A High Five for Glenn Burke Page 8

  “That certainly is an anachronism,” Webb says.

  I breathe. “Did you know … did you know Glenn Burke was gay?”

  “I did,” Webb says. “But unfortunately, baseball wasn’t ready for a gay ballplayer back then.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I can’t wait for Saturday.” I jump the remaining few steps to his SUV. “The trampoline park is going to be nuts.”

  “It should be a fun afternoon.” Webb fumbles for his keys. “I wish the Renegades had more time to do nonbaseball things together. It’s how you really get to know one another and become a team.” He smiles and imitates my voice: “The trampoline park is going to be nuts.”

  Webb pops open the back and slides the equipment bags in. I toss my bag on top. Then I take off my wig and chuck it in.

  “Webb, I’m gay.”

  I want the words back the second I say them, the second I hear them out loud. I don’t know why I said it, why I blurted it out.

  Webb’s not facing me, so I can’t see his reaction, and I don’t want to see his reaction. I just want to undo what I just said, what I just did.

  But I can’t. There are no backsies.

  17

  OUT IN THE FIELD

  Webb turns but doesn’t say anything, and just like I needed Zoey to say something the other day when I told her, I need Webb to say something, anything.

  “That must’ve been incredibly difficult,” he finally says.

  I try to nod but can’t.

  “Silas?” he says.

  I still can’t.

  “Silas?” He puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles.

  I breathe. But I’m shaking now, like I did when I told Zoey, and I know Webb can feel it because he’s gripping my shoulder and squeezing. His hand feels like Zoey’s hug the other day.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” he says.

  “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  My first words, and when I say them, tears stream down my cheeks.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he says.

  “Please don’t, please don’t.”

  “Silas, I’m not telling anyone.”

  “Not even my parents.”

  “Not even your parents,” he says. “It’s not my place.”

  I wipe my eyes with my palm and take short breaths. “Only my friend Zoey knows.”

  “Okay.” He’s still squeezing my shoulder.

  “Promise me you won’t—”

  “I promise,” he says. “I’m not telling anyone.” He leans in and looks me in the eye. “But don’t underestimate your parents, Silas. They’re good—”

  “Please don’t say anything, please don’t—”

  “Silas.” He smiles, then laughs. “I’m not; I won’t. All I’m saying is, don’t underestimate them.” He lets go of my shoulder. “Grab your glove. Let’s go have a catch.”

  “But what about … what about your meeting?”

  “Grab your glove, Number Three.” He motions to my bag. “Let’s go have a catch.”

  * * *

  “That was a pretty brave thing you just did, buddy,” Webb says, catching my throw. We’re out in center field under the lights that went on halfway through practice. “I want you to know, it doesn’t change a thing.”

  I nod.

  “I mean it, Silas. Not with me, not with the Renegades. Nothing’s changed.”

  I scoop his low throw on a short hop.

  “Nice pick,” he says. “Nothing’s changed. You’ll still never give away an at bat; you’ll still never concede an out.” He catches my throw and wags his glove. “And you’ll still sprint in from center when I go out to the mound.”

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to smile.

  I didn’t know Webb noticed that I ran in from the outfield every time he went out to talk to one of our pitchers. I never used to do that with Coach Trent, but I do with Webb.

  “Brayden didn’t want to pitch that last inning on Saturday,” he says.

  “I know,” I say. “I could tell.”

  He backhands my throw and fires it right back. “Coach Noles wasn’t happy I sent him out there to mop up.”

  “There’s no such thing as mop-up,” I say, which is something Webb often says.

  “There’s no such thing as mop-up.” Webb nods. “You know that, and I know that, but not everyone else does.” He catches my next throw at his knees and sidearms it back. “Being head coach is a lot different than being an assistant. I knew it would be, but I didn’t realize it would be this much of a balancing act. You want everyone to be happy all the time, but it’s not possible.”

  I wind up like a pitcher and throw a curveball that doesn’t break. Webb has to jump to catch it.

  “Is it hard having your nephew on the team?” I ask.

  Webb pauses in the middle of his throwing motion. “Not as hard as it was for Coach Trent having his son on the team,” he says. “Jason’s not one of our best players; you know that. He’s a role player. But when he’s your son, you want him … It’s a balancing act.”

  I catch Webb’s throw with two hands against my chest and hold it there. I close my eyes, and for a moment, I listen to the sounds of the park—the hum of the lights down the foul lines; the clicking of the water sprinklers on the next field; the lowering of the metal gates at the concession stands; the steady, low roar of the traffic on the road beyond the parking lot. I open my eyes, and suddenly, I feel like I’m standing on a movie set, like I’m an actor playing a role, because this doesn’t feel like my life, because this can’t possibly be my life.

  But it is. It is.

  “When the Dodgers … when the Dodgers found out Glenn Burke was gay,” I say, “they traded him to the Oakland A’s.”

  “Yeah,” Webb says. “I don’t think Tommy Lasorda was the most open-minded individual. He was the manager of the Dodgers at the time.”

  “I know who he was,” I say, and then add in my Webb voice. “Are you doubting my baseball knowledge?”

  He laughs. “My bad.”

  “Darn right, your bad,” I say.

  He fires a throw that stings my hand.

  “Do you think baseball is ready for someone like Glenn Burke now?” I ask.

  “I’d like to think so,” he says. “I hope so.”

  “Me too.”

  I wind up like a pitcher again, and this time, I throw a fastball right into his glove.

  “Here comes my knuckleball,” he says, motioning for me to crouch like a catcher. He adjusts his grip and then tosses a wobbling pitch that sails way over my head. “Yikes!”

  I chase after it, and from where the ball rolled to a stop, I fire a perfect strike into Webb’s glove.

  “Nice,” he says.

  I sprint back to where I was. “Billy Martin was the manager of the Oakland A’s when Glenn Burke played for them,” I say. “Do you know what he said when he introduced Glenn to the other players?”

  “I’m sure it was something awful,” Webb says.

  “‘This is Glenn Burke,’” I say, “‘and he’s a faggot.’”

  “Billy Martin was a broken person,” Webb says. He throws another ball that stings my hand. “You can’t fix broken people.” He points his glove. “You know what a faggot is, right, Silas?”

  “A word for gay people,” I say. “A slur.”

  “It sure is,” Webb says. “Full stop.” He catches my throw and starts walking toward me. “I was always led to believe a faggot is a bundle of sticks.”

  “A bundle of sticks?”

  “A bundle of sticks used for kindling, for burning heretics alive centuries ago.”

  “Heretics?”

  “People who believed things that were considered wrong by society,” Webb says. “People whose actions and beliefs went against the church or the establishment.”

  I swallow. “Is that true?”

  “Not sure,” Webb says. “But I am sure it’s a vulgar term, and the way Billy Martin used it was unforgivable. People like Billy Martin are the reason
Glenn Burke never got the high five he deserved.”

  I hold up my glove. Webb smacks it with his.

  “I miss talking baseball with you, buddy,” Webb says.

  “I miss talking baseball with you, too.”

  “I know we still do, but not like we did when I was an assistant.” Webb motions to the parking lot, and we start walking. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I hope so,” I say. “I’m kinda sorta asking you to keep a pretty big one, right?”

  “Fair point.” Webb laughs. “Do you know why I let Coach Noles take an inning or two at third every game?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “So you can be in the dugout with the players in the game during the game.”

  “And it helps keep Coach Noles happy.” Webb nods. “But there’s another reason.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “You, Silas. It lets me talk baseball with you. That’s how much I miss it.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I like strategizing with you. I like it when we dissect pitch counts and discuss game situations. I like talking about where we should position our fielders and whether we should bunt or hit behind the runners. And you know how much I like talking about The Sandlot.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “You be you, Silas Wade, you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” I say again.

  “I’m serious. You be you. Keep being authentic.” He rubs my head with his glove. “You have my word that I’m going to do my part … I’m going to do my part to make sure the Renegades … that we’re the community it should be, the community you deserve. Full stop.”

  18

  TELLING

  “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I say.

  I’m pacing back and forth on the steps in front of my building. Webb dropped me off a minute ago, and I need to talk to Zoey before I head in.

  “Hey, what’s up?” she answers.

  “Yes!” I say. “Hey, Zoey.”

  “I only have a second,” she says. “I’m still at robotics.”

  “I didn’t want to put this in a text.”

  “Is everything okay?” she asks. “What’s the matter?”

  “I told Webb.”

  “You told—You did? Seriously? Wow, how did it go?”

  “I think … great,” I say. I’m shaking as I speak. “It went great, Zoey.”

  “Did you tell him in person or on the phone?”

  “In person,” I say. “At practice just now. We were the only two left at the fields, and … and it just came out.”

  “That’s amazing, Silas.”

  “I know, I know.” My voice cracks. “You’re not the only one who knows anymore.”

  “That’s amazing, Silas,” she says again. “Amazing. I want to hear all about it, but I have to get back to—”

  “Webb knew about Glenn Burke,” I say. “He knew he invented the high five and that he was gay.” I say the last word softly and look around as I do.

  “Amazing.”

  “He said Glenn Burke never got the high five he deserved.”

  “Silas, I really need to—”

  “Go, go, go,” I say.

  “Thanks. Hey, Silas?”

  “Yeah?”

  “High five.”

  19

  BEDTIME STORY

  “Introducing … Glenn Burke!” I say.

  I’m standing in the middle of Haley and Semaj’s room wearing my Renegades jersey and holding my Wiffle bat. Semaj wouldn’t go to sleep after Haley and I finished reading Croc and Ally, so in order to prevent a screamathon, I told Semaj we’d read her one more story.

  “One mo sto-wee, one mo sto-wee,” Semaj says. She’s sitting at the foot of her bed swinging her legs. She’s been saying the same thing over and over since we put her book back in the night table drawer. “One mo sto-wee, one mo sto-wee.”

  But Haley didn’t want to read Semaj one more story. Haley wanted to make stickers, which is why she’s in a split on the carpet with her headphones on and coloring, and I’m about to tell the silly version of the Glenn Burke story. It’s the silly version because every story you tell Semaj has to be the silly version, even if there isn’t a silly version.

  “Here comes the story,” I say, tapping the polka dots on the knees of her pajama onesie. “But you have to be quiet.”

  Semaj covers her mouth and giggles.

  Then like I did in Ms. Washington’s class, I act out the story of Glenn Burke. For the bases, I use Haley’s purple gymnastics hoodie, the dresser, the closet, and Semaj’s panda slippers, and when I run around them, I pretend to stumble over Haley’s legs because I need to be silly. I don’t want to scare Semaj when Dusty Baker hits his home run, so I swing the Wiffle in slow motion. But when I’m Dusty circling the bases, I twirl the bat like a baton and dance, which makes her laugh.

  Haley is Glenn Burke, but she doesn’t want to be, so instead of greeting Dusty at Semaj’s panda slippers for the very first high five ever, she doesn’t get up and rolls her eyes when I high-five her.

  “Hi fi, hi fi!” Semaj says, waving her hands.

  I slide over to the bed and gently high-five her, too.

  Then I’m Glenn Burke hitting his home run and silly-dancing around the bases. I high-five Haley again, who still doesn’t get up, but this time when I do, I clasp my hands in hers and shake my butt at Semaj.

  Semaj squeals.

  I jump back to the middle of the room and tell the rest of the Glenn Burke story—how the high five spread through baseball, spread through all sports, and spread all around the world.

  “Hi fi, hi fi,” Semaj says again, still waving both hands.

  I tap them once more.

  “That’s the story of Glenn Burke,” I say. I take off my cap and bow like the performers at the Playhouse. “That’s the story of the man who invented the world’s most famous handshake.”

  But just like in Ms. Washington’s class, I leave out part of the story—the next part of the story, the most important part of the story, the part of the story I can’t tell my sisters.

  20

  BOUNCE! BOUNCE!

  I’m in the car with Mom, and we’re on the way to Bounce! Bounce! and I can’t remember the last time I was alone with her like this, and I really, really want to tell her about Glenn Burke.

  I’ve wanted to tell her about him since we pulled out of the driveway. We’ve already talked about Kaila, her employee who cut herself by accident earlier this week, about the best places to buy jelly beans and chocolate on the Monday after Easter, and about how I’m not allowed to put Peeps in the microwave and watch them explode anymore because Mom’s always the one who ends up having to clean up the mess.

  But we haven’t talked about what I want to talk about—what I really, really want to talk about—and we’re almost at Bounce! Bounce!

  So many of the kids in the coming-out videos talk about how telling someone you trust gives you confidence and that you feel relieved and free, but I didn’t realize just how much. You can’t realize just how much until you do it.

  I want to tell Mom that Glenn Burke was gay and that’s why he never got credit for inventing the high five. I want to tell her that’s why the Dodgers traded him and why the A’s ran him out of baseball. And I want to tell her all about what Glenn Burke did after baseball wanted no part of him—how he played for the Pendulum Pirates in the San Francisco Gay Softball League and was voted Player of the Year, how his team played in the Gay Olympics and won the Gay World Series, and how his team played against the San Francisco Police Department in a city league all-star game and beat the police so bad the umps had to call the game.

  “We have arrived at your destination,” Mom says in a GPS voice. We pull up to the curb by the entrance. “Here.” She hands me a five-dollar bill.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say.

  “You’ll behave yourself in there, Silas?”

  “Always do,” I say, opening the door and getting
out.

  “Please don’t go too crazy.”

  I shut the door, and as she lowers the window, I stick my head in, rock it back and forth, and stick out my tongue. She reaches over and swats my shoulder.

  “I won’t go too crazy,” I say.

  “Be sure to tell your coaches thank you,” she says. “Bringing the whole team here is very generous.”

  I start backpedaling away. “I will.”

  “I filled out your waiver online, but I didn’t get a confirmation, so if there’s an issue, have Webb text me and—”

  I turn and sprint for the door.

  * * *

  I duck out of the way just as the bright yellow ball flies past my face.

  “Rule number four!” I yell at Brayden. “No head hunting.” I point to the sign on the gate to the court. “No head or face shots allowed.”

  “Rule six!” Brayden points to my foot. “Crossing over the middle line will cause you to be called out.”

  We’re playing trampoline dodgeball, and Ben-Ben and I are the only two left on our team, and Brayden and Malik are the only two left on the other.

  “What are you talking about?” I shout. “It’s not even touching it!” The tip of my sock is up against the line, but there’s no way Brayden can see that from where he is. “And touching isn’t crossing!”

  Malik runs up the sloped trampoline in the back and does a flip, and when he lands, he spins around and whips his ball at Ben-Ben. It bounces before it hits him.

  “Keep showing off.” I shake the green ball I’m holding at Malik. “Your time’s almost up.”

  Malik’s been doing flips and tricks the whole time we’ve been here. I knew he was good at gymnastics because he’s told me he used to take gymnastics at the place where Haley goes, and I’ve seen him do front flips and backflips at baseball, but watching him here is nuts.

  Ben-Ben bounces up to me at the center line. We each have a ball, but neither Brayden nor Malik does.

  Ben-Ben holds the ball in front of his mouth. “On three, we aim for Malik’s legs,” he says. “One, two, three!”