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  Okay, maybe not that, but you get the idea.

  Chapter

  18

  “JEREMIAH, HOW ARE you doing?” Dr. Bonano asks.

  “Okay.” I’m lying on a table.

  “I’m guiding the catheter now.”

  That’s a thin tube that he placed in my vein. It’s on its way to my heart.

  Welcome to my biopsy.

  “You with me?”

  “Uh-huh . . .” I feel dopey from the medicine they gave me.

  “Lie still.”

  A nurse checks a machine. “All right now . . .” Dr. Bonano is checking another screen. “You know how this goes. I’m going to remove a few little pieces from your heart muscle.”

  Sorry, Alice.

  “Here we go, Jeremiah.” I try not to picture chunks of my heart being snipped. “And another one . . .”

  I close my eyes. I feel pressure where they put the tube in. My mouth is dry. Lying still isn’t the easiest thing during a biopsy.

  “And one more piece for good measure.”

  “Breathe slowly,” the nurse tells me.

  I do. In and out . . . nice and slow . . .

  I’ve had so many biopsies.

  “Okay, Jeremiah, you’re doing great. I’m going to bring the catheter out now.”

  I can see the moving picture of this on the screen.

  Okay, Alice, you’re looking great. Looking strong.

  Now this would make a great science fair project!

  “Almost done, my friend.”

  “You’re doing fine,” the nurse says.

  I lie so still. I just want it to be over.

  The anesthesiologist nods and says, “We are A-okay.”

  On the screen I see my heart inside my chest, beating away.

  This biopsy is to make sure my new heart is behaving itself.

  The tube is out now. The nurse rubs my hand. “Nice job.”

  I nod. I get a bandage, then Walt comes in. We’ve been through this a lot, me and my dad.

  “Hey, pal.”

  “Hey.” I try to clear my head. “How are the . . . Reds doing against . . . um . . . ?”

  “LA?” Walt laughs. “Do you ever not think about baseball?”

  I shake my head.

  “So how are they doing against LA?” Dr. Bonano wants to know.

  Walt describes the game like an announcer. He knows I don’t want to miss a thing. He knows just about everything about me, except for those first nine months.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  I’m home and a little sore—just a little. I don’t remember when they said we’d get the results. I hate waiting, but actually, I’m pretty good at it.

  Kids say things like, “I’m waiting for my mother.”

  “I’m waiting for my sister to get out of the bathroom.”

  “I’m waiting to see what grade I got on the test.”

  That’s not real waiting.

  Real waiting is long and hard, like waiting eleven months and seventeen days to see if you’ll get a donor heart so you can keep living.

  All that waiting with nothing happening, then everything happens faster than you can imagine so the donor heart stays strong.

  I know about waiting.

  Chapter

  19

  I AM NOT supposed to overdo. I am supposed to cut back when I’m tired.

  But I would like to mention that baseball takes time and energy. Developing talent in people does, too. It isn’t easy. You have to put yourself out there, hoping like crazy you’ll get a break. Hoping sucks up a lot of energy. People don’t think about that.

  We have ten players now. Donald Mole wants to play. The problem is Donald Mole can’t hit, run, catch, or field.

  But if we get one more player, just one, then Mr. Hazard says the Lincoln Middle School Tornadoes will play us tomorrow. This is huge, but as I emphasized to Walt, this is not overdoing!

  The problem is, we can’t find that eleventh player.

  I look at Franny, who says, “I don’t know anyone.”

  “But do you play?”

  “No.”

  So we practice drills and footwork and running and hitting. We practice catching on the run, how to stand at the plate, how not to drop the ball.

  “You hold on to it like it’s a wad of money,” I tell them. “And I want you to hustle. On and off the field. Your mother tells you to do the dishes? You do it with energy! Get excited. And bring it out on the field every day!”

  I tell Donald, “Picture in your mind where you want that ball to go when you hit it.”

  “I can’t,” he says. At least he’s honest.

  “Where would you like it to go, Donald?”

  He thinks hard. “Between the second baseman and the shortstop in Yankee Stadium.”

  “Keep thinking big, Donald.” I turn to the team. “Does anyone know one more player?”

  Donald Mole raises his hand. “I know lots of players, but they don’t want to play.”

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t understand what’s happening here,” he says quietly.

  I wish I could teach you to play, Donald. You’ve got the heart, but absolutely no talent.

  I end practice on this: “If you can find anybody for tomorrow, bring them.”

  Danny Lopez says, “The Tornadoes will kill us.”

  Sky says, “Not playing is killing us more.”

  “We’re dead either way.” That’s Logo.

  “No death allowed,” I tell them. “Nobody’s out there alone. We’re a team. Remember?” I read the roster. “We’ve got Sky pitching, Casey as relief pitcher, Logo catching, Benchant on first base, Donald on second, Danny Lopez on third, the Oxleys in the outfield.” The triplets cheer. “Terrell Younger—shortstop.” We hope and pray Terrell will cover second base, too. “Good work today.”

  The team heads home. I stand alone on the field and look at the tree the school planted in Hargie’s memory. It’s surrounded by a little fence to protect it because (for lack of a better garden explanation) it’s a baby.

  I’d like to put a protective fence around my guys. They won’t need it forever, but just for a little while. I think of an eagle’s nest that’s built to last—high up in a tree to avoid predators. It’s a condo. It’s a fort.

  I think of all the coaches in history who stood on their fields hoping their teams wouldn’t embarrass themselves. There are so many great coaches out there. Why did Hillcrest get stuck with two such bad ones?

  I look at the huge baseball bat glistening on the little hill.

  “Jeremiah!” Mr. Hazard walks toward me, waving. “I’ve spoken to the coach of the Tornadoes. They have two injured players and are down to ten, like us. They agreed to play a game tomorrow. What do you think?”

  I shake his hand. “Mr. Hazard, I don’t know if we can win, but we’re going to play our best.”

  “I like that attitude, Jeremiah!”

  “We’ve been focusing on hustle, sir.”

  “Keep it up!”

  And he’s off. I walk across the street and take out my phone. There’s a message from Walt.

  Your biopsy results came back normal, Jer. You don’t need the monitor.

  I knew it! I feel totally free! I love being normal—I mean, medically normal.

  I don’t know how to contact all the players, but the ones I can get this:

  Tomorrow it begins. 10 players. 7 innings. Be there with your best and stop the Tornadoes. Pass it on.

  Chapter

  20

  I’M IN CIVILIZATION class with Mr. Aronson, and doing everything I can to pay attention. The ancient Greeks started the Olympics and were big on sports and competition, so I think they would appreciate that I can’t give this my best right now.

  I hav
e to save that for baseball!

  Mr. Aronson writes The tragic flaw on the board. He explains, “This is important to understand. What does tragic mean?”

  Franny raises her hand. “Something awful and sad.”

  “That’s right.”

  He’s got my attention.

  “What’s a flaw?” he asks us.

  No one says anything.

  “Class . . . ?” He holds up a glass. “Right here”—he points to the rim—“is a crack. It’s hard to see. Eventually it will get worse and probably cause the glass to break.” He smiles. “So what’s a flaw?”

  I raise my hand. “It’s a defect that makes something weak.”

  “That’s right. The Greeks understood about defects in the human heart. They wrote stories about people and gods who had great strengths, but their weakness, their flaw, was so great, it caused their downfall.”

  On the board, Mr. Aronson writes:

  PRIDE

  ANGER

  LOVE OF MONEY

  EXCESSIVE LOYALTY

  “These were some of the flaws explored in Greek tragedy. Tonight I want you to read the story of Achilles, the greatest warrior in the ancient world. Then fill out his report card.” He smiles.

  We look at one another. Report card?

  The bell rings.

  “Go forth,” Mr. Aronson tells us. “Do no harm.”

  He always ends class that way. I head for the field.

  Hearts sure are complicated.

  I’m not sure how the ancient Greeks would feel about what I need to say to the team. I’ve got exactly forty-five minutes to get them game-ready.

  “Guys, I’ve been thinking.” I’m chewing gum, which I don’t usually do, but baseball players chew gum constantly, and their managers chew gum like it’s the only thing keeping them from biting somebody. I hand out gum to the team.

  “Chew,” I say. “Really hard.” They start chewing. “Wad it up in your cheek. Go for it. You want more?” A couple of guys take another stick.

  “What are we doing?” Terrell asks.

  I’m not sure they’re ready for this. “You’re looking like serious ballplayers.”

  They chew harder and spit on the ground.

  “Yeah!” I say.

  More spitting.

  “There it is,” I say. “Awesome.”

  More chewing.

  “I’m not saying skill isn’t important in baseball—that takes time to develop, but something you can do in this game could open the door to big things.”

  “Spitting?” Logo asks.

  I’m going to have to lead them. “It’s not just the spitting; it’s what the spitting means. It means you’re tough.” All of them spit. I back up a little. “And when you feel tough, you look different, you play different. Name me one top ball team that doesn’t chew gum and spit.”

  They can’t do it.

  “See?” I say. “We’ll work on the game, but this is first.”

  I spit.

  They spit.

  “You guys are kind of scary when you do that.”

  They stand a little taller, they nod—a tough nod. A couple of them scratch, too, which is a good thing to add, but I don’t want to get too complicated.

  The Tornadoes walk onto the field. Mr. Darko, Hillcrest Middle School’s soccer coach, runs over. He’s our official school-sponsored adult.

  Casey asks, “What if they chew and spit?”

  “You do it better.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  Mr. Darko looks confused. “I think I missed something.”

  “We’re getting in the zone, sir.”

  My guys chew hard and spit like all-stars. Mr. Darko jumps back.

  The Tornadoes don’t have gum. Too bad.

  “Aw right!” I shout. “Let’s play ball!”

  “I don’t know if I can pitch and chew,” Sky mentions.

  “You can do it.” I’m clapping to get them to hustle.

  “We have mouth guards, Jeremiah.”

  “Work it out. You’re ballplayers!”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  We didn’t win, but we didn’t look that bad losing. And we had four fierce parents to cheer us on.

  The final score: 4–1. That’s respectable for a first game. On my notepad I write, MAXIMUM IMPACT. That’s what this team needs to have in a short period of time. It would be nice if we had another game to play.

  I’m clapping. “Keep the energy up, keep the focus. Who are we?”

  “The Muskrats!” they shout.

  Man. Who picked that name?

  I raise my fist. “We are baseball in Hillcrest!”

  Big cheers.

  Then the reality of that sets in.

  Chapter

  21

  ACHILLES, LET ME tell you, had issues.

  I give him an A+ on the battlefield, but an F in Taking Advice, Handling Insults, and Being a Team Player. He gets a big “Needs work” on Anger Management, too. My recommendation is that Achilles’s parents, Thetis and Peleus, come in immediately for a teacher’s conference, although this could be tense because Thetis is a sea nymph and can morph into different shapes. I suspect his mother is a big part of the problem.

  A lot of people in Hillcrest get a “Needs work” in Anger Management. Walt says nobody thinks clearly when they’re mad. You should lock yourself in a room and not make any decisions until you’re calmer.

  Everywhere, the news is bad, and hardly anyone is taking it calmly.

  STEROID USE RAMPANT AMONG HILLCREST HORNETS, INVESTIGATION SHOWS

  6 PLAYERS OUT OF 15 TEST POSITIVE FOR STEROID USE

  I show it to Walt. His face gets stiff.

  I hold my baseball so tight, my arm hurts.

  “The players are under a doctor’s care,” says the sheriff.

  “We can only hope and pray there will not be permanent damage to these young athletes,” says Pastor Burmeister of Peaceful Lutheran Church.

  The Hornets who tested positive for steroids have a lawyer. She says, “My clients, these fine young athletes, didn’t know what the coach was giving them. He assured them they were taking vitamins.”

  Coach Perkins has two lawyers. One of them says, “We are confident that the truth will come out and that Delmar Perkins’s innocence will be upheld.” The other lawyer says, “Coach Perkins loves his players more than he loves himself.”

  The lawyer for the high school says, “This is a tragedy at many levels, and Hillcrest High School is addressing it with speed, accountability, and compassion.”

  The media loves this story.

  “In the little town of Hillcrest, nestled in Ohio’s western hills, there was a dark secret, so dark that a boy with exceptional promise is now dead, and one of the country’s most respected high school baseball programs has been suspended, the coach arrested, the town left grappling with a big question: Who are we now?”

  Suspended.

  Canceled.

  Embarrassed.

  The town welcome sign about pushing to be the best is taken down. The baseball bat statue on the hill feels like it shouldn’t be there.

  Shame on you.

  That’s what one article said. The shame was on us and it stuck, like stepping in dog doo—even if you scrape it off, there’s still the smell.

  Words have such power.

  We’re trying to hustle during baseball practice to find the energy, but it’s hard to do that when so much around you says you’re a fake.

  But there’s one person who isn’t upset by any of this. He can’t understand steroids and cheating and losing your reputation. But Benny Lewis thinks our team and our town are great.

  He can’t wait to see us play. He shouts “Yay!” and “Good catch!” even when it isn’t a good one.

 
; For three days, Benny doesn’t come to practice because he has to have tests at his doctor’s office. And for three days, it isn’t the same. Even Benchant misses him.

  “The little guy’s okay, right?”

  “He’s coming tomorrow,” Franny tells us. But Benny gets strep throat. He has to stay home.

  And it feels to me like the town is getting weaker. I think Hillcrest needs a heart transplant. But before you can put the new heart in, you have to take the old heart out.

  I’m thinking about this while Walt wraps a sheet halfway around me and fastens it at the shoulder. I’m playing Aristotle in Think About It Day at my school. One day a month a kid dresses up like a famous dead person and walks around school saying things that are supposed to make everyone think differently. Aristotle is a major ancient Greek who thought hard about everything.

  I adjust the fake beard Mr. Aronson gave me to wear. Walt and I look in the mirror together—two guys with beards.

  “I still don’t look like you, Walt.”

  “The sheet doesn’t help, Jer.”

  Mr. Aronson and I reworked some of Aristotle’s sayings so kids could get the general idea and not be bored into oblivion. Jerwal rolls into the room and stops. I raise my right arm, let my voice go deep.

  “Excellence is formed in a person who works at being excellent.”

  Jerwal beeps.

  “I like that.” Walt scoops up SARB, who is stuck in the corner.

  I scratch under my beard and head toward the door. It’s not easy walking in a sheet.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Kids at school don’t connect to the sheet right off, and lots of them laugh when I stop in the hall, raise my arm, and say major things.

  “Dignity does not come by having honors, but by deserving them.”

  “All people are alike when they sleep.”

  In the cafeteria, I shout: “Happiness rocks!” That’s a very loose translation, but kids totally get the concept.

  Benchant pulls my beard. Logo calls out, “Way to go, Big A!” I nod wisely and try not to trip on my sheet.

  Mr. Aronson is beyond happy. “We’re shooting energy through this school. Good job, Jeremiah.”