John's public speaking schedulePublished Interviews with John
by John H. Ritter
A fresh rush of adrenaline surged through me.
Pushing myself up, I yelled, "What do you mean, out? No way! I was in there."
The umpire--some thick-necked, teenage dropout from car-jack school--pointed at the plate. "You missed the base."
"No stinking way!" I walked over, crouched down near home plate. "Right here! I got my hand in."
He gazed at my paw print like it was a new scientific discovery. "Too late," he said. "After the tag."
By then my coach was on the scene. Coach Trioli and Louie, then practically the whole team, came rolling up, roaring. They'd seen it. They knew.
"He was in there!" said Louie.
"Who you tellin'?" said Eugene, our second baseman. "He was safe as a baby in lace!"
"All the way," said our pitcher, Tony. "He beat the tag!"
I shot to my feet. "The guy didn't even have the ball!" I shouted. "He was juggling it."
Coach Trioli grabbed my shoulders from behind and steered me aside. "It's all right, Tyler," he said. "I'll handle this."
But no way. As big as Coach was, I shrugged him off. There was a principle involved here. I was safe. They called me out. And that was wrong. "I had him dead!" the catcher called from his on-deck circle, still in his shin-guards. He pointed. "You never got close, you little clown!"
I ran right over to him. Those guys'd been dissing me all game, making fun of my height, my curly orange hair, whatever they could pick on. And I'd had enough.
"You lying sack of dog diarrhea." I gave him an elbow across the chest, trying to shove him backwards, but he wouldn't budge.
Coach Trioli was there in a flash. He jammed his forearm under my chin and spun me around. "Tyler, knock it off! Whata ya, nuts?" He dragged me toward the dugout, then raised his voice. "Everyone, just go back. Now! Let me handle this."
I froze. Somewhere in the back of my brain, a little common sense started ticking. My first game here, I couldn't go completely ballistic. Besides, Mr. Trioli wasn't just this team's coach, he also coached the All-Star team at the end of the season.
So, out of respect, I backed off.
All I did was lean under Coach's elbow and jab my finger at that fat catcher. "You missed me and you know it."
"You're full of California duck squat," he shot back. "Somebody oughtta hose you off. You're drawing flies."
"Yeah, and I'll be drawing blood in about two seconds," I promised.
"Tyler!" Coach Trioli pushed me away. "Back off! Now!"
By then, the fans were aiming their shots at me, too.
"Sit down, you little Bozo Head!" one man yelled.
"Watch your mouth, little boy!" screamed someone's mom.
I looked into the green-board bleachers, full of old yuppie parents, mean-eyeing me over mountain bikes and stroller handles.
"You wanna be next?" I shouted at the closest one. "Come on down here, you ignorant--"
Now Louie grabbed me, pushing hard. "Shut up, Tyler. You're an idiot! Just cool it. Let Coach handle this. You're gonna get thrown out, man."
I snatched at my cousin's fists as they squeezed my shirt, twisting me close. Louie was bigger, stronger, and a year older, so all I could really do was slap away at him. Which only boiled my blood more. "Let go of me!"
He ran me backwards, all the way past our dugout, his breath blasting against my face. "Stop it, Tyler!" he said. "Right now. And don't move. Or I'll kick your butt."
I knew Louie was not a fist fighter. Strong, yes. A tough talker, sure. And he could blast you out of the sky in any computer game there was. But he never fought anybody for real and he wasn't going to fight me here.
But no way was he going to hold me back, either. Especially not with everybody watching. I flung my body sideways with all my might.
Then, white! A white flash came. Boiling white.
I knew that might happen. And I let it come.
I twisted, burst free, felt my shirt rip.
"Tyler!" someone screamed. Louie?
I swung away. At something, at anything. That's all I can remember.
"Tyler!" Louie's hot breath poured over me.
That's when I realized that Louie and two other guys were holding me back, shoving me against the chain link fence way up the third base line.
That's when I saw the blood in Louie's mouth. Saw him turn and spit a string of red into the dirt.
"You jerk," he said. "Why'd you go and do that?" He shoved me once more, this time in disgust, then let me go.
The other guys turned to Louie. "You okay?" asked Tony.
Louie spit again, touching his finger to his mouth, and slowly they all walked off to meet Coach Trioli coming back from home plate.
And, man, I felt like a world class jerk. I'd slugged my own cousin. How stupid was that? I stood there leaning against that fence, feeling lower than the worst traitor in history.
In a gray fog, I realized that the game was resuming. Guys were taking the field. Coach was coaching, barking. Maybe he didn't even know what I'd done.
I wandered into the dugout, grabbed my glove, and straggled off.
Just outside, Coach took my arm.
"Hold on, Tyler," he said. "Where you going?"
"Out there." I pointed to shortstop.
"No, you don't. Didn't you hear the man? You're tossed."
"I'm what?" I spun around. "What for?"
"Look, hotshot. There's a rule against fighting. You shoved that guy and you're out of the game."
I stood, mouth open, glaring at the field. "I barely pushed him."
He squeezed my arm, staring straight into my face. "Hey, what's your problem anyway? You hear me? I mean, yeah, okay, you're only in New York for the summer, so maybe all this doesn't mean jack to you. And believe me, we got no shortage of hotheads and loudmouths out here ready to run around and act like idiots. But on my team, no one acts like that. Other coaches might put up with it--look the other way because you've got a little talent--but not me. You got that?"
I hung my head, studying my toes as his words rained down on me. Then I nodded, turned, and headed back to the dugout.
"And one more thing," he said, following me to the bench. "Skin, buckle, skin."
Oh, no, I thought. Here it comes. He was busting me for swinging through the bunt sign.
I raised my eyebrows, making my face the most innocent I could. "Yeah," I said. "That's hit-and-run. But there was nobody on base, so I was confused."
"It was the bunt sign. Hit-and-run is skin, hat, skin. Hat for hit, buckle for bunt."
He didn't say it like he was teaching me, but with disgust, like he knew I was lying. "Been here long enough," he said. "No excuse not knowing our signs."
I could've crawled under the bench like a horse-kicked coyote. Now I'd lied to him.
Coach Trioli turned and called to our pitcher. "Benny, top of the order. You know what to do. Tight defense, everyone!"
But by the next inning, we'd lost. Tony took over for me at short, booted a ball with a guy on second, and they beat us 3-2.
A game we should've won, sure, but that wasn't what bothered me. Lying to the coach--so automatically, without a thought--that bothered me. Losing control and hitting my cousin--that bothered me.
On the walk home, Louie asked, "What were you doing out there, anyways? Jumping that guy like that."
He gave my shoulder a playful shove, causing my sports bag to slip off. I didn't respond. I learned that's the best way to handle it when you screw up. Pretend like you're still mad and blame someone else. "The guy's a jerk."
"Oh, yeah?" he said. "That why you hit me? Because he's a jerk?"
"You should've let me go."
"Dude, you were nutso. I never saw you like that. You blew it, too, man. Because Coach likes you. Don't ask me why. You're a real pain in the buttocks. But he does." Louie stopped, looking at me to see if I'd match his grin. I didn't. I just couldn't let myself smile.
Louie grunted. "Good thing you hit like a girl," he said, then walked on ahead.
And I let him. I focused in on the grime-stained sidewalk, the row of green, plastic trash barrels, overflowing into the street, the chained-up bicycles lining the black iron rails that ran in front of all the old-time apartment buildings, anything to ignore the fact that, bottom line, he was right. I had blown it big time.
Out of everything that was wrong with me--and believe me, I had a list--the one thing I hated most was my stupid, white-hot anger. Going "nutso."
I mean, I'd always had a bit of a hot temper. Why not? I played with a ton of emotion. That's how I was. But these past few months, I'd noticed something else. That it was getting stronger.
And hotter.
Over the Wall is published by Philomel Books, a division of Penguin Putnam, New York.
© John H. Ritter, 2000 ISBN #0-399-23489-6.
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