called a team meeting during lunch. The guys had heard the news, but they still let out a cheer when he said we’d been cleared to participate in the playoffs.
“Our quarterfinal game will be at noon on Saturday, Husky Ballpark,” he said when the cheering stopped. “After we win that game, we come back for the semifinals Saturday night. And after we take that, we play in the finals the next Friday at T-Mobile Park.”
More cheers. Then Andrew Comette yelled, “Who do we play in the quarters?”
The room hushed in anticipation.
“Jesuit High.”
There was a low murmur and lots of groans.
“Hey,” Coach Vereen barked. “You want to be the best, you have to beat the best.”
When the meeting ended, my eyes caught Coach Vereen’s, and he made the slightest nod. I knew what it meant—I was starting against Jesuit High.
Jesuit checked all the boxes. Fergus Hart checked all the boxes. Undefeated. Number one ranking. Best hitting team in the state. Best pitcher in the state. Defending champions.
Tommy Zeller was sure to be at the game. It had been so long since I’d been on the mound that he’d probably half forgotten me, but if I shut down Jesuit, if I beat Fergus Hart, he’d remember. And if I beat Fergus Hart, Coach Vereen would make me a dozen DVD’s to send to the Giants and the Mariners and whoever else I wanted.
In the morning, when I climbed upstairs to the Thurmans’ kitchen, the Seattle Times sports page was laid out on the counter, opened to page three. One look, and I knew why.
The Times had made its all-city baseball selections. Ian was Seattle’s Player of the Year; a photo of him was at the top of the page. The words Five Tool Player were written to the side. I felt a stab of jealousy, and let it go. We weren’t friends and never would be, but he’d promised to put baseball first, and he’d delivered. That matters.
My eyes scanned the rest of the list. More Laurelhurst names jumped out. Andrew, Jay, and Martin were first-team selections, and smaller photos of them were next to their names. I looked at the slot for first-team pitcher, and my stomach sank—they’d picked the stocky kid from Cleveland High. Then I saw a red circle around a listing at the bottom of the page.
SECOND TEAM: Lazarus Weathers, Pitcher, Laurelhurst.
That was a crazy day. Before school my mom sent me a text.
In the halls at school, most of the buzz was about Ian being Seattle Player of the Year, with some minor buzz about the other guys who had made first team. Second team was no big deal at Laurelhurst, so I was left alone. But Suja found out and texted me, and she must have given out my number at North Central, because I got texts from a bunch of old classmates and teammates. I even got a text from Mr. Leskov.
You can go stale if you practice too hard. Coach Vereen knew that. And with all the excitement over guys making the all-city team, nobody was ready for a serious practice. So once we’d stretched, Vereen let us play Wiffle ball: seniors versus everyone else. After an hour, Martin’s mom showed up with Otter Pops and Oreos, and we stuffed our faces like a bunch of eight-year-olds at the end of a tee-ball game.
I was feeling great as I walked off the field after practice, and then I spotted Garrett’s Subaru. The driver’s door opened and Antonio stepped out. He gave me a hug. “They cheated you. You deserved first team,” he said.
“No c-complaints,” I answered.
We stood facing each other for a long moment. His eyes didn’t have their normal shine; his voice didn’t have its normal ease.
“Everything o-okay?” I asked.
He broke into a forced smile. “Sure. Everything’s great. I just wanted to shake your hand and tell you I’m proud to be your brother.”
“How about we d-do something right now? You and me? There’s a pizza p-place on S-Sand Point Way. We could t-talk. We haven’t really t-talked in—Antonio, I’m worried about y-you—”
“That sounds great, Laz,” he said, interrupting. “It really does. Only I can’t right now. Soon, though. Really soon. That’s a promise.”