The second day of tryouts was a repeat of day one. Running, throwing, catching, hitting. The clipboard was always there in Wheatley’s hand, and I knew the paper on it was filling up with the little marks that were killing my chance to make the team.
I couldn’t slip away from Josh again, so I went through the regular locker room routine and then walked home with him.
“How did you do?” he asked once we got outside.
I decided to come clean. “Look,” I said, “this was always a long shot for me. I don’t regret anything, and I’ll catch for you any time you want. But I’m not going to make the team. Selin is better than I am. And Curtis can play third base and first and fill in behind the plate whenever they need him. If I was a sophomore or a junior, maybe I’d have a chance. But they don’t need me this year, and I won’t be here next. I’m going to get cut.”
He didn’t argue, and I’m glad he didn’t. You want the truth from your friends, not pie-in-the-sky stuff. We walked all the way to our houses in silence. Then, just before we split up, he stopped. “There may still be a way.”
“How?”
He bit his lip. “I’d tell you, but it’s got a better chance of working if you don’t know.”
I was irritated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Forget I mentioned it,” he said, and he was up his porch steps and into his house.
But I couldn’t forget it. I didn’t like his air of secrecy. I couldn’t figure what he had planned—whether he was going to go in and plead my case to Coach Wheatley, or whether he’d concocted some way to cheat that I couldn’t even imagine. Either way, I wanted no part of it. I’d make the team, or not make it, entirely on my own.
The next day was the final day of tryouts. As Josh and I warmed up together, I told him I wanted things on the up-and-up. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just relax and play. Everything is going to work out.”
Before I could ask him how, Wheatley blew his whistle and Josh went off with Coach Cliff and the other pitchers.
I had batting practice first thing. I hit the ball pretty well, and to all fields, by far my best effort in the cage. But Selin and Curtis hit the ball well too. And with the other stuff—fielding the bunts and the pop-ups, running the windsprints—they had me. Even my throw down to second, which I’d thought was so good, was only slightly better than their efforts. I wondered if Wheatley even noticed.
With half an hour left in practice, Coach Cliff came walking toward the main diamond, Josh and David Reule and the other pitchers trailing behind him.
Coach Wheatley looked up, surprised. As the two coaches huddled, Josh sidled up next to me. “So far, so good,” he said, a light in his eyes.
“What’s the deal?” I asked, annoyed.
“You’ll see.”
A minute later we were paired off. Selin caught Josh; Curtis caught Reule; and I caught the third pitcher, Randy Wilkerson. Wheatley took his pen out, and lots of little marks were being tallied up on the clipboard.
Right away Chris Selin had trouble handling Josh. About every fourth ball Josh threw got by. “Get in front of those,” Wheatley called to Selin.
“I’m trying to,” Selin said. “His ball just moves.”
Suddenly I understood what Josh was doing.
Josh’s next pitch got by Selin too. Coach Wheatley pointed to Selin and Curtis. “You two, switch.”
Curtis handled Josh better at first, but then one ball got by him, then another, and another. Wheatley moved directly behind Curtis. “That’s a slider you’re throwing,” he called out to Josh. “And a pretty good one.”
“Is it?” Josh answered, acting dumb.
The next pitch got by Curtis. As he trotted off to retrieve it, Josh motioned toward me. “How about if I throw to Ryan a little,” he said. “Maybe he could handle my stuff better.”
Wheatley shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Let’s see what Ryan can do.”
So Curtis and I switched. And with both Coach Cliff and Coach Wheatley watching, Josh fired slider after slider at me. He came at me with his best stuff—the stuff that was eating up Curtis and Selin.
Nothing got by.
After practice, as we headed to the locker room, Josh wrapped his arm around me and gave me a shake. “You did it, big guy!” he said. “You showed them you can catch.”
My heart was racing and a big grin was trying to cover my face. I wasn’t sure I’d made the team, but I had a chance. And it had been fair and square, on the field.
“Thanks for the help,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”
He smiled. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do anything. I just threw the ball. You’re the one who caught it.”
I stopped him there. “I don’t mean just today. I mean all the days. I’d never have gotten anywhere without your help, and I know it.”
He punched me on the shoulder. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for myself. A pitcher needs a good catcher.”
I slept that night. I wasn’t confident, or even close to being confident. But tryouts were over. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen.
I wasn’t calm in the morning, though. I raced through my breakfast. I was at school so early I had to wait for them to open up the main doors. I hustled down to the gym. Outside the main entrance is the P.E. bulletin board.
I spotted the list from about ten yards: “Varsity Baseball Team.” It was neatly typed. I ran my finger down the list. Josh was there, of course, and so were Garrett Curtis and Chris Selin. And then, at the very bottom of the list, was my name.
Ryan Ward.