Gabby Garcia's Ultimate Playbook Read online

  The Garcia Family

  DEDICATION

  To my home team—Steve, Clark, and Nate

  CONTENTS

  The Garcia Family

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Lineup as of Pregame

  First-Day Play

  Taking a Mulligan

  The Scope, Ditch, and Switch

  The Home Run

  Take It to the Limit

  Practice Makes Imperfect

  Field Hockey Fantastic

  Last Chance

  The Take-Me-Out Fake-Out

  First Game

  Replay: The Game

  Stealing Second

  The Poet and You Didn’t Know It

  Poetry in Motion

  To Be a Bard—It’s Hard

  The Sonnet in My Bonnet

  Read Aloud for a Crowd

  Rehearsal Rhyming

  That’s the Way the Muffin Crumbles

  Replay: Don’t-Make-Plans Play

  The Extraction

  Seventh-Inning Stretch

  The Picking-Up-The-Pieces

  The No “I” in Team

  Replay: Game Day

  Acknowledgments

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Hey, who are you?

  Or, better question, who do you think you are, opening this extra-special possession of mine?

  If this is Peter, put this book down. NOW.

  If you’re a good-hearted stranger who happened to find this because I somehow dropped it, well, I don’t totally believe you because I don’t totally believe that I would drop something as important as this.

  But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.

  Maybe you think you hold in your hands a mere diary. But it’s not that. NOT A DIARY at all.

  Yeah, I know you’re thinking, kid, this is 10,000% a diary. And what’s wrong with diaries anyway?

  Look: nothing is wrong with diaries. My stepmom has kept one since forever and she and my dad pretty much tie for top non-famous personal heroes.

  But this, dear unauthorized reader (or should I say intruder?), is a playbook. MY ultimate playbook, in case you wanted clarification. It’s where I keep all my thoughts and ideas and strategies about how to WIN at life.

  Yeah, but how is that different from a diary, you ask?

  Look, diaries are usually just about what happens.

  Playbooks are about how you make things happen.

  In sports, playbooks contain highly confidential plans that the opposing team can use to sabotage your game. Which is why I have to be highly suspicious of you because maybe you’re someone who doesn’t want me to win at life . . . like Mario Salamida, for example.

  (Look, Mario, I can’t help you’ve never gotten a hit off me. Go take some batting practice.)

  There’s also another difference between this and a diary. In diaries, people write about what happened to them and how it made them feel. Which is great. I love feelings. Like the feeling I get when I throw a fastball over home plate and watch as the batter swings and misses. There is no feeling better than that, IMO.

  But playbooks are about Goals and Actions and Results. Deciding to do A in order to achieve B so the world can C how awesome you are. Haha. Playbooks contain rules and stuff that every great player can use to become THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME.

  Nod if you’ve read and understood the signs, as all-star pitchers like me do.

  Great. NOW GO BURN THIS BOOK SO NO ONE CAN STEAL MY PLAYS!!!!

  (But don’t really burn it. Do the nice thing and mail it back to me. I’ll have my dad bake you some cookies.)

  LINEUP AS OF PREGAME

  GABRIELLE “GABBY” GARCIA (aka ME)

  Height: 4'9" (hoping for a growth spurt)

  Build: Wiry but strong enough to put a wicked spin on my fastball

  Sport: Baseball, mainly, but I’m up for anything

  Excels at: Pitching, observing opponents

  Favorite Athlete: I refuse to pick just one

  Motto: “The main thing is to care. Care very hard, even if it is only a game you are playing.” —Billie Jean King, one of the greatest female tennis players ever

  JUAN GARCIA (aka Dad)

  Height: Something he calls “tall enough”

  Build: Something he calls “huggable”

  Sport: Likes all, plays anything he’s invited to

  Excels at: Writing, reading, cooking, doing things at the last minute

  Favorite Athletes: Me and my brother, Peter (but I think it’s Michael Jordan)

  Motto: “Needs more hot sauce.” (Plus a bunch of smart things said by dead people)

  LUPITA “LOUIE” GARCIA (aka my stepmom)

  Height: Same as Oprah (she’s very proud of this)

  Build: Good enough for Oprah (she’s very proud of this, too)

  Sport: Yoga (but only the easy stuff, as she’d say)

  Excels at: Management, math, getting things done

  Favorite Athletes: Also me and my brother, Peter

  Motto: “We can do it.” —Rosie the Riveter

  PETER GARCIA (aka my half brother)

  Height: 4'9". Not happy to note that at eight he is as tall as me, his twelve-year-old sister.

  Build: You can never gauge the full weight of a nuisance

  Sport: Says soccer, but I think his true annoying talent is for smirking at things I say

  Excels at: Driving me completely nuts

  Favorite Athlete: Carli Lloyd, Olympic gold medal–winning soccer player (can’t say he doesn’t have good taste)

  Motto: “Is this annoying?” “What about this?”

  DIEGO PARKER (aka best friend, sort of sidelined due to being in Costa Rica—unbelievable that he’s gone instead of here as my support system during this tumultuous time!)

  Height: Always too tall for his pants. TALL.

  Build: String bean

  Sport: Knowing everything about every sport in the known universe, plus probably some sports played on other planets

  Excels at: Being light enough to carry off the field when he trips and falls. So he has said.

  Favorite Athlete: Gabby Garcia (but in truth, I think Diego’s fave is Yan Gustader, a hornussen player from Switzerland)

  Motto: “All I want to do is go the distance.” —Rocky (a character from an ancient movie our dads love)

  MARIO SALAMIDA (aka my closest thing to a mortal enemy)

  Height: Tall enough to cast a scary shadow

  Build: See above

  Sport: Baseball

  Excels at: First base, big hits, snarling, intimidation

  Favorite Athlete: Definitely not me

  Motto: A series of grunts and kicking things when games don’t go his way

  April 10

  How I Got Here: A Replay

  Okay, so this is my playbook. But I’m starting with a replay. Which maybe makes this a little like a diary, and I just wrote that whole note about how it’s NOT A DIARY. Replays are different, though.

  I’ll need it, for the sake of context and historical posterity and stuff. Because what I’m writing here is the reason for me starting this playbook in the first place.

  Anyway . . . it was the perfect day for a baseball game. Blue sky, green grass, birds chirping so it almost sounds like they’re singing the national anthem but without messing up any high notes.

  Everyone I know and love—plus my irritating little brother, Peter—was in the stands, cheering me on.

  As they should have been because I was pitching the BEST GAME OF MY LIFE.

  The BEST GAME OF MY LIFE IN THE BEST SEASON OF MY LIFE.

  My ca
pital letters are completely justified.

  Leading up to that point, it had been a record-setting year.

  As a Luther Junior High 7th grader, I had straight As for the first time. My best friend, Diego, and I got along with everyone in my class. My braces had just come off and my yearbook photo was my best one of my lifetime. I had ZERO weird middle-school moments with mean girls and bullies. Also, at some point after Christmas break, my ponytail stopped doing this stupid thing that made it look like I had a hairy shark fin on top of my head.

  Furthermore, I was the starting pitcher/“Golden Child” of the Luther Lions, home team of Luther Junior High in Peach Tree, Georgia. (And I just want to tell my much older self, fondly looking back and reading this, that the “Golden Child” nickname came from my Luther coach. AND COACHES ARE ALWAYS RIGHT.)

  OTHER AMAZING THINGS THAT HAPPEN WHEN YOU ARE GOLDEN CHILD

  •The Peachtree Gazette ran a full-color picture on its front page of me pitching.

  •The cafeteria ladies gave me extra french fries on French Fry Friday.

  •My locker combination was 19 (my jersey number)–32 (the number of Sandy Koufax, a super-awesome pitcher from the 1960s)–11 (the number of Mo’ne Davis, my hero and the first girl pitcher to win a game in the Little League World Series)—and I hadn’t screwed it up ONCE.

  •I’d been invited to EVERY birthday party and pool party thrown by a seventh grader plus three pizza parties thrown by eighth graders who were on the baseball team.

  •My team always gave me first pick of bus seats when we went to away games (I liked the one right in the middle of the bus so I could be in the MIDDLE OF THE ACTION).

  •My coach had said if we went to regionals—which we would—we’d get to go to an Atlanta Braves game and have a congratulatory message on the SCOREBOARD.

  I could go on, but the list would be too big and I need to get to the important stuff. And what’s important is that I spell it out officially: I was on an entire-life win streak. Nothing could go wrong.

  Except I was totally wrong about that.

  Back to the replay. It was the top of the eighth and I was close to pitching a no-hitter.

  (In case Old Me is so old I’ve forgotten a few key things about baseball, I’ll explain.) A no-hitter is basically a unicorn for baseball. They are rarely seen and very prized. (Okay, so maybe no-hitters are more common than unicorns, but still they are VERY. RARE.)

  My cheering section—yes, I had a CHEERING SECTION—was hooting and hollering and woo-wooing exactly how I liked it: they made lots and lots of noise until the moment just before I went into my windup, and then they gave me perfect silence so I could throw the perfect pitch. PERFECTION is a theme here.

  So, yes, as I got ready to throw a curve, all eyes were on me as the fans in the stands went from their enthusiastic cheering into a quiet, awe-inspired trance. Hushed suspense, just like in a major league game. Except for a few chirping birds. Birds don’t know any better.

  It was just like they would have been if they suddenly saw a unicorn.

  So there I was, on the mound, about to toss what was sure to be another strike to Andrew Herman, the best batter on the Archer Archers (really their team name, in case you’re wondering, Old Me).

  I gave myself a few seconds to soak up that feeling of something amazing about to happen. About to happen because I was going to make it happen.

  I was going to strike Andrew out, and then in the 9th, the Archers’ worst batters would come up. My plan was to get them out—one, two, three—end the game, secure the win.

  A unicorn.

  (Which would have been my second one for the season. THE BEST SEASON OF MY LIFE. TWO UNICORNS.)

  So, if I had to make a rule for what you DON’T do when someone is about to pitch a no-hitter, it would be:

  DON’T INTERRUPT!

  But, if you’re Dr. Simpkins, Luther Junior High’s principal, you definitely interrupt.

  Just as I was going into my windup, with the hushed crowd and everything, he came running onto the field. Oh, and then he yelled that everyone had to evacuate immediately.

  And then I said, “Are you nuts???” It just came out of my mouth.

  But no one heard me.

  Because five guys in white jumpsuits came out of the school dressed like some kind of spacemen (or UNICORN KILLERS) and stood behind Dr. Simpkins.

  “Hey, everybody,” Dr. Simpkins hollered into the stands, which were no longer suspensefully quiet because once the principal told everyone they needed to go away, well, people started to FREAK. Andrew even put his bat down. Truly, it was like he had no respect I was about to strike him out!

  Then Dr. Simpkins brought out a megaphone. “We’re clearing the field and the school. We’ve just discovered a severe asbestos situation and an immediate evacuation is necessary.”

  A million questions ran through my head. But three got top billing:

  What about the game?

  What about my no-hitter?

  Why do we have to leave right this second when the asbestos have probably been sitting around for years?

  Because, really, whatever damage it was going to do to me was already done, right?

  My awesome-amazing game was ruined.

  Then, two days later, my entire season was ruined when the school held a parents’ night. (At fancy, asbestos-free City Hall.)

  The district had decided to funnel all the Luther kids to different schools until Luther was cleaned up. And because the public schools already had so many kids, some of us would get transferred to the private schools.

  This already sounded awful.

  And then today I got a packet in the mail from PIPER BELL ACADEMY.

  UGH.

  Piper Bell is a “progressive” school. My stepmom, Louie, said she thinks that means they have no “formal” grades. (Which maybe sounds cool but I have straight As for the first time ever! My grades were formal! They were wearing tuxedos and Piper Bell was going to make them wear sweatpants.)

  AND all their sports are coed.

  So far, I’ve been the only girl on Luther’s baseball team, ever. And probably the only Golden Child.

  But everyone knows Piper Bell has Devon DeWitt as a pitcher, and she’s pretty good. We’ve never played each other, but I keep up with her stats in the local newspaper. (She hasn’t been in a color photo, like me.)

  They also have Mario Salamida, who hates me because he’s never gotten a hit off me. In Little League. I’ve never actually played Piper Bell.

  And I definitely don’t want to play for Piper Bell.

  Pretty much, I was being traded against my will.

  And when that happens to a player—even the best, most Golden Child player ever—everything can go screwy.

  It feels like a loss. I’m starting to think I’m going to kiss my win streak good-bye.

  So that’s why I started the playbook, Old Me.

  To keep winning as much as possible.

  I still can’t believe they TOOK AWAY MY UNICORN.

  Asbestos? More like as-WORST-os.

  THE BEST UNIFORMS IN BASEBALL

  •Mo’Ne Davis’s Mid-Atlantic Little League World Series Uniform—The color combo is weird: blue and is it a dark purple or a bluish-brown? I don’t know. But she wears it great, proving that when you have skills even a bruise-colored uniform is stylish.

  •The L.A. Dodgers—They’ve used the same uniform model since they moved from Brooklyn to Los Angeles. Loyalty earns huge style points.

  •The Cardinals in the 1970s—There’s a color the sky turns where it doesn’t even look real. They had uniforms that blue—the brightest in baseball history. I say, Why not?

  •The Chicago Cubs and New York Yankees—The Cubs, lovable losers (until their unlikely World Series win after 108 years!!). The Yankees, dominant winners. Two teams who couldn’t be more different but can both really wear pinstripes!

  FIRST-DAY PLAY

  Goal: Be the Golden Child of Piper Bell!

&nbs
p; Action: I was the Golden Child at Luther Junior High because I was the baseball team’s star. So step one is: let my reputation precede me. Step two? Wear my old Luther uniform just in case they don’t know my reputation. DUH.

  Post-Day Analysis:

  April 15

  Louie was dropping me off on her way to work—she does marketing or some other grown-up thing for a big soft drink company. Louie is great and probably knows everything, even if she doesn’t act like someone who does.

  “Do you really think you should wear your uniform?”

  I checked it for stains but it was completely clean.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Just, you’re going to a new school; maybe it’s important to show school pride.”

  I wanted to ask how I could be proud when I didn’t even know very much about Piper Bell yet, besides their sweatpants-wearing, non-formal grading system and the fact that since I got the letter I was going there, my hair started to do the weird shark-fin thing again. But I figured that Louie was entitled to her opinion.

  Plus, I didn’t want to get into the true reason for me wearing my uniform because then Louie would worry that I was nervous about all these changes, and worried parents are a bad ingredient if you’re trying to keep a win streak. And I knew I had this under control. Or I hoped I did. The truth was, I wanted to play baseball. Even for Piper Bell. Baseball is who I am.

  But I also wanted to keep my star status. I wanted the team to come to me, not the other way around. So by wearing my uniform, I would be announcing I was there without being all needy about it. It made perfect sense to me.

  “There’s time for that,” I told Louie. “I just want them to know I already have a lot to be proud of.”

  “Hmm. Okay.” Louie pressed the button for her favorite news station and kept driving.

  UGH.

  The “Hmm. Okay” is a kid kiss of death. It means that the grown-up in question thinks your idea is totally bad but they want you to figure out why.

  “You think it’s a bad idea?”

  “Not necessarily.”