The Second Base Club Read online

  Marisa’s place was completely dark. But the cigar-smoking old man was sitting on his porch across the street, watching nothing. As I got closer to her house, I noticed a car out in front. I stopped.

  Suddenly the porch light came on. Motion detector. There she was, sitting on the porch swing, and she wasn’t alone. Sampson Teague was right there beside her, both of them staring at me. I turned my bike around and got out of there as fast as I could.

  And I could hear the old man—laughing.

  I switched gears as I reached the end of her block and the street sloped down. Thighs pumping hard. Three blocks away now, and the old man’s laughter stayed with me, locked inside my head. I raced on, paying little attention to intersections, even the ones with stop signs. My legs burned, but I didn’t slow down, not until I ran the red light on Ashwood. Not until it was too late. Not until I heard the tires screech and the horn blare. I looked up just in time to see the truck sliding to a stop in front of me. I hit the driver’s side at the front wheel, which stopped my bike but not me. I flew over the hood and kept going, hitting the ground on the other side, palms, knees, and chin slowing me down until the curb stopped me.

  “You okay, kid?” It was the guy from the truck.

  I got to my feet slowly. Very slowly, and trying to focus on the world spinning by.

  “Kid, you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied. My jeans were torn. So were my palms. My chin throbbed.

  The man just stood there, looking at me like I was some kind of ghost. A bleeding one.

  “I said I’m fine, okay!” I yelled. “Leave me alone!”

  “Hey, man, take it easy.” He got back in the truck and drove away.

  I walked over to my bike, which was still in the middle of Ashwood. The front wheel was bent nearly in half. I dragged it to the sidewalk, then grabbed my phone and dialed home.

  “Mom, I wrecked my bike. Can you come and get me?” I couldn’t keep my voice from cracking, but I held the tears off until I hung up.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I don’t need a doctor,” I said, for about the millionth time. “I’m scraped up. Nothing’s broken.”

  Mom was trying to keep her eyes on the road and check me out at the same time.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. Eyes on the road, Mom.”

  She nodded. A few minutes later, we were heading up Casitas Pass. “So tell me what happened.”

  “I ran a red light. I hit a truck.”

  “Not that story,” she said. “Tell me the other story.”

  I folded my arms and leaned against the door. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That’s not good enough, Elroy. Try again.”

  She had a point. But how much did she need to know? Certainly not everything.

  I looked over and met her stare. “Mom, the road!” Then I said, “I made a fool of myself tonight. That’s all you need to know.”

  “I see,” she said. “Over a girl, I take it?”

  “Yes. Over a girl.”

  “We’ll get you bandaged up and get you to bed. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  The following day, I started work at Ernesto’s. Juana Maria was my trainer.

  “Hello, Elwood,” she said. She had on her Mexican peasant-girl outfit again. I wore bell bottoms and a puffy white shirt.

  “It’s Elroy.”

  “I know.” She grinned. “Hello, Elwood.”

  “Hi. Let’s get this road on the show. What do I do?”

  “Gee whiz. Don’t you know how to fraternize? Remember, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

  I could see her eyeing the bandage on my chin, but she didn’t ask about it, which was fine by me. I was done talking about my banged-up exterior and my bleeding insides.

  “I thought I was Elwood.”

  “That’s it. You’re fraternizing! Now, Elroy, your job is to greet the customers, take down their names, and seat them when there is an available table.”

  “How complicated,” I said.

  “You’d be surprised. We also help clear tables when we can, make salads, fold napkins. It can get pretty busy on a weekend. You’ll see.”

  Turned out, she wasn’t lying. All night long it was tag-team hostessing—or hosting. I’d seat someone while she cleared a table, and vice versa. It didn’t slow down until ten o’clock. We spent the remaining half-hour wrapping silverware in cloth napkins. Kind of like making burritos. I was getting it down. And I actually had a good time. Who knew work could be fun?

  The following day, I bought a new front rim and tire for my bike.

  On Monday, I met up with Vern at the mall and we rode to school together. He kept eyeing me strangely, like I had an enormous zit on my face. I was pretty sure I didn’t. I check that kind of thing before I leave the house . . . trailer.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Just checking.”

  “Checking?”

  “Trying to see if you’re back to normal. Remember, the wrath of Vern. So how is it going?”

  We stopped at a traffic light and I looked at him. Should I tell him about seeing Marisa and Sampson on the porch swing, about the old man laughing? I decided against it. “It’s over,” I said. “There’s nothing I can do about it. How’s that?”

  I didn’t mention that I still thought about her constantly and that the frozen bowling ball never got any smaller . . . or less cold.

  “Dang. No wrath of Vern. I was looking forward to it.”

  We got to school and locked our bikes. I avoided all contact with Marisa. I knew where she’d be likely to hang out between classes, and I simply avoided those areas. But that didn’t mean I didn’t bump into Sampson.

  Vern and I were dressing for sixth-period PE. Sharing the same locker room with football players had to be some form of cruel and unusual punishment.

  “So what’s the score?” I heard one of them say.

  “I heard Sampson scored a home run over the weekend.”

  “That lying sack of you-know-what.”

  Vern shot me a look. I was about to say something when—

  “Someone mention my name?” It was Sampson, the potential-girlfriend stealer himself. The members of the Second Base Club were grouped at the far end of the locker room, slapping high-fives and patting one another on the back.

  “So is the rumor true, Sampson?” someone asked. “I heard you—”

  I elbowed Vern. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We went out onto the track and began jogging, which was the routine for sixth-period PE. Mr. Teitsort wasn’t one of those hands-on instructors. He took roll, told us to run, then came out and told us to shower when class was over. That was about it.

  But running felt good, for some reason.

  “What do they have that we don’t have?” I asked Vern.

  “Abs? Pecs? Biceps? Is that what you mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “It just seems like guys who go out for sports do a little better in the girl department.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes, I think. What sport can we go out for?”

  “I’m not sure. Is there a bowling team?”

  “I don’t think so.” Somehow I doubted bowling would qualify as a sport. And it certainly wouldn’t impress a girl. Sweat had to be involved.

  That night, I thought it over. Mom kept giving me the look that said she knew there was more to the drive-full-speed-into-a-truck story.

  “I’m thinking of going out for a sport,” I said as we were sitting down to dinner. “Any ideas what sport I can do?”

  “You’d be excellent at yoga. Can you touch your toes?”

  “I can touch my shins.” I shook my head. Yoga wouldn’t cut it. “I mean a team sport. Something at Highmont. What can I do?”

  She didn’t have any ideas besides yoga. She just told me what I already knew, that I’d never been a sports person, that I was years behind all the other ki
ds in that area. And I wasn’t exactly a big guy.

  But there had to be something I could do, some sport where I could start out with no experience and where size didn’t matter. I’d mull it over. I’d sleep on it.

  The following day, it came to me during the all-school assembly. I found Vern in the gym, sitting next to Tuck Mayfield, a kid we’d known since fourth grade. Tuck wore cowboy boots and a John Deere cap and usually hung out with the three or four other wannabe cowboys at Highmont.

  “Hey, guys,” I said. I nodded to Tuck. “Tuck.”

  “Hey, Elroy.” He held out his fist and I tapped it with mine. “Fire up.”

  “Fire up for what?” I asked.

  “For getting out of class?”

  “That’ll work.”

  The assembly was for all the winter sports coming up: basketball, gymnastics, and wrestling. Basketball was out for me, I figured. I checked out the team. Looked like only one guy was under six feet tall. No, wait, he was the water boy. I moved on to gymnastics. They weren’t all that big, plus they worked out in close proximity to the girls’ team. This had possibilities. I watched them go through their demonstration.

  Somehow Vern knew what I was thinking. He said, “So—the guy who can’t touch his toes is considering gymnastics?”

  “They’re not very big. Look at them.”

  “Look what they’re doing. It’s about a million times more difficult than football.”

  “I’d have to concur,” Tuck added.

  They had a point. Football is mostly grunting and bumping into people and wearing armor while doing it. What could be more difficult than gymnastics? And so I turned my attention to the wrestling team. Wrestling had to be something I could learn. Competing only with guys my own size sounded good.

  When the gymnasts finished their demonstration, the wrestlers dragged the mat to the center of the gym floor. I leaned forward. It was my last chance, the only sport left, unless I wanted to wait until April and go out for track. I couldn’t wait that long for romance, I decided. Wrestling had to be it.

  I watched closely. Todd Waylan and some other kid were going at it on the mat, tossing each other around. The match went back and forth, while the coach stood at the microphone calling out the moves as they were performed and the corresponding points.

  “Fireman’s carry—two points, Waylan. Two points, near fall. One-point escape, Thomas. Single leg, two points.” And on and on.

  You could tell it was staged. Kind of like the stuff you see on TV. They were going for all the spectacular stuff, which probably wouldn’t work if they were wrestling live. But it was working. I was hooked. I liked the action.

  I nudged Vern and pointed to the mat. “I could do this.”

  “Look at them, Elroy.”

  “I am.”

  “Look at them closely.”

  I was pretty sure I was seeing everything that was going on. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re wearing tights. They look like leprechauns.”

  First of all, leprechauns wore little shoes with curled-up toes. These guys definitely had regular feet. Besides, once I got pecs, I might look hot in a skintight wrestling uniform. “I could do this,” I said again.

  “Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you. But I reserve the right to laugh at you.”

  I gave him a look.

  “I mean in a nice way. If you dress up like a leprechaun, that is.”

  “Look at their shoes!” I yelled.

  After the match, the coach invited everyone to try out for the wrestling team. He even emphasized the point that size didn’t matter: You’d work out with guys your own weight. This sounded good to me. The members of the Second Base Club were proof that you had to be a jock to get anywhere with the opposite sex.

  If it worked for them, it could work for me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I finally did it. I made it to double digits on my pull-up tree. Then I added as many push-ups as I could, which wasn’t many. Pull-ups usually wiped me out. Mom came home in the middle of my sit-up session.

  I stood up and lifted my shirt. “Do I have abs yet?”

  She squinted. “Hold on—I think I’m getting something.” She pulled a magnifying glass from the junk drawer. “Come closer, let’s have a look.”

  I pushed my shirt back down. “Never mind.”

  “I’m kidding,” she said. “You’re looking fit. What’s going on? Working out for the bowling team?”

  Mom was sly. She figured she’d avoid the direct tell-me-about-the-girl approach, hoping that I’d get around to it if she made like she wasn’t interested. Little did she know that I didn’t have anything to say. I had no stories to tell, let alone hide. Whatever I thought I had with Marisa was over.

  “No bowling team, Mom. I think I might try wrestling.”

  “Wrestling?” She put on her concerned face. “Remember, Elroy, Highmont’s school colors are green and more green.”

  “So?”

  “Green tights, dear. I’m not sure how I feel about having a leprechaun in the family.”

  I let her make fun of the uniform. I didn’t care. Wrestling was a means to an end. If dressing like an elf got me to second base or beyond, then it was worth it, even if my own mom teased me.

  It took her a while to realize I was serious. But she finally understood. Maybe she didn’t know my motivation, but she knew I meant business as far as the sport went. We drove to the Big 5 on Thompson, and I picked out a pair of wrestling shoes. “See?” I told her. “The toes aren’t curled.”

  Once I had the shoes, or once she noticed that her purse was lighter by about forty dollars, she stopped cracking leprechaun jokes. I walked out of the store wearing the shoes. I felt like a jock, which filled me with hope in the girl department.

  The next day, I met up with Vern at the usual spot and showed him the shoes. Vern just shook his head. “Marisa really must have gotten to you.”

  She had gotten to me, but that was beside the point. I had moved on. I’d put her behind me. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. How do you get over someone? What’s the process? Maybe you just try and hope for the best.

  After school, I showed up at the wrestling room. I wasn’t sure what kind of clothes the team worked out in. I knew they wore tights for the matches, but I didn’t know about the practices. I showed up in shorts and a T-shirt—and my new shoes.

  Coach Grogan greeted me at the door. Well, he didn’t exactly greet me. More like he sized me up, and it looked like he was holding back a laugh. Hey, maybe I didn’t have pecs yet, but I was already into double digits on pull-ups. That had to count for something.

  “Coach Grogan,” he said finally, and held out his hand. I gave him mine and watched it get swallowed in his. He squeezed a little harder than necessary. Okay, a lot harder than necessary. He looked like a wrestler, stocky with mangled ears. He had Popeye forearms and a neck to match. Well, he really didn’t have a neck. It was just a head connected to shoulders.

  “Elroy.”

  “You ever wrestle before, Elroy?”

  “Never,” I told him. “But I’ve watched it on TV a lot.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. Then he plopped his huge hand on my shoulder and fixed me with a glare that would melt glass. “Son, that’s not wrestling. It’s bodybuilders who think they can act.” He glanced at the mat, where there were four matches going on simultaneously. “Mike, come over here. The rest of you, clear off.”

  The wrestlers did as told, and one of them walked over. He looked smaller than me, and I was pretty sure he didn’t have pecs. Of course, the sweatshirt he had on was baggy, but he didn’t look like a guy I had to worry about.

  Coach Grogan said, “Why don’t you two wrestle for a few minutes. Start standing. If someone gets pinned, we’ll start again. I want to see where we’re at with Elroy here, skill-and-stamina–wise.”

  Pinned? That sounded good to me. There was nothing I’d like better than to pin one of the Highmont wrestlers i
n front of everybody. We went out to the center of the mat, and Mike held out his hand to me.

  “It’s nothing personal,” he said.

  And right then my confidence plummeted. I spun around and looked at the members of the team who were lining the mat. I saw the smirks. A few of them were shaking their heads. I looked back at Mike.

  “Seriously, it’s nothing personal,” he said again.

  Coach Grogan came between us and raised his hand, then brought it down like a karate chop. “Ready? Wrestle.”

  I figured I’d begin by grabbing a part of Mike. I’d watched the stuff a million times on TV. That’s how it worked. I took a step forward . . . and suddenly I was in the air. Like some kind of involuntary cartwheel. My back hit the mat, followed by the rest of me. A second later, Coach Grogan slapped the mat and told us to start again.

  Mike let go of me and helped me back to my feet.

  “Ready? Wrestle.”

  This time it was different. There was no cartwheel, but I was in the air again. Then I was on my back again, and Mike was helping me up. I’d heard that lightning could strike twice in the same place, but I hadn’t ever seen it. The question was, would it strike a third time? Not if I could help it.

  Coach started us off again, and Mike came at me. I held up a hand and pointed to the door behind him. “Mike, is that your girlfriend? She’s hot!” When he turned to check, I tackled him around the knees. He fell, and I landed on top of him.

  Now what? Should I grab a knee? An elbow?

  Mike didn’t give me a chance to think about it. Before I knew it, he was on top of me. Then he whispered in my ear. No, it was more like a growl. “I said it was nothing personal. Now it is.”

  He bent me in a million different directions. Everything was a tangle of body parts. I couldn’t figure out where his left off and mine began. Or what to do. In desperation, I grabbed a foot and twisted. Pain shot through my ankle. Oops. Wrong foot.

  Finally, Coach put a stop to the Elroy torture. I stood up, and the world was spinning. I’d just been beaten up by a guy smaller than me. Thank God no girls were around to see it.