Most guys cheated on the extension of their arms, not

because they were too tired and out of shape or because

they were too lazy to do the exercise correctly but because

they didn’t want to look so darn silly.

“All right, you bunch of goof-offs. Let me demonstrate

the correct way to do a jumping jack,” the coach would

say. Then he would do a few perfect jumping jacks. He

would stretch his legs out real far and bounce up and

down, spreading his arms out really wide. He looked like

a fool, and of course, he knew it too, but he also knew

he would only have to do two or three jumping jacks

as a demonstration. He knew we’d have to spend a half

hour doing them and would look like fools every minute.

Coaches loved to see their players look like fools during

practice. Seriously. There couldn’t be any other reason

they’d put us through some of that crap.

30 |

After jumping jacks, we did sit-ups—on the freezing

asphalt. Wonderful. Then we did various stretching

exercises, which the coaches told us we should naturally

want to do on our own. Then we did a few push-ups, and

finally, we split up according to positions. There would

be three groups: infielders, outfielders, and pitchers and

catchers. Of course, by that time, the sun was down fairly

low, and it was getting even colder. They threw out a few

bases and set up an infield. Since the varsity and the JV

were together, there were five or six of us at each position,

and one coach was hitting us grounders. You can do the

math. There were four positions—1B, 2B, SS, 3B—with

six guys at each position. That meant each player would

get every twenty-fourth grounder, and he’d better make

the most of it because it would be twenty-three more

grounders before he got the next one. Plus, of course,

everybody wanted to look good on the first day. First

impressions were important. Well, I was second to last in

the shortstop line, and I handled my first grounder—the

seventeenth grounder of the season—well, except I threw

it wildly to first, and the ball wound up rolling around

under some of the faculty cars. Fortunately, it didn’t go

near Miss Stewart’s car, but unfortunately, I was quickly

gaining a reputation for a somewhat erratic arm. They

even started to call me the Wrecker, a nickname I never

grew to appreciate.

Frankie was over at second base, and as expected, he

was having problems. He told me he was going out for

second base this year because his arm was too weak for

the outfield, but of course, I had to point out that the

 | 31

reason they always stuck him in the outfield—always

right field—was because that was where the opposition

was least likely to hit the ball. Anyway, Frankie always

had his reasons, and he was always too thickheaded to

change. With each grounder, it got colder and colder, and

of course, our coach kept trying to hit the ball harder and

harder. The ball started to sting when I caught it. The ball

would sting so much that I kind of envied Frankie, who

let practically every ball go right through his legs. After

we had our chance with a grounder, we’d run to the back

of the line to wait and freeze. We’d start doing modified

jumping jacks with no concern for style just to keep from

freezing. Some of us speculated that we might be the first

team in baseball history to forfeit our first five games due

to frostbite.

The next day was pretty much the same. I threw with

Frankie, who never stopped complaining about how his

whole body hurt from the first workout. I told Frankie he

was sore because of his off-season habits. Frankie tried to

assure me that he was in tip-top shape, and he was sore

because of the cold weather and the coaches working him

too hard. I had to agree with him about that.

Throwing the ball back and forth was another kind of

baseball ritual, and the coaches would have us do it before

practice to warm up. When we were kids, our mothers

would say, “Why don’t you boys go out and play catch?”

They did this to prevent us from wrecking the house when

we got too restless. Now we were supposed big-shot high

school ball players, and when the coaches would start

warm-ups before practice, they’d put out a bag of balls.

32 |

We’d grab one, pair up, and “throw,” as we called it. We

would never “play catch”—even though that was what we

were doing. After all, we were trying to be big-shot high

school ball players and wouldn’t be caught dead playing

catch. It was much cooler to throw.

Actually, throwing wasn’t too bad. It was a good way to

goof off with your buddies and shoot the breeze. Jonathan

was the king of goofing off, and Frankie was the prince of

shooting the breeze. Frankie was never at a loss for words.

He could go one on one yap-trapping with anybody. Most

of the time, he would be complaining about something,

and the rest of the time, either he would be laughing,

or somebody would be laughing at him. Frankie could

take a joke reasonably well, and the older guys constantly

harassed him about his lack of athletic ability. The coaches

also liked to pick on Frankie. It was all good-natured, and

the kidding always kept everybody loose, especially me.

I really needed Frankie around. After all, he was my best

friend. We always walked home together, and he was an

encouragement to me. Since my biggest problem, aside

from a lack of any high-quality athletic ability, was my

confidence, I relied on him. I was worried about whether

Frankie would make the team, and since this year was

gonna be different, I was worried that I might lose Frankie

and have to make it on my own. Of course, I couldn’t let

on to anybody how I felt, but I sure was worried. I kept

trying to encourage Frankie to get his act together, but it

was hard. Frankie was one of those people with absolutely

no willpower. He’d do almost anything anybody told

| 33

him to do—especially if it would somehow get him into

trouble. Of course, he’d listen to anybody but me.

I knew Frankie and I were drifting apart when Frankie

decided he didn’t want to watch Star Trek anymore. It

might not seem like a big deal, but we were both really

big Star Trek fans, and I couldn’t understand why Frankie

would give up our favorite show. Frankie had been going

over to Murray’s house on Saturday nights since last fall,

and I had already conceded that loss, but our Friday

nights with the old crew of the Enterprise had become

pretty much a sacred routine. We’d watch the show and

then play some Ping-Pong in Frankie’s basement, and

then we’d sneak out for a hamburger and hang out for

a while. Frankie had Spock down really well, but his

best imitation was of Scottie. He would do that Scottish

accent for hours. He’d order his burgers with that dopey

accent, and then I’d try to convince the cute counter girl

that Frankie was my long-lost cousin on holiday from the

British Isles. Then of course we would start laughing and

nobody would fall for our act, but it was fun to try.

Star Trek was kind of my outlet to a dream world. I’d

always liked science fiction, and to me, Star Trek was sci-fi

at its best. When the show first came on a few years ago,

it was all the rage, and Frankie and I really took to it. I

liked to dream about the stars and what lay in those deep

black spaces out in the nighttime sky. When I went home

from Frankie’s on those frigid winter nights, when the sky

was packed with stars twinkling away like mad, I would

stand out in the cold as long as I could and just gaze up at

the stars and pick out the constellations. Orion had always

34 |

been my favorite—kind of a buddy to me. He was by far

the easiest constellation to pick out, and throughout the 

winter, he stood up there, dominating the sky. On my way

home from Frankie’s, I always cut through a small field. It

was fairly dark, but there were enough streetlights in the

distance so that it wasn’t too scary. I liked to stop there in

the winter to gaze at the stars and at old Orion. I’d stand

there until I just about froze. It was just so peaceful and

serene, and with the smooth Star Trek theme song flowing

through my mind, I felt content. Then I’d realize how

cold I was, and I’d tear off through the snow and down

the street to my house. In a flash, I’d be upstairs in bed,

snuggled tightly—safe and secure under three blankets.

Well, last winter, I could see that things were gonna

be different. Frankie didn’t have much interest in Star

Trek. Everybody seemed to care only about Laugh-In and

the Smothers Brothers and, of course, going over to the

parties at Murray’s house to get drunk. Frankie was no

different. One Friday night last February, I went over to

Frankie’s house to watch Star Trek, but Frankie’s mother

said Frankie was out. She said he was at the library,

working on a term paper, but I knew different. She invited

me to stay until Frankie got back, but I knew he’d be

out late at Murray’s house. I stayed for a while anyway

and watched Star Trek as Spock outsmarted some alien

without even the trace of a smile, and the show ended with

Captain Kirk and Bones making some crack about how

Spock never laughed at anything. They started laughing

hysterically, but all they could get out of old Spock was

a partially raised eyebrow. I said good night and headed

| 35

home. I made a quick stop in the field and looked up at

old Orion, but he was kind of slipping down toward the

western horizon. He looked as if he were falling. I knew

that was a sign of the changing season. Springtime was

coming, and I was losing a friend.

Things really started to change between me and

Frankie when we entered the ninth grade. It was the first

time all of us kids from Sherman Elementary School got

split up. They split us up according to who was smarter,

which actually meant who got better grades. Of course,

Frankie never had cared much about getting good grades,

so he and I got split up. Frankie wasn’t any dumber than

I was, but he messed around a little more than I did.

Frankie never took things seriously in grammar school.

He always did well in subjects he liked, such as science,

but he couldn’t stand math and English, so he always did

lousy in those subjects. When we went to high school, 

they stuck poor Frankie in one of the rowdier sections.

When a person was put into a rowdy group like that and

was a follower like Frankie was, he or she was headed for

trouble. My only real influence now over Frankie was with

baseball, and that was quickly slipping away. I could see it

happening, but I couldn’t do anything about it.

By the third day of practice, it was evident that

Frankie’s chances of making the JV baseball team were

slim. Frankie was setting the record for most misplayed

grounders. I tried to talk to Frankie about it when we

walked home from practice, but he wouldn’t listen. He

kept saying that he was getting all the bad hops and that

it was impossible to catch a stupid rubber-coated hardball

36 |

off a stupid asphalt parking lot anyway. I tried to point out

to him that most of us were able to catch grounders off the

asphalt parking lot, but Frankie still wouldn’t listen. He

said to just wait until we got out onto the field. I wanted

to tell him that he might get cut by the time we switched

over to the field, but I didn’t have the heart—and I didn’t

want to believe it myself.

I offered to hit him some grounders that Sunday

afternoon, and Frankie said, “Sure,” but when I went

over to his house, he was still in his pajamas and said

he couldn’t play. He said he’d been at a great party at

Murray’s and had started out drinking burgundy wine

but switched over to Boone’s Farm apple wine. He said he

loved the Boone’s Farm and had drunk the whole bottle.

He said he’d had a great time last night, but his stomach

wasn’t too great today. Then he told me to make sure I

didn’t tell his mother, because she’d kill him if she knew

he was drinking. We watched a little of the basketball

game on TV, but then Frankie started moaning and said

he had a terrible headache and wanted to go lie down. So I

walked home. It was sunny but still cold and windy. There

were still lumps of snow around, mostly by the street and

the driveways, where it had been piled real high after the

snowstorms. The snow piles were glistening in the sun,

but it was still cold, and it didn’t seem like spring was

only two weeks away. Somehow, I wasn’t looking forward

to baseball season. I knew I was going to have to face it

without Frankie. It was going to be different, and it didn’t

seem like it was going to be any fun.

| 37

Frankie didn’t make it to school on Monday or

Tuesday, and consequently, he missed practice both

days. When he showed up on Wednesday, he was his old

jovial self, kibitzing around with everyone and telling his 

stories about Saturday night. A few other guys had been

at the party too, so we were all treated to several different

accounts of the same party while we were throwing.

Everyone agreed that Frankie had drunk a whole bottle

of Boone’s Farm and that it had been a great party. There

were, however, different stories as to where Frankie had

spent most of the night after he had drunk the infamous

bottle of Boone’s Farm. One guy said Frankie had spent

considerable time in a newly invented yoga position over

the toilet bowl as he threw up for three straight hours in

exactly fifteen-minute intervals. One version had Frankie

spending the whole night passed out on the porch, saved

from freezing only by the high alcohol content of his

blood. Everybody thought it was hilarious, but it made

me a little sick to my stomach.

By Wednesday of the second week of practice,

Frankie’s performance still had not improved. As Frankie

and I walked home, we reminisced about old Mrs. White’s

class and all the trouble we’d caused. We then started

laughing hysterically, and we laughed all the way home.

The next day, we found out that Frankie had been cut 

from the team.