Strike Zone

by Mike Lupica

  Nick also noticed that Eric’s glove looked brand new. Even from the bench, he could tell it was the new Michael Arroyo model, black with blue trim. Nick looked down at his own, older Arroyo glove, and couldn’t help feeling envious. But then he quickly shook his head, as if trying to shake the thought out.

  You don’t pitch with your glove, he told himself.

  Diego was ready to hit, having taken a few practice swings before settling into his stance behind the plate. Eric, though, wasn’t quite ready to pitch. He made Diego wait, rubbing up the ball, taking one last breath as he turned to his fielders, like he was checking inventory.

  When he was finally ready, he turned back around, set himself on the rubber, and blew a fastball past Diego for strike one. Diego could generally catch up with anyone’s fastball, including Nick’s. But he hadn’t come close to Eric’s. He swung and missed for strikes two and three, before handing off the bat to Andy and kicking up dirt on his way back to the Blazers’ bench. His back was turned, so Diego didn’t see Eric Dobbs staring him down longer than necessary. Longer than Nick thought the moment afforded for simply getting the first out of a game.

  Ben saw what Nick saw.

  “Game on,” he whispered into Nick’s ear, before walking over to the on-deck circle.

  Eric struck out Andy Friedman on three pitches for the second out of the top of the first. Six pitches, six strikes. Maybe Eric was the one on his way to an immaculate inning.

  Now it was Ben’s turn to face Eric.

  Eric was working fast and efficient. Ben had it in mind to change that. Ben Kelly was usually old-school as a ballplayer. He didn’t even wear batting gloves. But he took his time stepping into the box, wiping some dirt on his hands, rubbing it onto the handle of the bat.

  Nick felt himself smiling, and his teammates chuckled next to him, enjoying this little act. Ben was slowing down the pace of play to a crawl, as Eric fidgeted on the mound, ready to throw.

  When Ben did step in, he stood closer to the plate than usual. Nick knew what he was doing: trying to take the inside of home plate away from Eric. Eric threw a fastball that probably caught the inside corner. Ben jumped back, raising his arms.

  The home-plate umpire called it a ball.

  “Don’t let him beg that call!” Eric boomed, staring in at the ump.

  The ump didn’t hesitate. He stepped around the Giants’ catcher and Ben, right in front of the plate.

  “What did you say, son?” he said.

  “That was a strike,” Eric said, not backing down, his voice as loud as before.

  “Here’s all the ways a strike is a strike, just so we’re clear,” the ump said, ticking off each one on his fingers. “When the batter swings and misses. When he fouls one off. Or when I say it’s a strike.”

  Maybe all home-plate umps say this at one point or another, Nick thought.

  “Just so we’re clear on something else?” the ump said, and Eric lowered his head. “You pitch. I’ll call balls and strikes. That way we don’t have to have this conversation again.”

  Eric came back inside with his next pitch. Nick was almost positive he would. But Ben was ready, covering the inside of the plate with his quick bat, and lining a ball over the head of the Giants’ third baseman.

  Unfortunately, Darryl popped out to end the inning.

  Nick’s turn to pitch now.

  He sat on the bench while Ben changed into his catcher’s gear.

  “Just because Eric came out hot doesn’t mean we have to,” Ben said.

  “Got it,” said Nick.

  “We just pitch our game.”

  Nick nodded to confirm.

  Ben jogged out and took his position. Nick loosened up and threw his warm-up pitches. Before the Giants’ leadoff man stepped in, Nick took a scan of the bleachers. His dad had said he’d probably be late to the game after work. Nick’s mom was staying home with Amelia, who was feeling better, but not well enough to come out.

  It was just Nick and baseball for now. Ball in his hand, Ben’s mitt as a target, and a game he really, really wanted to win.

  Control what you can control.

  Behind the field Nick glimpsed cars beginning to file out of parking garages and lots near Yankee Stadium. The Yankee game was set to begin in about forty-five minutes.

  But as the Giants’ catcher, José Barrea, took his stance, Nick’s focus came right back to the mound he stood on. Oh, Nick was aware of the chatter from his infielders behind him. But after years of getting accustomed to the constant buzz on the field, he was able to block out the noise and just pitch when it was time to pitch.

  He didn’t throw his best fastball to José, but he didn’t have to. José swung underneath the ball for strike one. He took a called strike, fouled a ball off, swung and missed badly for strike three. Then Nick struck out Carlo Rotella, the Giants’ shortstop. Carlo took a called third strike and didn’t complain. It was a perfect pitch. On the outside corner. At the knees. Unhittable.

  Eric Dobbs came to the plate. He batted left-handed, same as he threw, and Nick remembered from the spring that he had home-run power, pretty much to all fields. So as much as Nick wanted to strike him out, he reminded himself that the object was to just get him out.

  Ben called for a changeup, knowing everybody on the field was expecting Nick to challenge him right away. But Eric wasn’t fooled, and ripped a screamer of a line drive just foul past first base.

  Okay, Nick thought, scratch the changeup.

  He threw a fastball high for a ball. One-and-one. He came inside next, and got the call on the corner that Eric had failed to get against Ben. Nick saw Eric turn toward the ump, as if he wanted to say something, but he was smart enough not to this time.

  Ben set up his mitt on the outside corner. Didn’t have to move it an inch as Eric swung and missed for strike three. As Nick walked off the mound, he took a quick look back, to see Eric in the batter’s box, following Nick with his eyes and nodding in his direction.

  “What was that all about?” Ben asked when they were back at the bench.

  “Eric being Eric,” Nick said with a shrug.

  “You better stay loose when you get up there,” Ben said, knowing Nick was leading off for the Blazers in the top of the second.

  “Why?”

  “Just in case Eric puts you on your butt.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . Eric being Eric?” Ben said.

  Eric put Nick on the ground with his first pitch.

  It wasn’t a flagrant knockdown pitch. It didn’t come anywhere close to Nick’s head. But it was far enough inside that Nick had to jump back from the plate. As he did, his spikes caught in the dirt and he went down.

  “If it wasn’t a hardball sport,” Nick’s dad once told him, “they wouldn’t make everybody wear helmets.”

  Nick didn’t even look at Eric. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Instead, he picked himself up and got back into the box. Having gotten Nick’s attention by coming inside, Eric tried to go away with the next pitch. But Nick was on it, taking it to right field, getting enough bat on the ball that it rolled between the right fielder and center fielder. He ended up with a double.

  Sometimes after he’d get a clean hit like that, he’d give a quick clap of his hands once he got to his base. Not this time. He just turned and stared over at Ben and Diego on the bench. They both pointed at him. Ronnie Lester, who was playing second tonight, singled to center. Nick scored easily: 1–0, Blazers.

  As soon as he sat down between Ben and Diego, Nick knew what was coming.

  “Got enough of a lead?” Ben said, grinning.

  “Can’t believe you even had to ask,” Nick said, taking a slug of his water bottle.

  Eric settled down after that, pitching like a complete star. But so did Nick. Through the fourth inn
ing, it seemed as though they were determined to match each other strikeout for strikeout. Nick wasn’t so off the mark when he predicted he and Eric would face off in a game of one-on-one.

  But it remained 1–0 for the Blazers.

  Nick’s pitch count was low enough that after the bottom of the fourth, Coach Viera said he might allow Nick to pitch into the sixth inning tonight.

  “What about going the distance?” Nick said.

  Coach grinned. “Give a mouse a cookie . . .”

  “And this mouse wants the whole cake,” Nick replied.

  “One pitch at a time, one hitter at a time, one inning at a time,” Coach said.

  “Control what you can control, right, Coach?”

  “Hey,” Coach said, putting out his hand for a low five. “That’s my line.”

  Nick struck out the side in the bottom of the fifth. When he got back to the bench, he said to Coach, “One more?”

  Coach agreed. “One more.”

  Nick punched a fist into his glove in triumph.

  “We having any fun yet?” Coach said.

  Nick grinned. “More fun if we get a couple of insurance runs to put this thing away.”

  “Tell the guys that if they do, and we close this baby out, I’m taking everybody for ice cream.”

  “Is that a bribe?” Nick said.

  “You could say that.” Then Coach ran out to the third-base coaching box.

  Eric was still out there for the Giants. Diego finally got a hit off him, his first of the night, a clean single to left. Andy bunted him to second. Ben singled Diego home. The score was 2–0. Eric was getting tired, and it showed. But he had enough left to strike out Darryl, and get Nick on a hard line drive to the shortstop.

  The Blazers had only gotten one insurance run. It still felt like a lot to Nick against a team like the Giants. Eric might be tiring, but Nick wasn’t. He only took a few warm-up pitches and signaled to Ben that he was good to go. He glanced over to his right, at Yankee Stadium, the lights ringing the top of the great baseball place, the roar of the fans, the music pumping, and the voice of the public address announcer echoing into Macombs Dam Park.

  Nick had been so locked into the game that he hadn’t looked over at the bleachers for a while. When he did now, he saw Victor García sitting high in the corner, still dressed in the white button-down shirt and black pants he wore at the restaurant.

  Nick’s eyes wandered up and surprise registered on his face. Right behind his dad, in the last row, sat Marisol. She’d decided to come to the game after all. When she saw Nick looking over, she smiled and gave a quick, almost sheepish wave, as if embarrassed he’d spotted her. Later she’d tell him that she’d snuck up there when Nick was batting, so as not to distract him.

  She didn’t distract him now.

  But the man sitting next to her did.

  Marisol’s dad.

  Dressed in his police uniform.

  12

  Ben could see that something wasn’t right with Nick, and called time out with the home-plate ump, even though Nick hadn’t thrown a pitch yet in the bottom of the sixth.

  “’Sup?” he said.

  “Marisol’s here,” Nick said, keeping his voice low and doing his best not to make eye contact with her in the stands.

  “I told you she might come,” Ben said. “No biggie.”

  Then he attempted to make a joke out of it.

  “What’re you worried about—she gonna hit against you?”

  Nick knew they were running out of time. Any minute the ump would tell them to break up the conversation.

  “She’s with her dad,” Nick said. “And they’re sitting with my dad.”

  Ben moved his eyes up to the bleachers inconspicuously. He didn’t want to be obvious about it.

  “They’re just sitting, watching the game,” he said.

  “It just looks weird, that’s all. Seeing a uniform so close to my dad.”

  “Don’t psych yourself out,” Ben said. “Just pitch.”

  Ben walked back to the plate and got behind the batter into his crouch. Nick proceeded to walk the Giants’ right fielder on four straight pitches. Then walked their third baseman on five. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked two guys in a full game, let alone two in a row to start an inning.

  First and second, nobody out.

  Just like that, the Giants had the potential tying runs on base, and the top of their batting order ready to face Nick.

  Coach Viera called time and jogged out to the mound. Nick knew he was coming to try to relax him. Good luck with that, he thought.

  When Coach got to the mound, he squinted around the field as if trying to locate someone at Macombs Dam Park.

  “Have you happened to see my starting pitcher? I seem to have misplaced him somehow.”

  “You mean like I’ve misplaced the strike zone?” Nick said.

  “You tired?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You want to come out?”

  “No, sir!” Nick said, more emphatically this time.

  “Then don’t make me take you out,” Coach said. He gave Nick a quick pat on the shoulder and left.

  Nick inhaled deeply. His mom suggested breathing in, holding it for a few seconds, then exhaling slowly when he needed to relax. At the same time, he tried to decide what was bothering him more: the three people in the bleachers or the two guys on base.

  But there was one other thought pinballing inside his head now, vying for space in his already crowded brain. How long had Marisol been watching him tonight? He didn’t know whether she’d seen him pitching at his best. But it would be too embarrassing to think she’d only seen him at his worst.

  He threw ball one to their catcher, José. The pitch wasn’t even in the vicinity of a strike.

  Ben came out of his crouch and threw the ball hard back to Nick. His way of telling Nick to snap out of it. They both knew that if he walked the bases loaded, the next time Coach came to the mound would be to take the ball away.

  Nick couldn’t bear to look over at the bleachers, so he decided just to focus on Ben instead. Then he threw the best fastball he’d thrown all night. José was taking all the way. He was going to make Nick throw him a strike, and Nick had thrown him a strike, right down the middle.

  Nick threw José another fastball just like that, same place. José swung and missed for strike two. Then another swing and miss at a high fastball for strike three.

  When Nick was going good, Ben liked to say he was “dealing.” Nick was dealing now. Kept dealing, too, as he struck out Carlo Rotella on three pitches.

  Eric Dobbs coming to the plate now.

  Nick knew that this was the game for him. His game. His best stuff—he hoped—against their best hitter.

  A swing and a miss from Eric.

  Then he took a ball.

  One-and-one. Nick got a call with the next pitch, a borderline strike on the inside corner, the kind of call Eric hadn’t gotten since way back in the top of the first.

  One-and-two.

  He saw Ben nod once behind the plate.

  Nick threw another high fastball. It would have been ball two, but Eric swung and missed—by a lot—for strike three.

  Inning over. Nick knew that was it for the night. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder one last time as he walked to the Blazers’ bench, remembering an expression his dad had told him once. It was something an old Major League Baseball pitcher named Satchel Paige was famous for saying.

  Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.

  13

  Kenny Locke, their closer, did his job in the bottom of the seventh, getting out the last three Giants hitters in order. The Blazers won, 2–0. In the handshake line behind the pitcher’s mound, Nick made it to Eric Dobbs, and said, “You pitched great tonight,�
� putting out his hand. Eric brushed it so lightly it was like they hadn’t made contact at all.

  “Next time” was all Eric said, and moved on.

  Ben was behind Nick in the line. When they were through shaking hands, Ben said, “Can’t believe you and Eric didn’t hug it out there.”

  Diego walked over. He’d seen what happened with Nick and Eric, too.

  “Think we should invite Eric for ice cream?” Diego said.

  “He said ‘next time,’” Nick said. “The only way there’s a next time is if we meet them in the championship game.”

  “If they’re good enough to get there,” Ben said. “They couldn’t even put up one run against us.”

  “We have to be good enough, too,” Nick said, trying not to get cocky.

  “We are,” said Ben.

  Diego put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “You do have a way with words, my friend.”

  The three of them were standing behind the mound together. Nick looked over and saw his dad and Marisol with her dad waiting for him in front of the bleachers.

  “Just gonna stand here?” Ben said. “Or are you gonna go talk to her?”

  “Talking to her is one thing,” Nick said. “Talking to her dad is what scares me.”

  “Thank him for coming to watch you pitch,” Diego said. “And maybe throw in a thank-you for having such a pretty daughter.”

  “That’s your idea of helping?” Nick said, pulling off his hat and running a hand through his hair.

  “What do I know?” Diego said. “But you gotta admit, that was some funny stuff right there.”

  “We could come with you,” Ben offered.

  Nick took one of those long, slow, deep breaths.

  “No,” he said. “I got this.” He was not sure that he did.

  He walked over to them, more nervous now than he’d been in the bottom of the sixth. But his dad looked perfectly relaxed standing there next to a policeman. If he can act this way, Nick told himself, so can I.