by Tim Green
Coach Tucker picked his nose with a pinky and cleared his throat when he saw them looking at him. “You two have been impressive all week. Zach, no idea how you did it, but I’ve never seen a kid’s hitting improve that fast.”
When Joey looked at him, Zach dropped his eyes and scuffed the grass with his cleat.
“Joey, you’re a heavy hitter, son. What I’m getting at is that it’s a shame to have to let one of you go, but we just don’t have the spot for a nonpitcher and you’ve both seen Thomas Hagen at catcher—he’s got that locked up. So, I want you to know that what we’ve decided is to just put it all on the line at tomorrow night’s scrimmage. Whoever makes more plays and does better at the plate, that’s who’ll make select.”
Joey clenched his jaw. Zach frowned.
“I’ll say this, though,” Coach Tucker continued. “Whoever doesn’t make it should stay sharp. If we get an injury or something happens, then we’ll see about bringing you back.”
“Does that . . .” Zach hesitated and his face flushed. “Does that happen a lot? Something . . . happening?”
Coach Tucker winced. “Not really. But it’s possible.”
The big coach sighed and patted Zach on the back. “Wishful thinking, I know. I just feel bad because I don’t think we’ve ever had to make a decision this tough. Usually by the Friday scrimmage, everything is pretty clear-cut. We just split the team in two and have a good time playing baseball. Well, you both get some rest.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
80
“You’re awful quiet.” Joey’s dad had already offered to stop for ice cream, but Joey had passed and they rode in silence. “Didn’t go well?”
“It did.” Joey explained what the coach had said.
“That’s a good thing. You get to compete for it. You can’t ask for much more than that,” his father said.
“I could be Thomas Hagen.” Joey twisted the mitt in his lap.
“A lot of these kids, Joey, they’ve got private coaches and they work year-round. You’ve done this mostly on your own, and I’m proud of your dedication and your determination.”
“Can I get a private coach?” Joey’s heart beat faster at the thought that he’d left a stone unturned. Zach had been using a private coach, hadn’t he? Joey knew his dad was talking about kids like Thomas Hagen, though. Thomas had a coach he worked with three times a week, year-round.
His father frowned. “Playing for select will be just as good as having your own coach.”
“But after . . . if there is an after,” Joey added.
“We’ll see,” his father said.
Joey read his new book, Pop, until his eyelids began to flutter. He turned out the light and went to sleep, but woke in the middle of the night with a scream.
Trembling, he slipped out of the covers and used the bathroom. His mother appeared in the doorway as he washed his hands.
“Are you okay, Joey?” She yawned.
“I had that force-out dream.”
“The baseball one?”
“I’m nervous, I guess. The last time I had it, I blew it in the championship.”
His mom hugged him to her. “You’ll be fine, Joey. Don’t worry so much.”
“But I just do.”
“I know.” She rubbed the back of his head and kissed his hair. “But if you do what’s right, things always work out.”
Joey wasn’t sure exactly why she said that, and he thought he might have even seen the glint of a tear in the corner of her eye. She guided him by the shoulders back to his bedroom, where they said good night.
He lay awake for a long time, thinking of her words and asking himself if he was doing what was right.
81
The ball field looked like the altar at church on Christmas eve. Surrounded by the inky black of night, bright lights shone down on the grass and the bases like green and white gems, offering the promise of something special, something better.
Then Yogi Berra’s famous words leaked into Joey’s brain: It’s déjà vu all over again.
He hoped that wasn’t what this was, but the feeling in his gut was not good, and he couldn’t help thinking of another big game he’d played on this field, the Little League championship game. Joey believed in signs, and two things that disturbed him greatly were the vehicles he saw in the parking lot. First, a police cruiser. His mom was working a late shift. She got a break in the middle of it and so her squad car sat in the lot behind the bleachers. Second, not too far from the cop car, was a rusty red compact pickup that could only mean Mr. Kratz.
Why the teacher would be here on Joey’s big night was inexplicable until he saw the large man planted like a boulder in the grass on the far field, tossing a Frisbee to his killer dog, Daisy, their shadows stretched long by the stadium lights. Joey shook his head and tried to push the two of them from his mind. His mom met them just outside the field. She scooped up Martin, then kissed Joey’s dad before wishing Joey good luck.
He left them and put his stuff in the dugout and took the field with the rest of the players. Coach Tucker and his staff had separated them into two teams, red and yellow, and had given them T-shirts to wear for the scrimmage. For those who didn’t make it, the shirts would be a memento of the time they came so very close to traveling the globe with one of the best baseball teams on the planet.
Joey looked at his own red shirt, then over at Zach, who was shagging grounders in his yellow shirt. Halfway through warm-ups, Joey noticed the arrival of Leah and her three friends, along with Butch Barrett and his best buddy. The six of them sat in the stands right behind the yellow team’s dugout. Joey’s lip curled at the sight of them. He tried to focus on getting ready.
Coach Tucker was in charge of the red team. When he called them into the dugout, Joey was surprised to see Butch Barrett just outside the fence, talking to a boy named Cullen McCabe, the red team’s starting pitcher and certainly a lock for one of the select spots.
Joey ignored Butch and slipped into the dugout. Coach Tucker gave them all a pep talk, reminding them—as if anyone needed it—about what was at stake. The red team batted first. Joey watched the first two batters strike out, swinging at fastballs and sliders. He got into the on-deck circle and shook a fist when the third batter hit a single.
Joey started toward the plate and took a deep breath. He knew he’d likely have just three turns at bat, possibly four. He had to make them good. He caught Zach staring at him, hard from his spot at shortstop in his yellow T-shirt. Joey presumed his ex–best friend was rooting against him. A glance into the stands told him Leah didn’t care if he lived or died. She was texting someone on her phone.
As Joey stepped up to the plate, he looked at his parents. His dad was eager. His mother’s stone face was unreadable. Martin tugged on her arm, looking to escape. Joey took a deep breath and one final practice swing, then stepped into the batter’s box. He watched a slider pass. Ball one. The next pitch was a fastball, outside corner. Joey used his new swing, stepped into it, and blasted the ball.
It took off, sailing over the first baseman like a jet airplane.
Then it faded right, curving in the air and drifting clearly foul. Joey gritted his teeth and returned to the plate.
He let two more sliders by, one a ball and the other a strike. It looked like the pitcher learned his lesson from the fastball Joey smashed just outside the line. He wasn’t going to give Joey’s big bat another chance like that, and the slider was a tough pitch to knock out of the park. On a 2–2 count, he tried to swing up on it but only managed to foul it off the plate.
The 2–2 count remained.
The next pitch came down the middle, a twelve-six curve. It dropped, and he swung down on it, driving it into the dirt on a low skip toward the hole between the third baseman and Zach at shortstop. As he sprinted down the first base line, Joey saw Zach dart for the ball and leave his feet. No one but Zach could have snagged the wild grounder, but Zach did. He rolled in the dirt and fired the ball fro
m where he sat.
They both knew it might come down to a single play, this play. As Coach Tucker said, it was that close.
It was a race between Joey’s legs and Zach’s arm.
82
Joey’s foot smacked the bag. In the same instant, he heard the ball pop in the first baseman’s glove like a gunshot.
“Safe!”
Joey grinned and saw Zach’s head jerk downward as he spit out a curse. Joey’s parents cheered.
Joey bounced on the bag and then got ready to run. If he could steal a base or score a run, that would also figure into the evaluation, he was sure. The next red batter popped out. Joey kept his head up and marched toward the dugout to swap the batting helmet for his mitt. Cullen McCabe marched toward the pitcher’s mound. Coach Tucker leaned against the backstop, studying his clipboard.
“Coach?” Joey spoke softly.
Coach Tucker looked up and raised his eyebrows. “Joey.”
“Cullen is a pretty good pitcher, right?”
“Very good.”
“Could he throw pitches to the inside of the plate if he had to, every time?”
“Probably. He’s got great control. Why would he do that, though?”
Joey thought about the hole in Zach’s swing. The hole he knew about because of the session with Coach Van Duyn. If Cullen knew about Zach’s problem, he’d throw to the inside. Joey would have a lock on the select team.
Lights, whistles, and sirens all went off in Joey’s head at the same time.
83
Joey headed for the mound and got to the edge of the dirt circle. Cullen glanced at him, then stared.
“What’s up, Riordon?”
“Hey.” Joey’s mind whirred like a milk shake blender. His heart fluttered. He grinned and his mouth sagged open. He just couldn’t do it.
“It’s just that . . . um, good luck, Cullen. Burn ’em in there.”
Cullen gave him a confused look, but nodded his head. “Thanks, Riordon. Good luck to you, too. I bet I can sit your little buddy down and help you out. We’ll see.”
Joey returned the smile, nodded, and headed for first base. He warmed up with the rest of the infield, then crouched down, ready, as Zach stepped up to lead off the yellow team.
Cullen wound up and threw a fastball that brushed Zach back from the plate.
“Ball!”
The catcher hefted the ball and lobbed it back to the mound. Cullen snatched it from the air, wound up again, and threw another fastball, inside. Zach swung and missed.
“Strike!”
Joey licked his lips. Cullen was throwing to the inside, as if Joey had told him about the hole Zach’s swing. But Joey hadn’t told him. Even after all that had happened, Joey couldn’t bring himself to rat out his ex–best friend’s weakness. Joey wanted Zach to strike out. He wanted to be the one to go to select, but he wanted to win it fair and square.
Cullen threw another pitch. Inside again. Zach swung.
“Strike!”
Zach glared over at Joey with as much hate as Joey had ever seen ooze from a person’s face. Zach clenched his mouth shut and stepped out of the box. Joey watched him take several practice swings the way Coach Van Duyn had taught him, hands snug to the body, like he was up against the backstop.
Zach flashed another look at Joey and stepped into the box. Cullen didn’t hesitate. He wound up and threw a burner to the inside of the plate. Zach swung—his hands out from his body now that it was for real—and missed again.
“Strike three!”
Zach shot Joey one final hateful look and marched to the dugout. Joey shook his head in wonder and denial. He wasn’t sad that Zach struck out, but he couldn’t help wondering why Cullen had thrown every pitch to the inside, exactly where the hole in Zach’s swing was. It puzzled him so much, he bobbled a line drive later in the inning and nearly missed making the final out. Thankfully, he made the play and the red team poured into the dugout.
Zach made another beautiful play in the second inning, a double play. He scooped up a grounder, tagged second on the run, and threw a laser to the first baseman to end the inning. Joey didn’t get to bat in the second inning, but he did get a chance in the third. He felt like he needed a home run. Even though Zach had struck out, Joey wanted to show the coaches just why he should be the one to make select. He was a power hitter, and another single just wouldn’t do.
So, swinging for the fence, Joey struck out on a 1–2 count.
Zach barked out a little laugh of joy from his spot at shortstop.
Joey pounded the dirt with his bat on his way to the dugout.
“Easy,” Coach Tucker said. “This isn’t like playing Little League anymore. Select is the best players from all around, and you don’t just bat six hundred anymore.”
Joey took the field, coiling his muscles in a stance that left him ready to make a play. Cullen was still pitching, but he was fading. He walked one yellow player before he struck out two others. When Zach got up, Joey hunkered down even tighter. The backs of his legs burned with the strain. He had to be ready for anything. If Zach got a hit, it wouldn’t be because Joey had let his guard down.
Cullen’s first pitch looked inside and a bit high. Zach swung and missed. The next pitch brushed him back from the plate, a ball. On the third pitch, as Cullen got into his windup, Zach did something remarkable. He hopped back from the plate, quickly reset his feet, and swung.
CRACK.
The ball flew up into the air, high and far enough foul and behind Joey that he had to turn and run. The ball reached its highest point and started to fall. Joey was halfway to where he thought it would land. He ran full speed, straight for the fence that ran along the field to keep people from wandering into the action.
It would be close. The ball dropped fast. Joey knew if he could catch it and get Zach out it would erase his own strike out and give him the edge. Time bent and twisted. In the instant the ball hit his glove, Joey realized he’d jumped into the air and stretched over the fence.
He felt the ball smack his mitt, but as he came down, the fence caught his legs. He flipped forward, headfirst, straight for the ground.
When he hit the dirt, Joey felt something snap in his neck, and then he saw the flash of a very bright light.
84
Joey rolled onto his back and kept his gloved hand in the air. Through the pain, he felt the ball. People in the stands gasped and he heard his mother shriek his name.
But before anyone could reach him, Joey staggered to his feet, the ball still held high in his glove. The crowd roared its approval. Coach Tucker hurried out onto the field. The coach took him by the arm and led him back into the dugout, where he deposited Joey onto the bench.
“Are you all right?” The big coach’s lips trembled.
Joey rubbed his head. “I think so.”
Joey’s mom burst into the dugout, frantic. “Joey. Joey, can you see me?”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“You fell on your head.”
Coach Tucker stepped back. “I think he’s okay, but if you want to take him to the hospital . . .”
Joey’s insides froze. He knew that would end his chances. “I’m not going to the hospital. I’m fine.”
His mother tilted his head up and made him look into her eyes. “His pupils aren’t dilated. How many fingers do you see?”
“Mom . . .”
“How many?”
“Three. Please, Mom, go sit down.”
Joey’s father appeared as well, tugging Martin behind him. “He okay?”
“I think so,” Joey’s mom said.
“Please.” Joey was starting to be embarrassed.
Thankfully, his parents left him and he turned his attention back to the game.
“That was some play.” Coach Tucker winked at him and made a notation on his clipboard.
Joey felt a rush of excitement. It was like the tide had turned back his way. He suddenly knew he was going to win the competition and beat Zach.
When he stepped up to the plate in the fifth inning, Joey knew it would be his final chance at bat. Both teams had changed pitchers, and the one Joey now faced didn’t have a slider. He had a curve, but his best throws were fastballs.
Joey had heard Coach Tucker whistle and mutter under his breath as the new pitcher warmed up. “Seventy-three miles an hour.”
The coach had turned to one of his assistants. “That’s about as fast as I’ve ever seen a twelve-year-old throw it.”
The other coach had nodded, and that’s what Joey did now. He looked right at the pitcher and nodded his head. “Bring it.”
“What was that, son?” the umpire asked.
“Nothing, sir. Just ready, that’s all.”
“Well, step up.”
Joey stepped into the box and positioned his hands just the way Coach Van Duyn had taught him what seemed like a lifetime ago. The first pitch came, fast.
Joey barely nicked it. It popped up so high, it went behind the backstop. The pitcher grinned at Joey, but Joey grinned right back at him. The next pitch came right down the middle again, a bit high. Joey swung with everything he had and connected. He would have liked to swing a bit sooner, but he caught it dead center.
CRACK.
The ball flew down the right baseline, clearly gone. The image of his last big shot going foul crimped his joy. He slowed to a jog on his way to first.
Along with everyone else, he watched to see if the ball would end up foul or fair.
85
Joey turned to see the ump, who stood astride the baseline with a hand raised like a blade, angled up toward the ball. With one eye pinched shut, the ump tilted his head to line his open eye up with his hand. Joey reached first base.
Still, the umpire stood frozen, maybe thinking.
