Stealing Home Page 5

  Jesus looked at him with sad eyes. “I think those boys no like me,” he said.

  Joey shook his head. “It isn’t that,” he said. “It’s just, most of the kids around here have never met anyone from another country before. Someone who speaks a different language and has a weird name.”

  Jesus shrank back. “My name no good?” he asked, horrified. “But is name of Cristo! How no good?”

  “It’s just, in the United States, we don’t name kids after Jesus. It’s just not done.”

  “In my country, many, many boys name Jesus.”

  “I realize that. But here . . .”

  “You want I change my name?” Jesus asked.

  “No! No, no, of course not!” Joey said, too quickly. “Well, maybe, while you’re here, you might want to go by something else. You know, like a tag.”

  “Tag? What is tag?”

  “Like a nickname.”

  “No comprendo.”

  “Like me, for instance. They sometimes call me Junior, ’cause my dad’s name is Joe, too.”

  Jesus clearly didn’t get it.

  “Like, your middle name is Jaime, right?” He pronounced it “Hymie.”

  “Sí. Jaime. I be Jaime in America?”

  “Mmm, maybe not Hymie. But you know what? Here, we pronounce Hymie ‘Jamie.’ That’d be an okay name.”

  “Jamie? Is strange name. I never hear before.”

  “Anyway, think about it. It’s totally up to you, okay? You don’t have to change anything if you don’t want to. Forget I even said anything. It’s those morons who have to change, not you.”

  “Moron?”

  “And don’t ever call them that, okay? It’s not a nice word.”

  “Okay,” Jesus said. “I no say nothing.” And the two boys shared a laugh.

  “Hey, want to play catch outside?” Joey asked. “Break in your new mitt?”

  “I . . . I think maybe later,” Jesus said, looking uncomfortable.

  “Aw, come on, you might as well get started. I’ve got a ball game after school tomorrow, and you can warm me up before I come in to pitch. Come on, let’s go.” Unwilling to take no for an answer, he grabbed Jesus by the arm and led him outside.

  Again, Jesus tried to put the mitt on the wrong hand. “No, like this,” Joey corrected him, putting it on his left hand. “There you go. Now, I’m going to throw you the ball, and you throw it back, okay?”

  “Sí,” said Jesus, still looking like he wanted to be someplace else.

  Joey threw him the ball. Jesus caught it fine — two-handed, but at least he didn’t drop it. Then he took the ball and tried to throw it back. But his throw was awful. Pathetic. Jesus threw like a little girl, putting the wrong foot forward and pushing the ball out of his palm, like it was sticky and disgusting.

  Joey sighed and picked up the ball. “Try again,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.” He threw it to Jesus, who again caught it just fine. The second throw, though, was even worse. It went straight up in the air and landed at Jesus’s feet.

  “Maybe we try again mañana,” he suggested.

  “No way,” Joey insisted. “You’ve got to get used to it, that’s all.”

  “Oh,” said Jesus.

  “What’s the matter, don’t you like baseball?” Joey asked. “You seemed so happy to get the mitt.”

  “Oh, yes, very happy!” Jesus assured him. “Please. I love béisbol very much. Let us play more. I get used to, soon, maybe.”

  “Okay then,” Joey said. “Let’s keep practicing.”

  The two of them kept at it till Joey’s mom and dad called them in for dinner. But Jesus’s throwing didn’t get any better. Not at all. Jesus had said he loved baseball, but it looked to Joey like he hadn’t played much in the past. He sure wasn’t very good in the present. And his future in the game, as far as Joey could see, was strictly as a fan.

  8

  Ino like be Jamie.” Fourth period had just ended, and they were on their way to the cafeteria for lunch.

  The statement caught Joey by surprise. “How come?”

  “Jamie is name for girl.”

  “Well, but —”

  “Jamie in history class, she is girl, no?”

  “Yeah, but it’s for both —”

  “I no be Jamie,” Jesus said, blushing. “No way, José.”

  “Hey, we say that, too!” Joey said, surprised again. “Say what?”

  “‘No way, José.’ It’s an American expression.”

  “No, is Nicaraguan.”

  “Whatever,” Joey said, shrugging.

  “So, I no Jamie, okay? Jesus my name.”

  “Okay, okay,” Joey said, trying to keep his annoyance from showing. “Like I said, dude, whatever.”

  If there were any hard feelings, they vanished after school, when Joey’s mom presented Jesus with Sandy’s old bike. Of course, it didn’t look old. She’d had it all fixed up and repainted at the bicycle store, and tied it up with a big red ribbon on the handlebars. Jesus let out a yell of sheer joy and ran straight for it. “Qué fantástico!” he said in a hoarse voice, as tears trickled down his cheeks.

  “Do you know how to ride?” Joey asked.

  “Oh, sí,” Jesus said excitedly. “I have once bicycle, but no like this!”

  “Word?” Joey said. “Hey, cool. We can ride over to the field for the game.”

  “Not before you have something to eat,” his mom said, going inside.

  “Tan bueno!” Jesus whispered, running his hand slowly over the bike. “I never have something so beautiful.” Then he saw the gearshift. “Qué es?” he asked Joey.

  “What? The gears?”

  “Gears? What is ‘gears’?”

  Joey winced. “Okay,” he said. “I guess your bike didn’t have gears. Well, they make the bike go faster or slower.”

  “No make with feet?” Jesus asked, surprised.

  “No. I mean, yeah, of course you make with feet. I mean, you pedal it, but the gears — oh, skip it. Just put it in fifth gear and leave it there for now.”

  Jesus looked confused. Joey put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on inside and let’s eat. You’ll figure it out eventually.”

  After eating their snack and changing, Joey and Jesus rode their bikes over to the baseball field. Today, the Marlins were playing the lowly 0–5 Dodgers. This game promised to be a piece of cake, with or without Nicky Canelo.

  Nicky was sitting in the stands when Joey and Jesus got there. Joey made the introductions. “What up, Jesus?” Nicky said, pronouncing it perfectly and with no hint of amusement. “Cómo estás?”

  “Estoy bien!” Jesus replied with a big smile.

  “I’d shake your hand, but . . .” Nicky held up his right hand, with its soft cast and sling.

  “Ay, de mi!” Jesus breathed. “You break?”

  “Nah,” Nicky said, shaking his head. “I’ll be okay pretty soon. I can’t stand sitting here watching.”

  “Me also,” Jesus said. Joey shook his head and stifled the urge to laugh. For a kid who could barely throw the ball, Jesus sure talked a good game.

  Jesus and Nicky plopped down together side by side in the bleachers, and Joey went down to the bench to join the rest of the Marlins. Out on the field, the Dodgers were already warming up. Their pitcher was whizzing it in there pretty good. Still, Joey felt sure he could get a couple of hits today. After all, the Dodgers hadn’t won a game yet.

  Penciled into the leadoff spot, Joey stepped into the batter’s box to start the game. The pitcher threw and Joey took the pitch, sizing up its speed and movement. The next pitch looked high, but it was called a strike, too. “What?” Joey said.

  “Play ball,” the umpire warned. Joey stifled his urge to argue and got back in the batter’s box. The pitcher wound and threw. Joey swung . . . and whiffed. “Steerike three! Yer out!” the umpire called, a little too eagerly, it seemed to Joey.

  The next two batters managed only weak pop-ups, and the inning was over. Jesus kept che
ering loudly from the sidelines, but most of it was in Spanish, and even the English part was hard to understand.

  Still, Joey got the idea. He wanted to do well for Jesus, to show what a good ballplayer he was, but he sure hadn’t started out very well. On his way to the outfield, he asked Jordan Halpin what was up with the pitcher. “He’s new,” Jordan said. “This is his first game. Just moved here from Gordonhurst.”

  “He’s good.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t worry, we’ll get to him. I’m up next inning, man. No prob.” Jordan Halpin had plenty of confidence, and with good reason. He’d been an all-star since fourth grade.

  Joey spent the first three innings in the outfield, but nothing came his way. The Dodgers were pathetic hitters — except for the new kid, who laced a solo home run to left field in the second inning. Going into the fourth, it was 1–0, Dodgers, because the mighty Marlins hadn’t gotten a single runner on base!

  Joey led off the fourth inning. He’d already struck out once, but this time he was facing a different pitcher. This one threw it so slow that Joey got over-anxious and tried to hit the ball out of the park. He whiffed on two straight pitches before finally making contact, hitting a dribbler up the third-base line.

  Joey ran for all he was worth, trying to leg it out for a single. But the Dodgers catcher made a good play on the ball and threw him out by a step. Joey slammed his helmet on the ground in disgust. The umpire warned Coach Bacino that one more outburst from Joey would get him tossed from the game.

  The coach grabbed Joey in the dugout and asked, “What’s with you today? Are you gonna settle down or what? Because I’ll get somebody else to pitch if you’re so out of control.”

  Before Joey could reply, there was a big cheer. Pete Alessandra had hit a long shot over the center fielder’s head. He rounded the bases for a game-tying homer.

  “Don’t worry, Coach, I’m okay,” Joey said, determined to do on the mound what he hadn’t been able to do at the plate — help his team win a game.

  He started by getting the first two Dodgers to hit grounders, then got a strikeout to end the fourth inning. In the fifth, the Marlins went ahead on two errors and a double by Charlie Morganstern. The score was now 2–1, Marlins, and Joey knew his job was to hold the Dodgers scoreless over the next two innings.

  He got the bottom of their order out in the fifth, sitting them down with only an infield single. The Marlins came close to scoring in their half of the sixth, but Joey popped up to end the threat. He was so angry at himself that he nearly threw the bat. At the last minute, he remembered the umpire’s warning and held on to it until he came back to the bench to get his mitt.

  “No walks!” Coach Bacino told him.

  “No walks,” Joey echoed as he took the mound again.

  The first batter bunted Joey’s fastball down the third-base line. Joey fielded the ball but slipped as he threw to first, and the ball sailed high. When the right fielder finally threw it back in from foul territory, the runner was already at third base.

  Joey really had to buckle down now, or the score would be tied. Starting the next batter off with a change-up, he got him to pop up to first. One away, two to go.

  Joey got two strikes on the next hitter, then threw a wild pitch that hit him in the helmet. A gasp went up from the crowd, but luckily, the Dodger hitter wasn’t hurt. Still, the whole thing shook Joey up. Now there were runners at first and third, with only one out. The whole game was on the line.

  “Keep it low!” Coach Bacino yelled. “Look for two!” “Double play!” Jesus yelled from the sidelines. Joey looked over at him. So, Jesus did know something about the game after all! Well, Joey was going to give them a double play, all right. He fired a fastball, outside and at the knees. The batter swung at the pitch and sent a grounder to the shortstop. Jordan picked it up and flicked a quick toss to second, where the second baseman grabbed it, stepped on the bag, and fired to first for the game-ending double play!

  The Marlins whooped it up as they ran to the bench, but they were obviously more relieved than anything else. They’d played the worst team in the league, and they’d almost blown the game!

  “You pitch fantástico!” Jesus congratulated him. But Joey shook his head in disgust.

  “I played terrible,” he said. “I almost lost the game for us with that error. And oh-for-three? Gimme a break! I never do that!”

  Joey felt embarrassed. He’d wanted so much to impress Jesus that he’d tried too hard and made a total fool of himself instead.

  “I like pitch, too!” Jesus said enthusiastically.

  “Uh, yeah,” Joey said, trying to sound convincing. “Right.”

  Jesus caught the false note in his voice and looked at the ground. “Maybe I practice more. I get better,” he said softly.

  “Come on,” Joey said, grabbing him by the arm and leading him toward the bike rack. “Let’s go home. We’ll throw it around in the driveway after dinner tonight.”

  “You boys have a good time?” Joey’s mom asked when they got home.

  “Sí,” Jesus said. “Joey jugó estupendamente!”

  “Cut it out,” Joey told him. “I stunk up the joint,” he said to his mother.

  “He make for double play to save game!” Jesus argued.

  “I couldn’t hit to save my life. I nearly blew the whole thing with an error —”

  “Whoa, whoa!” his mom said. “Listen, it was a simple question. I’m not looking for the whole play-by-play. Jesus, tonight Mr. Gallagher and I are going to a retirement dinner for someone in his office. I made you boys London broil. It’s in a covered pan in the fridge, so Joey, just heat it up whenever you’re hungry, okay? Salad’s in the big bowl, mashed potatoes are all cooked — stick them in the microwave for a couple minutes . . .” Having given them their instructions, she left the house, got in the station wagon, and drove away.

  Joey was proud that his parents trusted him. They knew he was old enough and mature enough to take care of himself and Jesus for the evening. But Jesus didn’t seem to think it was so remarkable that they were going to fend for themselves. “You know how to cook?” Joey asked him.

  “Oh, sí. I cook for my family many times. Enchiladas, huevos rancheros, tortillas . . .”

  “Can you do fajitas?”

  “Sí, the best! But your mother say she make food already, no?”

  “Yeah, I guess London broil’s pretty good.”

  “What is ‘London broil’?”

  “Steak, sliced, on toast.”

  “Steak! Que bueno! Here you have meat every day?” “Well, not really. We have fish and chicken sometimes . . .”

  “Is meat, no?”

  “No. Well, yeah, sort of, but — never mind. Listen, I’m sticking this in the oven for a few minutes. I’ve got to go do my homework. It’ll be ready by the time I’m done. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  As Jesus picked up the remote and flicked on the kitchen TV, Joey hoisted his book bag over his shoulder and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

  Soon, he was done. He came downstairs, ready to finish making dinner. He found Jesus sitting at the kitchen table with scissors, cutting up a cardboard cereal box.

  Hmmm . . . weird. Joey hung back, watching, as Jesus cut the box and folded it . . . into a crude baseball mitt!

  Joey entered the room, and Jesus looked up sharply, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “You making a mitt?” Joey asked.

  Jesus nodded. “S-sí,” he said. “Is kind I have in Nicaragua.”

  “This is what you play ball with?” Joey asked, amazed. No wonder Jesus had cried when he’d given him the new leather mitt!

  In fact, Jesus looked like he was choking up now. “I go . . . write letter to my family back home,” he said and left the room.

  Joey picked up the pathetic excuse for a mitt and tried it on his hand. “I couldn’t catch a cold with this thing,” he said to himself. “Maybe that’s why Jesus is having such a hard
time with a real mitt.”

  He followed Jesus into the rec room, where he’d flopped down on the couch and was watching a baseball game on TV. “I thought you were going to write a letter,” Joey said, plopping down beside him.

  “Maybe later,” Jesus said, distracted. “You see this guy? He from my country!” He pointed to Enrique Velandia, a lefty slugger for the visiting team. “He is el mejor!”

  “MVP?”

  “Sí, MVP in all Nicaragua.”

  “Wow.” Joey watched Velandia hit a triple to deep center. “Yeah, he’s pretty good all right.” But the thing that interested him more was Jesus’s apparent knowledge of the game. For a kid who couldn’t play to save his life, he sure knew a lot about baseball — or béisbol, as he called it.

  “I’m gonna go finish making our steak,” Joey said, getting up and going into the kitchen. He followed his mom’s instructions as far as he could remember them and even added easy-bake dinner rolls for good measure. He set the table with forks, knives, napkins — the works. “Food’s ready!” he called.

  “Un minuto!” Jesus shouted back. “Is two out, base loaded!”

  Joey shook his head, surprised yet again by how devoted Jesus seemed to the game. Something was definitely wrong with this picture. He’d never seen a total nonathlete so into a sport.

  Jesus gave a shout of joy — “Yesss!” — and came bounding into the kitchen. “Grand slam!”

  “Hey, I root for the home team, yo.”

  “Oh. Sí, sorry. I for Velandia.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t care. Come on, dig in. Food’s ready.”

  Jesus sat down and grabbed his fork and knife. He began sawing at the steak, shoving forkfuls into his mouth. “Mmmm!” he said, nodding appreciatively. “Delicioso!”

  “Thanks,” Joey said, laughing. And then it hit him. There was something strange about the way Jesus was holding his fork and knife. Joey looked at his own hands, then back at Jesus’s. He was holding the utensils in the wrong hands . . .

  Joey grabbed a dinner roll. “Jesus — heads up!” he said, tossing it quickly at him. With lightning reflexes, Jesus reached up and caught it cleanly — in his left hand!

  “Jesus — you’re a lefty?” Joey gasped.