Lost Boy by Tim Green Page B

Before my mom came to New York City?” Ryder asked.
    Mr. Starr made a humming in his nose. “Hmm, yes. I’ve been checking back over the last thirteen years, landlines and cell phones. Nothing. Look, this Jimmy Trent could have been someone your mom met on a vacation or a school trip or anything. He might not even be your father. We’re guessing, Ryder. We’re grasping.”
    Ryder’s heart suddenly gave him a jolt. “Wait, but what about baseball?”
    â€œI think you need to let go of the pipe dream that your father was or is some kind of sports star. You know the odds of that? If we do find him, he’ll probably be working the cash register at a Qwik Fill, and that’s if you’re lucky.”
    â€œBut you could check.” Ryder didn’t want to let it go. “He could have signed it. He might be famous.”
    â€œYou don’t think I checked?” Mr. Starr sounded insulted. “I crossed ‘MLB’ with that name and every major league team individually. I was an investigative reporter. They don’t have those anymore, people just sit in front of their computer screens and gossip, but I know what it is to find someone.”
    â€œBut if you were a sports reporter, you might know that the Toronto Blue Jays have a single-A farm team in Auburn, New York. It’s not a major league team. They’re called the Doubledays.” Ryder actually bounced on his feet. “And if I’m a goodbaseball player because my father was a good player, and she got this ball when she met him, then maybe he was on that team. . . .”
    Mr. Starr sucked in his lower lip. “And if he was, he probably wouldn’t have had a phone listed in Auburn. Those minor league players are like gypsies. His phone could have been a cell phone from anywhere. He might have lived in a hotel instead of an apartment or a house.”
    Ryder gave his hands a clap. “And maybe he’d be on the Doubledays roster the year before I was born.”
    Mr. Starr’s finger scratched across the touchpad and he muttered quickly into the microphone. He clicked on a website called Baseball-Reference.com. Another click and up came a headline that read: AUBURN DOUBLEDAYS ROSTER .
    Mr. Starr started to scroll down to find the correct year. When he got to the top of the roster and the names starting with A through J , he paused with his finger above the Down key, looked at Ryder, and took a deep breath.
    â€œYou ready?”

Ryder seemed to float, standing there in the pocket of light in the corner of the dark room next to Mr. Starr. It was like the two of them had been cast adrift in space with only the desk and its computer holding them together. His eyes zoomed in on the roster.
    Mr. Starr scrolled down. Ryder saw the last name “Trent,” but blinked. It wasn’t Jimmy Trent. It was Thomas Trent.
    â€œThat’s not Jimmy,” Ryder said. “Thomas Trent . . . I’ve heard of him before . . . in baseball.”
    â€œI knew a Richard once.” Mr. Starr used the touchpad to adjust the cursor over the top of Thomas Trent’s name. “Everyone called him Jacob in high school. Then I ran into him years later outside a Broadway play. He was married with kids and calling himself Richard. I had no idea why.”
    Mr. Starr double-clicked on Thomas Trent’s name and afull player profile filled the screen. “Turns out my friend’s middle name was Jacob.”
    Ryder leaned toward the screen. It was just like Mr. Starr said: Thomas James Trent.
    â€œSo, is that my father?” Ryder asked.
    Mr. Starr clicked on the arrow until he got back to Google. He spoke Thomas Trent’s name into the microphone and it appeared in the search box. Then he moved the cursor to “Images” and clicked on that. A gallery of rectangular images popped up on the screen. The ones at the top were all of a baseball player in Atlanta Braves