and high-fived the Jesuit High players, I was so excited that I didn’t see a single face, not even Fergus Hart’s. It was just “Good game . . .” “Good game . . .” “Good game . . .” When that ended, I turned to see my mom up against the fence. Antonio and Curtis flanked her, both waving their hands above their heads. Suja stood a few steps behind, clapping her hands and smiling.
“Laz! Laz! Over here!” Mom called.
I jogged over, fighting the impulse to sprint. “Let’s go,” Mom shouted. “Time to celebrate.”
“Okay, okay. Great. Just let m-me check with Coach.”
I looked around and saw Mr. Thurman heading toward us. He gave me a high-five and then turned to my mother. “We’re having pizza back at my house. The semifinal game is at seven tonight, so it’s nothing big, but we’d love to have you come.”
“Thanks,” Mom said, “but we’ve got plans.”
Mr. Thurman nodded. “Okay,” he said, though it didn’t sound as if he thought it was okay. He looked at me. “You need to be back on this field by six.”
“Don’t worry,” Curtis said. “We’ll have him here.”
Suja stepped forward. Our eyes met. “Got to go,” she mouthed. “You were great.”
“Thanks,” I mouthed back.
She gave me a wave and left.
When we’d all squeezed into the Corolla, Curtis looked back over his shoulder at me, his face contorted. “Something smells a little game-y back there. How about we go to the apartment so you can shower up. Then we’ll get lunch.”
“You can just drop me off at Jet City,” Antonio said. “I’ve got—”
“You’ve got nothing,” Mom said. “Your brother just won the biggest game of his life, and you’re going to be part of the celebration.”
Antonio slumped back in his seat, his arm folded across his chest.
I’d been flying, but that brought me down. Thinking about Garrett and Jet City and drugs was not what I wanted to do. As Curtis drove, he went through the game inning by inning. After a few minutes, Antonio added a few comments, and that brought back the good feelings.
When we reached the apartment, I showered fast, changed fast, and was back in the main room within fifteen minutes.
“How’s McDonald’s sound?” Curtis asked. “I bet you haven’t a Big Mac since you moved to Laurelhurst.”
The great thing about fast food is that it’s fast. Fifteen minutes after we’d gotten back into the Corolla, we were sitting in the sunshine eating juicy burgers at a red plastic table. Little kids, screaming as they ran around the playscape, provided free entertainment. And Curtis was right—I hadn’t had a Big Mac since I’d moved to Laurelhurst, and I’d forgotten how great they taste. I took one huge bite after another.
“So explain how this tournament works,” Curtis said. “What happens now?”
My mouth was so full I couldn’t answer. I took a big glug of the chocolate milk shake, but that only made me cough.
“Don’t choke to death,” Mom said as I tried to swallow.
Antonio poked me. “No, let him. Think of the headline. Star pitcher dies as family watches.” He pulled out his cell and aimed at me. “I’ll film the whole thing and put it on YouTube. It’ll go viral for sure.”
“Use my phone, Antonio,” Curtis said as my coughing got worse. “I don’t think yours even makes videos.”
“Stop it, both of you,” Mom said, grinning.
I finally managed to swallow. “Tonight, we p-play the winner of Kentwood–T-Tahoma. If we win, next week we’ll play whatever t-team makes it out of Eastern Washington, probably Gonzaga Prep.”
“But you won’t pitch tonight, right?” Curtis asked.
I shook my head. “No. There are rules about n-number of p-pitches and all that. K-Kevin Griffith pitches tonight.”
“They used Laz first,” Antonio said, “because Jesuit was the tougher team to beat.”
Mom’s eyes met Curtis’s, and then she turned to me. “Laz, we have tickets for a show at the Emerald Queen Casino. Queen Latifah. We bought them before we knew about your playoffs. You won’t mind us missing the second game? Since you’re not pitching?”
When we’d finished eating, it wasn’t even four o’clock. I had two hours before I needed to be back at Husky Ballpark. I didn’t want to sit around the Woodacres apartment watching TV, but I had nothing else to do—until Antonio saved me.
“I bet Mr. Leskov would want to hear about Laz winning,” he said as we drove back to the apartment. “So would the all North Central guys at the community center. If you lend me the Toyota or the pickup, I’ll take him there. He can chill out, be the big star, and you and Curtis can head to the concert whenever you want.”
Mom twisted in her seat to look at me. “That be okay with you, Laz?”
“S-Sure.”
When we pulled up in front of the apartment, Curtis handed the keys of the pickup to Antonio. There were handshakes and hugs, and then Antonio and I were headed east on 130th toward the community center.
“It’s going to happen for you,” Antonio said as we crossed I-5.
“What?”
“Come on. Don’t play dumb. You outpitched that Fergus guy, and he’s going to be a first- or second-round pick. They’re going to call your name early, Bro. You’re going to get some serious bonus money.”
I stared out the window at the big trees hanging over the street, their leaves lit up by the bright sunlight. Forty rounds in the draft . . . thirty-two teams . . . more than one thousand names called.
After Antonio pulled into the community center parking lot, we both got out and walked toward the main entrance. We’d finally have a couple of hours together. I had things to say to Antonio. I just hoped I could think clearly and talk without getting stuck on every other word.
Before we reached the stairs leading to the front doors of the community center, Dawit and a couple of his friends spotted us. They’d been shooting hoops on the outside courts, but they stopped playing and came over.
“Hey, Antonio,” Dawit said, smiling. “Never see you here.”
“My brother just pitched a great game,” Antonio said, motioning toward me. “I’m bringing him so he can brag to Mr. Leskov.”
For the next couple of minutes Antonio told Dawit and his friend about my game. They nodded, but they didn’t really care. Why should they? Then the conversation turned to North Central. During an assembly on Friday, somebody had rolled a shot put down the steps from the top of the auditorium to the floor. “Was that you?” Dawit asked, laughing as he poked at Antonio.
“Nah,” Antonio said, but his eyes said something different.
“Yeah, it was,” Dawit said. “Thump, thump, thump. Faster and louder. I thought Mrs. Park was going to have a heart attack.”
The banter went back and forth. It didn’t matter whether Antonio had pulled the stunt or not. He made it his own with his easy way and his easy smile.
Finally Dawit and his friends returned to their basketball game. I started up the steps to the community center, but Antonio stayed behind. “Aren’t you g-going in?” I asked. “I thought we c-could shoot some p-pool and j-just hang out”
He screwed up his face. “Truth? I can’t. Leskov has banned me.”
“B-Banned you? Why?”
His face got more twisted. “He says I’m a bad influence. He doesn’t want me hanging around young kids.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Seriously.”
My chance to talk to him was slipping away. “We c-can go someplace else.”
Antonio shook his head. “Things to do. Next week, for sure.” He motioned toward the street. “You got money for the bus down to U-Dub?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m good. But, we r-really need t-to—”
“Laz,” he said, his voice suddenly sharp. “I got no time now. I just don’t. And remember, you’re the one who moved out, not me. So we’ll get together when we get together. Okay?”
My heart was pounding fast. “O-Okay. I’m s-sorry.”
The anger left his face. He gave me a half smile. “All right, then. Shine bright, Brother.”
Then he returned to the truck and drove out of the parking lot. I stood for a few minutes, feeling lost, before I went inside.
When Mr. Leskov saw me, he took me by the shoulders and shook me, telling me he’d read about me in the newspaper. “You strike three those boys in the playoffs,” he shouted.
I tried to explain that I’d already strike three’d them, but he didn’t understand.
For the next thirty minutes I played foosball and Ping-Pong with some North Central kids I sort of knew. After that, I found a soft chair in the TV room and watched a few innings of a Yankees–Blue Jays game. I tried to recapture at least some of the joy I’d had at the end of the Jesuit game, but it wouldn’t come. At five, I changed back into my sweaty uniform and caught the bus down to Husky Ballpark.