by Adam Hughes
CHAPTER TWO
On the Line
It was the spring of 1973, and Dan Hodges was fighting for his baseball life. He was a star third baseman with a powerful bat, quick feet, and a rock-solid glove, but at just five-feet-nine-inches tall and 160 pounds, he was no one’s idea of an imposing figure. He knew no scout would ever sign him to a contract right out of high school, so his dream of making it to the Major Leagues hinged on his college career.
But as the son of factory department manager in central Indiana, there was no way Dan could afford to go to college unless someone else paid the bills, and his only hope of that happening was to land a baseball scholarship. So, no matter how Dan looked at his life, success and happiness revolved around the baseball diamond and on this one game in particular. All the big schools had sent assistant coaches to watch him play during the season, and the smaller schools had sent their head coaches, but all of them ended up telling him a variation of the same thing: they were set at third base for the next two or three years, and he was too diminutive to hit well in college, anyway.
The one exception was Ralph Harris, head coach of the Indiana Western University Red Hawks in nearby Terre Haute. Harris had been one of the first to come see Dan play at South Pickens High School, dropping in at the beginning of the school’s second-ever season in March of 1971, when Dan was a sophomore. At that time, Harris was an assistant and had heard good things about the runt who led the Eagles in hitting in 1970, and the big, burly man struck up a friendship with Dan’s father, David. As much as Harris had become a fixture in the Wabash Valley and around the local high school circuit, though, and as much as he liked the Hodges and thought Dan was a fine ballplayer, Harris had just taken the helm at IWU in 1973 and needed to make a splash to satisfy the school’s fans and donors.
The good news for Dan was that the Red Hawks did need a new third baseman, because both Tom Rumpke and Eddie Watson were graduating in June. The bad news was that Harris’ choice for the last scholarship slot had come down to Dan and Elmer Deskins, from Melville.
As luck — or the baseball Gods — would have it, the Eagles were hosting the Warriors on the third Monday in May, just five days before Dan was set to graduate from high school. By eight o’clock that evening, the two teams had battled to a 2-2 tie going into the bottom of the seventh inning in the first game of the sectionals.
The first two Eagles batters of the frame struck out against big Jim Jackson, Melville’s fire-balling righty, and then leadoff man and second baseman Brent Wilson managed to slap a single to right field. Center fielder Mike Carter worked Jackson to a full count, then fouling off a couple of pitches before taking ball four, a close-call breaking pitch just off the outside corner of the plate.
Dan had watched Carter’s epic plate appearance unfold from the on-deck circle and said a little prayer with each practice swing and each pitch from Jackson. As Carter trotted to first and Wilson ran to second, Dan looked into the stands to find his parents, sitting behind home plate, and Gabbie, positioned next to third. The two women smiled and blew him kisses, while his father greeted him with a steely gaze and a single, solemn nod.
You can do this, the old man was telling his only son.
The game, the whole season, and Dan’s entire baseball career had come down to this one at-bat. Both he and Elmer had collected a single hit on the night, neither one scoring or driving in a run. Elmer had handled one liner smashed in his direction, but Dan had chased down a high fly ball that nearly landed in Gabbie’s lap before he snatched it from in front of her. It was as even a matchup as Dan could have imagined, but he had one last chance to differentiate himself. His college hopes were on the line.
He strode to the plate and pawed at the dirt with his cleats, then stepped into the box to set his feet. He took a couple of practice swings, steadied his body, and stared out toward the mound, where Jackson stood looking like a bull ready to charge. Behind Dan, catcher Jason Fisher moved slightly, and Jackson nodded his agreement with the sign. He reared back and unleashed a searing fastball that popped into the catcher’s mitt seemingly before it had even left the pitcher’s hand.
Strike one.
Dan stepped out of the box and adjusted his helmet. “Come on, Danny!” Gabbie called from behind third. He stepped back up to the plate and looked out toward Jackson again.
This time, the big hurler did not even wait for the sign but uncorked another flaming heater. Dan was more prepared, but still couldn’t catch up to the scorching fastball, and he swung behind it.
Strike two.
Dan stepped out again and took a few hacks, trying to ratchet up his bat speed to match what Jackson was offering.
“Look for the change!” coach Croft called from the bench.
“You can do it, Dan!” his mother yelled.
Once more, Dan stepped into the box, his coach’s words still echoing. The next pitch should be off-speed, and it might be Dan’s best chance of the whole at-bat to make contact. The catcher gave his sign, Jackson nodded, and the ball came tumbling toward home plate. Dan recognized the pitch almost immediately as a change-up but his muscles were still charged from the heat of the previous two pitches and he swung too early. The ball bounded toward third base and bounced once inside the line before angling across the chalk. Dan sprinted toward first base and was within 20 feet of the bag when the third-base umpire called it: “Foul ball!”
Dan trotted back toward home plate and caught Coach Croft waving to him out of the corner of his eye. Dan stopped and bent toward the dugout, trying to hear what his coach had to say. Croft put his hands on either side of his mouth to shield his lips and mouthed, “Curveball.” Dan nodded, but he didn’t think his coach was right about this one. Jackson would be eager to end the game, and he’d want to do it in style if he could.
With all due respect to Coach Croft, Dan settled into the box with his pitch radar set on dead red: it would be a fastball down the center of the plate, and Dan was going to smash it.
He adjusted his jersey, took one half swing, and crouched into his stance, staring straight into Jackson’s eyes. The right-hander didn’t even look at his catcher, returning Dan’s stare instead, and adding a smirk for good measure. “C’mon, you big oaf,” Dan thought. “Put it right in here.”
Jackson set, lifted his hands over his head before kicking back into a full windup, and uncorked his pitch. The spin looked strange to Dan, and he couldn’t quite identify what type of pitch it was. It was still moving with plenty of steam, though, so, in that split second between Jackson’s release and the moment when Dan had to begin his swing, he decided it was a fastball.
Dan cocked his wrists backwards, picked up his front foot and strode into the oncoming freight train before he realized the pitch was breaking inside. It was a curveball!
He was already halfway into his swing and couldn’t stop his momentum, but he watched the ball sail across the midline between the mound and the plate, then veer up and in, directly into his twisting field of vision. The head of his bat whipped around behind his left shoulder and spun him toward the third base line, and he caught a glimpse of Gabbie in the stands, bringing her hands to her face to complete her growing expression of horror.
Her compact flashed in the low sun, and there was a loud crack. Had he hit the ball?
Then everything went black.
