“parents,” Brian noticed. Plural. It was something you noticed when you had only one parent.
Singular.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Mr. Schenkel said to them in his office. “There are going to be times this season when there’s a real late game one night and a real early game the next day and the most sensible thing is going to be to just sleep here. So with ESPN making us their Sunday Night Baseball game and us having to play a twelve thirty on Monday because the Rangers are flying to the West Coast right after the game, well, long story short, we’re gonna just stay over tomorrow night.”
Brian wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.
“Stay . . . over ?”
Finn said, “No way .”
“It’s a fact,” Mr. Schenkel said. “Now you can both close your mouths. I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want the two of you to start pecking at me the first time a Friday night game ran late and we had to turn the whole thing around for Saturday afternoon.”
“We get to have a sleepover . . . here? ” Brian said.
“ If, ” Mr. Schenkel said, “it’s okay with your parents.”
“Oh, trust us,” Finn said. “It will be.”
And it was.
Brian explained to his mom what Mr. Schenkel had explained to them: that Mr. S. would take the couch in Davey Schofield’s office and Brian and Finn would sleep on the two couches in the main clubhouse, the ones set up in front of the two flat-screen television sets.
Liz Dudley shook her head. “By the end of the season I’m going to end up feeling like your home away from home.”
“Do you not want me to do this?” Brian said, scared as soon as he said it that she might say that she didn’t.
“No, no, no,” she said. “You go and have a good time. I know it’s where you want to be.”
“It’s only going to be this one night and maybe a few others during the season,” Brian said.
She closed her eyes, slowly shook her head. “Look at me,” she said, “getting to live the baseball dream all over again.”
As she walked out of the room, she said, “It’s like they say about the mob. Just when you think you’re out, they pull you back in.”
The last thing he heard was her shutting the door to her bedroom. He’d always known that baseball was never going to be anything he could share with her, not the way he had with his dad when he was still around. And he’d tried to tell her every way he knew how that baseball wasn’t ever going to come between them the way it had with her and his dad.
But now he wasn’t so sure.
Sunday went so fast for Brian that he felt as if he’d instant-messaged himself through the whole day.
First he got two hits against Royal Oak, even plated the go-ahead run in the seventh when he doubled home Will Coben, before the Sting scored six in the eighth to turn the game into a total beatdown.
When the game was over, he changed in the car, his mom getting him down to Comerica at four o’clock on the nose, yelling at him as he sprinted for the entrance that he’d forgotten his gym bag, the one with his toothbrush and a change of clothes in it.
“Thanks,” he said, out of breath.
“I have never seen anybody this excited to get hardly any sleep,” she said.
He went straight for Willie Vazquez’s locker, the way he did every day now, starting to feel a little bit like he should be wearing one of those little red McDonald’s outfits as he took Willie’s order. By now, word of the burger runs had spread, and Willie gave him orders from Curtis and Mike Parilli, too.
“Mike, too?” Brian said.
“He says he’d rather eat paper than those little cut-up veggie deals,” Willie said. “Just think of it as givin’ us all fuel, just with pickles and fries and whatnot.”
And tonight it worked like rocket fuel for Willie. He went 4-for-4, scored three runs, knocked in three, stole two bases, and even ended the game with an acrobatic play behind second base—laying out to his left, somehow gloving the ball,
Singular.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Mr. Schenkel said to them in his office. “There are going to be times this season when there’s a real late game one night and a real early game the next day and the most sensible thing is going to be to just sleep here. So with ESPN making us their Sunday Night Baseball game and us having to play a twelve thirty on Monday because the Rangers are flying to the West Coast right after the game, well, long story short, we’re gonna just stay over tomorrow night.”
Brian wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly.
“Stay . . . over ?”
Finn said, “No way .”
“It’s a fact,” Mr. Schenkel said. “Now you can both close your mouths. I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want the two of you to start pecking at me the first time a Friday night game ran late and we had to turn the whole thing around for Saturday afternoon.”
“We get to have a sleepover . . . here? ” Brian said.
“ If, ” Mr. Schenkel said, “it’s okay with your parents.”
“Oh, trust us,” Finn said. “It will be.”
And it was.
Brian explained to his mom what Mr. Schenkel had explained to them: that Mr. S. would take the couch in Davey Schofield’s office and Brian and Finn would sleep on the two couches in the main clubhouse, the ones set up in front of the two flat-screen television sets.
Liz Dudley shook her head. “By the end of the season I’m going to end up feeling like your home away from home.”
“Do you not want me to do this?” Brian said, scared as soon as he said it that she might say that she didn’t.
“No, no, no,” she said. “You go and have a good time. I know it’s where you want to be.”
“It’s only going to be this one night and maybe a few others during the season,” Brian said.
She closed her eyes, slowly shook her head. “Look at me,” she said, “getting to live the baseball dream all over again.”
As she walked out of the room, she said, “It’s like they say about the mob. Just when you think you’re out, they pull you back in.”
The last thing he heard was her shutting the door to her bedroom. He’d always known that baseball was never going to be anything he could share with her, not the way he had with his dad when he was still around. And he’d tried to tell her every way he knew how that baseball wasn’t ever going to come between them the way it had with her and his dad.
But now he wasn’t so sure.
Sunday went so fast for Brian that he felt as if he’d instant-messaged himself through the whole day.
First he got two hits against Royal Oak, even plated the go-ahead run in the seventh when he doubled home Will Coben, before the Sting scored six in the eighth to turn the game into a total beatdown.
When the game was over, he changed in the car, his mom getting him down to Comerica at four o’clock on the nose, yelling at him as he sprinted for the entrance that he’d forgotten his gym bag, the one with his toothbrush and a change of clothes in it.
“Thanks,” he said, out of breath.
“I have never seen anybody this excited to get hardly any sleep,” she said.
He went straight for Willie Vazquez’s locker, the way he did every day now, starting to feel a little bit like he should be wearing one of those little red McDonald’s outfits as he took Willie’s order. By now, word of the burger runs had spread, and Willie gave him orders from Curtis and Mike Parilli, too.
“Mike, too?” Brian said.
“He says he’d rather eat paper than those little cut-up veggie deals,” Willie said. “Just think of it as givin’ us all fuel, just with pickles and fries and whatnot.”
And tonight it worked like rocket fuel for Willie. He went 4-for-4, scored three runs, knocked in three, stole two bases, and even ended the game with an acrobatic play behind second base—laying out to his left, somehow gloving the ball,
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