Read Online Center Field by Robert Lipsyte - Free Book Online Page A

“The book was summer reading last year. It was so sad when Billy died at the end.”
    â€œAnother parable about good and evil,” said Andy, arriving with his tray. “Evil always wins in Melville. Check Moby-Dick .”
    â€œBilly Budd’s such a great name for a baseball hero,” said Lori.
    She’s trying too hard, thought Mike. She’s starting to annoy me. He’d make some excuse not to see her tonight. Saturday night the twins were having a party at their house, parents away, no way to avoid that without breaking up, which was too much trouble.
    Andy was shoveling French fries into his mouth as Kat strolled past, her video cam in one hand. She stopped and said, sharply, “The point you don’t seem to get is thatundocumented workers only take jobs Americans don’t want.”
    Andy said, “They work so cheap Americans can’t compete for those jobs.”
    Kat curled a lip at his fries and cheeseburger. “No wonder your mind’s clogged.”
    Ryan said, “You never outgrow your need for trans fats and toxic chems.”
    Everybody laughed except Kat, who gave Ryan a nasty look. She was in a bad mood, thought Mike.
    Andy said, “You love your government control so much, how about regulating organic farming. It’s all agribusiness now anyway.”
    She frowned and nodded. “You might be right. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.” As she walked away, Mike noticed that she had a swing to her butt. Maybe it’s her rehabbed knee.
    Ryan said, “Tigerbitch wants to jump your bones, Andy.”
    â€œThat’ll be the day.” Andy made a snorting noise, but Mike thought he looked interested. He felt a twinge of jealousy. Kat had never even looked at him.
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    He was alternately sorry and glad Friday’s game was rained out. He wanted to get back out there, redeem himself, but he had a nagging fear that something was wrong, that he wasin a slump that could cost him center field. Coach Sherman reminded them that next Saturday morning, a week from tomorrow, they would be attending a hitting clinic at the Meadowlands. Team bus will be leaving at eight A.M . High school teams from all over the metro area will be instructed by major league players and coaches. Maybe some Yankees. Mike wondered if Billy Budd would be there.
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    He lost himself in the Buddsite that night. He watched an hour of the sweetest swing in baseball, short and whippy. Shoulders relaxed, eyes tracking the ball from the pitcher’s hand to the surface of the bat. Billy never stopped to admire his hit, just peeled off for first base, running hard unless it was out of the park. If it was a homer, he would slow to a jog, head down, never hotdogging, never smacking on the pitcher, just acting lucky to be here. Not acting, Mike thought. Billy was for real. Lucky Billy.
    A chat room message popped up from EmoBaller, a high school outfielder from Connecticut. How opening game? Mike wrote back, We won I sucked. In a slump. EmoBaller wrote Hit the Buddline. Catchergrrl, a Long Island softball player wrote, Like Billy knows about slumps? They exchanged LOLs on that but Mike wasn’t in the mood to chat, especially when Catchergrrl and EmoBaller started trashing Billy’s girlfriend, the model. They agreed she looked coldand plastic. Mike wasn’t interested in criticizing Billy’s taste in women.
    After a while he logged onto the Buddline. A picture of Billy popped up. He was leaning back in the dugout, elbows hooked on the back of the bench, smiling. “How can I help you, young baller?” he said.
    A space opened up and the words Please type your question for Billy here.
    Mike wrote: I’m in a slump at the plate and in the field. What should I do?
    It took a while to bring himself to click on the HIT IT bar. My first question ever. Am I that desperate?
    He hit it.
    The Billy poster on his wall nodded. You did the right thing, young