This Side of Salvation

CHAPTER 40

NOW

Remember the guy who built the world’s largest ball of twine? Turns out, he didn’t do it on his own. After he died and was “surpassed,” as Bailey put it, the people in his Kansas town built a gazebo over the ball to protect it from the weather. They kept adding to it themselves, even creating an annual twine-wrapping holiday, celebrated every August. It is now once again the world’s biggest ball of twine. He gets the fame, but his name would be nothing without the efforts of those behind him.

Baseball is kind of the same way. Everyone thinks the pitcher stands on the mound all alone. We get credit for the win and the blame for the loss. But each pitch isn’t chosen only by us. The catcher and the manager give the signals, and if there are runners on base, the infielders signal whether I should try to pick them off.

Pitchers may stand ten inches higher than everyone else, but we’re not alone. Until we throw the ball. Then the universe of possibilities narrows down to one outcome that we have to acknowledge and learn from, then move on.

Off the mound, moving on has never been my strong suit, but I’m trying. Mom got me signed up for individual therapy for the first time. It’s not fun—I am seriously considering buying stock in Kleenex—but I’d be a hypocrite if I refused after I pushed my father so hard down that path.

It’s a path I still pray he takes, because no Rapture is coming to take him away, I’m sure of that now. I have a hunch the Second Coming is a metaphor for a better world that we can make here on earth. Or maybe instead of coming to fix the world himself, Jesus’ll pop by to celebrate with us when we’ve fixed it ourselves.

Despite my questioning and wandering, I still have faith, and I still believe in seventy-times-seven second chances—for me, for Mom and Dad, for Sophia. Even for the man who killed my brother, a man who battled his own demons and lost.

Lucky for me, Coach Kopecki believes in second chances too— with consequences, of course. He made me a relief pitcher, because it wouldn’t be fair to guys like Brandon Cross who’ve worked hard all season, like Brendan Rhees, if I waltzed back in and took their starting spots. At this point, I’m willing to be a batboy just to have a place on the team.

This evening is the Middle Merion Tigers’ final regular-season game, and my first regular-season game with them. If we beat Lower Merion tonight, we go to the playoffs; if we lose, our season is over. It’d be partly my fault for going AWOL for forty days.

But I can’t dwell on that now, because Brandon has loaded the bases with no outs in the top of the seventh and final inning. We’re leading by a single fragile run. The visiting Lower Merion fans are clapping and stomping, dying for a comeback rally.

A rally I have to save us from. No—a rally I will save us from. Kopecki gives me the signal. I come out of the bullpen fast, almost banging my face into the chain link gate that sticks a little when I push on it. As I jog to the mound, I hear what sound like scattered boos but are actually fans shouting, “Coooooooop.”

I try not to smile at the sight of Bailey stretched out against the chain link fence, arms spread above her, shouting my name. Her posture reminds me of Juno playing Cat Versus Wall. She’s flanked by the equally enthusiastic Mara and Jonathan-not-John. I mean, Jon, since that’s what he really goes by.

Behind them on the front row of bleachers, my mother sits, with Mr. Ralph and Mrs. Ralph on one side, and Eve and Ezra Decker on the other. Eve was also on that first boat back to civilization, and just as I predicted, she never asked me for another kiss once she had other options. She seems better off without her parents, which I can totally relate to.

Soon the Decker kids and Bailey will go with Mara, Mom, and me to visit Almost Heaven. Dad’s promised to come home for good by Thanksgiving. I’ll believe it when I see it.

The FBI caught Sophia trying to board a plane for the Cayman Islands a few days ago. She’ll be charged with embezzlement and money laundering, but, as Dad feared, it could be months or longer before the funds she stole will find their way back into the hands of the Rushers.

We’re doing okay here, moneywise. Since Mom and Dad paid off the mortgages and the cars last year (so as not to leave any debts behind), the three of us are starting to climb out of the budgetary abyss. Mara will go to Penn State after all, on her own dime and federal loans. I might even go to Middle Merion High come September, since public school is cheaper than home-school or community-college courses. But I’d rather not give up my independence.

Once on the mound, I’m allowed eight warm-up pitches. Through the first six and a half innings, Brandon and the pitchers for Lower Merion have owned this pile of dirt. They’ve worn divots the size of their shoes near the pitching rubber, and the landing spots hold the patterns of their cleats, not mine. Being a reliever means taking someone else’s space and making it your own, fast.

I’m ready in no time. All those weeks throwing long tosses for Lucy the “Lab-Hound” have strengthened my arm, and I feel like I could go seven innings. For the team’s sake, of course, I hope I need to go only one.

From up here, I can see the oak sapling growing near the football field. The young tree was planted last week by the senior class as part of this year’s traditional gift to the school. The tree was Bailey’s idea, but Stephen Rice, as the MMHS senior-class president, made it reality.

In front of the tree sits a marble monument with a plaque listing the fallen heroes of Middle Merion High: alumni who died as service members, cops, firefighters, or EMTs. My brother John is the most recent name, and I hope it stays that way.

“Play ball!” the umpire shouts. I take Miguel’s signal for a changeup, then glance briefly at Kane covering third base. He offers the subtlest of nods as his second opinion. They’re both right: With my fastball’s reputation, this pitch is what they’d be least expecting.

Inside my glove, my thumb and pinkie meet, pulling the ball deep into my palm. The batter is a thick-set guy who looks like he could send the ball to Atlantic City with one swing. He stares me down, wanting so badly to be a hero.

“Not tonight,” I whisper.

What the pitcher wants most is nothing. If I retire these batters, Brandon’ll get the win, and he’d deserve it. I’ll get a save. I like the sound of that.

But life isn’t baseball. Life is life. So off the field, I’m coaching myself to save only me. It’s odd not worrying about everyone else, letting their mistakes and triumphs be their own. The future is as far from perfect and as full of errors as this baseball game, but at this moment, it’s all mine.

And I guess that’s something.