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A High Five for Glenn Burke Page 13
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33
BROKEN PEOPLE
“Wake up,” Haley says.
I open my eyes. Haley’s standing over me wearing her purple-and-black gymnastics warm-ups and her headphones around her neck.
“Wake up, Silas.” She shakes my pillow. “Your—”
“What are you doing?” I push her away. “Get out of—”
“Your coach from the other night is here.” She heads for my door.
“What?”
“Your baseball coach is in the kitchen with Mommy and Daddy,” she says, walking out.
I sit up and blink hard. Webb’s here? Why is Webb here? How long has he been here? Did he come on his own? Did Mom and Dad invite him? What has he said to them? What does Mom know about yesterday? Did Dad talk to her when she got home?
I slide my feet into my flip-flops and rub my eyes with my palms. I still have on the same navy sweats and gray tank I wore all day yesterday, the same sweats and tank I wore to bed the night before last. I haven’t been outside since I got home from school on Friday.
I check myself in the mirror on my closet and then head for the door, but I stop because along the bottom frame of my bulletin board is a new row of stickers. Haley must’ve put them there just now. Each sticker has a drawing of hands high-fiving. There are also high-five stickers held up by the same pushpin as my baseball schedule.
I let out a long breath. Haley has no idea how much seeing these stickers right now means to me. She has no idea how much I needed to see these stickers right now.
* * *
“What say you, Number Three?” Webb raises his black-and-white Jump & Grind coffee mug when I walk into the kitchen.
“Hi, Webb.” I half wave.
He’s standing at the island in the spot where I called him to say I wouldn’t be at practice the other day. Mom’s on a stool next to him with her hands around her mug. Dad’s at the kitchen table.
“Hi, Mom,” I say softly. “Hi, Dad.”
Dad doesn’t look up from his tablet. Mom says nothing.
“We split the twin bill yesterday,” Webb says. “Lost the opener but came back to win the nightcap.”
“Good,” I say.
“Then again, the Cyclones gave us that second game,” Webb adds, smiling. “They found ways to lose I didn’t even know existed.” He puts down the mug. “But a win’s a win, right?”
“A win’s a win,” I say.
“The kid we called up from the select team, Cole Lenk, was quite the ballplayer. He had a couple of hits and threw a runner out trying to go first to third from right.”
“Nice,” I say.
Webb raps the edge of the island. “Mr. and Mrs. Wade,” he says, “would you mind if Silas and I step outside for a few minutes?”
* * *
“Did you tell them?” I ask.
We’re on the steps outside my building. I ask the question the second we sit down.
“No, I didn’t tell them,” he says. “You know I didn’t.”
“I know, but—”
“I would never do that to you, Silas.”
I know he wouldn’t, but I asked anyway because I had to ask anyway.
“I did tell them you told an untruth about your friend Zoey,” he says. “And I told them that your teammates called you on it and that you deserved it.”
“Yeah.”
He takes a sip of coffee and puts the mug down on the step. “The third baseman on my college team was gay. Colby Brooks.” He tucks his hands into the pouch pocket of his hoodie. “Started at third base my junior and senior year. No one cared that he was gay—not the players, not the coaches, not the fans.” He bumps my shoulder. “Not that we had many fans.”
I bump him back.
“He was there to play ball, and that’s exactly what he did. He was everything you could ask for in a teammate. That’s what mattered.”
“It didn’t for Glenn Burke,” I say.
“No, it didn’t,” Webb says. “You’re right. Baseball wasn’t ready for an openly gay baseball player back then. It would’ve been unthinkable at the time.”
“Glenn Burke was an anachronism,” I say.
“I guess you can say he was.” Webb smiles. “Except you can’t say he didn’t belong.”
“Glenn Burke belonged.”
“The game’s come a long way since back then. It still has a ways to go, but it’s come a long way.” He bumps my shoulder again. “It’s not unthinkable that someone like you could play. You’re no anachronism, buddy.”
The door to the building opens, and Ms. Perkins and Rex charge out.
“Someone has to go!” she says as Rex pulls her down the walk.
Webb grabs his mug and jumps up. I slide across the step.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she says as they hurry past. “Thank you, Silas. Thank you, Silas’s friend.”
At the end of the walk, Rex heads for the tree with the sign like he always does.
“Who’s walking who?” Webb says softly.
“It’s like that all the time,” I say.
Webb jumps down the stairs and pours what’s left of his coffee onto the grass. Then he puts his mug in the middle of the walk in front of the bottom step and sits back down.
“Let’s see if you still got game,” he says, pulling a bag of ranch-flavored sunflower seeds out of his pouch pocket.
“Ranch?” I say. “You said you only eat original.” I stand up and start imitating him. “Sunflower seeds have one flavor and one flavor only,” I say. “Original. You’ll never catch me eating cracked pepper or dill pickle or smokehouse BBQ or nacho—”
“Sit your butt down, Number Three.” He grabs my tank and pulls me back to the step. “So I did my homework before coming here this morning,” he says, opening the bag of seeds. “I prepared for this conversation because … well, this isn’t necessarily my area of expertise, and I wanted to be sure I was doing right by you.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Silas, what happened to Glenn Burke is not going to happen to you.” He pops a handful of seeds into his mouth and stuffs them into his cheek. “Things have changed since back then, things are changing right now, and things will continue to change.”
“Not everywhere,” I say.
“No, not everywhere. You’re right. But they’ll continue to change because of people like you.” He spits a seed at the coffee mug. It lands a few inches in front of it. “I wish I could look you in the eye right now and tell you things are changing everywhere, but I’d be lying.” He points his finger back and forth. “When we talk about this, I’m going to tell it like it is.” He spits another seed. This one hits the base of the mug. “Getting closer.”
I reach into the bag, toss a handful into my mouth, and tuck them in my cheek. Then I spit one at the mug. It lands on the bottom step.
“Here’s telling it like it is,” Webb says. “You be you, Silas. No matter what anyone tells you, no matter what anyone says, your existence—who you are—is not controversial.”
Webb stands up and spits a seed that lands in the mug.
“Pow!” he says, imitating me. “Pow, pow!” He flips his hair.
“You still got it.”
“Still got it?” he says. “I never lost it!”
I roll my tongue around the inside of my cheek for a seed and spit it at the mug. It glances off the handle.
“Getting closer,” I say, smiling.
Webb sits back down. “Your coming out … your coming out is going to be extraordinary, Silas. It’s not going to be easy, but it will be extraordinary. And it’s a process. You already know that. It’s not something that’s going to happen over the course of a few days or weeks or months. It’s going to be exciting and embarrassing and frustrating and hilarious and tragic and empowering, and … it’s going to be a lot like life.” He grips the back of my neck. “You’re going to meet so many people on this journey, Silas. People who will love you and celebrate you, and the impact you’re going to have on them will
be extraordinary.” He squeezes. “That’s happening already. You’ve impacted me.”
“It didn’t impact Malik,” I say.
He sighs and lets go of my neck. “Malik.”
“Do you know why he left the team?” I ask.
“It wasn’t Malik’s decision, buddy.”
I spit a seed that sails over the mug. Then I spit another that hits the handle again.
Webb spits a seed that bounces off the lip. “Oh!” he says. “That was almost two for me and none for you.”
“Almost.”
“Here’s some more telling it like it is,” Webb says. “You can’t fix broken people.”
“What do you mean, broken?”
“Ms. Anderson, my AP lit teacher in high school, used to say that to us all the time. You can’t fix broken people. She said it’s one of the most difficult lessons kids have to learn. For some, it’s a hard truth they never come to terms with.”
“Broken?”
“Yeah, we can all use some work and repairs,” Webb says, nodding. “Some of us more than others, some of us a lot more than others. But it’s up to the individual. It’s always up to the individual. You can offer help and support, but you can’t do the fixing.”
“You can’t fix broken people,” I say.
“No,” Webb says. “And on your journey, unfortunately, you’re going to meet a lot of these broken people who are going to have a hard time with who you are.”
I think about Glenn Burke and all the broken people he had to face, all the broken people he couldn’t fix. I think about Al Campanis, the Dodgers vice president, who wanted him to get married. I think about Tommy Lasorda, the Dodgers manager, who wanted him away from the organization and out of his life. I think about Billy Martin, the A’s manager, who made sure everyone knew that people like Glenn Burke didn’t belong in baseball.
Then it hits me. The other day in center field, when Webb and I had our catch, Webb said, You can’t fix broken people. I knew I’d heard that before.
“What happened with Coach Noles?” I ask.
Webb sighs again. “Coach Noles … Coach Noles sees the world differently than I do, and I’m not willing to agree to disagree with him.” Webb looks at me. “Silas, you deserve to be more than tolerated. You deserve to be accepted. You deserve to be loved for exactly who you are. Full stop.”
“Me be me,” I say.
“Yes,” Webb says. “You be you.”
I spit a high-arcing seed that lands in the mug. “Pow!” I jump up.
“It’s about time.” He holds up his hand.
I give him a high five and then spit another high-arcing seed that lands in the mug. “Oh!” I raise both fists. “Two for two!” I lean into Webb and flip my hair. “Pow! Pow!”
He pushes me away and stands up. “The Renegades are going through a rough patch,” he says. “As a team and as individuals.”
“I feel bad for Kareem,” I say. “That nickname is going to stick.”
“It sure is.” He reaches back down for the bag of seeds and stuffs it into his hoodie. “Snickers is a keeper.”
“I knew it the second Theo and Luis said it,” I say. “But I’m not … I’m not going to call him it.” I breathe. “Do any of the Renegades know?”
He leans against the railing. “Did you tell them?”
I shake my head.
“Then they don’t know. They think you’re a bragger and a liar, and they have every right to, but they don’t know.”
“Yeah.” I spit the rest of my seeds into my hand and toss them onto the grass.
“I’m hoping we’re able to weather these storms in time for the playoffs,” Webb says. “Having you back … you are coming back, right?”
I breathe again. “I’m dreading it … I have to face everyone.”
“That you do. You made up a lie and got busted for it. You need to own that.”
“I made up two lies.” I lean against the other railing. “The one about Zoey and the one about me.”
“No,” Webb says firmly. He holds up a finger. “One lie. What you said about your friend was an untruth, but that’s it. Who you are is not a lie.”
Webb spits a seed across the steps at me. It lands on my sweats, and I brush it off. I still have one more seed left in my mouth, and I think about spitting it at Webb. Instead, I tuck it into my cheek with my tongue.
“The Renegades want you back,” Webb says. “They’re not going to hold this against you.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. Don’t underestimate your teammates, Silas. That’s the same thing I said to you about your parents. Don’t underestimate the Renegades; don’t underestimate Gil and Erica.” Webb walks across to me. “You’re an incredibly lucky kid. You might not think you are, but you are.” He grips the back of my neck again. “Those two people in the kitchen right now love you very much. Not every kid in your position is so fortunate. Not even close.”
“I know.”
“They have your back, Silas. You’re going to be okay.”
“I know,” I say.
“I know you do, but you need to hear it. You’re going to be okay, buddy.”
“Thanks,” I say. I start to smile. “There’s another reason I have to come back to the Renegades.”
“Have to? Why’s that?”
I hold up a finger and tongue the seed out of my cheek. Then I size up the mug and launch one more high-arcing shot. It lands in the center of the mug.
“Pow!” I hold up both hands.
Webb double-high-fives me. “Pow!”
We clasp hands.
“I have to come back to the Renegades because Glenn Burke never got the high five he deserves,” I say. “I need to do something about that.”
34
HALF WAVE
I’m sitting in Ms. Washington’s waiting for class to start, and when Zoey walks in, I brace myself for her evil death stare. But instead, when she sees me looking, she moves her arm like she’s about to wave but stops herself before she does. Then she heads for the other side of the room and sits down on the denim sofa between Daphne and Kaitlyn.
I go back to filling in the seams of the baseball I’m doodling on the cover of my spiral. Maybe it wasn’t the start of a wave. Maybe I’ve just gotten so used to Zoey’s death stare that anything other than her death stare looks friendly. Maybe she just was adjusting her books or rolling her shoulder.
I face Ms. Washington, standing in front of the whiteboard, and when she sees me look her way, she glances at Zoey and then crosses her hands over her chest, hunches her shoulders, and smiles.
She saw what I saw. Then again, it’s Ms. Washington. Maybe she’s just being dramatic.
35
HITTING RETURN
Dad reaches across the front seat and squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll stick around as long as you want,” he says.
I look out the window toward the field: Alexander and Ernesto are walking up the path toward the bleachers behind the first-base dugout; Luis, Carter, and Theo are soft-tossing on the infield; everyone else is getting ready by the backstop. I need to get out of the car and head over, and I will get out of the car and head over, but we’ve been sitting here for almost two minutes, and I still can’t get myself to pull the handle and open the door.
“You don’t have to stick around,” I say, still looking out the window. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know I don’t have to, but—”
“I’ll be fine.” I face him and take a breath. “Really.”
“Then I’ll see you here after practice, Silas.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I open the door.
* * *
“What up, Silas?” Ben-Ben sees me first and bounces over. “What’s up?”
“Hi, Ben-Ben,” I say.
“We’re stretch partners today.” He holds out his fist.
I give him a dap. “Oh, cool.”
I stare at Ben-Ben. I know Webb said something to the team, because t
here’s no way Ben-Ben comes up to me like this on his own. But I’m okay that Webb said something, because I know whatever he said was what I wanted him to say, even without my knowing what he said.
“Luis is leading,” Ben-Ben says, thumbing the field. “That’s why we’re stuck with each other.”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“Nah, kidding.” He shapes the brim of his cap and smiles. “We’re good, dude.”
“I’m sorry, Ben-Ben,” I say. “I don’t know why I said those things. I’m sorry … sorry for lying.”
It’s true. I don’t know why I said those things about Zoey. I know part of the reason, but not the full reason. And no matter what the reason is, it’s not enough of a reason, because you don’t lie like that about your best friend. You never lie like that about your best friend.
“Hey, Silas.” Kareem walks up.
“Hi, Kareem.” I hold out my fist.
He gives me a dap and smiles. “I’m glad you came back,” he says.
“I’m sorry, Kareem,” I say. “I lied about Zoey. I don’t know why I did, but I did. I’m sorry.”
“I’m glad you came back,” he says again.
I glance at Theo by the backstop. “Kareem, I’m sorry if I ever … I’m sorry if I wasn’t always cool to you. I don’t know why—”
“You’re always cool to me, Silas,” he says.
“Hey, man.” Jason runs up and pats my chest with his glove. “Good to have you back. We need you.”
“Sorry for telling those lies,” I say, but Jason’s already running back onto the field. “Sorry for saying those things about Zoey. I don’t know…”
Jason raises his glove without turning around.
“For-ev-er,” Luis says, grinning as he walks up. “For-ev-er, for-ev-er.”
He’s imitating Squints from the scene in The Sandlot when he’s telling the Legend of the Beast story.
We tap gloves.
“I’m leading the stretch,” Luis says. “Ben-Ben’s your partner today.”
“Yeah, he told me.”