Outrage

19

Zak stared down from the mound at the catcher, who glanced over at Coach Newell for the pitch sign. Chase Fitzgerald nodded and grinned as he looked back at Zak and gave the signal. High and tight. A brushback pitch-a head-high fastball meant to intimidate a batter and move him off the plate.

Or in this case, he’s hoping I’ll hit Esteban or at least scare the shit out of him, Zak thought.

Coaches weren’t supposed to be encouraging, or teaching, brushback pitches at the high school level. There was too great a chance of someone getting seriously injured. But Newell’s ethics were always questionable when it came to getting an edge on the competition. And in this case it was no surprise that he was calling for it against Esteban Gonzalez even though this was just practice.

The coach’s previous efforts to chase the young man from the team had failed. Just three days after being cut by Chase Fitzgerald’s cleats, requiring twelve stitches in his leg, Esteban had walked back out on the field as if nothing had happened. And though it was obvious that his leg was hurting him and he was limping by the end of practice, he’d kept up on the drills.

It was a gutsy performance. But instead of earning even Newell’s grudging respect, the boy’s perseverance seemed to anger the coach all the more. And now he was telling Zak to toss a beanball at him.

Zak shook the sign off and waited for a new signal. Fitzgerald frowned and looked back over at Coach Newell, who emphatically made the same hand signals, only this time he looked directly at Zak as he gestured. There was no question that this was a test. The coach’s eyes said it all: Are you with us or against us?

Zak looked back at Fitzgerald, aware that Giancarlo was standing in the on-deck circle watching. He nodded to the catcher and went into his windup, then threw hard. The ball caught an inside corner of the plate for a strike. A great pitch and the third strike on Esteban, who smiled and shook his head in admiration as he turned to walk back to the dugout.

“Again,” Newell bellowed from the dugout.

Zak and Esteban both looked at the coach and then each other. As the other boy stepped back into the batter’s box, Zak saw a momentary look of fear on Esteban’s face. But the fear was immediately replaced by resolve; he nodded at Zak.

Fitzgerald looked over at Newell and visibly laughed as he gave Zak the signal again for a brushback pitch. Zak reared back and threw. This time the pitch was high and inside… but about three feet over Esteban’s head.

Coach Newell stormed across the field and up to the mound. “What are you doing, Karp?” he demanded.

“Pitching,” Zak answered, his eyes not meeting the coach’s.

“You ignored my signals,” Newell growled.

“I’m not going to throw at his head,” Zak stated as he looked the coach in the eyes.

Newell’s face turned red, and he took a step toward Zak and appeared ready to yell. But the coach looked up and saw that the rest of the team had walked close enough to hear what he was going to say. Max Weller, Chase Fitzgerald, and Chet Anders stood together smirking. But others looked troubled and grim.

The coach held out his hand for the ball. “Hit the showers and see me in my office in fifteen, Karp,” he said, and yelled over to where the other pitchers were throwing in the warm-up cages. “Worley, get your ass out here!”

Worley ran out to the mound. Glaring at Zak, Newell handed Worley the ball. “Let’s see if somebody can remember the meaning of ‘team.’ Or if he knows better than the coach.”

With that the coach turned and walked away. At the same time, Zak walked off in the direction of the locker room. He glanced toward his brother, who smiled and touched the brim of his cap in a salute. Zak rolled his eyes and with a quiet curse changed directions and headed for home plate.

“Give me the bat,” he said as he walked up to Esteban. Without waiting, Zak grabbed the bat and gently pushed Esteban away. He then stepped up to the plate.

Sensing something going on behind him, Newell turned. His eyes bugged when he saw Zak Karp in the batter’s box and his red face grew purple. But he said nothing, just signaled the pitch to Fitzgerald.

Zak saw Worley smile and knew what was coming. “You’re screwed, Karp,” Fitzgerald said, chuckling as the pitcher went into his windup.

Zak waited until just before Worley released the ball and stepped back out of the batter’s box. But he wasn’t trying to duck the pitch. He knew what the signal had been and knew where the pitch was going, which made it relatively easy to make contact and drive it up the middle of the field.

The ball skipped off the mound and caught Worley in the shins. The pitcher went down and began to howl. Weller and Anders rushed over to him. As Fitzgerald ran past Zak, he turned and pointed as he said, “Your ass is grass now, Karp.”

Zak shrugged and tossed the bat over his shoulder and walked to the locker room. Fifteen minutes later, he knocked on the door of Coach Newell’s office and walked in. The coach didn’t look up from whatever he was reading and gestured to the chair across from him. “Shut the door and take a seat, Karp” was all he said.

Zak did as he was told and was left to sit for several minutes before the coach looked up at him. “You mind telling me what you were trying to prove today?” Newell asked.

“I don’t think it’s right to try to hurt someone,” Zak said.

Newell acted as if he were shocked. “Hurt someone? Who said I wanted you to hurt someone? I asked for a fastball inside. Your opponent was crowding the plate. If you’re going to have qualms about making that pitch, you’re not going to get any offers to play ball in college.”

“The signal was ‘high and tight,’ a beanball,” Zak said. “I can pitch inside. But you can’t ask me to take a chance of hurting someone, especially on my own team.”

“Your own team,” Newell repeated with a sneer. “Do you consider it part of being a good teammate to ignore your coach’s instructions and then, in front of the whole team, treat him and your other teammates with disrespect? And do you think being a good teammate means trying to hit Worley? We’re lucky he’s only got a bruise or we’d be out our number-one pitcher going into the playoffs.”

The coach stopped talking and looked sideways at Zak. “Or is that what you wanted?”

The hotter-blooded of the twins, Zak knew he had to control his temper. “I didn’t mean to hit him. But he was trying to hit me.”

“He was doing what I asked him to do, unlike you,” Newell replied. “It’s good practice for the pitcher and the batter. The pitcher gains the intimidation factor, and the batter learns to get out of the way.”

“You did it because the batter was Esteban.”

Newell’s jaw set tight as he tried to stare Zak down. “I’m trying to mold a team here, Karp, to win a state championship,” he said as if trying his best to be patient. “And if I have a player on the team who is a disruption or doesn’t fit into what myself and the other coaches are trying to do here, then it’s part of my job to weed him out.”

“Esteban’s a good player,” Zak replied. “And he works hard.”

Newell shrugged. “He’s okay. But Weller’s a team leader, and he’s been around longer. Besides, those people are all about individual stats. They only see sports as a way out of the ghetto and couldn’t give a shit about the team. I think he’d be happier playing for a public school where he’d have more of his people around to habla espanol and play like a bunch of prima donnas. We’re fine without him; in case you haven’t noticed, we’re seeded second in the state and the playoffs start next week.”

“‘Those people’?” Zak said. “You mean Hispanics?”

“I mean poor Hispanics who come here and don’t even bother learning the language,” Newell replied. “But they expect everything to be handed to them on a silver platter. Well, it ain’t going to happen on my watch.”

Newell picked up the binder he’d been studying when Zak entered the room. “You know what this is?”

“A lineup book,” Zak replied.

“Damn right it is,” Newell said, and pushed it across his desk so that Zak could see it. “And this particular page is the lineup for game two of the playoffs. You can see that at the moment, I haven’t written anybody in as the starting pitcher. Normally, that would be your name there, but as of now you are suspended for conduct detrimental to the team.”

“What conduct?” Zak asked, fighting to keep back tears.

“Disrespect and attempting to hurt one of your teammates,” Newell replied.

“That’s not fair,” Zak exclaimed.

Newell leaned across his desk and fixed his eyes on the boy’s. “I decide what’s fair around here. Now, I don’t need to remind you that these playoff games attract a lot of attention from college and pro scouts, and it would be a shame for them not to see you. But I will not hesitate to keep you on the bench if your attitude doesn’t improve, and I mean pronto. Do I make myself clear?”

Zak dipped his head so that the coach wouldn’t see the anger in his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, now get the hell out of here,” Newell said, and then softened his tone. “Glad to have you on board, Zak; you’re going to have a hell of a career.”

Giancarlo was waiting for Zak outside the coach’s office. “Don’t say anything,” Zak said, looking at his brother. “I’m not in the mood.”

Closing his mouth, Giancarlo fell in step with Zak as they walked down the hallway toward the exit. But he couldn’t remain quiet. “I’m proud of you.”

Zak paused. “Yeah? Well you know what you being proud of me means? It means that if my ‘attitude’ doesn’t improve, he’s going to bench me for the playoffs. Right now I’m suspended for conduct detrimental to the team.”

“That’s crap! We need to tell someone,” Giancarlo sputtered.

“He’ll say I misinterpreted what he wanted me to pitch and that I was insubordinate,” Zak replied. “And that I purposefully tried to hurt Worley so that I could be the starting pitcher in game one. And this team will back him up, especially the upperclassmen; this is their chance for a state championship and they’re not going to let me, or some Hispanic guy, screw that up for them. Besides, who are we going to tell? We’re getting too old to run to Daddy every time something’s not going our way.”

The boys left the building and saw Lucy waiting for them in their mother’s high-end truck. She was parked behind a beat-up economy car with threadbare tires and rust spots on the panels. As they approached, the passenger-side door of the beat-up car opened and Esteban got out and walked toward them.

“Great, now what?” Zak growled.

“Hey, Esteban, what’s up?” Giancarlo said.

Esteban smiled at Giancarlo but held out his hand to Zak. “I wish to thank you,” he said in heavily accented English.

Zak frowned. That’s when he noticed another car in the lot containing Max Weller, Chase Fitzgerald, and Chet Anders. “I didn’t do anything,” he said without offering his hand in return, and walked on to where Lucy was waiting.

Esteban looked hurt and puzzled as he turned to Giancarlo. “I say something bad?”

Giancarlo shook his head. “Nah. He’s just upset ’cause the coach got mad at him,” he explained.

Esteban looked over to where Zak was crawling into the jump seat of the truck. He bit his lip and nodded. “I understand this,” he said, and put his hand out to Giancarlo, who shook it. “Please to tell him gracias again for me when time is right, eh?”

“I will,” Giancarlo said. “See you tomorrow.”

The two boys split up and walked to their respective rides, both conscious that their teammates in the other car were watching. Giancarlo was surprised that Zak was in the back of the truck; usually he called shotgun and couldn’t be budged.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Lucy said as Giancarlo got in the front passenger seat and buckled his seat belt without speaking. “Don’t tell me both of you are in foul moods. Grumpy the Dwarf hasn’t said a word since he got in.”

“Sorry, Luce, I’m fine,” Giancarlo said, despite being able to see the boys in the other car mouthing words he couldn’t hear but whose intent he understood. “Zak’s just upset because the coach got on his case.”

Lucy frowned. “Is everything all right?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” Zak snarled.

“Not a problem,” Lucy replied. “Maybe something tasty at Moishe’s will put you in a better mood.”

“What?” Zak asked.

“Did you forget? I’m supposed to take you to see Moishe for your report. Mom and Dad are both working late.”

Both boys groaned. But their complaints ended the moment they walked into Il Buon Pane. They chose cherry cheese coffee cake and disappeared chattering happily to the upstairs apartments with Moishe.

When they were gone, Goldie motioned for Lucy to have a seat at one of the tables. I will lock up and we’ll have something to eat and drink, she signed.

Lucy shook her head. Thank you, but I really should be going, she signed back. The twins have cab fare and -

There is something so important that you cannot spare a few minutes for an old woman? Goldie signed, and smiled, her blue eyes twinkling.

Lucy laughed. Well, since you put it that way… but it will cost you another piece of that cherry cheese coffee cake.

Good, good, a small price to pay for such lovely company, Goldie replied. She finished locking up and then scurried behind the counter, reappearing with two pieces of the coffee cake, which she set down on the table before sitting herself.

So…, the old woman signed, when is the wedding?

Lucy almost choked on her coffee cake at the unexpected, and unwelcome, question. It was a topic she’d been avoiding even with her mother. She didn’t want to talk-even in sign language-about it now. However, Goldie was looking at her as if she’d asked about the weather.

“I just don’t think the timing is good for getting married right now,” Lucy said, picking her cup of tea up and taking a sip, hoping the discussion was over.

It wasn’t. Goldie put her cup down and sat still for a moment, but then her hands began to fly. I want to tell you a short story, she said, about when Moishe and I met. As you know, we were both survivors of concentration camps, and I met him shortly after the war in a refugee camp. I could tell he liked me-he kept hanging around, making eyes, and trying to speak to me, though I would only sign for him to keep his distance.

Goldie sighed. I was the least likely love interest imaginable. Not after what the Nazi doctors did to me in the camp when I was a young girl. It is the reason I could not have children, though I did not know it until much later. I did know that I did not want a man to touch me again… not ever.

Taking another sip of tea, Goldie spent a moment gazing into the cup as though she could see distant memories. Then her hands continued with her story of the young man who refused to go away but stayed close and vigilant. At first she had seen him like any other man-after one thing only-but as she watched him she thought there was both an innocence and a sad, quiet strength to him that said he was different from the others. She hated to admit it to herself, but she felt safer when he was nearby.

Moishe would try to talk to me even though he knew that if I deigned to speak to him with my hands, he wouldn’t understand. I should tell you that back then my hands spoke a combination of sign languages I had picked up in the concentration camp, as well as my own additions. But he kept trying… that young man would not give up.

Goldie smiled. Finally one day he walked up and handed me a note. I dropped it to the ground and signed for him to leave me alone. He walked off and as soon as he did, I picked up the note and read it. It said, “I’ve decided that I love you and that I want to marry you. We will go to America and surround ourselves with children and grandchildren.”

I found a pencil and wrote a response and then stomped around our camp looking for him so that I could give him a piece of my mind. He saw me coming and though the men around him looked suddenly worried-I must have seemed like an enraged Valkyrie coming for the mortals-he just smiled.

The old woman laughed. I think that is the moment I may have first realized that I loved him. But I gave him my note, which said, “How can you talk of love and marriage and bringing children into a world as evil as this one? You are a stupid man, and I am not interested.” Not very eloquent but to the point. I saw the hurt on his face-and regretted my note. But all he said was, “That’s okay. I’ll ask again tomorrow.” I told him not to bother, but the next day when I saw him walking toward me, I have to admit, my heart skipped a beat. He asked me to marry him again, and I said, “No. Love has no place in this world for me anymore.”

Day after day, however, Moishe returned and asked his question, the old woman told Lucy. And day after day, I rejected him. Goldie laughed again. I believe that I must have a world record for the most proposals by one man. Finally, one day he came up to me, but instead of asking his question, he said good-bye.

The memory brought tears to Goldie’s eyes. I pretended that I was only mildly interested but asked him where he was going. He said he was going back to Sobibor and that he would lie down there and die. I asked him why and he said-and I can remember his very words to this day-“If they can stop us from falling in love and marrying and having children… if they can convince us that the world is such a terrible place that there is no more room for love, then they have won anyway. Why not give them my bones to lie near those of my mother, sister, and father, and so many friends?”

Goldie reached across the table for Lucy’s hand. I didn’t know if he was just being dramatic, but suddenly I could not stand the thought of him leaving me. I pleaded with him not to go. I said that perhaps in the future there would be a better time to consider marriage, but it wasn’t the right time.

The old woman squeezed the young woman’s hand. And he said, “There is no right time for love, there is only now.” Then, before I could stop him-or maybe I didn’t want to stop him-he kissed me.

Goldie sighed and fell silent. Lucy wiped at the tears rolling down her own cheeks. “Then what happened?”

Goldie spread her hands to indicate the bakery and all that it stood for and signed, Don’t you know? I married my prince and lived happily ever after.