Mascot

  He turns to me, smiling. I try to smile right back, but I still can’t believe I might actually get away with this. Maybe that’s what makes him suspicious.

  “Tell me something, Noah,” he says. “What exactly were you hoping to accomplish with the itching powder?”

  I look at Mom and back to Mr. Dillon. It’s time to come clean. “I wanted you to take off the mask.”

  “Well, yes. But why?”

  “Because . . . because I thought it would be funny,” I blurt out.

  Okay, so maybe I don’t want to come clean after all. And now Mom is glaring at me. I’m going to pay for this later.

  “I see,” says Mr. Dillon. He scratches his chin like he’s thinking hard. Or maybe it’s just because he’s itchy. “And what about the keys to the nest? Did I drop them in your section, or did you take them?”

  “Take” is code for “steal,” and it’s clear he already knows the answer. Mom shakes her head at me in disgust. I swallow hard.

  “That was kind of my fault, Daddy,” says Makayla sheepishly. “Noah and Dee-Dub said they wanted to leave a surprise for you in the nest, so I swiped the keys. I didn’t know the surprise was itching powder, but hey . . . it worked out great!”

  Mom isn’t buying this explanation at all, I can tell. But she doesn’t want to accuse Makayla of lying when her own son is the one on trial. “Well, you’re quite the team, aren’t you?” There’s an edge to her voice.

  “Sure are.” Makayla flashes a toothy grin. “Kind of like you and my dad. You’re a good team too. Don’t you think so, Noah?”

  She just saved my butt, so I nod.

  “You’re not going to start sucking each other’s faces, though, are you?”

  “Makayla!” cries her father. “I told you: we’re just friends.”

  “Friends,” agrees Mom, blushing like crazy. “Really, Noah. You’ve got to stop teaching Makayla things like that. She’s only nine.”

  “I’m only nine,” Makayla parrots.

  Then she winks.

  It’s like watching a younger version of Alyssa. So I do the sensible thing: I make a mental note to stay on Makayla’s good side. If she’s following in Alyssa’s footsteps, I don’t stand a chance of beating her.

  But you know what? I don’t think I’ll have to. I get the feeling she’s on my side.

  I wink right back.

  39

  Home Runs

  It’s Saturday morning, ten o’clock, and Alyssa winds up to pitch. The sun is bright against her cheek, and she’s squinting. Her hair is pulled back in a tight braid that means business. She’s playing to win.

  The ball flies from her hand, curving in toward Logan’s body. He contorts his chest to avoid getting beaned. I catch the ball in my mitt and throw it right back to her.

  “Ball one!” shouts Mr. Riggieri.

  “Seriously, Alyssa?” Logan sneers. “You’re really going to hit me again?”

  She doesn’t answer. Alyssa knows something that Logan doesn’t—the pitch wasn’t her call. It was mine. Now that he’s off-balance and scared of getting whacked, he’ll be on the defensive. It’s all part of my strategy.

  There’s a good crowd at Berra Park. Lots of the kids on the playground have half an eye on our game. So do their parents. It’s a perfect day for watching baseball. Especially when the main players are a kid who looks big enough to be in high school, a really cute girl who’s dressed like a bumblebee, and a catcher in a wheelchair.

  I signal for the same pitch. Alyssa nods.

  This time Logan falls over as he dodges the ball.

  “Ball two!” shouts Mr. Riggieri.

  “This is pathetic.” Logan hauls himself off the ground. “Why don’t you just walk me already?”

  Alyssa returns a patient smile and sets about readying for the next pitch. It’s a fastball. Dead center of the strike zone. The kind of pitch that Logan ought to smack all the way to Chicago. But he’s convinced it’s going to curve into him, so he hesitates. Watches it whip by and bury itself in my mitt.

  “Stee-rike one!” exclaims Mr. Riggieri.

  Logan’s furious. Such an easy pitch and he totally missed it. He’s probably vowing to hit the next one extra hard. Which is why he’s way ahead of the ball when Alyssa gives him a pitch so slow it bounces a foot in front of him.

  “Strike two!”

  The game is no longer just between Alyssa and Logan. It’s also between Logan and Logan. She’s totally inside his head, and he’s second-guessing everything. Things are going exactly the way we wanted them to.

  Logan glances toward the playground like he’s looking for inspiration there. I follow his eyes to a bench on the far side, where a powerful-looking man in dark glasses and a Cardinals baseball cap is watching us intently.

  I recognize him instantly. It’s Logan’s dad, Coach Montgomery. But what’s he doing here? And why are Justin and Carlos with him?

  “Yo, Noah!” Alyssa is waving at me. “You still playing?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Right.”

  I signal for the original pitch: curling into his body. Alyssa nods. Winds up. Releases. But this time, the ball doesn’t turn. Maybe the brief delay broke her rhythm or she lost control of the pitch, but it flies so straight it may as well be on a wire. Logan’s ball-playing instincts kick in, and he swings. Makes perfect contact and sends the ball skyward. It flies like a bullet, heading toward a group of parents and kids in the far corner of the field.

  I yell at the top of my lungs and point, but I can’t tell if they’re watching. If the ball hits someone . . .

  A moment before impact, one guy reaches backward and casually bare-hands the catch.

  “Uh . . . ,” says Logan. “Did that guy just catch the ball bare-handed?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You probably broke every bone in his hand.”

  I look up at Mr. Riggieri to see his reaction. He’s standing beside me, a small smile playing on his lips, not because of the catch but because of the man who made it: his son, Marco. Phil is here too, and so is the rest of the Riggieri family—his daughters and grandkids. Mr. Riggieri looks like he doesn’t know what to do.

  Eager to get on with the game, Logan traipses across the dirt and takes the mound. Across the park, Marco throws the ball back to us. He’s got a cannon for an arm, and the ball makes it all the way to the infield before bouncing once and hopping all the way to Logan’s outstretched glove. For once, Logan is speechless. He doesn’t often see throws like that in Little League.

  Arriving at home plate, Dee-Dub picks up the bat and prepares for Logan’s pitch.

  “It’s going to be a fastball,” I whisper.

  “Shhh,” replies Dee-Dub. “I need to concentrate.”

  “I know,” I say. “But I’m telling you: it’s going to be a fastball. . . . Low and away.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “What? We went over this thirty minutes ago.”

  “Yes. But you never explained the terminology to me.”

  “Because you never asked.”

  Dee-Dub nods. “That was, admittedly, an oversight on my part.”

  Brows furrowed, Logan watches us from the pitcher’s mound. All this talk between Dee-Dub and me has made him suspicious. And for what? Dee-Dub doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.

  So much for our pregame pep talk. All I wanted was for Dee-Dub to smack that fastball across the state line. He’d be a legend, and for once, it wouldn’t be because of math. Sheesh!

  I give Logan the signal for a fastball. From the way he hesitates, I think maybe he’s on to us and is going to demand a different pitch. He doesn’t, though.

  I take a deep breath, relieved. Then I catch a glimpse of his grip on the ball, and I’m not so relieved anymore. His two top fingers aren’t slightly apart the way they should be for a fastball. They’re pressed together, the grip for his slider. Dee-Dub doesn’t stand a chance.

  Logan winds up. I know what’s coming, and instinctively, I positi
on my glove down and to the right. Even though the ball looks like it’s on a collision course with my mask, I trust Logan’s pitch to curve away and hit my glove, just as it did hundreds of times last year when we played on the same team.

  Poor Dee-Dub begins his swing, a giant lumbering swipe that will only shift air. Or will it? Because something crazy happens while the ball is in flight. With catlike reflexes, Dee-Dub bends his knees and extends his shoulder and suddenly the bat seems six inches longer. Long enough to reach all the way to the bottom corner of the strike zone. Long enough to make perfect contact with the ball.

  With a deafening crack, the ball takes off. It careens toward the group still hanging out in the far corner of the park. As he did before, Marco Riggieri calmly steps up and catches it like it’s no big deal.

  Logan isn’t looking at Marco, though. He’s staring at Dee-Dub. “How did you hit that pitch?” he demands. “My slider’s unhittable. Everyone says so.”

  Dee-Dub shrugs. “I recognized your grip. Your release and follow-through too.”

  “How do you know about different grips?” I ask.

  “YouTube,” he says.

  Logan approaches the batter’s box with thunderous steps. I really hope he’s not about to start another fight with Dee-Dub. I guess Coach Montgomery is thinking the same thing, because he jogs over to us. Luckily, Logan seems to remember how well the last fight turned out and stops a few yards away. As his father draws alongside him, he scuffs the ground with his foot.

  “Can you really do that?” Logan asks Dee-Dub. “See my grip and stuff.”

  “Apparently so,” replies Dee-Dub, who seems as surprised as us to discover that it’s true.

  Logan looks at his dad. His dad looks at Logan. “Is this the kid who broke your nose, son?”

  Logan sniffs and winces but doesn’t answer.

  “Yes, sir,” says Dee-Dub helpfully. “That was me.”

  “Hmm.” Coach Montgomery eyes Dee-Dub like a particularly dangerous species of bear. “What do you say we put that fighting spirit to better use?”

  “You want me to train as a boxer?” asks Dee-Dub.

  “Definitely not.”

  “A mixed-martial-arts fighter?”

  “Huh?” Coach Montgomery looks exhausted already. “No. I want you to try out for my Little League team.”

  “Oh.” For maybe the first time, Dee-Dub, certifiable genius, looks completely stumped. “Well, I’ll, uh . . . consider it,” he says.

  “’Cause I’m telling you, anyone who can hit Logan’s slider is kind of useful.”

  “Looks like neither of us is unhittable, huh, Logan?” says Alyssa, joining us.

  I wait for Logan’s excuse: how he isn’t feeling well or it was cheating to let Dee-Dub bat for us.

  “I guess not,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not both good.”

  Everyone falls silent. Has Logan’s body been taken over by a peace-loving alien? Did Dee-Dub’s punch to his schnoz knock some sense into him? One thing’s for sure: I never thought I’d see the day that Logan said something nice about Alyssa.

  “Is the world ending?” she asks.

  “Must be,” I say. “There’s no other explanation.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” Dee-Dub asks him.

  “What’s the big deal?” complains Logan. He looks at his dad.

  “Logan’s right. You are good,” Coach Montgomery tells Alyssa. “And you’ll be even better once you get some more control.”

  “And how am I going to do that?” she asks.

  “With coaching, obviously. We coach all our players in Little League.”

  Alyssa gives him a funny look. “You want me to join the team too?”

  “Why not?” says Coach. “You can pitch.”

  She returns a blank stare. “Uh . . . okay,” she says.

  “And you,” says Logan, turning to me, “need to come back too.”

  Oh, geez. Here we go. I should’ve known Logan would want to get in one last dig at me.

  “Don’t tell me,” I begin. “You want me to be the pinch runner.”

  Logan frowns. For a kid who’s spent the past few weeks making terrible wheelchair jokes, he seems oddly uncomfortable with spinal injury sarcasm. Then again, no one else is laughing either. Maybe it’s time for both of us to drop the lame attempts at humor.

  Coach Montgomery straightens. “I was thinking more like an assistant coach,” he says. “I just watched you and Alyssa work Logan for four pitches. And yeah, I might be biased, but I happen to think my son is quite talented. If you can get inside his head, you’ll be performing Jedi mind tricks on weaker players.”

  “What do you say, Noah?” Logan asks.

  Actually, I don’t know what to say. I’m still not keen on spending quality time with Logan, but I want to be involved with the game again. And one thing is for sure: with Dee-Dub and Alyssa on the team, it’ll be a lot more fun.

  “Count me in,” I say. “Assistant Coach Savino sounds pretty good.”

  “Maybe Mr. Riggieri could coach too,” suggests Dee-Dub.

  But Mr. Riggieri isn’t with us anymore. He’s all the way across the field, talking to the group of bystanders, especially the guy who caught our ball . . . twice.

  “Don’t tell me,” Alyssa whispers. “This is the plan you were talking about in gym the other day.” I nod, and she takes my hand. “Good. I like this one more than Operation GMU.”

  “Face-Off!” says Dee-Dub.

  “Why didn’t you call it Operation Mascot?” she says. “Sometimes simple is best.”

  Dee-Dub looks at me sideways. “Operation Mascot does make sense, Noah.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Operation Mascot. I like that. Almost as good as Operation Reunite Riggieri.”

  We all turn to watch the miracle of Mr. Riggieri and his children coming back together. It’s like whatever invisible force has been keeping them apart is breaking down before our eyes.

  Dee-Dub rests his hand on my shoulder. “At least this plan worked perfectly,” he says.

  I can’t help grinning. “Must’ve had the right number of variables.”

  Old Mr. Riggieri extends his hand to Phil and then changes his mind and steps forward to hug him. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until Phil and Marco hug him right back. I try to take a mental photograph of the image. Fathers and sons shouldn’t be apart. Not as long as there’s still the chance to be together.

  “Anyone hungry?” Mom’s voice comes from behind us. She’s standing on the other side of the chain-link fence, taking everything in. Mr. Dillon and Makayla are with her.

  “I am,” says Dee-Dub.

  “Seriously?” complains Logan. “It’s only ten fifteen.” He signals for Justin and Carlos to join us. Then he points at the Riggieris, who are crossing the field. “If we can get everyone to play, we’ll have enough people for a full game. That includes you, Mrs. Savino.”

  Looking uncertain, Mom steps around the fence to join us. Mr. Dillon and Makayla follow her.

  “You owe me for this, Noah,” Makayla says. But she’s smiling.

  Dee-Dub stands at home plate, loosely swinging the bat as Alyssa takes the mound. As I call pitches, Logan orders my mom to third base, and Makayla and Mr. Dillon to first and second. The Riggieri family spreads across the field. Most amazing of all, Logan tells his dad to umpire, and Coach Montgomery nods. I never thought I’d see the day that Coach took orders from his son.

  The sun is warm, and the air is filled with the smell of pastries from nearby restaurants. The thirty or so kids on the playground are watching us, our very own cheering squad, as enthusiastic as mascots. It’s fall, and the first leaves are turning, but this moment feels like a new beginning. As if anything is possible.

  I know it’s just my imagination, but as I look up at the clear blue sky, I feel like my dad is watching me. He would’ve loved a day like this. If he were here, he’d be lobbing me pitches that never come close to the target, and I’d be laug
hing as I stretched to either side to catch them. If Alyssa came along, he’d happily pick up a bat and let her pitch in his place. If Dee-Dub came along, he’d hand over the bat and stand on the sidelines watching and cheering. And maybe that’s where he is now—on the sidelines, invisible but somehow present. Gone but always with me.

  Time and effort, Noah. It’s all just time and effort.

  “I know, Dad,” I murmur. “I get it now.”

  I look straight ahead and raise my glove, ready for the pitch.

  Next play.

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village to raise a child. Luckily, Noah, Dee-Dub, Alyssa, and Makayla had a vast international community helping to bring their stories to life. In roughly chronological order:

  My eternal gratitude to Ted Malawer, agent and friend, who read a few rather rough chapters of this book and told me in the clearest way that Noah’s story needed to be written. To say you were all-in on this book from the get-go is an understatement, and I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Writing Mascot meant educating myself in the complex and traumatic world of severe spinal injuries. In an era when so much excellent information is available online, nothing was as eye-opening as my visit to the St. Louis Children’s Hospital Neurorehabilitation Unit. Sincere thanks to Dr. Michael Noetzel, who set up my visit, and especially to Antonia Goelz, whom I shadowed for a morning. To see the bond between such determined kids and their unflaggingly enthusiastic care providers was inspiring. Any errors or misrepresentations are entirely mine.

  Other St. Louisans were similarly generous with their time. In particular, I’d like to thank Mark Taylor, director of community relations for the St. Louis Cardinals, who answered a barrage of what must have seemed like seriously weird questions and gave me a personal tour of Busch Stadium, including behind-the-scenes access to Fredbird’s nest. (Yes, I took photographs.)