Strike Zone

by Mike Lupica

  Nick didn’t want to think about what would happen someday when she found out he had. How big a crime would the policeman’s daughter think he had committed?

  18

  Nick’s parents were coming to the game tonight, and so was Amelia. That morning, she’d told Nick she was feeling well enough to come. When Nick asked about the sun, Amelia said she had a new hat so big it would be like sitting under a palm tree. Marisol had a late tennis practice, but said she’d at least catch the last few innings on the way home.

  Things had been calm in the neighborhood for the past few days. Nick hadn’t heard of any further ICE raids in the South Bronx, and there was no sight of the ICE Man since that night. Nick stopped thinking about the raid, because Amelia told him there was no point.

  “It does no good to worry about things you can’t control,” Amelia said before Nick left to pick up Ben and Diego.

  “You’re telling me you don’t worry about what could happen?” Nick said.

  “Of course I do,” she said. “But we have to be strong. Don’t let it dominate your life.”

  “I wish I were as strong as you,” Nick said.

  “Oh, stop it!” Amelia said, surprising them both with the sharpness of her tone. “Stop talking about me like I’m some kind of saint. I’m not a precious artifact in a museum you have to tiptoe around and handle with white gloves. Don’t treat me like I’m somehow better than everyone else because I’m living with a disease.”

  Nick was taken aback. He always thought he was making her feel better by telling her how strong she was. He never imagined it could have the opposite effect.

  “I just want you to feel better,” he choked out. “Is that so wrong?”

  “That’s the thing, Nick. I don’t think of myself as being sick,” Amelia said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This is just who I am,” Amelia said. “The way you’re a baseball player, or Dominican American, or a seventh grader. We all deal with different things in our lives, but we gotta take the bad with the good.”

  Nick plopped down on the couch. “Are you sure you’re only one year older than me?”

  “I have a lot of time to think about things,” Amelia said, sitting beside him.

  She took out her phone. “And right now, the only thing you should be thinking about is getting your butt to that field and throwing heat.”

  “You think I will?”

  “I know you will,” she said.

  * * *

  • • •

  The Dream League tournament, Nick and his buddies had decided, was going way too fast.

  They were at the field, getting ready to play the Braves, trying to maintain an undefeated record with only a handful of games left before the championship.

  “This whole thing is like ice cream,” Diego said.

  Ben poked Nick. “This ought to be good. Like, really good.”

  “Seriously,” Diego said. “Check this out.”

  Nick groaned. “Do we have a choice?”

  “Playing this tournament is like eating an ice-cream cone,” Diego said.

  “What kind?” Ben said.

  “Whatever your favorite kind is—that’s not the point.”

  “One scoop or two?” Nick said.

  “Do you guys want to hear this or not?” Diego said, visibly chafed.

  “‘Want’ is a strong word,” said Ben.

  “So you start eating the ice-cream cone,” Diego said, “and you can’t believe how great it tastes. But you wanna make it last, so you tell yourself to slow down. Except you can’t slow down! Because if you do, the ice cream is going to melt. See where I’m going with this?”

  “As long as you do,” Ben said. “That’s what matters.”

  “I’m trying to make a point here!”

  Nick snorted. “You sure about that?”

  Diego glared at him.

  “My point,” he continued, “is that sometimes you can’t slow fun down no matter how hard you try.”

  “Or it’ll melt,” Ben said in monotone.

  “Exactly!” Diego said, relieved somebody finally got it. “You just have to enjoy the ride.”

  “So . . . two scoops?” Ben joked.

  “And what about toppings?” Nick added.

  “You guys just won’t admit that I come up with some genius stuff sometimes,” Diego said. “So go ahead, have your fun.”

  “Winning would be fun,” said Nick.

  “I like our chances tonight,” Ben said.

  “Do you know who’s pitching for the Braves?” Nick asked.

  “No,” Ben said. “But I know who’s pitching for us.”

  Nick was starting tonight. The schedule over the next couple of weeks only gave Nick a few starts, so that if the Blazers wound up playing for the championship, Nick could pitch that game with more than a week’s rest.

  The ball felt great coming out of Nick’s hand as he loosened up behind the bench, and even better on the mound taking warm-up pitches before the Braves batted in the top of the first.

  As the Blazers’ infielders threw the ball around one last time before the game started, Nick darted his eyes up to the bleachers. There, in the second row from the top, sat his mom, his dad, and Amelia wearing her wide-brimmed hat. For a long time, Nick had felt alone in his fears, but Amelia was right. Everyone had their issues. It all came down to how you chose to deal with them.

  Nick proceeded to walk the Braves’ leadoff man on four pitches, not one of them close to being a strike. He finally threw a strike to Jeff Coyle, the Braves’ third baseman, but then Jeff ripped a single right past Nick’s glove and up the middle.

  Nick went to a full count on the Braves’ third hitter, and then walked him, too.

  Bases loaded, nobody out.

  Nick saw Ben, still in his crouch, turn and say something to the home-plate ump. Probably asking for time. The ump nodded, and Ben took a step out from behind the plate.

  Nick held up a glove, stopping him. He didn’t want to talk right now, not even to Ben. He didn’t want a pep talk. He just wanted to figure things out himself.

  The cleanup hitter for the Braves was their starting pitcher, Sammy Diaz. He was on Nick’s team in the spring league, and when he wasn’t pitching, he was a terrific shortstop, one who could really hit.

  “You got this,” Ronnie Lester called out from second base.

  Right now, Nick thought, I got nothing.

  Sammy took Nick’s first pitch for a strike. I would have been taking, too, Nick thought. It was what you did when the pitcher couldn’t find the plate. Coach always told him to stay in the moment. Just think about the next pitch. Only Nick couldn’t stop his mind from racing. They were late in the tournament, and he couldn’t afford to pitch this way. His dad liked to quote Yankee great Yogi Berra, who used to say, “It gets late early out there.” Diego was right; the tournament was going fast. This game was getting away from him even faster. That was a fact, and so was this. If he didn’t find his best stuff, the Blazers wouldn’t make it to the big game.

  He was throwing away his shot at the championship. Forget about making it across the street.

  He threw what he thought was a good fastball to Sammy, but Sammy was sitting on it, and lined it over Melky’s head at third, down the left-field line. By the time their left fielder, Max, ran the ball down, two runs were scored, and the Braves had runners on second and third.

  Still nobody out.

  Nick finally did get an out—a fly ball to left field from the next batter—but it was deep enough to score the runner from third on a sacrifice fly. So it was 3–0, Braves.

  Then Nick lost the strike zone again, going to three-and-oh on the next batter.

  He was doing the thing that Ben always cautioned him against early in the game. Overthrowing, squeezing the bal
l, trying too hard. But it wasn’t like he had a choice. He had to hold them here. He couldn’t let his team fall further behind.

  When he threw ball four, making it first and second with one out, Coach Viera called time and came jogging out to the mound.

  “I can get out of this,” Nick said when Coach got to him.

  “Might not be your night tonight,” Coach said, grinning at Nick as if it was no big deal. “Happens to the best of ’em. Even happens to your man Arroyo from time to time.”

  “You’re thinking of taking me out?” Nick said.

  “This isn’t just about one game,” Coach said. “I don’t want you to jeopardize your chances by letting them put up a really big number right here.”

  “Please don’t take me out,” Nick pleaded. “Let me pitch my way out of this.”

  Coach gave him a long, hard look. Nick could see the ump slowly moving out from behind the plate, letting them know their time was limited.

  “Okay,” Coach Viera said finally.

  Nick let out the breath he was holding. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Thank me by starting the game over right here.”

  He took the ball from Nick’s glove, rubbed it up quickly, stuffed it back in there, and left. Maybe the Blazers’ tournament wasn’t on the line here, but to Nick, it felt like it was. The next batter for the Braves, their first baseman, was Hassan Keyes, a big, left-handed hitter with power. Nick looked in to Ben for a sign, even though they only had two: fastball, changeup.

  Ben wanted a changeup.

  Hassan, who was expecting a fastball, was way ahead of the pitch, and off-balance. Swing and a miss. Strike one.

  Ben called for another changeup.

  Hassan missed again. Then swung and missed at the fastball Nick threw him for strike three. First strikeout of the night. About time, Nick thought.

  One more out until Nick could put an end to this miserable opening. The Braves’ second baseman was next. A little guy. Nick threw him the best fastball he’d thrown yet. The second baseman got a pretty good swing on it, but hit a one-hopper right back at Nick. He gloved the ball, ran halfway to first, then tossed it underhand to Darryl. The game stayed 3–0.

  Nick took a deep breath, let it out, walked slowly back to the Blazers’ bench. When he got there, Ben gave Nick’s glove a big slap with his own.

  “That was pitching right there,” Ben said.

  “I don’t know what happened at the start,” Nick admitted.

  “I do,” Ben said. “Baseball happened.”

  “It’s why we play the game,” Diego said, taking a few practice swings.

  “You know something?” Nick said. “You’re right.”

  “I am, aren’t I?”

  “Now go get a hit,” Nick said.

  “On it, Captain,” Diego said, saluting.

  Ben and Nick just shook their heads, laughing.

  Sammy Diaz wasn’t very tall, and didn’t throw particularly hard. But he had terrific control, and the ability to move the ball from one side of the plate to the other. In the language of pitchers, Sammy could “paint.”

  He went to two-and-two on Diego. Diego still hadn’t swung. He’d taken one strike on the outside corner, one Nick could tell by his body language Diego didn’t think was a strike, and then one on the inside corner. It was almost as if he and Sammy were waiting each other out. But no pitcher wanted to walk the leadoff man. Nick sure hadn’t wanted to. Sammy came right after Diego then: a fastball down the middle. Diego knew what to do with it, launching it over their center fielder’s head, so hard Nick thought it might roll all the way to the adjacent field.

  He ended up with a triple. Ben singled him home. Finally, the Blazers were on the board. Darryl doubled Ben home, and just like that, the score was 3–2. Sammy’s inning was starting out the way Nick’s had. If Nick’s hope was to reset the clock at the top of the first, he was all but getting his wish served to him on a silver platter. Melky walked, and Nick hit the first pitch Sammy threw him for a hard single to right. Darryl scored.

  Just like that, almost in a blink, they’d tied the Braves 3–3. Then Ronnie Lester singled home Melky, and suddenly, the Blazers had the lead. Sammy held them there, after a trip to the mound from his own coach. Blazers, 4–3.

  Before they went out for the top of the second, Ben looked at Nick and said, “Do I even have to ask?”

  “We have enough runs,” Nick said, just loud enough for Ben to hear.

  Diego came over. Usually he was the first Blazer back on the field. Now he was waiting for Nick and Ben.

  “Let’s make this the best win of the year,” he said. “And this time I’m not joking.”

  They all touched gloves and took the field together.

  Nick thought of the second inning as a fresh start, and made the most of it. For the next few innings, Nick erased the memory of the top of the first. Ben was right: baseball had happened tonight. Coach was right, too. It hadn’t looked to be his night from those first few pitches. Regardless, Nick would make it his night. He knew pitching a shutout was impossible, so instead he did what all good pitchers were supposed to do: pitch to the scoreboard. He would hold the Braves at three runs for as long as he was out there. The Blazers were going to remain undefeated if Nick had anything to do with it. And he did. He may have pitched the worst inning of the tournament—the worst inning of his whole year, in fact. Now he was going to tough it out. Amelia was right: you had to accept the bad with the good, and take matters into your own hands.

  He finally struck out the side in the top of the fourth. By then the Blazers had increased their lead to 6–3. His pitch count was high, though, because of all the pitches he’d front-loaded in the first inning, so Coach Viera told him he was coming out after the fifth.

  “Or we could end your night right here,” Coach said, “finishing on a high note.”

  “I want one more inning, Coach,” Nick said. “Please?”

  Coach nodded. “Give ’em a little something to remember us by, in case we end up playing them in the championship game.”

  “I started to have my doubts about making it there,” Nick said.

  “Not me.”

  “You were about to take me out,” Nick said, incredulous.

  “Nah,” Coach said. “I just wanted to get your attention.”

  “Well, you succeeded,” Nick said, laughing.

  “As our friend Diego likes to say, I have my moments.”

  Nick didn’t strike out the side in the fifth. He came close, though, striking out the first two batters he faced. He didn’t need to check the score book to know he hadn’t given up a single hit since the first. Nobody reached base, either. In Nick’s mind, he was pitching an imperfect perfect game. Jeff Coyle was the Braves’ last batter in the fifth. Nick got to oh-and-two, and thought he’d struck him out with some high heat. But somehow, Jeff got a tiny piece of the ball, and it ended up a few feet down the first baseline. Ben pounced on it and threw it to first to end the inning.

  When Nick got to the bench, Coach motioned for him to sit down next to him.

  “You pitched your best tonight after pitching your worst,” he said. “That’s something to be proud of.”

  “Didn’t have much of a choice,” Nick said, shrugging.

  “But you learned something about yourself tonight. Sometimes you have to pitch as much with this”—he patted his own heart—“as you do with that,” he said, pointing to Nick’s arm.

  After that, Coach didn’t send him out to play second base, saying Nick was done for the night. He sat on the bench by himself after Coach ran out to third. A moment later, Amelia caught Nick’s eye from the bleachers. She must have been watching his chat with Coach, because just then, she patted her own heart.

  He smiled back.

  Their closer, Kenny Locke, twice retired the Braves in order,
throughout the sixth and seventh. The Blazers won, 6–3. They had to sweat it out for a while, but coming from behind made their win that much sweeter.

  It was when they were in the handshake line that Nick noticed a man standing beyond the screen behind home plate.

  He was sure it was the ICE Man.

  Nick made his way through the line somehow, forcing himself to appear calm. Ben was behind him, as usual, and noticed him checking behind the plate every few seconds.

  “What’s up?” Ben said when they were through the line. “You look like you saw a ghost. And not the kind Derek Jeter talks about.”

  “Maybe I did,” Nick said. “Be right back.”

  He ran past the Blazers’ bench, toward the bleachers. His parents and Amelia were just starting to make their way down. Nick made eye contact with his dad and motioned with his hand for them to hurry. Maybe Victor García saw the same look on Nick’s face that Ben had, because he took the steps down two at a time, making a beeline for his son.

  “You don’t look like someone who just won a game,” his dad said. “What’s bothering you?”

  “The man I’ve been telling you about?” Nick said, panting, trying to get the words out. “The one I saw outside our building?”

  Nick swallowed hard.

  “Dad,” he said, “he’s here.”

  “Where?” Victor García said, setting a hand on Nick’s shoulder.

  Nick avoided making any sudden gestures that would tip the man off.

  “Right behind the plate,” Nick said to his dad.

  “Where behind the plate?”

  Nick turned around to look.

  The man was gone.

  19

  Nick’s mom got off early from work, so she made a special pizza for dinner and even had time to bake bizcocho Dominicano, a light cake with meringue frosting, for dessert before leaving for Nick’s game.

  Normally this would have felt like a victory celebration, but a dark cloud settled over the table instead.