Hometown Heroes

by Joe Gribble

the League. Only had one hand.”

  Judge Watson smiles as Smith stands dumbfounded.

  “Unlike some people,” Bob says. “This game doesn’t discriminate.”

  Smith stares at the two men blankly, then just shrugs and turns to head back to second. “Whatever, loser.”

  Bob and Judge Watson watch as Smith walks back to second base, mumbling and kicking the grass.

  Watson turns to Bob and speaks quietly. “Well said.” He points back at Ramiro standing at home plate. “This has been an interesting game, and you have a heck of a team, but you gotta know I won’t give you any slack on the calls.”

  “No, sir,” Bob says. “I don’t want any. Just call ‘em like you see ‘em. That’s all I need,” Bob says.

  “You got it,” Judge Watson says. He turns and takes a wide berth going back to home plate.

  Bob waves at Ramiro. Ramiro squats down and puts his glove behind the plate.

  Bob digs his foot into the rubber, looks hard at Ramiro. He winds up awkwardly and throws.

  The ball goes wide, but Ramiro snags it. “Take it easy, Coach. Just bring it over the plate.” Ramiro tosses it easily back to Bob.

  Bob catches it in his bare hand. He takes a few breaths before he winds up again. He throws again. The pitch isn’t a smoker, but it’s accurate.

  Ramiro doesn’t have to move his glove as the ball lands in its center. “That’s it, Coach. You got it,” Ramiro says as he stands to throw it back to Bob. “Now, put some heat on this one.”

  Bob takes another couple of deep breaths. He goes slowly into his windup, accelerating as he comes out of it. Not a bullet, but fast. And still accurate.

  JJ shouts from first, “All right, Coach. Way to throw.”

  Judge Watson steps in behind Ramiro and raises his hands. “All right. Let’s play ball.”

  Ramiro shouts at Bob as he throws the ball back to him. “Okay, Coach. We just need one more out. You can do this.”

  Smith, the Badgers' tying run, takes a long lead off of second. Dettmer, their potential winning run, steps into the batter’s box.

  Smith starts harassing Bob. “Wanna see me steal third, single-wing?” Smith takes another long step toward third.

  Throwing left handed, Bob can’t see Smith well. Bob glances back over his shoulder, and then turns his attention to home plate.

  It’s clear Bob isn’t going to take the bait, so Smith hollers at his batter. “Clobber it, Dettmer. Bring me in. This game is over!”

  Bob winds up slowly, builds energy, then launches a fastball. It goes wide outside but Ramiro has no problem grabbing it.

  “Ball one.”

  Smith saunters back toward second.

  “That’s okay, Coach,” Ramiro calls to Bob as he throws the ball back. “Just bring it in.”

  Bob catches the ball and steps back onto the rubber. He takes several long breaths.

  Smith takes another long lead and continues to taunt Bob. “You got no speed on that ball, single-wing. Just lob it in there and let Dettmer cream it.”

  Bob eyes the batter, starts into his windup, and launches another fastball.

  Dettmer swings… he gets nothing.

  “Strike one!”

  ”Way to throw ‘em, Coach,” Pauli shouts from second.

  “Nice one, Coach,” Josh says from third.

  Ramiro stands and tosses the ball back to Bob. “You got it now, Coach. Keep ‘em coming.”

  Smith kicks the dirt as he walks back to second. He yells back at his batter. “Don’t let this one-armed clown embarrass you, Dettmer. Hit the damn thing.”

  Bob toes the rubber, a smile crossing his face for the first time since he started started pitching this game. His confidence is climbing. He exhales… winds up… throws.

  Dettmer swings. He gets a piece of it, launching the ball up and over the second baseman’s head into shallow center. Dettmer races for first.

  Saunders, in center field, runs up on the ball. He grabs it off the ground just as Smith rounds third, headed for home.

  Smith yells loudly as he picks up speed down the straightaway for home plate. “Out of the way, Mescan!”

  Saunders throws hard. He’s dead on as the ball takes one short bounce right into Ramiro’s glove.

  Ramiro snags it and has just enough time to step between the runner and home plate. He squats slightly, leans forward, and faces Smith head on.

  Smith comes hard and fast. He jumps to slide, feet first.

  Ramiro leans farther down for the tag.

  Smith digs his feet in and comes back up, a freight train headed right for Ramiro. He lunges at the catcher.

  But this is a tactic Ramiro has seen before, and this time he’s ready. He lunges forward and up just as Smith gets to him. They collide in a mass of muscle and bone.

  Even though Smith has the momentum, Ramiro still has the edge. He uses the mass and strength he’s gained hauling bundles of shingles up onto the roofs of houses to overpower the smaller Smith. Ramiro gets under Smith and shoves up and to the side in a block that would make an NFL lineman jealous.

  Smith launches into the air, turning over in mid-flight. He crashes to the side and rolls in the dirt, finally coming to a stop flat on his back—nowhere near the plate.

  Ramiro staggers backward from the collision. He almost falls, but manages to stay on his feet. He reaches into his glove and pulls out the ball, then raises it high for everyone to see.

  “He’s out!” Judge Watson shouts. “That’s game!”

  The crowd erupts in applause.

  Ramiro walks over and stands over Smith, still lying on his back in the dirt.

  Smith is sucking air, the wind completely knocked out of him.

  Ramiro leans over Smith and smiles. “You should’ve known you can’t do that to an American.” Ramiro offers his hand.

  Smith half smiles. He reaches up and takes Ramiro’s hand.

  Ramiro lifts the heaving Smith up with one arm.

  Smith bends over, hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath. He finally stands and limps away.

  Ramiro pats Smith on the butt as he walks away. “Good game, shorty. Too bad you lost.”

  The rest of the Bandits rush in from the field and converge at the pitcher’s mound, surrounding Bob. Major Kepler, Julie, and Aja run out from the dugout to join them. Ramiro’s parents come out as well.

  Bob wraps his arm around Julie.

  She wraps both her arms around him and kisses him. “I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you.“

  Aja’s dad and many of the Bandits’ parents, brothers, and sisters funnel out of the tunnel and join their heroes on the field. They all share high fives, “attaboys,” and congratulations in an exuberant celebration.

  An older man steps out of the Dragons' tunnel, wearing a Cincinnati Reds windbreaker and blue jeans. ”Reynolds” is lettered across the back of the jacket. He searches, finally sees Bob and heads for him at the mound. “Hey, Coach!” he hollers above the din.

  Bob hears him. He sees the Reds jacket and breaks out of the crowd. Bob smiles as Reynolds approaches. Bob holds out his left hand.

  Reynolds takes it in his own left and they shake.

  “Yes, sir?” Bob asks.

  “I’m Curt Reynolds with the Cincinnati Reds ball club.”

  “I recognize you,” Bob says, then introduces himself. “Bob Williams. I had hoped to be playing for your team one day.” Bob looks down at his missing arm. “Before...”

  Reynolds nods. “That was some pretty decent pitching, but you know it’s not nearly good enough to pitch for the majors.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Bob says, smiling. “Sure felt good, though.”

  Reynolds waves his hand at the rest of the Bandits, still celebrating near the mound. “You’ve done a fine job with these young men.”

  “Thanks,” Bob says.

  “You know a Major Kepler?” Reynolds asks.

  Bob turns back at the celebration. He sees Kepler holding Sarah on his s
houlders near the pitcher’s mound. Bob points at him. “Sure do. He’s my boss.”

  Reynolds gets Kepler’s attention, waving to him. “Me and your boss, we go back quite a few years. He gave me a call a coupla’ weeks ago. Said I should check out a young pitcher on your team.”

  “Aja,” Bob says. “He’s got potential.”

  “That’s the one,” Reynolds says. “I’m always on the lookout for a good pitcher, but, truth be known, I’m in dire need of a pitching coach.”

  Shinji and Ramiro break from the celebration and step beside their coach, listening intently to Coach Reynolds.

  “I’ve heard some good words on you,” Reynolds says to Bob. “And I like what I’ve seen out here today. I was wonderin’ if you would mind coming down to Cinci on Monday for a talk?”

  “Well...,” Bob says, stammering. “I…. well, sure. Of course I will.”

  “Good.” Coach Reynolds hands Bob his business card. “Just have ‘em call me when you get to the ball park.” Reynolds starts to walk away, then stops and turns back. “I understand your team gets to try out for the Dragons. Let ‘em know I’m gonna have scouts watching.”

  Ramiro and Shinji turn slowly to look at each other. They smile and high five each other, then quickly go back to the team.

  “Guys. Guys! Listen!” Ramiro shouts above the celebration.

  The team turns their attention to Ramiro.

  “The Reds are going to have scouts at the tryouts!”

  The team erupts in shouts, with high fives and congratulations all around.

  ---

  Forward Operating Base Victory - Airfield - Afghanistan

  A helicopter sets down in the blowing sand. Bob steps out, wearing full camo, body armor, sidearm on his left hip. He’s carrying a baseball glove with his prosthetic right hand.

  Four airmen come running up, ducking low under the rotating blades.