his own neighborhood, where his mother was probably waiting for him, sitting at the kitchen table crying her eyes out.

  His heart told him no. Despite his mom, despite the fear he often felt of his father, even sitting there with those stupid sunglasses on his face, Josh’s father owned his heart. Josh didn’t think he could ever walk away from the man.

  He got in and let Diane bang the seat back into his knees. Zamboni dug in his ear for wax. Josh’s dad down-shifted the Audi and raced out of the lot with a boyish grin. Josh leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the warm wind whip past his face and thinking back to the bad things he must have done to deserve such a disastrous turn of events.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JOSH PUSHED THE BANANA around into the melted swirl of ice cream, pineapple sauce, and hot fudge so that it looked like he’d eaten a little bit. He was too focused on trying to keep down the pizza that was already in his stomach, though, and not about to add anything new to the mix. His father and Diane actually giggled. That was the killer. She dabbed a bit of whipped cream on the end of his nose and his father—all six foot six, two hundred and eighty-three pounds of him—giggled.