CHAPTER 4

Mom and Dad had a long talk that night, after Jeremy and I went to bed. I couldn’t hear too much of the conversation since their bedroom door was shut, except that it had to do with Jeremy and baseball. The next morning at breakfast Mom told Jeremy that he was allowed to drop baseball so, as she put it, “he could devote more time to his studies.”

Jeremy looked up from his bowl of cereal. “I study,” he said.

“I know, dear. But in a month and a half you’ll be taking finals for the first time ever. Don’t you want to be well prepared?”

Jeremy just grunted.

“I’ll call the guidance counselor during my coffee break,” she told him, “and see if he can recommend a tutor to help you after school.”

“I don’t need a tutor,” he mumbled. “Mrs. Fiore is my tutor in school, and so are Mrs. Anderson and Miss Brown.” Jeremy went to junior high like the other seventh graders, but he spent most of each day in special classes.

Good to her word, Mom got hold of “a wonderful woman” named Mrs. Dawson, who came and worked with Jeremy after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Jeremy grumbled and fussed that he didn’t need another tutor, but Mom insisted that it could only help. When he appealed to Dad, Dad told him to try it for a few weeks and see how it went. That was Dad’s standard answer to Mom’s current Project Jeremy. But, to be fair, he did step in when he saw things weren’t working out, like this baseball issue.

I guess deep down I felt sorry for my brother, constantly the subject of some harebrained scheme Mom would dream up. She wanted him to be like everyone else—play sports, get good grades. She couldn’t seem to accept that Jeremy was different. I knew he was different, but it still hurt at times. Like in the baseball games. I sure was glad that he wouldn’t be embarrassing me there anymore.

I told Mr. Gordon about Jeremy’s dropping out at our next practice. Eddie’s father was short and wiry like Eddie, only his hair was a much darker red, almost brown, and when he took off his cap I could see it was thinning on top. But he still had good muscles; it was plain to see by the way he moved that he’d been a fine athlete when he was younger.

Mr. Gordon stared at me for a moment, then said, “I understand, Adam. I suppose it’s best all the way around.”

I nodded. He reminded me of a sergeant in the army—strict but fair, although he did come down heavy on Eddie when he made an error, even in practice. I guess he just wanted his own son to be the very best.

Eddie realized that Jeremy wasn’t at practice when our half of the team was taking turns hitting. It was his turn at bat, then mine.

“Where’s Jeremy?” he asked me.

“He dropped out,” I said.

Eddie laughed. “Good move. Too bad he didn’t do it sooner. Next he should think about dropping out of school and going to a place for dummies.”

I walked away. I could hear Mark, who was playing catcher, say, “Hey, Gordon, you’re a jerk. You know that?”

Then Eddie’s voice, aggrieved. “What do you mean? Adam knows I’m only kidding.” He came over to me and put his arm around my shoulders. “You know I’m kidding, don’t you, Adam?”

I nodded, not knowing what else I could do. Eddie had become very important to me. I didn’t want to risk losing his friendship by fighting over Jeremy.

Of course I didn’t like it when Eddie made cracks about Jeremy, but I could understand why he and some other kids did it. Sometimes Jeremy just seemed to be asking for it—the funny way he walked, how he always looked sloppy. And those times he acted silly and had a giggling fit. I often wondered if Jeremy was looking for attention and didn’t care that the only attention he got was being made fun of.

Besides, I knew that Eddie wasn’t really mean or anything. And lately he’d been acting especially nice to me. He showed me how he threw his curveball and worked with me until I got it. And a few nights before that I went over to his house for dinner. After we ate he went through his collection of baseball cards and gave me a big pack of doubles, almost thirty cards. When it came time for me to leave, I thanked Mr. and Mrs. Gordon. She was a real quiet lady. She hardly said a word during dinner. When I said good-bye to Eddie, he kept grinning and patting me on the back, like he was real glad to have me as his friend. Suddenly I wished that Eddie was my brother instead of Jeremy—Jeremy who had never helped me or taught me anything in his entire life.

Most school days around four o’clock, after Danny and I worked on the sets for the sixth-grade play, the four of us—Danny, Eddie, Mark, and I—would play softball in the school yard. Other kids started coming, too, and we’d have about six men on a side. Sometimes during the games I found myself hoping that nothing would go wrong for Eddie, because if things didn’t go just so, he could blow his stack. Like the time Mark fielded his pop-up and caught it low to the ground. Eddie had reached first and insisted that the ball had touched the ground and that he was safe on base. But everyone told him he was wrong, even his own teammates. He didn’t like it any better when Danny and I chimed in and said that Mark was right. He just narrowed his eyes and walked off the base. A shiver ran up my spine. Still, he was learning to keep quiet and not make a fuss about every little thing. I guess it bothered me to see him act like he had to make a hit every time he was up at bat. Where did he ever get such a weird idea? Even the professional ball players struck out and made errors. And Eddie was one of the best ball players around.

Jeremy couldn’t stand Eddie. A few times he told me how nasty Eddie was to him in school—sticking out his tongue or making some comment about being dumb.

“Well, he’s nice to me,” I’d answer him. “If you don’t like Eddie, keep away from him.”

“Oh, I do,” Jeremy said. “Far away.”

Our team won the fourth game we played, giving us a record of two wins and two losses. The final score was 12–8. We were all proud because we knew that we’d hit and fielded well. I was especially glad because I hit a double in the second inning, not to mention that I struck out seven players—four in a row! I even helped make a double play. Boy, did the parents cheer. At the end of the game we whooped and jumped, patting each other on the back.

“Think you’re so great, don’t you, Krasner?” Eddie asked, smirking at me.

“Not bad,” I answered modestly. “We’re all pretty good, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, we’re all pretty good,” he mimicked me.

“What’s wrong now?” I asked him, but Eddie just walked away. What ticked him off like that? I shook my head, wondering. It took away some of the joy of victory.

Thank God Danny wasn’t moody like that. He was cheerful and easy to be with. Mrs. Casey had given him the go-ahead for the sets and he spent part of every day after school drawing the outlines of the actual sets on enormous pieces of cardboard. At first Mrs. Casey kept looking over his shoulder, telling him to be careful. Danny kept assuring her that he was careful. After a few days she saw that he was doing a good job and she calmed down. She went about her own business, straightening up the art room, telling Danny to be sure to let her know if he needed her for anything. Finally she stopped staying there at all.

I don’t know why I stayed there with Danny. He certainly didn’t need me yet. I suppose I just liked being there with him. Sometimes we chatted while he drew—about school, about baseball. Once he told me that he had wanted to be friendly with me when I first came into class, but that I seemed so aloof and unfriendly. I was so astonished I didn’t know what to say.

Other times, when I knew he was concentrating on something difficult, he didn’t say a word. Just followed the pencil with one eye shut, his lips pursed into a circle. I had enough sense to keep quiet then, but I didn’t mind. If it went on long enough, I just took out my books and started my homework. But it never went on for too long.

Danny must have heard Eddie riling me after the game, because the following Monday, after making some comment about the other team not being that strong, he looked me straight in the eye.

“I sure hope you’re not letting Eddie Gordon upset you by anything he says.” He waited to see if I’d say anything, then he went on. “He can get pretty nasty when someone does something better than he does—like your pitching on Saturday.”

I was too embarrassed to say anything. I cleared my throat. So what if I struck out one more person than Eddie did? Big deal. “Well, I don’t know,” I said.

“Well, I know, and so does my cousin Mark. Eddie gets jealous over the least little thing. Mark used to be pretty friendly with him until he got sick and tired of Eddie’s best-pal routine one day and insults the next.”

Amazing. “I didn’t know Mark felt that way,” I blurted out. “I thought they were good friends.”

“I know for a fact that Mark won’t have anything to do with Eddie alone. Eddie knows it, too. But my cousin’s not going to stop playing ball after school just ’cause Eddie’s there.”

“It must be hard on Mark, having Mr. Gordon as a coach.”

Danny smiled. “Mr. Gordon’s fair enough. Eddie must have asked his father to put Mark on the team months ago. And since we’re all together, there’s no point in making a fuss.”

Danny went back to blocking out the sets. He was working on the last one, the office. It had lots of details and he was taking pains to do a good job. But I wasn’t finished talking about Eddie.

“Do you hate Eddie, too?” I asked.

“I don’t hate him,” Danny said, still concentrating on what he was doing, “and neither does Mark. We just know enough to keep out of his way.”

I thought a bit. “Boy, am I dumb. I thought you and Mark were good friends with Eddie. Like that time we all went to Gino’s for pizza before the game.”

Danny chuckled. “Eddie said the whole team would be coming, and he especially mentioned you, so I said why not, since I wanted to talk to you about the sets anyway.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “He couldn’t have known that I’d be going when he told you that. But I’m glad we got together, even though we could have talked in school.”

We both laughed at that one and I felt a little better. It still bothered me that Mark and Danny didn’t really like Eddie, but it was a relief to know that he insulted other people—not just Jeremy and me. And I felt closer to Danny because he considered me his friend and didn’t want to see me hurt. Not that I could understand why Eddie should be jealous of anyone.

I was very excited about our next baseball game because Dad didn’t have to work that Saturday and was able to come and watch me play. We drove over to the field, just the two of us. Jeremy refused to go, so Mom gave in and took him for sneakers. The entire team got there early and we had a real good warm-up. As usual, we all took turns hitting and fielding, then Eddie, Jeff, and I took turns pitching to Richie and Mark, our back-up catcher. Right before game time, Mr. Gordon gave us a pep talk. He reminded us of how well we’d played the week before. Then he held up his clipboard and read out our starting positions.

“Adam, go to the mound. You’re starting pitcher today. Eddie, play first base. Mark—”

“But, Dad,” Eddie broke in, “I’m—”

“Go cover first base!” his father ordered.

“It isn’t fair! I’m better—”

“Young man,” Mr. Gordon bellowed, “if you want to play in this game, you better get your tail over to first base right now!”

Eddie shuffled over to first base and I stepped up to the pitcher’s mound, a little less joyous than I’d been a minute ago. Sure, it was exciting to be starting pitcher for the day, but not at the cost of having Eddie mad at me.

Richie took his place behind the plate and I threw a few practice pitches. My arm felt good. The ball was going right where I wanted it to go. The first batter stepped up to the plate. I forgot about Eddie. I forgot that Dad was watching me pitch for the first time this season. I concentrated on every ball I threw.

My first pitch was a strike, which I took to be a good sign. The count went 1 and 2 and then the first batter struck out. An even better sign. The next kid up was Jimmy Layton, a sixth grader from my school who was good at all sports. He foul-tipped the first two pitches, let a high ball go by, then hit a line drive past Danny on third base. I turned in time to watch Jeff field it and throw the ball to Mark on second base. Mark ran toward Jimmy, who was trying to double back to first, and tagged him out. It was a great play and our team started clapping. Then I managed to strike out the next batter and all the parents on our side burst into applause. I couldn’t stop grinning. I felt great and I didn’t care who knew it.

The rest of our team must have been feeling pretty good, too. Eddie and Richie each singled and then Mark hit a triple, sending both of them home. We all roared and cheered. Anyone would have thought we’d won the game, the way we carried on. All of the commotion must have brought the other team to their senses, because the coach put in a new pitcher and everything changed. Jeff struck out, Danny walked, one of the fifth graders hit a pop-up that the shortstop caught, and I struck out, ending the inning and leaving Mark on third base and Danny on first. We were ahead 2–0, but I felt kind of bad about striking out. I was still hesitating—afraid to connect with the ball.

But I had no problem with pitching. I tried out my new curveball and walked the first man up. Then I struck out the next two batters. The fourth man up was a mean-looking seventh grader who swung at everything I threw. On the count of 0 and 2, I threw him a fastball and he bounced it back to me. Holding my mitt low, I scooped up the ball and threw it to Eddie on first. He reached for it, but not far enough, and the ball sailed over his right shoulder, landing close to where my father was sitting. Eddie jerked around and ran after the ball, then threw it to second. Too late. The runner was safe. Mark threw it to me, a disgusted look on his face.

Eddie came running over to me, his face red with fury. “Thanks for the wild throw, Krasner.” His voice was loud and sarcastic.

I was embarrassed, flustered, and sore. “But I didn’t throw wild. You just didn’t catch it.”

“Yeah, we know. That’s what you say. You’re as dumb as your brother.”

“Just keep my brother out of it. You’re not so smart yourself if you have to blame your mistakes on other people.”

At that, Eddie’s face turned red. Before I could move he hauled off and punched me on the shoulder. Hard. I reeled from the pain. An arm reached out to steady me. It was Mr. Gordon.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned.

I nodded, afraid that if I spoke I’d say something stupid.

The umpire, a short, fat man, was glaring at Eddie. “Any further incidents like that and you’re out of the game.”

Mr. Gordon looked at Eddie. “I’ll deal with you later. Now get back on base right now or I’ll bench you myself.”

Eddie headed for first base. Then he turned and gave me a strange smile. My hand formed a fist. Boy, did I want to get him back. Mr. Gordon cleared his throat. “I apologize for my son,” he said. “Do you want to finish out the inning?”

“I sure do,” I answered, sounding braver than I felt. I walked to the mound and Mr. Gordon returned to his coaching position near first base.

“Play ball,” called the umpire.

I wound up to throw my first pitch, still shaky. I was positive that my throw to Eddie was good. And even if it wasn’t…

“Ball two,” the umpire called out.

I gritted my teeth and tried one of my fastballs.

“Ball three.”

I looked around. Eddie was still smirking. Everyone else just stared back at me. Everyone but Danny. He gave me the all-right circle with his thumb and finger. What the heck, I thought, feeling a little better. I’ve nothing to lose. I concentrated and pitched a curveball.

“Strike one.”

Another curveball. The batter decided to swing. He hit a fly ball near second and Mark was under it for the third out. Thank God the inning was over.

We won 4–2, our second win in a row. Boy, did our team cheer and yell—everyone, that is, except me. Mr. Gordon gave us a good pep talk, about how we worked together to win as a team. He spoke about “the unfortunate incident” that had better not happen again, all the time giving Eddie a dirty look. Eddie looked down at the ground while his father was talking, but the minute we were dismissed he grinned at me strangely, just as he had after his father had reprimanded him.

Dad offered to take me to Friendly’s for an ice cream soda, and I said okay. We didn’t talk in the car; Dad must have known I didn’t feel like it. He always knew things like that.

We sat down in a booth and I ordered my usual—pistachio ice cream with hot fudge sauce and nuts. Dad ordered a cup of coffee.

“You’re some pitcher,” he said. “I’m really very proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, suddenly shy. Dad wasn’t one for compliments.

“I mean it.” He smiled. “And just for the record, your throw to first base was good.”

“Was it? I thought so, only—”

“Only that Eddie came on so strong, you began to wonder. He’s some nasty kid, punching you like that. No wonder Jeremy doesn’t like him.”

“I can’t understand why he’d do a thing like that,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s almost like he can’t admit he’s not Superman on the baseball field.”

“Forget about it and eat your sundae. Your ice cream is beginning to melt.”

I smiled, appreciating Dad’s tact. But I couldn’t forget about it. Eddie had changed. Everything had changed.