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By Root 1494 0

down Groome Street anyway, to see if what he’d heard was true. He parked on the far side of the street, one house down, in the shade of a massive maple. The curtains in the front room weren’t drawn. A TV flickered bluely, but as far as Schwartz could tell there wasn’t anyone watching it. He cut the engine. The cortisone helped; he had to admit it. He felt like horseshit, he was sweating like crazy, his heart pounded constantly, but his knees would make it through the weekend’s games. He took off his watch for no particular reason and strapped it around the uppermost segment of the steering wheel. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. If he didn’t leave now he’d be late for practice.

As he unclipped his watch from the wheel, someone walked up Groome Street and entered the low chain-link gate of 339. Long dark hair, knee-high leather boots, Burberry coat. It was Noelle Pierson. This was the place, then; he’d heard they were at Noelle’s place. But no sign. Schwartz fired the engine. Noelle climbed the three stairs to the porch. She was a junior, a history major; they’d hooked up a few times his sophomore year, when she still lived in the dorms. As her boot heel hit the porch, the TV ceased to flicker. A figure in a faded red T-shirt jumped off the couch and hurried from the room. He’d been there all along. Schwartz nosed the Buick away from the curb.

63

That afternoon, for the second straight day, the Harpooners had a flat, desultory practice. Even Coach Cox seemed lethargic. Schwartz, unable to practice because of his knees and unwilling to watch anymore, headed back to the locker room to soak. He was in the whirlpool tub when his teammates wandered in. The door was half open, so he could hear what was being said.

“How good you think these teams are?” asked one of the young guys, probably Loondorf. “Compared to Coshwale.”

“Put it this way,” Rick replied. “Coshwale’s won conference, what, eight times in ten years?”

“Okay.”

“And they’ve never gone to nationals. It’s always some team from the River Nine. Or else WIVA. But mostly River Nine. Those guys are beasts.”

“Who’s the River Nine team?”

“Northern Missouri.”

“Shit. Northern Missouri.”

“In oh-six they won the whole shebang.”

“Are they in our half of the bracket?”

“I think so. I think we play them if we beat McKinnon.”

“Crap. Northern Missouri. When you put it that way.”

“Yeah.”

“Man, we could sure use Henry. Even just to DH.”

“Amen to that.”

“It’ll be good experience, either way.”

“Who knows? Maybe we’ll beat McKinnon. Starblind on the mound. Then see what happens.”

“Could use Henry’s bat, though.”

“One thing I know. We’re gonna party when it’s over. Regardless.”

Schwartz wasn’t in the whirlpool anymore. He was through the door, naked and dripping, closing fast, feet slipping on the concrete floor. He jacked Rick up against the lockers, two hands twisted into Rick’s T-shirt for leverage. “You want to throw a party?” he was screaming, his voice less a voice than a visitation from some very dark place. “Is that what you want?”

Rick shook his head no. He was trembling a little and had his gut sucked in, afraid to breathe, as if Schwartz might hurt him badly. He was right. This wasn’t college-boy Schwartz getting riled up for effect. This wasn’t Schwartz Lite. This was full-bore Schwartz, the kind of Schwartz these prep-school pansies didn’t know they’d never seen. Nobody moved to intervene. Nobody moved at all.

“This weekend is not the end!” Schwartz let go of Rick; he was addressing them all. He bashed his fist against a locker, not even remembering to use his left. He dented the metal, bloodied his knuckles. “Anyone who thinks otherwise, anyone who’d rather go play for McKinnon, or Chute, or Northern Missouri, can clear the hell out. I’m winning a regional title, and then I’m winning a national championship. And guess what? You motherfuckers are along for the ride.”

Coach Cox had wandered into the locker room and was watching dispassionately, hands in his pockets. Through the haze of his rage Schwartz saw a glass Snapple bottle in little Loondorf’s