to Laurelhurst on Monday, word had gotten out that the Giants had drafted me. Hadley razzed me about being chosen in the fortieth round. “You’ll get the same bonus money as Ian,” he joked, “only you’ll have three fewer zeroes at the end of your check.” Later, though, he told me that there’d been an argument about who’d make it to the majors first—Ian or Jay or me. “My money was on you,” Hadley told me, “and nobody took the bet.”
Tuesday after school I had a physical for the Giants that included a drug test. That morning during math I broke into a sweat. I remembered that the doctor had given me painkillers when he’d dug the bullet out. Would those drugs still be in my system? I called Mom during lunch. “Nothing to worry about,” she told me. “You peed all that out days ago.”
Laurelhurst’s graduation was Thursday night. I didn’t go. I did stop by the library Wednesday to say goodbye to Jesus Ramirez. I hadn’t seen him much recently, but I owed him. He was out of his mind with excitement because he’d just gotten accepted at MIT. “I was on their waitlist, but I never thought I’d get in. You don’t know how good this feels.”
I thought, Yeah, I do, but I just congratulated him and let it go.
On Friday night, Mr. Leach, a lawyer for the Giants who was in town to begin negotiations for Ian’s deal, came by the apartment with a contract for me. I told him that Curtis was my agent. “Smart,” he said, and then he and Curtis sat at the kitchen table. Mom, Antonio, and I went into Antonio’s tiny room and sat on his bed. We left the door open so we could hear, but Curtis was so loud we could have heard everything he said with the door shut. “Laz had nothing to do with drugs or gangs. Nothing. He was saving his dumb brother.” Then Curtis rattled off my stats for the year, which I didn’t even know he had. “Those numbers put him right there with Fergus Hart, and the Twins drafted Hart in the second round. He’ll get—what? A couple million? And all you can offer Laz is a measly four thousand?”
I didn’t hear Mr. Leach’s answer, but I knew what he’d say: that Fergus Hart had been a star pitcher for four years, while I’d been around for three months, and in those three months I’d been investigated by the WIAA, walked out on my team, and been shot in an alley during a drug deal.
They argued back and forth. After twenty minutes Curtis called me out to the kitchen. Mom and Antonio came with me. They were both smiling, as excited as I was, but Curtis had a scowl on his face.
Mr. Leach winked at me. “Laz, the San Francisco Giants are prepared to offer you a standard minor-league contract as well as a signing bonus of nine thousand dollars, assuming that drug test comes back negative.” He paused. “What do you say?”
My heart was trying to explode right through my chest.
“I s-say yes.”
Mr. Leach handed me a pen with the orange and black Giants logo on it. “Sign right there,” he said, pointing, “and then again there.”
I signed.
Next, it was details. I was to report to the Augusta GreenJackets, an A-Ball team in Georgia. “We’ll fly you out of Seattle on July first, give you a couple of days to get settled. You won’t officially join the team until July fourth.” He smiled. “That means there will be a fireworks show for your professional debut. Not bad.”
“Where’s he going to live?” Mom asked.
Mr. Leach waved his hands around. “Not to worry. We’ll handle that. The GreenJackets have an arrangement with a place that is close to the ballpark. Your roommates will be other ballplayers, so you’ll get to know them right off. It’s in a mobile home park, but the players all say it’s nicer than what they expected.” He paused. “So what do you say? A trailer okay to start with?”
I caught Mom’s eye and then nodded. “A t-trailer is fine.”
He gathered up his papers, stood, and shook my hand. “We’ll be in touch in the next week to go over the final details. In the meantime, take care of that leg.”
Mom and Curtis walked Mr. Leach to his car. Everybody had been grinning from ear to ear, but once they were all outside, Antonio’s smile turned into a frown.
“Laz, I should have said this—”
“You don’t have t-to say anything, Antonio.”
“But I was such a—”
“D-Don’t,” I said. “It’s all over.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
“Still brothers?”
“Always.”
The door flew open, and Mom and Curtis were back in the apartment.
Mom hugged me again. Curtis took a deep breath, exhaled. “Well, Laz,” he said, “you’ve got a team, a place to stay, and cash in the bank. Not bad. Not bad at all.”