By Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

“DO IT.”

“I can’t, Javi.”

 “You won’t.”

“I got people comin’ to look at me.”

“Everybody has a bad game.”

“It’s not right.”

“Right is for bobos.”

“I ain’t no chump.”

“Take the money.”

“I told you I got people comin’ to look at me.”

Eddie’d heard about scouts. Serious guys who dressed good, showed up with notebooks and stopwatches, sat high up, scattered. If they liked you, they’d talk to you after the game.

Eddie played short. He had what the scouts called the quick twitch. It made him a natural. He could pick anything behind the bag, go deep in the hole, jump turn and throw mid-air to first, in a freakin’ blur. On a pop fly, he’d go out hard, back to the infield, make the grab over the shoulder–no problem. The fans would chant los ojos en la cabeza, eyes in the back of your head!  He could get to anything on his side of the infield, had a cannon for an arm. The ball would explode into the first baseman’s glove, echoing across the field, causing aficionados to ooh and aah. Eddie was smooth.

It was called The Bush, where nobody sees nothin’, hears nothin’, says nothin’. Crammed between 79th and 95th Streets, the Calumet River to the east and the Skyway to the west. An unimportant, blue collar, close-knit Chicago neighborhood nobody’d heard of. Taco trucks and shave ice carts dotted crowded streets lined with brick four flats and soot-covered frame cottages. Steel-mill smokestacks jutted into perpetually gray skies, belching dirty smoke and lung-searing acid mist. Norteno music softened the stench of the mills and encouraged the hidden aroma of carne asada, masa, and frijoles. 

Eddie didn’t do public. His old man worked two jobs so him and his twin sister Jasmine could do Catholic. Jesus, the baby, was a surprise, so Momma worked from the house. Slapping cornmeal in yellow-stained hands, rolling out her Bush-renowned tamales; up at 3 working the masa, dicing the filling, then steaming, then bagging; out the door by 5, dragging coolers behind her; manning her corner, waving down the cars. Beef, pork, chicken, queso, red sauce or green, sold by the dozen, or half dozen, back home by 7 to send them off to school, then take care of her baby, little Jesus.

At first Eddie wanted public, but Guadalupe had a good coach, and Eddie made varsity as a sophomore. He was gangly and jumpy, always playing with the infield dirt, kicking it with his spike, patting it with his hands. Chaw was a no-no with the Catholics, but bubble-gum worked almost as good, pink, blue, even purple. At the crack of the bat, Eddie was nothing but smooth. Jet black hair curling in the breeze beneath his tattered cap, tracking the ball like a panther, he’d glide through the infield, scoop and throw in a single motion. He was pure joy and all smiles. Everybody said The Bigs were not far away. 

And now Javi was asking this. 

“You don’t understand,” Eddie pleaded, alley flies buzzing around.

Javi’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer. “You don’t understand, tonto.”   

“I ain’t no dummy.” Eddie retreated, bumping a stinking can, trembling. “Please, Javi,” Eddie begged.

Javi grabbed Eddie’s hand. He pressed the button on his silver blade, its click ominous in the quiet alley, the knife’s metal flashing in the sun. He twisted Eddie’s thumb sideways, gliding the blade over it. “If you don’t do this, hermanito.”

“Javi!” Eddie’s face contorted in pain, his eyes locked onto the knife beginning to dig into his flesh.

Javi moved closer, still pulling at Eddie’s thumb, his breath hot in Eddie’s face.

Eddie turned away, tears welling.

”Hermanito,” Javi wrenching his thumb sideways, “do this, or you’ll never play again.”

✶

GUADALUPE VS. NRATISLAVA. CHICOS VS. POLSKIS. Guadalupe was home. The field pristine, glistening green grass in the vast outfield was perfectly-outlined with brilliant white stripes, and lots of room to roam. The batter’s box circumscribed as if by a draftsmen. Raul Estevez, a local landscaper, was the artist; not a weed blemished his grass, nor a stone to create a bad bounce. Each line was perfectly straight.

“We can do this, hermano,” the chubby kid said, tossing a ball in the air, chewing a wad of gum that would have choked a burro.

Eddie knew Nacho his whole life. They shared a crib and a playpen, and even a jumper. Nacho and Eddie’s mothers did their Quinceaneras together. They watched each other’s kids.

Eddie scanned the stands, looking for Javi.

“What’s wrong, bro?”  Nacho pounded a dirty ball into his glove.

“Looking.”

“The scouts? They’ll be here. They want you, man. You’re smooth.”

Eddie saw no scouts, no guys dressed good, no stopwatches or notebooks. And no Javi.

Nacho tapped his spikes with a pine-tarred bat. “I wish I was you, bro.”

Eddie didn’t. He was in a jam, with no way out.

Reynoldo Lopez boomed over the loudspeaker, announcing the lineups for each team; first, Spanish, then English. He butchered the names of Bratislava’s Polskis adding hyphens and syllables where there were none, and serenaded the aficionados with his melodic renderings of Gonzalez, Alvarez, Ramirez, and Rodriguez.

Bratislava had a big right-hander on the mound who was ready to sign. Undefeated the whole year. 9-0, ERA less than 1, with more than 2 Ks per inning. Guadalupe had Ricardo, a quiet, angry kid who threw bullets. But was wild. If you weren’t a K, he’d hit you or walk you. In the semis, on the way to this championship, he’d struck out 21, walked 8, and hit 4.  A no-no with 9 left on base and 3 runs scored. Eddie saved the game with a back-handed over-the-shoulder grab, a Howitzer throw to first, doubling off the shocked fat kid who Ricardo had plunked in the gut, trying to scramble back to first, after admiring, for too long, Eddie’s catch of the year.  

✶

AS PREDICTED, IT WAS A PITCHER’S DUEL. Ricardo had fifteen Ks, four walks, and hit three, after six innings, a season low for him. The Polski hadn’t let Guadalupe get the ball out of the infield and Eddie had looked at strike three twice. 

Bottom of the sixth, two out, Nacho up. He couldn’t hit his age. Coach had him in there because he was a good kid. Worked his ass off, patted everybody on the back, and his old man Raul Estevez, the landscaper, took good care of the field.

The big right hander made carne piccado outta Nacho the first 2 times up. Six weak-ass swings that made him look like a nino.

Nacho tapped his spikes and rubbed his stick with the tar rag. He dug in. The first pitch whizzed by Nacho’s head. The aficionados went nuts, screaming at the top of their lungs, “Culero! Pandejo! Cabron!” The Polskis yelled back in their thick Polish accents sounding like tortured human beings. 

Next pitch, a heater, inside and high, deflecting off Nacho’s bat. He dove back, terrified. The big guy had him. He was scared shitless.

“Nacho,” Eddie yelled, “don’t let this salchicha spook you! Hang in.”

One and one. Next pitch a curve that started at Nacho’s head, then broke hard, down and away. Nacho dove outta the box, flailing at the ball like it was a big-ass wasp with a stinger that had his name on it. Strike two.

Polski dug his spikes into the mound. He wound up and slung a dart towards the outside corner. Nacho flinched. Eddie could see the fear as Nacho bailed again, his foot bolting for the bucket. He threw his bat wildly at the pitch clipping the ball on its very tip, causing a right field spin that made it look like a bird diving into the sea after a wounded fish. A squibber. It skimmed the first base bag’s top corner and ricocheted high into the air angling away from the entire Bratislava team. Now, Raul Estevez kept a good field. No weeds, no rocks, long straight lines. And it was a big field. A big fucking field. Nacho’s slice picked up speed as it spun dizzily away from every Polski chasing it. Nacho chugged with thick legs around first, the aficionados cheering him loud and wild like a bullfight. The right fielder motored towards the ball as it skipped, slid, juked, and jagged away from him. The first baseman had no chance at all. Nacho turned and churned in slow mo past second, and as the right fielder continued to chase the ball Nacho surprised everyone. He barreled into and around third, ignoring Mendoza’s pleas to stop. He was going to make his mark. Finally the right fielder got to the ball, stupidly, just before it went out of bounds which would have kept Nacho at third. The Polski picked it up and slung it towards home. Mendoza now begging for Nacho to stop. Nacho was having none of it.

The collision was a thud, a short, sickening thud. Nacho hit the catcher full on, his shoulder burying into the catcher’s chest protector. The ball flew up in the air and onto the pristine dirt that Senor Estevez had prepared for this championship game. The ump waved his arms parallel to the ground, his hands flat as pancakes. 

Nacho was safe.

The crowd was on fire. Aficionados sang their anthem; Mexican flags filled the dirty air, chants in Spanish rose over the rooftops. Nacho had scored!

1-0 Guadalupe. Still two outs. Next batter Alexi Mendoza. Polski threw him 3 straight curves. One-two-three, over and out. He kicked the dirt, threw his bat, called the pitcher a puto, grabbed his glove, and trotted out to right.

Ricardo was gassed. Coach Hebron asked him if he had anything left. Ricardo lied and said yes.

He grabbed the ball and went to the mound for the last three outs.

His first pitch flew over the backstop. The next bounced 10 feet in front of the plate, and his third pitch hit the Polski in the head.

Ricardo’s tank was empty.

Man on first.

Ricardo didn’t come close with the next batter. Four straight balls that Juan Gomez, the half-Mexican, half-Chinese catcher, needed to throw his skinny body in front of, to ward off giving an extra base to the man on first.

First and second, no-outs, 1-0 Guadalupe. And Ricardo, scared shitless, was tired as a dog after a day at the beach.

Stanley Briczcinski was up next. He was noted for rockets. Everything he hit, he smoked. Hits flew off his bat headed towards people, places, and things with a velocity that made the ball whistle.  

Ricardo dug into the mound, trying to look as mean as he could. But his left knee gave him away, it shook, rattled, and rolled. First pitch, in the dirt. Gomez made a nice stop. Next pitch, same thing, a worm killer. Again Gomez saved it. Third pitch, Ricardo gave in and just laid it in there, a lollipop. Briczinski’s eyes lit up like a 100-watt bulb in a dark room. His forearms bulged. His fingers gripped tight. His left foot rose. He ripped a liner that sounded like a blast from a 357. The ball, a rocket, screamed to Eddie’s right, a mean downspin tailing fiercely away. Eddie catapulted airborne, angling to where the ball was going, not where it was. A soft sound came from his mitt, not the smack of a ball reddening flesh, but a flutter, a web catch, with a snow-cone, peeking from his glove. Eddie scuffled to his feet, chasing the Polski towards second, who stumbled then Eddie clipped the bag for the second out. The kid on first had taken off with the hit and was now caught 20 feet off the bag. It was a race, as the first baseman was out of position backing up home. Eddie charged towards first, the Polski running for his life to get there before Eddie. Eddie dove, arms outstretched. The Polski dove. The play was a blur. Dust rose in the air. The first base ump’s thumb shot into the sky. The dust cleared. And to the aficionados delight, they heard what they’d prayed for.

”He’s out!” 

A triple, fucking, play. Eddie had pulled off an unassisted triple play. Guadalupe had won the championship.

Aficionados leapt from the stands. Little children sang songs. Mariachis blew horns. Nuns and priests hugged. Kisses were asked for and given. Eddie, Nacho, Gomez, and Ricardo yelled wildly in Spanglish.

✶

EDDIE SAT ON THE HOT METAL BENCH, PEELING OFF HIS DUSTY SPIKES, PICKING AT THE SCAB OOZING FROM HIS ARM. A man dressed good approached. He had a notebook and a thin cloth strap attached to a stopwatch. He handed Eddie his card. “You’re smooth, kid. Real smooth.”

Eddie studied the card. Its logo, in ornate scroll: an S, then a little below and off to the right, an o, and then at the bottom and further to the right an x. The card read Billy Bryk, Midwest Scout, Chicago White Sox.

Eddie’s body electric. Tingling. He sat silently studying the card, ignoring all around him. His years of work, his dream. Coming true.

“I’ll call you, kid,” Billy said, spitting his chew on the ground.

✶

“NO THANKS,” EDDIE RESPONDED TO HIS FATHER’S OFFER TO DRIVE HIM HOME BEFORE THE FESTIVAL CELEBRATION. “I’ll walk.” He needed to think.

He cut through the park, and turned right on Avenue L, taking the shortcut through the alley, home. 

His thoughts on ball. The scout. His way out. His dream.

To be somebody.

“Tonto!” He stepped from a gangway into the alley.

Javi.

“You dummy! Tonto!”

Fear, then anger, charged Eddie’s body.

Javi moving swiftly towards Eddie, the shiny object glistening in his hand. “You could have made it easy on yourself. But you wanted to show off. Be the man. Make the play. Win the game! Pandejo!”

Javi lunged, the knife flashing towards Eddie’s face. He side-stepped Javi, gracefully, just like turning a double play. Javi flew by. Eddie snatched the blade and drove it deep into Javi’s throat.

Javi looked shocked, then terrified, unready for what was happening. His eyes begged mercy. Eddie twisted the blade, Javi gurgling in panic, clutching his throat. Eddie drove it deeper, ripping the blade sideways, sliding easily through tender skin.

Eddie wiped the blade clean, folded the knife, and placed it in his pocket.

Javi, crumpled on the ground, tiny gasps, leaking from his throat.

Eddie studied the man who tried to take what was his. He shook his head with disgust.

Javi should have known better.

No one took what was Eddie’s.

Eddie was smooth, real smooth.