11

 

Sunday, before the big game, I had a cello lesson and junior EMTs.

I bet Derek Jeter never warmed up that way.

Anyway, the cello lesson was fine, because I love my teacher, Dr. Jonas, and since he’s a big baseball fan, he took it easy on me. “After the season is over, though, I’m going to work you to the bone,” he said.

Then I had to go to Junior EMTs, which was a volunteer organization where kids learned emergency medical procedures. My dad made me join because he was an EMT when he was younger, and I guess he helped save some guy’s life in college. And also, because supposedly it looked good on a college application, which I guess makes sense if you’re applying to college. I wasn’t. I wasn’t even ready to apply to high school.

“Don’t worry about that part of it,” my mom would say. “Just think of it as a way to help people.”

She had a point, of course. The only problem was—and I hate to admit this—helping other people wasn’t that high on my list. Especially on a Sunday morning between a cello lesson and the baseball championship game.

The EMT class was at the fire department. “Tell mom to pick me up fifteen minutes early,” I said to Nana, who was dropping me off on her way to play golf. “I need to get to the field for early batting practice.”

“Isn’t it a little late to practice?” said Nana, who wasn’t a very big baseball fan. “The game’s in two hours. Shouldn’t you know batting by now?”

“You would think,” I told her.

I walked into the firehouse, where there were four dummies—by “dummies” I mean fake bodies, not dumb people—laid out on the floor. We were learning how to do CPR, which basically means trying to get someone breathing again by pressing on their chest and blowing air into their mouths. There were only four of us in the class—me and three high school kids who totally ignored me—so we got a lot of individual attention from the teacher, Lieutenant Sniffen. This was not a good thing.

I was busy pressing on my dummy’s chest, and trying to get up the courage to put my mouth on it, when Lieutenant Sniffen came over to inspect my technique.

“You’re doing it too gently,” he said. “Our job is to save the person, not tickle them.”

I shrugged. “Sorry.”

“And what kind of resuscitation technique is that?” he asked. “It’s called ‘mouth-to-mouth’ for a reason.”

The other kids laughed.

“Hey!” barked Lieutenant Sniffen. “Saving lives is not a laughing matter.”

He leaned down right over me. “If you were having a heart attack, would you want me to be the last person you see?”

I looked up at his face, which had a big brown mole on the left cheek.

“Not really.”

“I didn’t think so.” Then he brought his mouth so close to my mouth, I could feel the hairs of his mustache. “And would you want these lips to be the last lips you kissed?”

“Definitely not.”

“I didn’t think so,” he said. “But if I didn’t do my job right, my ugly mug and my hairy lips would be your last memory for all eternity.”

Finally he backed up. “Now get back over there and push and blow like you mean it.”

With Lieutenant Sniffen watching my every move, I went back over to my dummy, pressed hard on its chest, and then somehow managed to put my mouth on its mouth. It tasted like wet socks. I blew. I saw the dummy’s chest rise and fall.

“By George I think you’ve got it!” roared the Lieutenant. “Good work, son!”

I think he was waiting for me to thank him, but I was too busy gagging.

*   *   *

When my mom came to pick me up, I still had the gross wet-sock taste in my mouth.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Completely disgusting,” I answered.

“Well, I’m very proud of you, Jack. You never know when all this training is going to come in handy.”

I got in the backseat. “I do know. It’s going to come in handy when I apply to some fancy college and I can say I saved a dummy’s life. Whoop-de-doo.”

Then I changed into my baseball uniform to get ready for the big game.

Where I could be the dummy.