An excerpt from my book in progress

THE BIG ONE

Based on a true story

By

Mike Krysiuk with Julia Bobkoff

“Shoot for the sun in everything you do, because even if you miss
you will land among the stars, and that’s a great place to be.” —Mike Krysiuk

PROLOGUE

It was 1974, my senior year of high school, and spring baseball was about to start. I stood on the front step in my old Yankees cap, the one I always wore when I did the yard work. The big maple, blazing red in the fall, was just showing its first green leaves. I looked down at my mother’s prized flower beds alive with buds. Everything was changing. I took a deep breath. The wind off the Saugatuck smelled fresh and promising. I should go fishing, maybe grab a buddy. But right now, I’ve got to get these chores done.

I headed to the garage. My father wanted me to cut the grass, so I changed the oil and filled the gas tank of the old Sears mower. Luckily, I only had to change the oil once a year. I wheeled it out and fired it up. I was an outdoorsman—keeper of the yard—and my parents depended on me to maintain order. I was in my domain.

As I mowed a path across the yard, I smiled at my Aunt Frances driving by in her station wagon. She lived right next door. A few of my aunts, uncles, and cousins lived in Westport, the rest in neighboring Connecticut towns. We were a large family—a mix of Polish, Italian, Irish, and Hungarian. We had big hearts and worked hard. We always got together at weddings and anniversaries and often visited each other. Aunt Frances was always stopping by to talk to my mom or borrow a cup of sugar. And her husband, Uncle John, one of my mother’s brothers, was constantly working on some project with my dad that varied from fixing a boat motor to talking about fishing equipment or gardening—my uncle’s specialty. 

As I cut a circle around the maple, I thought about baseball tryouts at Staples High and all that green grass I’d be running on soon. I was setting my goals high in my final year. I knew the competition I’d be up against, and I wanted to make that team and have my dreams come true. No more bench-warming for me! This was going to be the year of “The Big One.” That was my nickname, given to me by my cousins, Johnny and Richard, when I was twelve. I towered over both of them, and it just stuck. And then it caught on at school because I was usually the biggest kid in my class, made to stand in the back row in every picture. I didn’t mind. I did what the photographer wanted. I wasn’t a pain in the ass. Or the kid who said, “I don’t want to be in the back row anymore.” I tried to keep the waters calm and just went along with the flow. My goal was to try to get along with everybody, to fit in, and never be an outsider. 

In gym class I was known as a strong athlete, but when I went out for the teams, I never ended up in the limelight. Guys with one-tenth my skill always seemed to make the cut. I figured it was something to do with the parents and the Boosters Club. But that happens in every story and every small town. You look for ways to get into that clique, but it’s a crapshoot. And I usually ended up with the crap. I mean, I was on a first-name basis with that crap! I was usually held to the last day of tryouts and then let go. And the coach would slap me on the back and say: “Come out next year, Krysiuk.” 

But with this being my final year of high school, I decided it was time to set my sights higher and finally grab that brass ring. Nineteen seventy-four was going to be my year—no more cuts, no more playing second fiddle, no more would have beens, should have beens, or could have beens…. Like I said, this was going to be the year of The Big One! I was shooting for the sun!

And time was running out. I was now entering the final stretch of high school, and if I wanted things to change, it had to be now. I was seventeen, that age when you’re never really happy with what you have, when you’re always striving for something more—to be one step closer, one rung higher on the ladder. Though I was doing well at school and working as a busboy at Mario’s, a popular restaurant opposite the train depot in Saugatuck, I wanted to become part of the “in crowd”—the group that always looked like they were having the most fun, the ones who always seemed to get away with everything and still come out smelling like a rose. Those effortlessly cool guys who always get the girls. It could have been the way they talked, walked, or dressed—I could never figure out how they did it. Sometimes I felt like I was a castaway in a boat on Long Island Sound—just floating off by myself. It didn’t matter that I was tall and athletic, with brown hair, big blue eyes, and a good sense of humor. I even had a cool car—a green Chevy Chevelle with a quadraphonic 8-track tape player. I also had a job that made me good money and was known to play a pretty mean guitar. 

On weekends, I got together with my next-door neighbor, Royce, who played drums, and we put out our own beat—improvising on songs from The Beatles, Stones, Deep Purple, Iron Butterfly, Cream, and Johnny Winter. Royce’s friends would bring their girlfriends and, in turn, they would bring their friends, and sometimes we had a pretty good crowd. But if I saw a girl I was attracted to, I was guaranteed to get tongue-tied around her. Sometimes my mind would even go blank. I often thought, maybe I would be more popular if I associated with the right crowd. But I just couldn’t figure out who the right crowd was. So I latched onto any group I could find that seemed right. From athletes to scholars, I shot the limit. But I wasn’t considered a party type of guy. Maybe that was the problem? I liked to have fun, like everybody else, but I never overdid it. When my parents set a curfew, I stuck to it. I wouldn’t step outside the lines. But this was going to be the year I changed all that. I was going to break loose, shake things up, step into the spotlight of social success and athletic glory! 

But sometimes we change too fast, walk through the wrong door, or even fall out a window. In my case, probably all of the above. In one decisive moment I shifted my friends, my crowd, my personality, my work ethic, and even my attitude towards life…which ultimately nearly killed me…along with my dreams. This is the story of how I shed the chains of a follower who walked in other people’s shadows and learned to shoot for the sun in everything I do, because even if you miss, you will land among the stars…and that is a great place to be. 

The Big One—Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE 

After cutting the grass I put everything back in the garage and went inside to get some cold fruit punch and join my dad watching the ball game. We always sat together in the basement in front of the color TV, and he’d flip the station to channel 11 WPIX. I settled back to enjoy the game. The Yankees were shedding the ghost of their cellar dweller days, rebuilding under the new ownership of George Steinbrenner. My dad often remarked on how he completely redesigned the team from manager to batboy. The Yankees were winning again, which fired me up! 

I turned to my dad. “I’m going to practice hard, lift weights, run, throw, and make the Staples team this year!”

He smiled. “And keep up in school too.”

“Absolutely—the sky’s the limit!”

We each had a bowl of ice cream balanced on our knee when we watched the game. I usually ate chocolate chip, and he loved chocolate fudge ripple. The basement was like our man cave. There was a pool table down there and one of those tabletop hockey games where you maneuver the players with sliding steel rods. And let’s not forget the dartboard—I could always hold my own against my friends. I used to hang out down there after school with some of them—kids from the neighborhood. 

My dad, Frank, wasn’t the type to yell at the game. He sat calmly, eating his ice cream, and making the occasional comment on a good play or an error. My sister, Maryann, ten years my senior, stopped down a moment and grabbed a soda from the fridge.  

“Who’s winning?” she asked.

“Nobody,” I answered, glancing at her then back at the screen, “the game just started.”

Maryann looked more like my dad, with her hazel eyes and big grin. I, on the other hand, resembled my mom with the big blue eyes and a quieter disposition. My mom, Anne, was a homemaker, and my dad a stonemason. They met through mutual friends in the late ‘30s and often enjoyed dancing at the Maple Pavilion at Pleasure Beach in Bridgeport. That was a popular entertainment hall back then with bell towers and huge windows overlooking the water. They were such great dancers that people would stop to watch them twirling on the floor to all the big jazz hits of the era. 

They came from hard-working families and were each one of seven children. My mom was the oldest and my father the oldest boy. After a whirlwind romance, they got engaged. My father enlisted, and they kept in touch through letters while he fought in the Philippines and the Battle of Guadalcanal. They were later married, my father in uniform, my mother in a simple white dress, at Assumption Church in Westport, November 4th, 1944. 

At first they lived in local housing for veterans, but finally, my father bought a lot on Oak Ridge Park in Westport and began to construct a home from his own design. It was a two-story brick colonial with room for a future family, and he laid out stone-lined flower beds for my mother who loved to garden. The finishing touch was a young maple he planted in the front yard.

It wasn’t long before my mother was happily cooking in her new kitchen with her very own window overlooking that beautiful tree. There she spent many years creating her fabulous dishes, many of them Polish. The house was permeated with the smells of simmering stews, casseroles, and buckwheat bread fresh out of the oven, chowders made from my father's efforts digging up clams at the local beach, and hand-rolled pierogies stuffed with cheese, potatoes, or cabbage. My family never had a frozen dinner or ingredients that weren’t fresh. In the summer the majority of our produce came from my parents’ sizable vegetable garden, which they tended together. One of their specialties was pickled beets, which we ate in the winter, along with other canned goods.

Before my father went to work in the morning, I used to watch him tape up his fingers to prevent them from getting shredded by rough stones and bricks. He was around 5’10” and built like a catcher, which is actually the position he played on the local teams in his younger days. He was very fast and a power hitter. Whenever we ran into his old ball playing buddies down at the marina in Veteran’s Park, they would call him by his nickname, “Dynamite.” Sometimes, they’d look up from fixing a boat motor and say, “I bet some of those balls you hit are still traveling!” He’d just laugh and then they would exchange family news, talk about new fishing tackle or how big their last catch was, go on about the Yankees, or gossip about friends. Sometimes they’d discuss recent headlines about Vietnam, or which local boy was in the armed forces. My dad was respected around town, known for his great masonry work and being an overall good friend to everybody. And even though his baseball days were behind him, he’d really made his mark in the local leagues.

In the 1930s, Norwalk was known as a baseball town. The New York teams—the Yankees, Dodgers, and the Giants—would come down on their days off and play in the pickup games. My dad batted many times against major league pitchers, and Dynamite always held his own. He was even scouted as a hitter by one of the New York clubs, but the economic climate of the Great Depression shifted his future. The major league stardom he might have achieved was put on the back burner because he had family responsibilities. Back then, parents and children really had to work together to survive.

My dad had a total of seven siblings and step-siblings, and as the oldest son carried a lot of the financial weight. As a bricklayer, he could not miss a single day of work because nobody was given time off back then for something like a baseball tryout. He could lose his job over it, and that would leave his family stranded. These were precarious times, and everybody was struggling. So my dad never got to find out his true potential, but this did not make him bitter. He focussed his energies on keeping his family afloat, and many of the local buildings display his artistry to this day. I still like to walk into the Norwalk town hall and look up at the ceiling and imagine him balanced on a scaffold up there, working away. I always wave to his memory.

“Enjoy the game,” Maryann smiled, “I’m going upstairs to study.”

Maryann was a commuter student at Central Connecticut State seeking a degree in accounting and computer science. Being very driven, she also took business courses at the University of Bridgeport and taught on the side at Norwalk High School.

My dad turned to her, “What’s your mom doing?”

“Reading the paper and listening to Dr. Meltzer on the radio.”

“Your mom always says he really helps people out.” Then he turned back to the game. I heard Maryann’s quick footsteps retreating up the stairs. I knew she’d be up in her room the rest of the night with a cup of tea, engrossed in her book. It was a typical evening in the Krysiuk household, everyone peacefully going about their own business.

Weekends also had their own kind of order to them. Saturdays were for running errands and visiting family. Sundays we all went to mass, Dad and I to the 8:15 a.m. service, my sister and mother at high noon. It was the same church where my parents were married. Like other members of the Greatest Generation, he never thought twice about serving his country. I don’t know much about that time in his life, and the details are fuzzy, but I’m very proud of his service. My father was actually awarded the Silver Star, but he never talked about it. I wish I’d asked him more questions when I was younger, but I didn’t know the importance of the honor or what to ask. He put the medal in a box and kept it in his desk drawer for years. I didn’t even know it was there, or that he had many others, until years later when my sister told me about it. 

She didn’t know that much either, except that he was proud of his time in the Army and served as some kind of rescuer. Whenever there was a difficult mission, they’d always send my father in to get people out. He was quick on his feet, intuitive by nature, and both calm and effective under pressure. He was a scout and a gunner and could procure supplies that no one else could find. As a result, the Army had him constantly on the move. He didn’t share too many stories, but he saved many men and women, even when the odds were heavily stacked against him.

Upon his return to the States, the Army sent him to Northampton, Massachusetts, to aid in the psych ward of the Northampton Veterans Administration Hospital. Though he never experienced what we now call post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD, he found himself helping those who suffered from combat stress. On weekends he would travel home to his mom’s house in Norwalk to get a breather. He told her the job really beat him up, all those patients reliving the war. He felt for every single one of them. During his time in Massachusetts, he discovered he possessed a strong gift for helping soldiers recover from their psychological wounds, and this type of work became part of the fabric of his life. Over the years he helped many veterans recover, as well as his two brothers, a niece’s husband, and a cousin who suffered from PTSD after serving in Vietnam.

But when it came to talking about his own experiences in the Pacific Theatre, he said very little. My father was, by nature, a quiet guy. Just don’t get him mad. He had a long fuse, but you could tell it was burning by the tone of his voice, which got louder and louder until he blew the wax right out of your ears. But it took a lot for that to happen. He was the balance in other peoples’ lives, and all the skills he acquired from the war, and afterward helping veterans, prepared him well to help save and guide me when I needed him most during the darkest period of my life. Without his leadership and faith, as well as the support of my family, I don’t believe I would be here.

But on a sunny day after mass, heading with my dad out to the local baseball field to throw and catch, bad times were the furthest thing from our minds. He was my personal coach and believed in my pitching potential. He always brought a bag of balls, and I carried the gloves and my favorite bat. It was a Louisville Slugger—Al Kaline model. He was an outfielder and a great hitter for the Detroit Tigers. My bat was thirty-two inches long, a perfect weight, and the ball just popped right off it. We’d spend a few hours out there most Sundays, pitching and hitting. Time just flew by. 

Since I was eight, my dad taught me the fundamentals of baseball, with a focus on pitching. As I got older, his confidence in me grew. By the time I hit high school his teaching had really paid off. I was known for my sinker, which would drive the batters crazy and frustrate the umpires who couldn’t always tell if it was a strike from the way it crossed the plate. When the ball came up to the batter it seemed to drop off the table, sinking so fast it caused them to swing and miss or get called on a third strike. That pitch was a "true sinker”—my favorite! And when it came to hitting, my dad gave me so much batting practice and so many special tips I was able to contact most pitches and develop my own power swing. But when I got into high school, I concentrated mostly on pitching because that’s where my father and I felt I had the most potential for making the team.

At seventeen life was pretty grand. I loved spending time with my dad, especially watching the games and studying the different pitchers so I could apply their techniques to my own and discover new ways to outsmart each hitter. Baseball was my life, and I also wanted to use it as a way to become popular and attract the girls. Doesn’t everybody? 

As we shut off the TV and headed up to bed, all I could think about was tryouts. I lay in the dark, imagining standing on the mound, body relaxed, mind focussed, my left cleat kicking up for momentum, then leaning in a fluid motion toward home plate, releasing the ball in a perfect line toward my target, as my right foot finished forward, leaving me in a ready position to field any ball that flew in my direction. Strike three! Perfect pitch! Let the party begin!

Excerpted from the upcoming novel, The Big One, by Mike Krysiuk with Julia Bobkoff. Based on a true story.

The Big One—Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

The next morning, as I swung into the school parking lot, humming along with the guitar solo to “Sunshine of Your Love,” I saw Susan pull into the space next to me. Now I felt extra lucky. I was not only trying out for the varsity baseball team later that day but maybe able to score a few points with Susan by telling her about it. Being on the varsity baseball team was an honor. Susan worked at Mario’s with me, along with some of my buddies. I barely talked to her at work because I’d get so tongue-tied staring into her blue eyes as she tossed those salads. I’d say to my friend Ted, also a busboy, “What I wouldn’t do to be a tomato in her salad.” He’d just laugh and shrug it off. 

Ted was the kind of guy who seemed to have everything—the car, the girl, the clothes, the money. His father insisted he work for pocket money, but other than that, he had everything he needed. Nothing seemed to bother him or tie him down. He never worried about missing one or two morning classes. He’d stop off for breakfast first at one of the local eateries. His friends would join him there: Jim, David, Barrett, and Brian. This was the “cool” group I was determined to become part of. 

Ted was the ringleader, a James Dean type, but with dark hair. His father owned a big house on the hill in town, and he had a tennis court in the backyard. It looked like a country club. His dad even put down this new kind of foam floor for the outdoor courts. It was great for playing basketball too. Sometimes I got invited for pickup games. That’s really how I got to know him. While I was making sure I was on time for school, he was probably eating with his buddies at the local diner. 

Susan got out of her car and slung her purse over one shoulder then grabbed a few books. 

I took that moment to snag my book bag, slam the door quickly, then turn to her and say, “Hi Susan, how are you doing?”

She looked at me over her chemistry book and smiled, “Oh, hi Mike, I got to run to class. I’m late. You going to be around at lunchtime?” 

As I said, “One o’clock…” my tongue swelled from shyness, and I wondered if she heard me mutter under my breath as she walked away, “I’m going to finish my sentence one of these days.” I really couldn't help it around her—she had these mesmerizing eyes, an infectious smile, and long, blonde hair like Marcia from the Brady Bunch. She also had a lot of male friends, and I was just trying to get noticed. Maybe if I were more like Ted and his gang, she would have waited for me, even risked being late? 

I'd been trying to break into their group for a while. Just as I made it to the door before the bell rang, I saw Ted in his brown GT6 and the rest of the gang following behind in Dave’s mother’s blue station wagon. They pulled into the parking lot. Ted honked the car and slowed down beside me. 

He rolled his window down. “Hey Mike, wait up.”

“C’mon, I don’t want to be late, haul your ass over here.” I glanced down at my watch. I only had two minutes before the bell rang. I watched them park quickly and pile out of their cars. Jim led the way. Even though he was short, the girls were crazy about him. He had blonde hair, always looked clean-cut, and wore his blue football jacket. Jim was a top running back who achieved his dream of being a starter for the varsity team. He had a superior attitude; you just knew nobody was going to mess with him.

Behind him was Dave, over six feet but not quite as tall as me. He had a Beatles haircut and even though he lifted weights and was a strong pickup player in football, basketball, and hockey, wasn’t that popular with the girls. I guess he was the strong silent type, with a John Wayne persona, but more into hanging with the guys than chasing girls. He was everybody’s friend—male and female. You could depend on him. If you needed a hand fixing something or were drawn into a fight, he’d be there for you.

Barrett waited for Ted to get out of the car. He was his next-door neighbor and dedicated wingman. Barrett was as tall as Jim but more mild-mannered. He didn’t participate in any of the school sports, but he’d always be part of the team if you needed someone in a pickup football or basketball game. He had a consistent outside shot and made a couple of game-winning plays on Ted’s outdoor court that we still talked about. But he was also the guy Jim and Ted would always pick on. If something went wrong, Barrett would ultimately get the blame. But when the smoke cleared we were all good friends. 

Brian suddenly pulled into the parking lot in his mom’s ‘66 tan Rambler station wagon. He ran out to join us just as the bell rang. Brian and I had been friends since elementary school. We used to play on the same little league team—the Yankees—which was managed by my dad. And Brian was also a senior like me. The rest of the guys were juniors. We’d always been close, going through the trenches of school together from first grade through twelfth. We had a lot of good times growing up, fishing and waterskiing on the Saugatuck, and we’d always go out Friday nights of my junior year driving around trying to find where the party was at. 

So, that was Ted’s crowd, and all I wanted to do was be a part of it. I met Ted through Brian. Brian worked with Ted at a newly opened business called Jack Horner’s Pie Shop. They had great custard pie, not to mention pumpkin. I never had to pay for it. Brian just handed me a slice, hot out of the oven. And that’s how I met Ted. He was washing dishes in the back, but when he heard us talking about baseball and girls, he came out, wiping his hands on his apron. Between bites, I said, “I’m going to be trying out for pitching this year and just hope I don’t have to kiss the coach’s ass to play.”

Brian laughed, and Ted made kissing noises and said, “Pucker up!” 

After that I was invited into their group of friends, and it just started to blossom—like a dream come true. That was the summer before my senior year—when I first met Ted and was invited to the pickup basketball games on his father’s modernized turf. I was the center, and we each respected each other’s skill; nothing was taken for granted. I started to feel like I belonged. It was a great feeling—like that moment in baseball when you hit the winning home run in the bottom of the ninth and you watch the ball sail over the fence. For that one moment it’s like the clouds part, and you see that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But in youth expectations sometimes lead us to discover that the pot is often empty.  

On that spring morning, though, as we entered the double doors of the school, everything felt right. I was on my way to being accepted by the popular crowd, and life was changing like a 100 mph fastball striking out the big hitter. As I found myself walking down the hall with Ted’s gang, girls smiling at me, I finally felt part of a winning team. And the clincher was seeing Susan look directly at me as I walked by and give me a flirty smile. Finally—me and the boys! 

But was this the right team for me? All I knew was that the girls were noticing me for the first time, and the dial had shot up on my popularity meter. But as I headed into Kaplan’s economics class, I felt the rain clouds set in. Or worse, the hurricane of Kaplan roll in. He was standing at the board in his studious glasses. He didn’t have to say anything for us all to know to sit down fast and get ready for the class. He knew how to intimidate us with just a look. I slid into my seat, confident I had all my work done. Bring it on! I thought, Let the crucifixion called “economics” begin! As I pulled out my homework, I thought of Susan again and resolved to do whatever it took to keep proving to Ted and the others that I was the guy who fit in with their group—they hadn’t made a mistake after all—I was the Big One!

The Big One—Chapter Three

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.

The Big One—Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning as I put my cereal bowl in the sink, my mom handed me my brown bag lunch and said, “Congratulations on making the team. But like your father and I said last night, stick to those studies. Don’t let anything slide.”

“Yeah, Mom, don’t worry, I got this.” I took my lunch and headed out the door. It was a warm, sunny morning, perfect for rolling the windows down and playing some tunes on the way to school. I slid into my green bucket seats and flipped my stereo on. I pushed a tape by Iron Butterfly into the slot to hear “In A Gadda Da Vida.” That tune felt like my theme song—with that driving beat, I could conquer anything, be it baseball or girls!

As I headed toward school, I sang along with the lyrics: “In a gadda da vida, honey, don't you know that I'm lovin' you. In a gadda da vida, baby, don’t you know that I'll always be true.” I swung into the high school parking lot beating my hands on the steering wheel to the driving bass and funky guitar solo. Whenever I played with Royce, I would cut loose on that part. Some pretty girls turned their heads as my music blasted out the windows. As they smiled, I started to slow down, but a little voice inside my head said: Don’t overdo it. This is not the right time or place. Get your ass in school.

I drove past them, parked, and grabbed my book bag out of the back. I saw Susan up ahead, walking with her best friend, Nicole. 

She stopped, waved, and as I got closer, said: “Congratulations on making the team!” 

I grinned. Boy, good news travels fast. 

But as I got closer, I could only mumble a shy, “Thanks.” 

At that moment the guys pulled into the lot, beeping their horns to get my attention. They drove alongside us, and Ted leaned out the window of his sports car and said, “Jump in, Mike, we’re going to get breakfast—my treat.”

Susan looked at me, a little surprised, and then said under her breath, “You're going to skip class?” Nicole also stared at me, curious to see what I would do.

“It’s only once.” I smiled and got into Ted's car. Susan half-smiled back, shrugged, then turned and walked off with her friend to class.

As Ted tore out of the parking lot, he said, “Making points with the ladies today, huh?”

“Nah, just saying hello. We were talking about schoolwork, nothing important. And they were congratulating me on making the team.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve seen the way you look at her at Mario’s. With you making the team—anything’s possible.”

Ted pulled up to Cristo’s, a little diner on the Post Road, a favorite of the locals. Dave pulled into the slot next to us, and everyone piled out. I felt like a member of the gang, like in West Side Story, only we all dressed in our own way, making our individual fashion statements. And Ted looked the coolest in his brown suede jacket and white Adidas sneakers with the black stripes. 

The waitress behind the counter—the owner’s wife—said, “Hello, boys! Early breakfast today?”

Ted answered for all of us, “Sure, we’ll have pancakes and bacon—my treat. We’re celebrating Mike making the baseball team.” Now I realized he was going to pay for everyone, not just me. Boy, it’s nice to be “King!”

“I was thinking about having your usual ready for you but a little bird told me to hold off—there was something special about today.” And she bustled off into the kitchen.

We all sat at the counter talking about last night’s game—the Yankees against the Red Sox. Ted was not much of a conversationalist. He’d only speak if you asked him questions, usually stuff about girls at school. 

So, I turned to him and said: “I made the team, but where are the women? It’s a package deal, right?”

He just smiled and said, “All in due time. You got to learn how to act around them first.” 

Ted was always talking to some popular girl at school. He was the center of attention with all the pretty ones, especially at parties. It wasn’t his height—he was average, probably around 5’10”, and it wasn’t anything particular about his looks. He had dark, wavy hair cut similar to Mick Jagger, but you wouldn’t have picked him out in a crowd. Maybe it was his striking blue eyes? They had a certain intensity—almost hypnotic, like he was staring straight through you. And his shy but powerful presence could catch anyone’s attention—male or female, young or old. He was almost like a cult leader, and back at his house on the hill he held court in his bedroom, a third-floor private club designed to awe his guests, with a powerful stereo, extensive 8-track collection, posters of The Stones, The Beatles, and Los Angeles Lakers basketball star Jerry West taking a legendary jump shot, and the finishing touch—a refrigerator stocked with cold brew. His father, George, was a businessman constantly traveling, and this gave Ted the freedom to entertain friends however he wished (within reason of course). 

Everybody who grew up with Ted knew that his mother died when he was around eight. His father remarried when he was a teenager, and he never got along with his stepmother. She never came up the stairs to his room, and he rarely came down. Through his father’s remarriage, he had a much younger half-sister. He got along with her well…there was just that tension with his stepmother hanging over his head. I guess that’s why he always enjoyed going to breakfast in the morning with his buddies, rather than eating at home. He never wanted to be at that house on the hill, unless he was upstairs in his room, hanging with his friends.

After we finished eating, it was time for us to get back to school. All these new things happening to me were a little hard to believe. Ted timed it perfectly—we got back when classes were changing so we could slip in and meld with the crowd. I realized I’d missed Kaplan’s class but figured I would catch up with him tomorrow. All I could focus on was finishing the day and getting to baseball practice. Ted said, “See ya later.” I gave him a nod and headed to biology—one of my favorites. I was flying high. I was finally doing the things I wanted to do. And in control of my life. Or was I?