A High Five for Glenn Burke Page 5

  I run full speed to second with my fist in the air. When I make the turn, I look back toward home plate, and for a blink, I see Glenn Burke in the batter’s box, wearing his number three Los Angeles Dodgers uniform and blasting his first-ever major league home run off the hardest-throwing pitcher in baseball.

  My arm’s still up as I head for third. When I spot Webb, I see his hand’s out to shake mine, but when he sees that my hand is up, he raises his.

  “Pow!” I give him a leaping high five without breaking stride.

  “That’s how we do, Number Three!” Webb cheers.

  I sprint for home. Malik’s the on-deck batter, and he’s waiting for me at home plate, dancing with his mouthguard dangling out of his mouth. I raise both arms, and he raises both of his, and when I cross the dish, we do a jumping double high five.

  “Pow!” we say.

  * * *

  I’m standing on our bench in the dugout shaking out my legs. Webb’s right next to me with one foot up on the end of the bench and his arm draped across his knee.

  “Show them how we do, Twenty-Five,” Webb says. “Get us going again.”

  Ben-Ben wears number twenty-five, and he started our three-run rally last inning by ripping a double into the left-field corner. We’re up 5–2 in the fifth, and he’s at the dish with one out and nobody on.

  “Let’s go, Ben-Ben,” I say.

  “Why Ben-Ben?” Webb asks. “Why not just Ben?”

  “Because he always says things twice,” I say, jumping up and down.

  “Never noticed.”

  “Oh, you will now.”

  Webb’s in the dugout instead of coaching third because he still wants to be around the players in the game during the game like he was when he was an assistant. So for an inning or two every game, he lets Coach Noles take third.

  “Good eye, Twenty-Five,” Webb says as Ben-Ben takes a low pitch for ball one. He blows on his hand and then taps my leg. “Watch him dig in with his front foot. Coach Rockford and I had him make that adjustment.”

  “I do that,” I say. “For traction. So I don’t skid.”

  “It’s helping him focus and stay in rhythm,” Webb says. “It’s all about rhythm and timing at the plate; you know that. A few milliseconds is the difference between a home run and a foul ball.”

  “Milliseconds,” I say in my deep Webb voice. “A hitter has only milliseconds to analyze a pitch, decide what to do, and then follow through with his hitting plan.” I swing my arms and clap. “Hitting is all about timing.”

  “Mock me all you want, Number Three.” Webb playfully knuckle-punches my shoulder. “But you know as well as I do timing’s the reason you’ve been finding the sweet spot all year.”

  Webb’s the one who’s taught me all about the sweet spot. It’s where you want your bat to meet the ball, the spot where the optimum amount of energy gets transferred.

  “Wait for yours, Ben-Ben,” I say as he fouls the second pitch into the dirt. “Wait for yours.”

  Webb blows on his hands and shakes out his arms. “I’m done with the cold already,” he says. “I need me some baseball weather.” He tucks his hands into the pouch of his Renegades hoodie. “Go ahead, Number Three. Let’s hear it.”

  I pat my chest and smile. “Baseball weather is when you know baseball season has finally arrived,” I say in my Webb voice again. “The chill’s gone from the air, even when the sun peeks behind the clouds.” I rub my arms and then jump up and down like I’m trying to keep warm. “I live for baseball weather.”

  I do live for baseball weather. Most kids get drained on hot days, but not me. I’m the solar-powered kid who loves it when it’s scorching hot. For me, the hotter the better, because the hotter it gets, the hotter I get.

  “Way to be patient, Twenty-Five,” Webb says as the next pitch to Ben-Ben sails wide for ball two. “I’m so impressed with Ben this season.”

  “Ben-Ben,” I say, still smiling.

  “Ben-Ben,” he says. “I’m so impressed with the work he’s put in. He’s been raking the ball all year.”

  Raking means you’re hitting the ball well—hitting it hard and to all fields.

  “Did you know Ben-Ben’s been learning about the physics of hitting a baseball?” Webb asks.

  “He’s in a robotics club,” I say.

  “Yeah, he designs and builds robots. Amazing. I for one had no idea he was so into science.”

  “My best friend Zoey’s in a robotics club,” I say. “She’s amazing at programming.”

  Ben-Ben swings at the next pitch and smokes a hard ground ball past their first baseman into right field for a base hit.

  “Pow!” I leap off the bench. “Way to go, Ben-Ben.”

  “Great piece of hitting, Twenty-Five.” Webb pumps his fist. “That’s how we do.”

  I grab the fence with both hands and shake it. “Should’ve had that, Rodriguez,” I shout to the Thunder’s first baseman.

  He turns and waves his glove at me. Then he takes out his mouthguard and smiles.

  “You’re no Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez!” I add.

  Whenever we play the Thunder, I’m always saying things from The Sandlot to their first baseman because his last name is Rodriguez, just like the character from the movie, except his first name is Joseph, not Benny. He knows I’m only kidding, and Webb knows it, too, which is why I’m saying something to a player on the opposing team while standing next to him.

  Webb loves The Sandlot almost as much as I do.

  * * *

  I inhale a deep breath and spit a sunflower seed at the dandelion in front of me. It brushes the tip of its leaf. I inhale another breath and spit a second seed—this one bull’s-eyes the flower.

  “Pow!”

  Whenever I’m playing center field, I always keep a wad of seeds in my cheek and spit them at patches of grass, divots, pieces of paper, and dandelions.

  “Let’s go, Brayden,” Malik says, pounding his glove at short. “Rock ’n’ roll.”

  “Rock ’n’ roll,” I say, imitating Malik.

  Without looking back, he smacks his butt with his glove.

  We’re up 9–5, and the Thunder are finally down to their last out. We were up by seven heading into the inning, but Brayden gave up three runs and four hits before recording an out. Webb brought him in to pitch the final frame, but by the way he trudged to the mound, I knew he didn’t want to throw. But now we’re an out away from winning the game, completing the doubleheader sweep, raising our record to 7–1, and extending our first-place lead to two full games.

  “Except for Rodriguez,” I shout at the Thunder’s first baseman, who’s at the plate, “you’re all an insult to the game!”

  I’ve said that line from The Sandlot every time the Thunder’s first baseman has been up this afternoon, and even though Webb is probably tired of it, I have to keep saying it because the kid hasn’t gotten a hit all afternoon. And in baseball, when something’s working, you keep on doing it.

  I’m up on the balls of my feet and pounding my glove. I know exactly what I’m going to do if the ball is hit to me and exactly what I’m going to do if the ball is hit elsewhere. My eyes are laser-locked on Brayden’s hand right as he rocks into his windup and delivers the pitch.

  Inside, ball one.

  “Jase!” I call to our third baseman. “A little to your left.”

  Jason raises his glove and takes a couple of steps toward short.

  “A little more off the bag,” I call to Luis at first.

  He takes a half step to his right.

  A center fielder has the whole field in front of him and can see things the other fielders can’t, so good center fielders are constantly calling out directions. Webb’s told me he loves it when I do.

  I run my tongue along the side of my cheek that doesn’t have the wad of seeds. It feels a little raw because that’s where I kept them during the first game, and all the salt does that. I tongue a seed out of the other cheek and spit it at the same dandelion, and
once again, I bull’s-eye it.

  Rodriguez fouls Brayden’s next pitch toward the bleachers behind our dugout.

  “Incoming!” Malik’s mom cries. “Incoming!”

  Malik hides his face in his glove.

  Whenever a foul ball’s hit toward where the Renegades parents sit, Malik’s mom always shouts, “Incoming,” and each time she does, Malik covers his face. Every team has that one over-the-top, loud parent, and for the Renegades, it’s Ms. Andrews. At least she doesn’t have her cowbell today—Malik made her leave it in their car. Malik didn’t mind his mom carrying on like she does nearly as much when Brayden’s dad was still in the bleachers because he used to be just as over-the-top and loud. But now that he’s assistant coach, she’s all by herself, and it’s much more noticeable and much more embarrassing.

  I never have to worry about that with my parents. They’re not loud cheerers. And they don’t come to my games as much anymore. When they do, they never stay the whole time. Today they didn’t get here until the third inning of the opener, so they missed my leadoff home run. But they did see me single-handedly manufacture a run in the next inning when I beat out a grounder to third for an infield single, stole second, stole third, and then came around to score on a wild pitch. And in the fifth, they saw me make a sliding catch in short right and then double off the runner at first. But by the sixth inning, they were gone. Dad had to take Haley to gymnastics, and Mom had to pick up Semaj at occupational therapy.

  “Close it out, Brayden!” I shout. “Shut the door!”

  “Finish him off!” Luis pounds his glove.

  Rodriguez fouls Brayden’s next pitch into the dirt, and now we’re one strike away from completing the sweep.

  All the Renegades are chattering.

  “Let’s go, Brayden!” Ernesto shouts from left field.

  “One more, one more!” Ben-Ben claps at second.

  “Rock ’n’ roll, Brayden,” Malik says.

  I pound my glove and stare at the ball in Brayden’s hand. Sometimes I know when the ball’s coming my way. Of course, I can’t know for sure, but sometimes I get this feeling that it is, and a lot of the time, that feeling is right. As I watch Rodriguez set himself at the plate, I have that feeling.

  Brayden rocks into his windup, and as soon as the ball leaves his hand, I see that the pitch is tailing off the plate. Rodriguez swings at the chaser, makes contact, and swats a sinking line drive over Malik’s head into short left-center. But since I’m moving with the pitch, I have a great jump on the ball, and on the dead run and with my glove fully extended, I snag the ball backhanded and knee high.

  “Pow, pow!” I leap into the air.

  I’m still running full speed toward Malik, and we flying-chest-bump.

  “Pow!” we shout at the same time and then crash to the ground.

  All the Renegades pile on.

  11

  THE STORY OF LAMONT SLEETS

  When Ms. Washington gets all excited about a lesson, she gets real theatrical and starts speaking in this dramatic, booming voice like she would if she were on a stage. That’s exactly what she’s doing right now.

  “I’m feeling so inspired this afternoon.” She walks to the middle of the room with her fists clenched next to her ears and then opens her hands and raises them over her head. “You’ve all inspired me so.” The bottom of her light green sundress flows as she spins around. “And I want to hold on to this feeling for as long as I possibly can.”

  Zoey and I are sitting on one of the large plaid floor pillows in the graphic novel corner. Zoey’s hand is cupped over her mouth, but not enough to hide her grin, and my hand’s around my eye so I can’t see Zoey sitting on my left, because if I could see her, I’d lose it.

  I thought it was going to be weird seeing Zoey today. I hadn’t seen her since her house last Wednesday, which is the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other all year, except for during Christmas, when she visited her aunt in Cincinnati. But when she walked into ELA a few minutes ago with Mia and Kaitlyn and made like nothing’s changed even though everything’s changed, it wasn’t weird at all.

  “How will I hold on to this feeling?” Ms. Washington crosses her hands over her chest and starts to pace, taking deliberate steps. “For one thing, I’m going to use it to fuel our lessons and power our learning.” She’s looking down as she speaks. “And these lessons and this learning will be rooted in what all of you brought to this classroom these last few weeks.”

  The first time Ms. Washington got all theatrical like this back in September, pretty much everyone busted out laughing. Zoey’s sister Grace says that’s what happens every year. It happened when she had Ms. Washington. But you get used to it really quickly because you don’t have much of a choice. Still, there are times—like now—when it’s next to impossible not to smile, and the smiling is contagious, and then so is the cracking up.

  “Your oral presentations will be our springboard, our springboard toward discovery and greater understanding.” She stops pacing and looks up. “Each afternoon this week, we’ll be focusing on a different individual, an individual that you believed was worthy of introduction to your classmates.”

  Considering how often we all see Ms. Washington get theatrical like this, it’s pretty lame that we still have trouble controlling ourselves. Not only does Ms. Washington direct the shows up at the high school, but she also stars in most of the productions at the Playhouse. Two years ago, she was Belle in Beauty and the Beast, and last year she stole the show as Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors. From what Grace says, Ms. Washington really wanted to be in Bye Bye Birdie, but she has an out-of-town wedding the opening weekend and would’ve missed half the performances.

  “Together, we’re going to deep dive.” She uncrosses her hands and holds them out, palms up and fingers spread. “Together, we’re going to learn more about these individuals, and maybe that will inspire one or some of you to deep dive on your own and learn more about an individual who interests you. Now let us begin our journey.”

  Ms. Washington lowers her hands and reaches into her back pocket. She pulls out a baseball cap—a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap—puts it on, and faces me.

  “Today we deep dive and discover Glenn Burke.”

  I can’t breathe. It feels like a cinder block is pressing against my chest, and by the way Zoey’s looking at me, I know I’m turning white or red or that my face has absolutely no color. Zoey has this blank look on her face—this blank, helpless look—like she knows what’s about to happen, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. There’s nothing I can do to stop it either, but it has to stop.

  “Ever since Silas shared his story,” Ms. Washington says, still looking at me, “Glenn Burke has been on my mind. Why has he not gotten credit for inventing the high five? Why has he not gotten credit for inventing the world’s most famous handshake?”

  She knows. Ms. Washington’s figured it out. She can’t say that she knows. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

  “Maybe Glenn Burke hasn’t gotten credit,” she says, “because maybe Glenn Burke didn’t invent it.”

  I reach for Zoey’s stainless-steel water bottle and down at least half of it. Then I close my eyes and try to will the air back into my lungs.

  “Permit me to tell you a story.” Ms. Washington drags her stool to the back of the class and sits. She waits for everyone to face her. “Permit me to tell you the story of one Lamont Sleets Sr. In the late 1960s, nearly a decade before Glenn Burke raised his hand and invented the high five, Lamont Sleets Sr. was a soldier serving valiantly in the Vietnam War, as a member of the First Battalion, Fifth Infantry, a unit better known by their nickname, the Five.”

  I know what Ms. Washington’s doing. She’s creating drama, building tension, and preparing to expose the truth, the whole truth. She can’t do this to me. She can’t do this to me. She can’t do this to me.

  “A year after the Five returned from Vietnam,” Ms. Was
hington says, clasping her hands in her lap, “a reunion was held at the home of Lamont Sleets Sr. When the soldiers marched through the front door, Lamont Sleets Sr. welcomed them with their signature greeting.”

  Ms. Washington looks back at me. She has to see me gripping—squeezing—the water bottle with both hands. She has to see the beads of sweat on my forehead, the beads of sweat dripping down my temples onto my cheeks. She has to see me trembling.

  “Five!” Ms. Washington stands. She raises her hand and spreads her fingers wide. “As the band of brothers reunited, that’s what they all shouted with their hands held high. Five!” She looks around. “Now, Lamont Sleets Sr. had a son, Lamont Sleets Jr. At the time, he was a mere toddler, and when the little lad witnessed this, he insisted on joining in. He jumped and slapped his tiny palm against each and every one of their man-sized hands.”

  I know the Lamont Sleets story. I learned about it when I was researching Glenn Burke.

  “High five!” Ms. Washington says in a child’s voice. “That’s what the little lad yelled.” She walks deliberately to the middle of the room and then turns to me again. “High five.”

  “No,” I say, surprising myself that I’m capable of forming a word. “No, that’s not—”

  Ms. Washington holds out her hand. “Let me tell you about Lamont Sleets Jr. That little lad turned into quite the athlete. As a young man, he earned himself a scholarship to play collegiate basketball for the Racers of Murray State University. At his very first practice, he greeted his new teammates with high fives.” She snaps her fingers. “In an instant, the high five became the Racers’ handshake, and when the players on the other teams saw this handshake, they started doing it, too.” She sits back down on her stool. “That’s the true origin story of the high five.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “It’s not. That’s not true.”

  Ms. Washington looks around the room but doesn’t say anything. Then she smiles. “Silas is right,” she says. “It’s not true.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nolan says. “It sounds true to me.”