11

Henry flipped the light switch, dropped his equipment on the rug, sank down on the edge of his unmade bed. He kicked off his shoes and almost instantly fell asleep. But the phone was ringing. He had to answer the phone. It might be about Owen.

“Skrimmer.”

“Schwartzy.” They’d last seen each other ten minutes ago, when Schwartz dropped him off by the loading dock of the dining hall.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. Not since lunch.”

Schwartz gave a paternal sigh of reproof. “Gotta eat, Skrimmer.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Doesn’t matter. Have a shake. What time are you running stadiums?”

“Six thirty.” Henry lay on his back, eyes shut. “Hey. I forgot to ask. Any news from schools?” Schwartz was applying to law schools, top-notch places like Harvard and Stanford and Yale. Tucked into Henry’s bag was a bottle of Ugly Duckling, the big guy’s favorite bourbon, to give him when the good news came. Henry hoped it would be soon—the bottle wasn’t all that heavy, but he’d been lugging it around for weeks.

“Mail only comes once a day, Skrimmer. I’ll keep you posted.”

“I heard Emily Neutzel got into Georgetown,” Henry offered. “So maybe soon.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” Schwartz repeated. “Have a shake. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Henry got up—last time, this—and pulled a pitcher of pilfered dining-hall milk out of the fridge, added two scoops of SuperBoost. Ever since he’d arrived at Westish he’d been trying, trying, trying to gain weight. He’d grown an inch and put on thirty pounds; he could do forty pull-ups and bench-press alongside the football players. But still the knock against him was his size. Teams wanted monsters in their middle infields, guys who could blast home runs; the days when you could thrive as a pure defensive genius, an Omar Vizquel or Aparicio Rodriguez, were over. He had to be a genius and a monster. He had to eat, and eat, and eat. He lifted weights so he could chug his SuperBoost, so he could lift more weights, so he could chug more SuperBoost, lift, chug, lift, chug, trying to gather as many molecules as possible under the name Henry Skrimshander. An economy like that wasn’t very efficient—it produced, to be honest, an awful lot of foul-smelling waste, which caused Owen to light matches and shake his head in dismay. But it was what he had to do.

Hours after the game, he was still wearing his jockstrap and cup—not a pleasant feeling. He pried them away from his crotch, stripped naked, climbed into bed. His legs and feet, gritty from sliding and diving on the infield, chafed against the sheets.

The phone again. He needed to answer the phone: it would be news about Owen, or someone looking for news about Owen.

“Henry Skrimshander?”

“This is Henry.” Not a teammate—a woman’s voice. Probably the doctor.

“Henry, this is Miranda Szabo of SzaboSport Incorporated. I hear congratulations are in order.”

“What for?”

“What for? How about for putting yourself on par with the great Aparicio Rodriguez? Today was the day, right?”

“Oh. Well, I mean, it’s… yes, today.” When a game ended midinning, which happened most often because of rain, the official statistics reverted to the last finished inning. Officially, then, the Harpooners had beaten Milford 8–3 in eight innings. Officially, the top of the ninth inning had never happened. Officially, he’d never made an error.

“Splendid,” said Miranda Szabo. “Listen, I’m sorry to call so late, during your private time, but I’m out in L.A., closing a deal for Kelvin Massey.”

“Kelvin Massey? The Rockies’ third baseman?”

Miranda Szabo paused for a perfect, haughty half beat. “Kelvin Massey, the Dodgers’ third baseman. But don’t tell Peter Gammons, that snoop.”

“I won’t,” Henry promised.

“Good. The press can’t know till tomorrow. We’re still putting the finishing touches on this little objet d’art. Fifty-six million over four years.”

“Wow.”

“How’s that for a recession special? Sometimes I impress myself,” Miranda Szabo admitted. “But let’s stay focused. Henry, I keep my ear to the ground, and lately your name is all I hear. Skrimshander, Skrimshander, Skrimshander. Like a tongue twister, only better. More mellifluous.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“Everybody’s asking, Where’d this kid come from? And nobody knows.”

“I’m from Lankton, South Dakota.”

“Exactly my point. Nobody knows where you’re from, but everybody knows where you’re going. Straight to the top of the draft charts. I’m hearing third round, I’m hearing higher.”

“Higher?”

“Higher’s what I’m hearing. Third, second, who knows? Now Henry.”

“Yes?”

“Listen to me closely. You’re a busy person trying to balance baseball and academics at a reputable institution. We may not know each other well, but I know enough about you to know that much. And I also know that you’re about to get a whole lot busier. Do you know what the average signing bonus was for a third-round pick last year?”

“Uh, no.” Until very recently, Henry’s thoughts had been focused on next year’s draft, not this year’s—both juniors and seniors were eligible—and his goal for next year’s draft was to get himself picked in the fiftieth round, or maybe the forty-ninth if he was lucky. He’d barely even bothered to daydream about a signing bonus. He had no idea what the five-star guys, the high school hotshots and the sluggers from Stanford and Miami, got paid.

“Guess,” urged Miranda Szabo.

“Um. Eighty thousand?” It felt embarrassing, greedy, to name such a big number, even in indirect connection to himself.

“Close. You forgot the three. Three hundred eighty thousand.”

“Holy shit.” How long did it take his dad to earn that much? Six years? Seven? “Oops. Sorry. I didn’t mean to swear.”

“Swear away, sailor. Now, that doesn’t exactly put you in Kelvin Massey territory, but it’s a reasonable sum of money, and I think it’s the least you can reasonably expect, come June. And that means people are going to want a piece of you. It’s a crossroads, a complex time. You’re going to need someone working for your best interests. You’re going to need representation.”

“An agent?”

“Exactly right. You’re going to need an agent. Someone to help you navigate this crossroads, personally and fiscally. Selecting representation is a big decision, Henry, and not one to be taken lightly. Your agent has to be an extension of yourself. Just like your glove, when you’re out there in the field. Do you trust your glove, Henry?”

“Sure.”

“Well, you have to trust your agent just as much. Your agent, if your agent’s a good agent, doesn’t just draw up terms and disappear. Your agent becomes the fiscally minded, detail-cognizant you. So that you—the Henry-you, not the Miranda-you—can focus on baseball. And academics. Do you follow me, Henry?”

“I think so.”

“Have you been contacted by other parties interested in providing representation?”

“Um, no.”

“You will. Believe me. The mere fact that you’re on the phone with Miranda Szabo means that everybody and their mother will be calling to offer representation. Happens every time.”

“How will they know you called me?”

“They just will,” Miranda Szabo said, and sighed at the predictability of it all. “These people are animals.”

Henry’s thoughts swung in odd orbits over the next few hours, as he lay in bed listening to the groan of Phumber’s ancient heat vents. It was strange not to be able to hear Owen’s breathing. Midnight came, and one o’clock and two, and though he wasn’t quite awake he remained aware of the passage of time, the quarterly toll of the chapel bells. Unlike most of his classmates, who pulled all-nighters and slept through their early classes, he hardly ever saw or heard this time of night. He trained too hard and awoke too early, and it was a rare weekend kegger that found him leaned against a wall, politely holding a cup of beer that would be poured into the bushes on his walk home. The windows were cracked open, because it was always warm in their garret room. An occasional glitter of voices rose up from the quad below, an occasional gust of wind shuddered the panes. The latter drifted into Henry’s head and became the gust that helped to blow his throw off course. He wished he could have seen Owen tonight. Just for a moment, just a peek of Owen asleep in his room in the ICU. Then he’d know that Owen was okay. It was one thing to be told by the doctor, another to see it for yourself. In Henry’s half dreams Owen stared out at him, in the frozen instant before he slumped to the dugout floor, his popped-wide eyes asking, Why?

Why, in Henry’s experience, was a question an athlete shouldn’t ask. Why had he made such a terrible throw, so bad that Rick couldn’t even get a glove on it? Was it because of the scouts? He’d tensed up because of the scouts? No, that made no sense. For one thing, the scouts weren’t even there, they’d left after the eighth, and he’d seen them go. And anyway he had no fear of scouts in his heart, at least not that he could detect. Was it because he didn’t want to break Aparicio’s record, be the one to wipe his name from the record book, because Aparicio was Aparicio but he was just Henry? Maybe. But he could at least have tied the record before he messed up; then their names would be side by side. Then again he had tied the record; the error hadn’t counted. He’d have a chance to break it next game. If he didn’t want to break it, he’d have to mess up again. Maybe he’d mess up again. This was why you didn’t ask why. Why could only mess you up. But he’d be fine in the morning, as long as Owen was okay.

Schwartz would be glad about Miranda Szabo. Thrilled. Ecstatic. Henry had been worried about what would happen next year, after Schwartz graduated and went off to law school on the East Coast or the West. But maybe he’d be gone too, off to the minor leagues a year ahead of schedule, with money in his pocket. It was bittersweet to think about leaving, he loved it here, but baseball was baseball, and it was fitting that he and Schwartz might leave together. Without Schwartz there was no Westish College. Without Schwartz, come to think of it, there was hardly even any Henry Skrimshander.