Al Birdy had asked the three members of the basketball team who wanted to play baseball to meet him in the dugout of the baseball field as soon as their last class was over. Watching Christine walk away from him, Alex realized he was going to be late. He hustled to his locker to drop off his books and then worked his way to the back of the school building, where the athletic facilities were located.
Chester Heights had plush offices for the football coaching staff but almost no space for any of the school’s other coaches. Coach Birdy shared an office with three other coaches. That was why he had asked his new players to meet him in the dugout. There, they would have a few minutes of privacy while the rest of the team was still in the locker room getting dressed.
Alex was the last of the group to arrive. Coach Birdy was already in workout clothes and was sitting on the dugout bench. Jonas Ellington and Patton Gormley sat on either side of him. Matt Gordon sat on one of the dugout steps. He had apparently been invited to the meeting too.
“Have trouble finding the field, Myers?” Coach Birdy said with a grin as Alex huffed up, slightly winded after walking very fast to get there.
“Sorry, Coach,” Alex said. He started to say, I had to talk to a teacher, but he figured that beginning a new season with a lie wasn’t a good idea.
Coach Birdy waved a hand at him, clearly not bothered.
“We were just about to get going,” he said. “What I wanted to say is that everyone understands why the three of you who were playing basketball missed practice last week. I’m just going to put each of you into drills at your positions today. If you have a question, ask somebody.”
He looked at Matt. “Gordon, you’re different. Once we get all the guys assembled out here, I’d like you to explain what happened and why you’re joining us now. Any problem with that?”
Matt shook his head. “No, Coach,” he said. “I appreciate the opportunity. I’d like everyone to understand why I’m eligible to play.”
“You don’t have to go into detail,” Coach Birdy said. “The basics should do.”
Matt nodded.
Alex understood what Coach Birdy was saying: No one really wanted to hear a blow-by-blow of Matt’s hearing.
“Gordon, Myers, Gormley—we don’t have enough catchers to keep everyone throwing at one time. We’ve now got seven pitchers and three guys who catch. So you’ll take turns—twenty pitches in each rotation up to a total of sixty. Do not try to throw hard. Your arms are bound to be stiff and tight.”
He turned to Jonas. “Ellington, you fall in with the other outfielders. When we take BP, you go last. Same for you other guys when your positions are hitting. No big deal—I just don’t want the other guys thinking anyone is jumping ahead of them.” He paused. “Okay?”
They all nodded. “You’ve got lockers assigned to you, and I had Mr. Hall put some workout clothes in there for you. So you should be all set.” He looked at Alex. “You have a glove, Myers?”
Alex realized the other three guys in the dugout had their gloves. In his haste to get to the field, he had left his in his school locker.
“It’s, um, in my locker,” Alex said.
“Won’t do you much good there, will it?” Coach Birdy said. “Go get it, and when you get out here, if we’ve started stretching, you can give me three loops around the field. Being late once—okay, I’ll let you slide. Twice in one day—you gotta run.”
Alex was embarrassed. He was standing there thinking of a response—maybe something clever like Sorry, Coach—when he realized Coach Birdy was talking to him again. “Myers, are you gonna stand there staring at me or get going?”
“Going, Coach,” Alex said, noticing that Matt, Jonas, and Patton were all about to fall over laughing.
He began sprinting back across the soccer and lacrosse field in the direction of the school, thinking to himself, Am I ever going to start a season without getting into some kind of trouble?
The answer, at least since his arrival at Chester Heights, was no. This time, though, was different, because he had no one to blame but himself.
The rest of the team was stretching when Alex, glove now in hand, got back. He was already winded from running all the way to his school locker, back to the baseball lockers, and then, after changing into the gray sweats hanging in the locker with his name on it, back out to the baseball field. Coach Birdy could see that. The March weather was still cool, probably in the mid-fifties, but Alex was sweating pretty hard.
“Just give me two,” he said softly.
Alex set out along the foul line near the dugout and began running. At least he didn’t have to run steps the way he’d had to during football season.
“Pick it up, Myers!” he heard someone yell from the middle of the infield, where all the players were stretching. Several others joined in the heckling before Coach Birdy cut them off by blowing his whistle. Alex was on the warning track in the outfield by then, but he could hear Coach Birdy clearly: “Anyone who thinks Myers needs coaching can join him.” That quieted things down quickly.
Once he finished his two laps, Alex started stretching. When they were finished, Coach Birdy called everyone to the pitcher’s mound.
“Okay, guys, as you can see, we’ve got four new players out here today,” he said. “I told you last week about Myers, Ellington, and Gormley. They’re all last string until we see what they can do.” He turned to Alex for a second. “Myers, I know you’re used to that.”
Everyone laughed, remembering how Alex’s football career at Chester Heights had started as a last-string quarterback and tackling dummy the previous September.
“We also have another addition today that none of us were expecting.” He looked at Matt Gordon, as did everyone else. “Rather than me trying to repeat what Matt explained to me this morning, I’m going to let him do it. Matt, the floor—the mound—is yours.”
Matt Gordon was the coolest customer Alex had ever met. He hadn’t flinched at all when he stood in front of the entire school and admitted that he had taken steroids and that his father had switched his blood test with Alex’s. But now he actually seemed nervous. Or maybe Alex was imagining it?
“Thanks, Coach,” Matt said. He paused and glanced around, as if trying to decide what to say next.
“Look,” he finally said. “All you guys know what happened during football season. I confessed to taking steroids, and the state board suspended me from playing any varsity sport for a year.”
Another pause. “That was unfair—at least, I thought it was unfair. An entire year? I wanted to play baseball this spring, no matter what my dad said. Plus, I wouldn’t have been able to play football next fall.”
The confident Gordon grin returned for a moment. “And don’t worry—Goldie’s going to be our QB. I just want to block for him.”
That got a laugh and seemed to loosen Matt up a little.
“I decided to appeal the suspension. There’s a board you go before when you do that. A friend of my mom’s is a lawyer, so she helped me out. She made the point that I had never actually tested positive—that my punishment was based solely on my own confession—and the board should take that into account. Well, they did. As of this morning, I’m eligible again as long as I continue to submit to random drug tests. And for the record, I’ve had eleven of them since November and I’m clean.”
He looked at Coach Birdy as if to say, Is that enough? Apparently it was.
“Okay,” Coach Birdy said. “Let’s break up into positions and get loose. Like I said, new guys go last for now till we see what you can do.”
Alex saw Bailey Warner, who he knew was the number one returning pitcher from last season, start jogging in the direction of the right field line.
“Come on, Goldie,” Warner said with a grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Alex, Matt, Patton, and Johnny Ellis, who was the team’s relief specialist, waited their turn while Warner, Ethan Sattler, and Don Warren threw their twenty pitches. Rick Bloom, whom Alex had noticed jogging up to join the circle while Matt was talking, was their pitching coach. Mr. Bloom, who taught biology, had pitched in college, though Alex wasn’t sure where.
“How’d I do, Goldie?” Matt asked quietly while they watched the first three pitchers loosen up.
This time, Alex couldn’t resist saying, “Okay, really—who are you and what have you done with Matt Gordon?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Since when are you worried what other people think?”
Matt smiled at him, then shrugged. “Since I knocked myself off that pedestal I used to live on.”
Alex thought about that for a second. It made sense, even if it still felt strange to hear Matt sounding like a high school junior and not Peyton Manning or Tom Brady.
“Okay, guys, you’re up,” Alex heard Coach Bloom say. “Myers, Gordon—no heroics. No need to throw your arms out the first day. Gormley, I’ll catch you so we don’t get too far behind.”
They all nodded.
Alex’s arm always felt loose, but he put very little into his first ten pitches. He felt good. He began to pick it up and, in his peripheral vision, could see that Matt—who was next to him—was doing the same thing.
“Last one, guys,” said Coach Bloom. “If you feel up to it, you can let this one go a little.”
Instinctively, Alex glanced over his shoulder at Matt—who had the famous Matt Gordon grin on his face. Alex turned back, went to his motion, kicked his leg, and threw his fastball at about 90 percent. He heard the mitt of Arnold Bogus, who was catching him, pop. A split second later, he heard another pop. That was Matt’s fastball smacking into Lucas Mann’s mitt.
The two friends looked at each other.
This time, Matt didn’t smile. “It’s on, Goldie,” he said. Then he turned away and went to the bucket, where bottles of water awaited.
Alex stared after him. Who are you? he thought. And what have you done with Matt Gordon?
Then the answer came to him: You’re the guy with something to prove.