Free The Batboy by Mike Lupica Page A

feel alone at all.

CHAPTER 12
    H ank Bishop was the first player there the next morning, arriving in the clubhouse a few minutes after Davey Schofield.
    And for the first time, Hank spoke to Brian without Brian saying something to him first.
    “Hey,” he called out when he saw Brian across the room.
    Brian couldn’t help looking over his shoulder to make sure he was the one Hank was talking to, even though it was just the two of them in the clubhouse. Brian was there to make sure the coffee had finished brewing and was ready for the early arrivals.
    There were two forty-two-cup Hamilton Beach coffee urns set up on a long table in the clubhouse for regular coffee and a smaller pot for decaf, because only Davey Schofield and Rube Morgan, the old pitching coach, drank decaf. One of the urns had an R on it, meaning “regular.” The other had an H. For “high test.”
    The high test was like the coffee version of Red Bull, which meant a caffeine bomb. Brian and Finn had been instructed to put twice as much ground coffee into its oversized filter—going by Mr. Schenkel’s instructions—as they did the other.
    And to make sure it was always filled, even after the game had started.
    “Sometimes our kids need a little jolt to get their hearts started,” is the way Mr. S. put it.
    But Brian knew enough about major-league baseball to know the deal, had read up on how players dealt with the long season. Many of them used to use amphetamines before amphetamines became a banned substance in baseball, something you got tested for along with other illegal drugs like the ones Hank Bishop had used.
    The players weren’t kidding anybody. Brian knew high-test coffee was a kind of substitute now, even if nobody talked about it that way.
    “Hey,” Hank said now. “Hey, you.”
    You, Brian thought.
    “How about a cup of your breakfast special?”
    High test.
    “Yes, sir,” Brian said.
    He filled up a tall cup, not having to be told what kind of coffee he drank because he still watched every move the guy made without letting on that he was watching.
    Brian walked the coffee across to him, eyes on the cup the whole way, desperate not to spill any.
    “Here you go, Mr. Bishop,” he said, handing it to him.
    Hank Bishop tasted it, winced a little. Brian stood there as if waiting to be dismissed. “Yep,” Hank said now. “My favorite. Kind that tastes like you ought to be pumping it for three dollars a gallon at the gas station.”
    “Is it too strong today?” Brian said.
    Thinking he’d already said more than he should have, even about a stupid cup of coffee.
    Hank Bishop said, “Let me explain something to you: It could never be too strong to suit me.”
    He placed the cup on the carpet next to him, Brian noticing even more bats than usual inside his locker today. Then he picked up the sports section of the Free Press he wanted waiting for him at his locker before day games. Brian could see his eyes scanning the front page. Then Hank looked up, as if surprised to see him still standing there.
    “What’s your name again?” he said.
    Brian told him.
    “Brian,” Hank said. “Why can’t I ever remember that?” Then he stood up with his coffee and his newspaper and headed for the players’ lounge.
    “Brian,” he said again, without looking back.
    And as much as Brian felt like a complete idiot, he turned and felt himself smiling as Hank disappeared through the door to the lounge. As he did, he saw Mr. Schenkel watching him from outside his office, shaking his head, almost like Brian had done something wrong.
    “What did I do?” Brian said.
    “ You didn’t do anything,” Mr. S. said. “I just wish guys like him were nicer.”
    “Most are.”
    “Just not him.”
    “Not yet,” Brian said.
    “You ever hear the one about the guy who finally stops beating his head against the wall?” Mr. Schenkel said.
    “No.”
    “When he finally does, somebody asks him how he feels and he says, Great! ”
    “That’s