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about what will happen if a grown-up finds out about it or if someone confronts me about what went on. I become good at compartmentalizing things, boxing them away into secret places forever.
    Much better that they stay boxed away forever. Things are safe in boxes.
    Weeks pass. I start fourth grade and like my teacher, Mr. Hazen. We read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer , and I think about what it would be like to go down the Mississippi River. The more time that goes by, the more comfortable I am with the idea that my boxes are in a place where nobody can get at them.
    In the waning days of September, my mother, sister, and I drive into the country to visit with family, as we often do. It’s a few hours outside of Nashville and a completely different world, a place with farms and barns and one-room schoolhouses, the kind of place where you don’t make a playdate; you just go out and play. I am out in the yard, throwing a tennis ball off a roof behind a dilapidated garage, an area with a little knoll and a tomato garden. A kid from the neighborhood is there. I’ve seen him before but don’t know his name. He’s sixteen or seventeen years old, tall and wiry. He lives somewhere nearby. He doesn’t talk much. He seems to be interested in my game with the tennis ball. He walks closer and I’m thinkinghe wants a turn, tossing the ball on the roof, seeing if he can catch it.
    Maybe we can make a contest out of it and see who gets the most catches, I think.
    I turn around and see him unzipping his pants.
    No.
    I don’t know what he’s doing but that’s my first thought.
    No.
    I start to run but he grabs me. You ain’t going anywhere, kid, he says. I am back on the bed with the babysitter, except this time there is physical force involved.
    A lot of force.
    I struggle to get away, but it is no contest. He is rough and strong, and he forces himself upon me, overpowers me. This time there are no words, no vents or clinking glasses. There is just submission and so much sadness. I can’t do anything. I close my eyes and wait for it to be over. When people ask me how I got the scratches and bruises on my face and lip, I have a ready answer.
    I fell down in the garage, I say.
    On the ride back home, I say nothing and try to forget, but there is no forgetting. I try to distract myself by counting the yellow dashes along the center of the road. It doesn’t work. I feel filthy and bad, like the scum of the earth, only worse. I have been stained and it can never be cleaned up. There is no helping me or my shame. It feels as though it is choking me to death. Mile after mile, the car keeps moving, but there is no escaping the beat-up garage on the knoll. It is so much worse than the babysitter. I don’t know why and it doesn’t matter why. There is no hope for me and no help for me. I have no options. No place to go. The car rolls on to Nashville, to my house. I think of my room and my photo of Larry Bird. I want to get in my bed and pull the covers up over my head and not wake up for a long time.
    Please, God, let me be safe.

     
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 2011
Port St. Lucie, Florida
First impressions are important, and in his first full meeting with us as the Mets manager, Terry Collins makes a really good one. We are in a conference room in Digital Domain Park. Everybody is there—Sandy Alderson, the new general manager, his assistants, the players, the coaches, the trainers, the clubhouse manager, and even our two cooks. We go around the room and introduce ourselves. Sandy speaks first. “The expectations for this club outside of this room are very low,” he says. “I know you guys expect more of yourself, and I expect more of you too.”Sandy is not a rah-rah guy, and his approach is low-key but very compelling. “The goal of any professional sports franchise is to win, and that’s why we’re here.”
When he’s done, he turns the floor over to Terry, who says, “Sandy stole my speech.” Everybody laughs.
Terry has no notes.