Strike Zone Read online

  So Nick couldn’t carry baseball around in the palm of his hand like some of the guys on his team could. With the MLB app, they could watch any game they wanted at the touch of a screen, anytime, day or night. But that figured, Nick thought. There was an app for practically everything. Nick wished there was one that could remove all the pressure from his life so the only thing he had to worry about was throwing a strike when he needed one.

  But there was just something about baseball on the radio that he liked, even if he had the option of watching any game he wanted to. Ben and Diego teased him that listening to games on the radio was something old people did, but Nick didn’t care. He liked lying on his bed at night, window open, the sounds of the game mixing with the sounds of the street below. Sometimes he fantasized about sitting in the booth with the Yankee announcers, John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman, broadcasting the game along with them. He could even hear himself making John Sterling’s home run call about balls being high and far and gone.

  Whenever Michael Arroyo was pitching, Nick would try to guess whether he was about to throw his fastball, his curve, or his changeup, depending on the count. Then he’d close his eyes and picture Michael making the motions before delivering the ball to the plate.

  Maybe it was silly, but Nick felt connected to Michael. It wasn’t just that he looked up to him, but he felt like Michael would understand what Nick was going through. The part of Michael’s story that Nick loved the most was how a great Yankees pitcher known as El Grande Gonzalez had become a hero in Michael’s life. Like Michael, El Grande had made it across the Florida Straits, escaping Cuba during a time when that was near impossible due to strict laws.

  Not only did Michael pitch in the new Yankee Stadium now; he was married to El Grande’s daughter, Ellie.

  Nick turned down the volume on his radio, the Yankees already ahead 3–2 in the third inning, a commercial break in progress, and rolled off his bed. He went and stood by his window, looking down from the sixth floor to the street below as day dropped into night. He could hear the TV going in the living room from Amelia’s show. His mom would be in her room reading, he guessed. Soon his father would be on his way home from work, his train pulling into the station near the Stadium.

  When Nick looked down to the street now, suddenly he felt all the air rush out of him.

  There was a man standing on the corner near a lamppost, halfway up the block across the street.

  Nick was sure the man was staring up at him, or maybe he was imagining it. A million thoughts crossed Nick’s mind at once: What if he’s watching me? What if he’s here for my family? What if he works for ICE? What if . . .

  Nick slowly stepped back from the window, closed the shade, and got back into bed. He reached over to the radio on his nightstand and turned up the volume on the game. The Yankees were about to come to the plate in the top of the fourth.

  I’m home, Nick thought. So why don’t I ever feel safe here?

  * * *

  • • •

  The man on the street was gone by the time Nick’s dad got home from work at ten thirty. Nick knew because he had peeked outside after turning off his lights for the night. Even though it was summer and Nick didn’t have to worry about getting up for school in the morning, bedtime for him was always set by the last out of the Yankee game. On nights when they played on the West Coast, the games would go into the early hours of the morning. Nick would stay up as late as he could before drifting off to sleep, and either his dad or mom would come in to turn off his radio.

  “I have good news,” Victor García said when he came in to say good night. “I may be able to catch most of your game on Thursday. Unless they change my schedule, but I should be working the lunch shift that day.”

  Nick brightened, but just as quickly reeled in his excitement. He knew how hard his dad worked for the family, and didn’t want to get his hopes up. “If they do change your schedule, it’s okay,” Nick said. “I mean, I want you there, but I’d understand.”

  “Nothing makes me happier than seeing you pitch,” his dad said, sitting on the edge of Nick’s bed. “When you’re on that mound, I feel as if everything’s right in the world.”

  “Except it’s not.” Nick considered telling his dad about the man on the street, but decided against it. What good could it do? It would only make him worry, and that was the last thing his dad needed right now.

  “Someday it will be; I’m convinced of that,” his dad said. “I have always believed that your mother and I are here for a reason. And I will never believe that reason is for us to be asked to leave.”

  He stood up, then leaned down to plant a kiss on Nick’s forehead. As he did, Nick caught the familiar smell of the restaurant still on him.

  He closed his eyes, trying not to think about the Official People who might be out there waiting for him like they had once been for Michael Arroyo.

  Maybe even on the street where Nick lived.

  5

  At last it was time for the Blazers’ first game of the tournament, against the Rangers, one of the nine teams in their twelve-and-under division.

  Last year, Nick’s summer All-Star team had played as far away as White Plains in upstate New York. But this summer, because the Dream League was associated with the Yankees and Major League Baseball, all of the tournament games were scheduled to be played at Macombs Dam Park.

  When it was the Blazers’ turn to take batting practice, Coach Viera had Nick and Ben get their swings in first so that Nick would have ample time to warm up behind their bench on the first-base side of the field.

  “I know you’re geeked to get after it tonight,” Ben said when he handed Nick the ball. “But you know our deal: we don’t overthrow at the start.”

  Ben often used the word “we” when referring to Nick’s pitching. They’d played for the first time together in the spring, but it felt as if they’d been a team their whole lives.

  “The goal is to be throwing your best fastball in the last inning, not just the first,” Ben reminded him.

  “The way Verlander does,” Nick said.

  He was talking about Justin Verlander of the Astros. If Michael Arroyo was Nick’s all-time favorite power pitcher, Verlander was his favorite right-hander. The TV announcers were always marveling at how Verlander seemed to get stronger as the game went along, which was especially impressive given that he was in his mid-thirties.

  “Wonder if Justin was as good as you when he was twelve,” Ben said.

  “Quit blowing smoke,” Nick said, taking the ball from him.

  “Dude,” Ben said, “blowing smoke is your job, not mine.” Nick rolled his eyes but couldn’t help letting out a small laugh. If nothing else, it helped him relax.

  The distance between the mound and home plate in Little League was forty-six feet. Ben carefully paced off fifteen yards, adding an extra foot at the end, before getting into his crouch. Nick began to warm up, soft-tossing at first, slowly dialing up his velocity, throwing loose and easy. And accurately tonight, much to his relief. You couldn’t always tell how you’d pitch in a game just off a warm-up. But Nick felt good tonight from the start. Very good.

  He finally signaled to Ben that he wanted to throw one last fastball. This time, he’d pretend he was facing the Rangers’ leadoff man. Ben set his glove and didn’t have to move it an inch as Nick delivered his final warm-up pitch. They both heard the sound the ball made. Ben liked to say that Nick’s fastball was louder than the 4 train.

  “All night long,” Ben said as they walked over to the bench.

  “All summer long.”

  Ben smiled. “K.”

  “You mean K like in ‘strikeout’?” Nick said.

  Ben reached out with his glove, and Nick tapped it with his own.

  “Pretty much.”

  Before the game started Coach Viera rounded up the Blazers and had them sit on the hill beh
ind the field.

  “I’m not one of those coaches who just tells you to have fun and try your hardest,” he said, “even though I do want you to have fun and try your hardest. But you’re allowed to want to win, too. Because those guys over there on the other team? You can bet they do.”

  He paced up and down in front of them.

  “They keep score in sports for the same reason teachers give grades in school,” Coach Viera said. “And I think what I’m looking at right now are a bunch of A students. But what I think doesn’t matter. It’s going to come down to how you boys play the game, starting right now.”

  He had their full attention. When he spoke to them about baseball, he always did. Nick’s dad often said that people didn’t just earn respect; they commanded it. Coach Viera was like that. It had been that way from their very first practice.

  “About the fun part?” he said. “It was always my experience as a player that winning just makes everything a whole lot more fun.”

  He put out his hand now, and the Blazers got up and came down to where he was standing, moving in to put their hands on top of his.

  “This isn’t the longest season in the world,” Coach said. “Let’s see if we can make it one we’ll all remember.”

  He looked around.

  “Anybody else got anything they want to add?” he said.

  Diego grinned. This should be good, Nick thought.

  “I did,” Diego said. “But then I forgot what I wanted to say about making this a tournament to remember.”

  Everyone in the huddle had a good laugh.

  “You’re a funny guy, Diego,” Coach said.

  “Can’t lie, Coach,” Diego said. “I know.”

  At that, the Blazers broke the huddle and walked down the hill together to start their season. Because all the games were being played on the same field, the teams would alternate being home and visiting. Tonight, the Blazers were the home team. It didn’t just mean they’d bat last. It meant Nick got to pitch first. Top of the first, top of the tournament. Fine with him.

  Some parents and friends and people from the neighborhood watched the game from up on the hill. Many sat in the bleachers behind the Blazers’ bench or behind first base. Others stood at the screen behind home plate, with the field out in front of them and the elevated subway tracks and apartment buildings in the distance. Nick had scrolled through hundreds of pictures of the old Yankee Stadium when it was on this side of the street, figuring out where it had stood before it was demolished and replaced by their fields. Derek Jeter, the great Yankees shortstop, believed there were baseball ghosts at the old Stadium. Not the kind that haunted and swooped overhead. But the memory of old players long gone. The ones who made the Yankees great, like Babe Ruth and Joe DiMaggio.

  Sometimes Nick wondered if any of the ghosts still hung around here, or if they’d moved to the other side of 161st when Jeter and the Yankees did.

  Maybe it didn’t matter in the end.

  Derek Jeter had his field of dreams on this side of the street, Nick told himself. Now I have mine.

  Nick struck out the side in the top of the first.

  When they got back to the bench, Ben told Nick that he’d thrown a total of twelve pitches. Just three more than the nine it would take to pitch an “immaculate inning”: three batters, three strikeouts each. One of these days, Ben kept telling Nick, he’d get down to nine.

  Tonight, he had been three over that limit in the first. There’d be plenty more opportunities in this game, and the season, to achieve it. The only batter who got to a two-ball count was the Rangers’ number three hitter and center fielder, Lenny Rodriguez, a friend of Nick’s from PS 359. Nick finally struck out Lenny, who had a sweet left-handed swing, on a two-and-two fastball at which Lenny swung so hard his helmet came flying off.

  “Only one inning,” Nick said, thinking about his pitch count.

  “Yeah, but one that sure didn’t stink,” Ben said.

  Diego tripled to lead off for the Blazers. One out later, Ben singled him home. The Blazers had the lead, that quickly. Nick was batting fifth. By then, the bases were loaded and Ben was on third, with one leg off the base, ready to sprint home. When Nick came up, he thought he’d hit one over Lenny’s head. But Lenny, who could cover ground in the outfield almost as well as Diego, ran the ball down and made a great over-the-shoulder catch. Nick was almost to first when he did, and pointed out at Lenny in admiration.

  Coach was right. Lenny wanted to win, too. They all did.

  Ben took his chances, running all the way on Nick’s hit. As soon as Lenny made the catch, he was off. By then, Lenny was too far out to make the throw home, and Ben crossed the plate for another run. He looped around toward the dugout, hurrying to get back into his catcher’s gear. As he fastened the chest protector, he looked at Nick and said breathlessly, “Got enough runs?”

  It had become an inside joke with them in the spring, even though Ben was only half kidding. As soon as their team was ahead by a single run, Ben wanted to know if Nick had enough runs to win the game.

  Most of the time he did.

  “Nice of you to knock in that last one for me,” Nick said.

  Ben grinned, strapping on the last bit of his gear. “I nicked them a little,” he said. “Now you nick them a lot.”

  “I see what you did there,” Nick said. “With my name, I mean.”

  “Diego’s not the only funny one.”

  Nick gave a quick look over at the bleachers, and then to the hill behind the field. His parents hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe his dad was delayed at the restaurant or had been asked to work a double shift. In a corner of Nick’s mind, he knew there could be another reason his dad wasn’t there. But he didn’t want to go to a dark place like that. Not tonight. Anyway, Victor García always told his family that if the worst ever did happen, they’d hear it from him first.

  Nick had his phone with him and knew his parents had Coach Viera’s number. Ben’s and Diego’s, too. If there was any bad news, about his dad or his sister, it wouldn’t take long for Nick to find out. There was an older woman in their building from Mexico, Mrs. Gurriel, who checked in on Amelia when their parents were at work. Mrs. Gurriel was a retired nurse, so if there was an emergency, she’d know what to do . . .

  Stop it, Nick told himself.

  Amelia was fine. His parents were just late getting here from work. Simple as that.

  Now you get back to work.

  He struck out two more batters in the second and gave up his first hit, a bloop single that fell just in front of Diego’s dive in short center. But Nick came right back and struck out the next guy on three pitches, then struck out two more in the top of the third, by which time the Blazers were ahead, 3–0.

  As he came off the mound, Nick took another look over at the bleachers and exhaled. There, in their usual spot high up at the top, were his parents.

  Seated between them was Amelia.

  She didn’t get to come to many of his games, especially during the summer when the sun didn’t set until later in the evening. But this time she had gotten lucky. Or maybe Nick was the lucky one. There was some serious cloud cover in the South Bronx tonight. Not enough to make Nick worry about rain. Just enough to make it safe for Amelia to come outside and watch the game. She still wore a hat, but then, so did most people in the stands.

  When she caught his eye, she smiled and waved. Nick smiled back and pointed to her, like she was his lucky charm.

  He knew he wouldn’t get to finish what he started in the first inning. Though he had a low pitch count so far, Nick figured Coach Viera would take him out after the fifth. While eighty pitches was considered the maximum for twelve-year-old pitchers, Coach Viera thought that was too high and limited Nick’s pitches to seventy.

  “That’s my magic number,” Coach had said at their first practice.

  “What if I
’ve got a no-hitter going?” Nick had asked. “Or a perfect game?”

  “If it ever comes to that, I might let you go to eighty,” Coach said. “But no one game is more important than your arm. You know that, right?”

  “You make my arm sound like something that ought to be in a museum,” Nick said.

  Coach winked and said, “Perhaps the one in Cooperstown, New York, someday.”

  That was where the National Baseball Hall of Fame was located.

  Nick breezed through the fourth and fifth innings. After the fifth, as Nick suspected, Coach told him he was done for the night, clocking in at sixty-two pitches.

  “Lot of baseball left to play,” Coach Viera assured him, “even in this short season of ours.”

  Nick’s final pitch of the night had produced his last strikeout, against the Rangers’ shortstop, Jermaine Holmes, on an oh-and-two count. Nick didn’t need to throw a strike to get him out. Based on the two wild swings Jermaine had already taken, he was likely going to get himself out no matter what Nick threw up there.

  But Nick wanted to finish the night in style. He’d already accomplished everything he set out to against the Rangers by improving with each inning. His fastballs were on point; he could feel it. Ben felt it in his catcher’s mitt, too.

  His parents were here. Amelia was here. Nick was going to show them, and the rest of the crowd, how much arm he had left.

  He came with high heat.

  Jermaine had no chance. He swung under the pitch. Strike three. Nick’s tenth strikeout of the game. The Blazers still led the Rangers 3–0 at the top of the sixth. Nick went to play second base, and their closer Kenny Locke, whom his teammates called “The Lock,” pitched the last two innings, keeping the score frozen at 3–0.