Chapter Three
After school, I went to my gym locker to get my sweats for tryouts. I was pumped, ready to show Coach Kelly I was prepared to be a starter for his team. First, let me tell you a little something about Coach. We didn’t always get along so well. Last year I made the team as a pitcher, and I would have gladly started the games or come in as a relief pitcher, but instead, I spent all my time warming the bench getting splinters in my ass…well, except this one time. We were playing New Canaan High, and we were losing 12–3.
Coach looked down the bench in my direction and shouted, “Krysiuk—warm up! You’re going in to pitch.”
I grabbed my glove and went off to the side to loosen up my arm with one of the other players. I was so pumped! My arm felt great—like I could win the world series. All of a sudden Coach yells, “Time out!” I watched him stride out to the mound. He took the ball from the pitcher and motioned for me to come in: “Krysiuk! Get in here!”
I jogged out to the mound. It was a perfect, sunny afternoon in May, and the bleachers were loaded with parents, students, and teachers. But I wasn’t nervous. Just psyched to show everyone what I could do. The bases were loaded, and there was one out in the bottom of the fifth. It didn’t take me long to strike out the next two batters to end the inning. I pitched the rest of the game and held New Canaan scoreless—and we almost came back to win. But one of Coach’s brown-nosers struck out with the bases loaded in the last inning, and we lost 12–11. I thought I did great, but Coach didn’t say boo to me. As the story goes, we lost the next two games. I mean, we got slaughtered. I wasn’t even thought of by Coach to go in to pitch. I just sat on the bench collecting splinters again. So, that’s when I decided to go in and talk to him the next morning. And that’s when all hell broke loose.
I waited until there was no one else in Coach’s office so I could have a private talk. I also brought Dave along as my support team. He stood outside the door, listening in. As I walked past him, he said, “Go get ‘em, La Craze!” That was his personal nickname bestowed upon me in grade school. I got caught up in a lot of shenanigans with him, from pulling pranks to doing our famous cannonballs off the dock and getting the people in passing boats wet. Coach was sitting at his desk reading the paper when I walked in.
I went right up to him, cleared my throat, and said, “Excuse me, Coach, you got a minute?”
He slowly looked up and gave me a serious, no smiles stare. I continued: “Since I pitched well that last time out, I thought I would see more action. We got killed our last two games. And I feel I could do more for the team than sitting on the bench.” He glowered at me, then dropped his paper on the desk, raised his arm, and pointed at the door.
“Get out of here! And don’t worry about playing. Just be happy that you are on the team.”
I turned around, and as I headed out, Dave, my “support,” fell on the floor in the doorway, laughing his ass off. The coach followed me out, slamming the door in my face as I helped Dave get up. And that is how I ended last year’s baseball season.
But I was ready for this year. I’d been lifting weights and running on the track at school. And, of course, practicing my pitching with my dad. He had me sharpen up on my curveball, knuckleball, fastball, and changeup. And I was psyched to use my famous sinker and all the skills my dad had taught me over the years. Above all, I wanted to prove to Coach Kelly—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that I was a valuable player; he could depend on me to get the job done.
As I ran onto the field to take a position, I passed him, standing there in his Staples baseball jacket, a yellow legal pad in one hand. He shot me a smile and said, “Warm up, Krysiuk! You’ll be pitching soon.”
As those unbelievable words fell from his lips, I felt the slate being wiped clean between us. After he’d slammed the door in my face last year, it took a while for the tension to lift. I just let it go, and it seemed he eventually did, too. But these words, as I ran past him, were pretty unexpected. Was Coach actually taking an interest in me? Had he possibly seen me lifting weights and running on the high school track? I felt more determined than ever to show him that I was the one—the Big One—his ace in the hole.
After I warmed up with the other pitchers, we each faced four batters and got into our rhythm. Coach stood behind the mound watching each one of us, taking notes on his pad. When it was my turn I just zeroed in on my mission: to make the team. When I was done with my fourth batter, he did the usual, showed no emotion, and said in his flat, business-like tone: “Thank you. Good job. Next up,” then waved for the next pitcher.
Over the next two days of tryouts it was the same format: me doing all I could to get noticed by Coach and hoping all that scribbling on his pad meant something good for me. But every coach has his favorite. This year it was Jeff. He could do no wrong. He was a senior, like me, and of course his parents were part of the Boosters Club, which gave money to team sports. I will say no more. You know the rest of the story.
Jeff hung out with the Yuppie crowd and had his own following, sort of like Ted but a different flavor, more old money, kind of arrogant. It seemed his future was already set—Ivy League, the full Megillah. We greeted each other in passing, but that was about it, no emotion really. The only reason we were called teammates was because we were on the Wreckers.
The most peculiar thing was that on the last day of tryouts, Jeff turned to me as we were heading back to the locker room to shower and go home, and said, “Good luck, Mike. I hope you make the team.” I was shocked. He even called me by my first name. We heard Coach yelling after us: “The team list will be posted tomorrow morning on the bulletin board outside my office.”
I didn’t get much sleep that night. The first thing I did when I got to school the next morning was go by Coach’s office to see if my name was on the list. There was already a small crowd circling the board. Some of the guys were walking away swearing, while others had big smiles. I waited my turn and finally pushed through. Yes! There it was! And he’d even spelled my name right. I accomplished the first step—making the varsity team. Next was to become a starting pitcher. As I headed to my classes, I was one of the guys with a big smile, high-fiving other players who’d also made it. I couldn’t wait to head home after school and tell my family the great news! Dad’s coaching had really paid off! All that hard work and practicing were finally getting me noticed.