Free Joey Pigza Loses Control by Jack Gantos Page A

the first baseman because it meant leaving the mound. I didn’t want to do it, so I didn’t do it, even when Dad yelled out, “Don’t make me come onto the field and drag you over there next time!” I knew he wasn’t going to come out to the mound. He had been out twice before to yell at me for not listening to him and the ump told him if he came out a third time he’d have to change pitchers. So he just stood by the dugout and hollered at me, but I didn’t even look at him. Between batters I just strolled toe-to-heel around the edge of my mound like a tightrope walker. And if a batter happened to get a hit, then I just struck out the next batter. I also refused to back up the catcher on a throw to the plate even when Dad ordered me to do it. “You have to do it!” he commanded. “I’m your coach. I’m your father!” I just turned my back on him and stared off into the outfield while everyone ran around chasing the ball, or trying to stay away from it. I didn’t catch infield pop-ups even when Dad pointed up into the air at them from the coach’s box and called out that it was mine to catch. If I couldn’t reach it from the mound, I let it drop or someone else had to catch it. And I didn’t field bunts either. I just stood my ground and threw the rock . That’s all I did, which was enough. I left everything else for the other guys to do.
    By about the fourth inning Dad had gone ballistic, which by then I understood was easy to make him do.
The more he yelled the less I did, and the more he lost control.
    â€œJoey,” he hollered with his hands cupped around his mouth after I let a pop-fly bunt drop about an inch outside the mound and a run scored from third. “Please, son. If you are mad at me just say so. Don’t blow the game. We can talk about why you’re mad at me later. But for the love of Pete please pick up the bunts before the whole darn team figures out they can bunt their way to victory.”
    I wasn’t worried about their bunting. I just rolled my head around like my neck was tight and kept my mouth shut. The mound was a good place for me to think and I guess I was silent with Dad to pay him back for all the times I’d hoped he would come and talk to me but never did. So I was just giving him a taste of his own medicine. Then, as he flew into the middle of another yelling spree, I’d strike out the next batter and make him smile and holler things like, “You’re the man!”
    But after three outs I had to leave the mound and go to the dugout, which I dreaded. I left the ball on the rubber for the next pitcher and then pulled my hat all the way down over my face like it was a Halloween mask, and peeked out the little air-vent holes. I wished the other team had all their twenty-seven outs in a row. Because when I got off I had to listen nonstop
to Dad, but worse, I had to bat, and I hated to bat more than anything I ever did in my life. I didn’t like people throwing rocks at me because really, it reminded me of the times when I used to run like a crazy rabbit all the way home from school with kids chasing me and throwing real rocks at me which sometimes hit me and hurt. Every time I stood at the plate and watched the pitcher wind up, I could feel every muscle in my body getting stiff and contorted and so when I took a swing I closed my eyes and looked like I was hacking at a piñata. And it was the laughs and boos of the other players along with Dad’s constant jawing that bothered me most. I just wanted to hit the ball to shut everyone up, but I couldn’t get near it, and all the way back to the dugout with my chin down and the bat dragging a line in the clay I could hear those words hurled at me like stones.
    â€œWhiff king!”
    â€œPansy bat!”
    â€œTurnstile!”
    I wanted us to score a lot of runs and win the game but I was always happy when our team got its third out