by Josh Berk
That led to a one-run lead heading into the bottom of the seventh.
“Bottom of the seventh” doesn’t sound as dramatic as “bottom of the ninth,” but trust me, it was dramatic. I announced in my head, giving the commentary on the situation.
Bottom of the seventh with Schwenkfelder holding a one-run lead at four to three. Coach Zo has elected to keep starter Byron Lucas in to finish the game. He’s pitched pretty well and seems strong enough to do it. Plus, with two lefties due up for Highland, the matchup favors keeping the tall southpaw in the game.
But leading off is a righty, the shortstop they call Zach. Zach digs in and takes ball one low and outside. Zach has two hits today and is looking for his third. The second pitch is high and outside. He’ll take a walk too if one’s offered up on a platter. Highland’s looking for base runners. Lucas is looking to limit them. Here’s the pitch—ball three. Lucas quickly behind. And he follows it up with ball four. That’s a four-pitch walk to lead off the inning. Not a good way to start the inning for the Mustangs. Coach Zo is pacing the dugout, wiping the sweat dripping from his nose.
The next batter is the lefty first baseman everyone keeps calling Huffman.
(It’s hard being the announcer without knowing the players’ names. And since they don’t have a PA announcer like we do, I just had to guess from what people were saying in the stands.)
Huffman will make Lucas throw strikes here .…
But Byron couldn’t throw strikes. Okay, he did get a few over, which Huffman fouled off.
You have to hand it to Huffman. He’s fouling off some tough pitches. Lucas is battling. The count is full. Here’s the windup, and the pitch, and … ball four! He walks him. Highland now has two men on and nobody out. It looks like Coach Zo is going to give Lucas one more chance.
He’ll be pitching against Highland’s number-three hitter, Bo Hertzman. Hertzman is one for three on the day. He’s probably going to take a pitch here, to see if Lucas can throw a strike. Here’s the windup, and the pitch.… It hits him! Hertzman takes a fastball to the foot. Boy, that hurts. He shakes it off and heads to first. That’s bases loaded with nobody out, here in the bottom of the seventh.
You gotta think that’s it for Lucas. He’s battled today. Gave his team a chance to win. That’s all you can ask. He’ll leave with the lead, still in line for the win. But he’ll also leave with the bases loaded, no outs, and the hard-hitting Chad Fine stepping into the dish. The question remains—who will Coach Zo bring into the game?
And there’s your answer! Heading out to the mound is he of the perfect game. None other than Hunter Ashwell. Ashwell will have his hands full here, trying to retire Fine and the next three batters while preserving a lead.
Catcher Mike DiNuzzio will have his hands full as well. A passed ball or a wild pitch will no doubt result in the tying run scoring. Sompel on third looks like he has some speed. He could score easily if the ball gets past the catcher. Good thing Newts had all that practice with his good friend Lenny Norbeck, who also happens to be the greatest announcer in the world.
Ashwell steps to the mound and takes the ball from Coach Zo. He’s ready for his warm-up pitches, but … what’s this? Ashwell waves the batter back to his spot at the dish and shouts at him. “Get in there, brother. I don’t need no warm-ups for you!”
Fine, you could say, didn’t take that too kindly. Most everyone else in the stadium got a good chuckle, but Fine looks angry. He bites his lip. He squints his eyes. He has a grip so tight on the bat that he looks like he might melt it. Ashwell gets the sign from DiNuzzio. He shakes him off. He gets another sign. He shakes him off. This is strange because Ashwell only has two pitches. He shakes off his catcher a third time. And a fourth. This must be some sort of psychological game he’s playing, trying to rile Fine up. I’d say it’s working. He looks like he doesn’t just want to hit the ball, but he wants to kill the pitcher.
Finally Ashwell gets a sign he likes. He ever so slowly rocks into his windup. And here’s the pitch.… Strike right down the middle! Fine didn’t even get his bat off his shoulder. Ashwell laughs. “Be ready for it this time,” he says. “Fastball coming through.” Again with the mind games. Fine doesn’t know what to think. Is Ashwell setting him up or telling the truth?
Here’s the windup, and the pitch.… And he was telling the truth! It’s a fastball, but it’s a good two feet outside. DiNuzzio has to dive to block it, and oh, what a catch! He saved a run there. Heck of a block by Newts. Ashwell laughs again. He brushes the hair out of his eyes and looks back in for the sign.
He winds up, and the pitch … It’s a slow palmball right at the knees. Fine didn’t swing again! And again it’s a strike. One ball and two strikes. “Ain’t you gonna swing?” Ashwell yells to Fine. Fine says nothing. But the look in his eyes says everything. He’s going to swing, and hard. He wants nothing more than his second home run of the game—this one would win it.
Ashwell gets the sign. Here’s the pitch.… It’s the slowest pitch I’ve ever seen. Fine swings way too early and misses! Strike three! What a performance by Hunter Ashwell.
At this point I stopped announcing the game in my head to stand up and cheer. Hunter was cocky, but he was good. No doubt about that. “Take a seat, brother!” he yelled to Fine. Then he turned around to face his fielders. “And you too,” he said. “All of you. Sit down! No need for any of you for these next two. Take your gloves off. Have a seat. Go home and grab a glass of juice. I got this.”
The Schwenkfelder fielders looked at each other and shrugged. None of them sat down. Coach Zo was an old-school kind of coach. He didn’t like showboating. I was surprised he let Hunter get away with it. I guess there are rules, and then there are rules for superstars. Hunter was on his way to greatness. Coach Zo really wanted to win this game; otherwise, he would have pulled Hunter out for sure.
What he did do was walk to the mound. Mike got up from behind the plate to join the conversation, as catchers usually do. But Coach Zo held up his hand. This was going to be a private meeting. Well, as private as a meeting could be on the pitcher’s mound of a crowded middle school baseball field. Coach Zo leaned in and quietly said something to Hunter. Hunter nodded and didn’t say another word. Coach Zo returned to the dugout and Hunter stepped on the rubber. He wasn’t done with theatrics, though. He started having a loud conversation with the baseball. “Oh, what’s that? You want to go see your friend the glove. Well, all right. Strap in for the ride.” Then he threw three straight strikes and started cracking up. Coach Zo didn’t look pleased.
Highland was down to its final out. The bases-loaded, nobody-out rally had turned into a desperate last chance. I felt bad for the Highland hitter. It was a little guy. I didn’t know his name. Seemed nobody did. I didn’t hear fans or even his teammates chanting his name. Maybe they had no hope.
Highland is down to their last out. A mysterious little man with an odd batting stance steps to the dish. He stands like a duck up there, toes pointed in and bat way up in the air. Ashwell gets the sign. He fires a fastball and … the batter is late by a long shot. He didn’t even start his swing until after the ball hit the glove. That’s strike one.
Ashwell is wasting no time. Working quickly now. He gets the sign and lobs a slow one up there, which bounces in the dirt. The batter swings anyway! He misses by a mile. That’s strike two. A collective groan goes up from the crowd. Highland is down to its last strike. Ashwell smiles. He nods his head. He kicks his leg. He throws a heater chest-high, right down the middle, strike three. How about that?!
Mike didn’t charge out and hug Hunter this time, but he did hop up excitedly. He ran out to the mound and gave a high five.
I heard Hunter yell, “Somebody throw that ball in a bucket of water before it starts shooting sparks. Yee-hah!”
Coach Zo shook his head again. Everyone else laughed.
The team was two and zero. Undefeated. First place. In two games Hunter got a win and a save. His ERA was 0.00 and he had struck out nine
batters in a row. If there was ever a more dominant performance in the history of middle school baseball, I couldn’t think of it. Maybe it was the greatest pitching performance in the history of baseball.
I thought about Orel Hershiser, who pitched, like, sixty scoreless innings for the Dodgers. And Don Drysdale, who threw six shutouts in a row. Then there was Johnny Vander Meer, who everyone still mentioned all the time because he threw two no-hitters in a row back in the 1930s. Would Hunter Ashwell’s name someday be like theirs? A famous pitcher known the world over? Would there be Hunter Ashwell baseball cards? Bobble-heads? Would he be in the Hall of Fame and I’d tell my grandkids, “I knew him when …”?
It sure seemed like that this day. He was a star, and the team was riding high.
The next game was the following Tuesday. It was an away game against Griffith. I wanted to go. The Schwenkfelder Mustangs were playing the best baseball in the state of Pennsylvania. Better than my beloved Phillies, that’s for sure. The Phillies were getting crushed by the Mets. This was bad enough, as Phillies fans and Mets fans pretty much hate each other. But in the Norbeck house it was even worse. Dad had recently revealed his terrible true identity as a Mets fan. He had kept it hidden for years and was apparently making up for lost time by taunting me every chance he got.
“Hey, son,” he’d say, first thing in the morning. “Check the standings lately?” That was literally the first thing I had to wake up to in the morning. Dad’s smug face, peeking out over the sports section of the newspaper.
“Listen, Dad,” I’d say. “I’m glad you’re happy—”
“I am,” he’d say, interrupting me.
“I’m glad you’re happy now that your awful secret is out in the open,” I’d continue. “But if you want to go back to pretending that you don’t care about baseball, that would be great with me.”
“Or,” he’d say with a stupid smile, “if you want to switch allegiances and join me over here in winner territory, that would be great too. I have a Mets cap in the closet just your size.”
“I’d rather put a live porcupine down my pants,” I’d say, matching his cheery tone.
“Okay, have a great day at school!” he’d say.
Then he’d start chanting “Let’s! Go! Mets!” while I tried to drown him out with “Shut! Up! Dad!” Good times.
All day at school on Tuesday, people were talking about the game. Like I said, baseball was a pretty big deal at Schwenkfelder Middle School. It was a small league, but the stakes were high. If you were a star at SMS, you’d more than likely get a shot at the high school team. And then from there? The whole world opened up to you.
And on this Tuesday, baseball was on the minds of the citizens of SMS even more than usual. The reason for the excitement? Truck Durkin. What, you ask? Truck Durkin? Yes, Truck Durkin.
Truck Durkin was a local legend. His legend in fact stretched beyond the local. Truck Durkin was famous in Philadelphia. Truck Durkin might have been famous throughout the whole world. But the weird thing is, no one knew what he looked like.
Truck Durkin was old, everyone knew that. He had been a baseball scout for at least fifty years, everyone knew that. How old was he when he started? Twenty? Thirty? Forty? It hardly matters. Anything plus fifty equals old. He got his start in scouting after his own playing career ended, whenever that was. He had an ability to look at a kid and immediately know what his future would be as a ballplayer. Truck Durkin could see a five-year-old hitting off a tee and say, “That kid will hit three hundred in the majors with excellent opposite-field power someday.” Truck Durkin could walk by a baby in a crib kicking his legs and say, “That baby will steal fifty bases someday. Look at them legs.”
And he’d be right.
Everyone knows the story of Mike Schmidt. Mike Schmidt was the greatest Phillie of all time. He might have been the greatest third baseman ever to put on a glove. I say he definitely was. (My dad would say David Wright, but that’s just one way you know my father is not a very serious human being.)
But did you know this about Mike Schmidt? He was a terrible baseball player in high school. His batting average was under two hundred! That’s one hit every five times at bat. That’s, like, really bad for anyone. Terrible for high school. There is, like, zero chance that if you hit under two hundred in high school you’d make the major leagues. Zero chance! That would be like me ending up making the majors. And not just making the majors but being an all-star. One of the best third basemen of all time! Okay, maybe it’s not quite as unlikely as me doing those things, as I hit well under two hundred. I hit about zero hundred. Can you hit a negative number? Lenny Norbeck can.
My point is this: Mike Schmidt was not a very good hitter in high school. Plus, he had two bad knees. But somehow, Truck knew. He just knew. He guessed that Schmidt would make it big, and boy, did he ever. Truck was a direct line to the big time. And he liked to start guys young. So if he was interested in you, it was a very big deal. And rumor had it that warm Tuesday morning at Schwenkfelder Middle School, Truck Durkin was very interested in Hunter Ashwell.
Hunter laughed it off. Took it in stride. Joked about it. “Hey, of course he’s interested in the Great Imperial Ashwell. Who isn’t?” Maybe he was nervous, but he didn’t show it. It takes a special kind of person to be a pitcher. You have to stand there, raised up on the middle of the field, with everyone watching you. You have to want the ball, even after you mess up. You have to believe in yourself with an intensity that bordered on insanity. I mean, you didn’t have to be a cocky maniac like Hunter Ashwell, but it didn’t hurt either.
Mike, Other Mike, and I discussed Truck over lunch. Other Mike, of course, knew nothing about Truck’s legend or even about Mike Schmidt. He did enjoy the conversation, though, mainly because he got a kick out of saying “Truck Durkin” over and over again. It is kind of fun to say.
“Truck Durkin, Truck Durkin, Truck Durkin.”
“Dude, Other Mike, shut up,” Mike said.
I laughed, and added, “Truck Durkin.”
“The weird thing about him,” Mike said, “is that no one ever sees him coming. That’s what my dad said anyway. He said that back when Truck was scouting Schmidt, he didn’t want anybody to know. He wanted to make sure that the Phillies got him, so he’d pretend he wasn’t interested. He’d do stuff like lurk in bushes or hide in his station wagon. One time he supposedly watched a game with binoculars from a nearby rooftop.”
“Seems pretty shady,” Other Mike said. “I don’t know if we can trust this Truck Durkin.”
“Oh, we can trust him,” I said. “He has a reputation for being the best. But if he’s always so secretive, why do we all know that he’s coming?”
“This is a good point,” Mike said, taking a sip of his milk. “Maybe he’s getting sloppy in his old age.”
“Or maybe Hunter just made up the whole thing to make himself seem awesome.”
“That does sound like something Hunter would do,” Mike agreed.
“Wow,” I said, pretending to be surprised. “Selling out your own battery-mate. Aren’t you supposed to defend him?”
“Hey,” Mike said. “I just catch him. Don’t hold me responsible for the crazy stuff that comes out of his mouth.”
“Well, I’ll help you guys find out if this Truck Durkin is there or not,” Other Mike said. “Wouldn’t he have to be ancient?”
“Yeah,” we said.
“Well,” Other Mike said. “Can’t be too hard to find a hundred-year-old guy climbing a tree with a pair of binoculars and a clipboard.”
He had a point.
Mike was taking the bus with the team, so me and Other Mike made plans to ride our bikes over to Griffith’s field. We took the bus home from school, each grabbed our bikes, then met at his house.
“Ready, ‘Truck’?” I said. We had a running joke about pretending to be a biker gang with cool and tough nicknames. I thought he’d get a kick out of being called “Truck.” I was right. He snorted and a bubble of snot bl
oomed from his nose. “Sick!” I said. He laughed again.
“Ready, ‘Truck,’ ” he said as we pushed off on our bikes, heading across town.
“We can’t both be named ‘Truck’!” I said.
“Sure we can,” Other Mike said. “I’m Truck, you’re Truck. Truck Durkin is Truck. We’re all Trucks.”
Other Mike was pretty weird sometimes, but hilarious.
The bike ride over to Griffith was fun. I totally won at the end, outsprinting Other Mike as always. We found a bike rack to lock our bikes up and headed over to the field. The players were done warming up and the game would be starting soon.
The first thing I noticed was that they had an announcer’s booth too! I was kind of annoyed. It was high up, located behind home plate. It made my own little shack seem shabby by comparison, not that I was complaining.
“What the heck?” I said to Other Mike. “I thought we were the only ones who had a cool announcer’s booth.”
“Where do you think Mike’s dad got the idea?” Other Mike said.
“Well, that stinks,” I said.
“Not really. I’m sure you’re way better than that guy.” He pointed up to the booth and we could see the announcer through the glass. He didn’t look like much—a short kid with glasses and a buzz cut. Then, to our surprise, he turned on the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem,” he said. His voice was okay. Not better than mine or anything. Then he started to sing. No prerecorded music, nothing. Just this kid, belting it out. And, man, he could belt it out. By the time he got to “home of the brave,” I felt like I had tears in my eyes. I think everyone in attendance felt the same way. It was a medium-sized crowd. It wasn’t big like the Schwenkfelder home crowds, but it was an okay turnout. Lots of parents, including Mike’s mom and dad, and other kids. Yet it was totally quiet. Man, that kid was good.
