Robert Tanenbaum - Outrage

Sensing something going on behind him, Newell turned. His eyes bugged when he saw Zak Karp in the batter’s box and his red face grew purple. But he said nothing, just signaled the pitch to Fitzgerald.

Zak saw Worley smile and knew what was coming. “You’re screwed, Karp,” Fitzgerald said, chuckling as the pitcher went into his windup.

Zak waited until just before Worley released the ball and stepped back out of the batter’s box. But he wasn’t trying to duck the pitch. He knew what the signal had been and knew where the pitch was going, which made it relatively easy to make contact and drive it up the middle of the field.

The ball skipped off the mound and caught Worley in the shins. The pitcher went down and began to howl. Weller and Anders rushed over to him. As Fitzgerald ran past Zak, he turned and pointed as he said, “Your ass is grass now, Karp.”

Zak shrugged and tossed the bat over his shoulder and walked to the locker room. Fifteen minutes later, he knocked on the door of Coach Newell’s office and walked in. The coach didn’t look up from whatever he was reading and gestured to the chair across from him. “Shut the door and take a seat, Karp” was all he said.

Zak did as he was told and was left to sit for several minutes before the coach looked up at him. “You mind telling me what you were trying to prove today?” Newell asked.

“I don’t think it’s right to try to hurt someone,” Zak said.

Newell acted as if he were shocked. “Hurt someone? Who said I wanted you to hurt someone? I asked for a fastball inside. Your opponent was crowding the plate. If you’re going to have qualms about making that pitch, you’re not going to get any offers to play ball in college.”

“The signal was ‘high and tight,’ a beanball,” Zak said. “I can pitch inside. But you can’t ask me to take a chance of hurting someone, especially on my own team.”

“Your own team,” Newell repeated with a sneer. “Do you consider it part of being a good teammate to ignore your coach’s instructions and then, in front of the whole team, treat him and your other teammates with disrespect? And do you think being a good teammate means trying to hit Worley? We’re lucky he’s only got a bruise or we’d be out our number-one pitcher going into the playoffs.”

The coach stopped talking and looked sideways at Zak. “Or is that what you wanted?”

The hotter-blooded of the twins, Zak knew he had to control his temper. “I didn’t mean to hit him. But he was trying to hit me.”

“He was doing what I asked him to do, unlike you,” Newell replied. “It’s good practice for the pitcher and the batter. The pitcher gains the intimidation factor, and the batter learns to get out of the way.”

“You did it because the batter was Esteban.”

Newell’s jaw set tight as he tried to stare Zak down. “I’m trying to mold a team here, Karp, to win a state championship,” he said as if trying his best to be patient. “And if I have a player on the team who is a disruption or doesn’t fit into what myself and the other coaches are trying to do here, then it’s part of my job to weed him out.”

“Esteban’s a good player,” Zak replied. “And he works hard.”

Newell shrugged. “He’s okay. But Weller’s a team leader, and he’s been around longer. Besides, those people are all about individual stats. They only see sports as a way out of the ghetto and couldn’t give a shit about the team. I think he’d be happier playing for a public school where he’d have more of his people around to habla espanol and play like a bunch of prima donnas. We’re fine without him; in case you haven’t noticed, we’re seeded second in the state and the playoffs start next week.”

“‘Those people’?” Zak said. “You mean Hispanics?”

“I mean poor Hispanics who come here and don’t even bother learning the language,” Newell replied. “But they expect everything to be handed to them on a silver platter. Well, it ain’t going to happen on my watch.”

Newell picked up the binder he’d been studying when Zak entered the room. “You know what this is?”

“A lineup book,” Zak replied.

“Damn right it is,” Newell said, and pushed it across his desk so that Zak could see it. “And this particular page is the lineup for game two of the playoffs. You can see that at the moment, I haven’t written anybody in as the starting pitcher. Normally, that would be your name there, but as of now you are suspended for conduct detrimental to the team.”

“What conduct?” Zak asked, fighting to keep back tears.

“Disrespect and attempting to hurt one of your teammates,” Newell replied.

“That’s not fair,” Zak exclaimed.

Newell leaned across his desk and fixed his eyes on the boy’s. “I decide what’s fair around here. Now, I don’t need to remind you that these playoff games attract a lot of attention from college and pro scouts, and it would be a shame for them not to see you. But I will not hesitate to keep you on the bench if your attitude doesn’t improve, and I mean pronto. Do I make myself clear?”

Zak dipped his head so that the coach wouldn’t see the anger in his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, now get the hell out of here,” Newell said, and then softened his tone. “Glad to have you on board, Zak; you’re going to have a hell of a career.”

Giancarlo was waiting for Zak outside the coach’s office. “Don’t say anything,” Zak said, looking at his brother. “I’m not in the mood.”

Closing his mouth, Giancarlo fell in step with Zak as they walked down the hallway toward the exit. But he couldn’t remain quiet. “I’m proud of you.”

Zak paused. “Yeah? Well you know what you being proud of me means? It means that if my ‘attitude’ doesn’t improve, he’s going to bench me for the playoffs. Right now I’m suspended for conduct detrimental to the team.”

“That’s crap! We need to tell someone,” Giancarlo sputtered.

“He’ll say I misinterpreted what he wanted me to pitch and that I was insubordinate,” Zak replied. “And that I purposefully tried to hurt Worley so that I could be the starting pitcher in game one. And this team will back him up, especially the upperclassmen; this is their chance for a state championship and they’re not going to let me, or some Hispanic guy, screw that up for them. Besides, who are we going to tell? We’re getting too old to run to Daddy every time something’s not going our way.”

The boys left the building and saw Lucy waiting for them in their mother’s high-end truck. She was parked behind a beat-up economy car with threadbare tires and rust spots on the panels. As they approached, the passenger-side door of the beat-up car opened and Esteban got out and walked toward them.

“Great, now what?” Zak growled.

“Hey, Esteban, what’s up?” Giancarlo said.

Esteban smiled at Giancarlo but held out his hand to Zak. “I wish to thank you,” he said in heavily accented English.

Zak frowned. That’s when he noticed another car in the lot containing Max Weller, Chase Fitzgerald, and Chet Anders. “I didn’t do anything,” he said without offering his hand in return, and walked on to where Lucy was waiting.

Esteban looked hurt and puzzled as he turned to Giancarlo. “I say something bad?”

Giancarlo shook his head. “Nah. He’s just upset ’cause the coach got mad at him,” he explained.

Esteban looked over to where Zak was crawling into the jump seat of the truck. He bit his lip and nodded. “I understand this,” he said, and put his hand out to Giancarlo, who shook it. “Please to tell him gracias again for me when time is right, eh?”

“I will,” Giancarlo said. “See you tomorrow.”