took off his cap and rubbed his big, bald head. His pink ears stuck out like rounded fins. “And tuck in those shirts; probably be some Major League scouts hanging around looking for prospects. Don’t want them to think I run a sloppy ship.”
Jimmy laughed with the rest of them, then left the dugout and headed for home, just a short block down 15th Street to the Boulevard.
It still seemed strange to be walking these streets, so noisy and busy with traffic. It had only been a month since he and his dad moved here, taking a second-story apartment above the Lindo Música Internacional store. So many things had changed so quickly.
His parents’ divorce hadn’t been such a surprise; he’d figured it was coming. But he never thought his dad would be leaving Sturbridge, Pennsylvania, to take a job in Jersey City. So Jimmy was left with the biggest decision of his life: Stay with his mother or leave with his dad, right in the middle of seventh grade.
And here he was, suddenly a city dweller, stuck in that urban stretch of North Jersey between the Lincoln and Holland Tunnels, an arm’s reach across the Hudson River from the New York City skyline. In a town where half the signs were in Spanish and white kids like him were a minority.
He needed to make the school baseball team. When he gripped that ball this afternoon, pushed back his cap and peered in at the catcher, he’d finally felt at home for a few minutes. When he let loose with that wide overhand delivery and sent the ball zipping toward the plate for the first time this season, he’d felt a burden lifting.
But maybe Spencer was right. Jimmy had been on enough sports teams to know that the coaches often did have their rosters picked way in advance, with few real opportunities for a newcomer to fit in. He’d have to do a lot better than the established players to secure a place on the team.
2
Volume Control
J immy always got home before his father—who commuted by bus to Jersey City—so he’d do his homework and watch TV or read sports magazines and comic books. Dad would get home at about six o’clock and make dinner; he was a good cook and could whip up some chicken and vegetables in a hurry. Then they’d hang out in the sparsely furnished apartment till bedtime.
Once a week or so they’d go to the coin laundry down the street to wash their clothes. And on Thursdays they’d walk a couple of blocks and get Chinese or Mexican food in cardboard containers to go.
The apartment was narrow and long, only about eighteen feet wide. There were two front windows looking out over the Boulevard, with the fire escape zigzagging down the front of the building. Jimmy liked to sit in the living room and watch the traffic on the street while his dad watched TV.
“Hey, Jim, watch this,” Dad said, pointing the remote control toward the screen. “This Mets pitcher has the same delivery you’ve got, but he’s smoother, see. You watching?”
Jimmy had been watching passengers unloading from a New Jersey Transit bus. He turned toward the TV and nodded. “He’s taller, too.”
“Well, yeah, he’s an adult. But he’s built like you, all arms and legs. And he’s a lefty, too. But see how he gets himself planted after the pitch, ready in case the ball gets smacked right back to him? You come down off balance. You gotta work on that.”
“I know.”
Lean and limber like Jimmy, Dad was built like a first baseman or a hurdler, and he tried to be both at one time or another back in high school.
But he hadn’t had much success at either. It was no secret that he’d wanted to be a star pitcher. Or that now he wanted Jimmy to be.
Between pitches of the Mets game, Dad flipped over to the Yankees. It was still spring training for the pros, but there were games on every night. Mr. Fleming usually watched two games at once. “You can see almost every pitch if you time it right,” he’d say.
The only frustration was the volume. He’d discovered that 18 was the
Jimmy laughed with the rest of them, then left the dugout and headed for home, just a short block down 15th Street to the Boulevard.
It still seemed strange to be walking these streets, so noisy and busy with traffic. It had only been a month since he and his dad moved here, taking a second-story apartment above the Lindo Música Internacional store. So many things had changed so quickly.
His parents’ divorce hadn’t been such a surprise; he’d figured it was coming. But he never thought his dad would be leaving Sturbridge, Pennsylvania, to take a job in Jersey City. So Jimmy was left with the biggest decision of his life: Stay with his mother or leave with his dad, right in the middle of seventh grade.
And here he was, suddenly a city dweller, stuck in that urban stretch of North Jersey between the Lincoln and Holland Tunnels, an arm’s reach across the Hudson River from the New York City skyline. In a town where half the signs were in Spanish and white kids like him were a minority.
He needed to make the school baseball team. When he gripped that ball this afternoon, pushed back his cap and peered in at the catcher, he’d finally felt at home for a few minutes. When he let loose with that wide overhand delivery and sent the ball zipping toward the plate for the first time this season, he’d felt a burden lifting.
But maybe Spencer was right. Jimmy had been on enough sports teams to know that the coaches often did have their rosters picked way in advance, with few real opportunities for a newcomer to fit in. He’d have to do a lot better than the established players to secure a place on the team.
2
Volume Control
J immy always got home before his father—who commuted by bus to Jersey City—so he’d do his homework and watch TV or read sports magazines and comic books. Dad would get home at about six o’clock and make dinner; he was a good cook and could whip up some chicken and vegetables in a hurry. Then they’d hang out in the sparsely furnished apartment till bedtime.
Once a week or so they’d go to the coin laundry down the street to wash their clothes. And on Thursdays they’d walk a couple of blocks and get Chinese or Mexican food in cardboard containers to go.
The apartment was narrow and long, only about eighteen feet wide. There were two front windows looking out over the Boulevard, with the fire escape zigzagging down the front of the building. Jimmy liked to sit in the living room and watch the traffic on the street while his dad watched TV.
“Hey, Jim, watch this,” Dad said, pointing the remote control toward the screen. “This Mets pitcher has the same delivery you’ve got, but he’s smoother, see. You watching?”
Jimmy had been watching passengers unloading from a New Jersey Transit bus. He turned toward the TV and nodded. “He’s taller, too.”
“Well, yeah, he’s an adult. But he’s built like you, all arms and legs. And he’s a lefty, too. But see how he gets himself planted after the pitch, ready in case the ball gets smacked right back to him? You come down off balance. You gotta work on that.”
“I know.”
Lean and limber like Jimmy, Dad was built like a first baseman or a hurdler, and he tried to be both at one time or another back in high school.
But he hadn’t had much success at either. It was no secret that he’d wanted to be a star pitcher. Or that now he wanted Jimmy to be.
Between pitches of the Mets game, Dad flipped over to the Yankees. It was still spring training for the pros, but there were games on every night. Mr. Fleming usually watched two games at once. “You can see almost every pitch if you time it right,” he’d say.
The only frustration was the volume. He’d discovered that 18 was the
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