Not Easily Broken

by T. D. Jakes

  Dave realized he sure wanted to give it a try.

  “All right, Darius, be a hitter, baby, be a hitter.” Dave clapped his hands and chomped his gum. Brock was giving the signal to George, standing on second, that meant “run on any hit ball.”

  They were on the short end of a 2–1 score with two away in the bottom of the fourth inning, which was too bad, since they were playing the only team in their league with an identical won-lost record. It was the boys’ first chance at a league championship, and Dave could taste victory, but somehow they had to get George home without getting the third out. Dave didn’t want to go into their final at bat still needing a run.

  Dave rubbed his face and adjusted his cap. The opposing pitcher was having probably the best night he’d had all season, unfortunately, and his infield was backing him up like a vacuum cleaner. Both teams were having good defensive nights, for that matter; hits had been harder to come by than a mother-in-law’s good graces.

  “Look ’em over, Darius, you can do it!”

  Dave turned his head to look at Clarice, sitting up behind home plate. He had to smile; whatever happened tonight, it was great to see her here. She kept hollering encouragement at Darius, who stepped into the batter’s box and got ready to take the first pitch.

  The pitcher went into his windup and came straight over the top with his fastball. Darius started to lean into it but let it go past. The umpire called a ball. Clarice and the handful of the kids’ parents who came to the games cheered with relief.

  “Good eye, Darius, good eye.”

  Dave looked up in the stands behind third base. Julie was there, clapping and cheering as hard as she could. Dave had to admit, it was a welcome sight. He was glad when Brock told him he’d talked her into coming out tonight.

  Dave sent the “take” signal to Darius, who stepped back out of the box to give the pitcher some time to think about how many ways he could miss with the next pitch. It didn’t matter, though; the next pitch came right down the pipe for a called strike. Dave winced inwardly. That was the kind of pitch Darius could’ve taken into left field if he hadn’t been told to let it go by. Dave gave him the “swing away” sign and clapped his hands together. “That’s all right, baby, you’re fine. Be a hitter, now, be a hitter. Make him pitch to you.”

  The other team was well-coached; the infielders were waiting on the balls of their feet, their gloves at the ready. They kept up the chatter, gradually increasing it as their pitcher worked toward the delivery.

  And then, as the ball was coming over the top, Darius squared around to bunt. Dave almost swallowed his tongue. What was the boy doing? He hadn’t told him to bunt!

  The ball came in and Darius laid down a textbook safety squeeze bunt, rolling the ball down toward first base, just inside the line. Dave suddenly realized that the infield was playing Darius deep, since he was one of the three batters who’d been hitting their pitcher all evening. By the time they got moving forward, Dave’s fastest player was nearly halfway to first base. And George, who was running on any contact, was about two strides from third.

  The first baseman got to the ball. He made a move toward third, protecting against the tying run, but Brock was doing everything except grabbing George’s shirt to keep him on the bag. The boy turned to make the play to first, but the second baseman, who should have been covering, was caught off-balance by the bunt and was out of position. The first baseman flipped him the ball, but then it became a footrace between him and Darius, which was no contest. Darius’s spikes hit the bag a good half-second before the second baseman’s. The umpire flung his arms out to the sides. “Safe!”

  Clarice was jumping up and down. Dave was jumping up and down. The kids on the bench were jumping up and down. And the tying run was at third.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Dave went over and grabbed Darius. “Next time you shake off my signal, you better hope it works out this good. You hear what I’m sayin’?”

  Darius grinned. “They were playing me back. I been working on that bunt every day after school with Jaylen.”

  Dave grabbed his shoulder and gave it a good shake. “Awright. Stay awake out here; there’s still lots of game left.”

  Marcus was Dave’s next batter. He was 0 for 3 tonight and Dave could see the agitation in his face as he approached the plate.

  “Go get ’em, Marcus!” Julie hollered. Brock wheeled around to look at her, but she was concentrating on the game. Dave hoped his third base coach was doing the same, but he grinned anyway. She was good for Brock, and he was good for her. Somewhat to Dave’s surprise, it was nice to see them together. They were both good people.

  Marcus stepped into the leftie batter’s box. He worked the toe of his front foot into the dirt next to the plate, looking like somebody slipping a foot into a bedroom slipper. He stepped in with his back foot and peered out at the pitcher as he made a couple of preparatory swings with his bat.

  The pitcher rocked, wound up, and threw; the ball went right down the middle for a called strike. Marcus shook his head and backed out of the box.

  “That’s awright, Marcus, that’s awright. You okay, just stay in there and have a good eye.” Dave gave him the “swing away” sign and hoped for the best. The next pitch came and Marcus took a hitch with his bat, then turned his front shoulder in toward the plate. The ball thumped into him just below the shoulder blade and the umpire told him to take his base. Clarice, Julie, and the other fans went wild as Marcus loped toward first, rubbing his shoulder. Bases loaded.

  “I crowded in on him a little, and he went for it,” Marcus said when he got to first. “But that boy got some heat; my shoulder stings.”

  “Taking one for the team, my man,” Dave said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That’s using your head. And your shoulder.”

  Tim was up. The crowd was going crazy and if you couldn’t feel the tension in the air, you were either dead or somewhere else. Dave trotted over to his right fielder before the boy got to the plate.

  “Now, Tim, you just chill up there, awright? No matter what happens, we still got another inning of ball to play, so don’t be thinking you got to be the man, you feel me?”

  Tim nodded.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. Now you just go up there and see what happens. If he gives you a pitch to hit, you know what to do.”

  Tim gave him another tight nod and grabbed the crown of his batting helmet, pushing it down on his head. He went to the plate and got set for the pitch.

  Dave cupped his hands around his mouth. “Running on anything, boys, running on anything.” Everybody in the park already knew this, with two outs, but it didn’t hurt to remind the infielders that they weren’t going to have lots of extra time to make a play. The other coach was standing in the opening of the dugout and rubbing his hands on his hips and clapping and working his gum for all it was worth. Dave felt for him. But he was still going to try his best to beat him.

  “You can do it, Tim!” Julie yelled.

  Tim stepped back out of the box and turned to look up at her. He waved at her, then got back in the box.

  Brock had told Dave that Tim was hardest hit by the news of Bryson’s death. Maybe it had something to do with Bryson playing in right field at Tim’s usual position on the day he came to practice with Dave—or maybe it had something to do with Tim never having known his own mother. Brock said Tim had asked about Bryson’s mom every time he saw him.

  The first time Brock brought Julie to practice, Dave noticed Tim sitting and talking with her for quite a while during a lull in the activity. He guessed it was probably healing for both of them. Maybe Brock and Julie ought to spend more time with Tim, he thought; he’d suggest it to Brock. But first they had a game to win.

  The pitcher sent the first throw toward the plate: ball one. “Atta baby, Tim, atta baby,” Dave called, clapping his hands. “Good eye, now. Watch it all the way.” Dave sent him the “swing away” sign. Come on, Tim. You’re doing fine, my man.

&nbs
p; The pitcher wound up, and just as the ball started forward in his hand, Tim squared off as if to bunt, then quickly went back to his regular stance. But the pitcher must have still been stinging from Darius’s squeeze, because he tried to adjust his pitch in mid-motion. He threw wild into the dirt on the left side of the plate. Dave saw the white blur of the ball as it headed toward the backstop.

  By the time he could form the thought run in his mind, Brock had already sent George. The shortstop streaked toward the plate, his batting helmet flying off behind him and rattling along on the ground just outside the baseline. The pitcher sprinted toward the plate, ready to make the tag when the catcher flipped him the ball, but George slid across the plate while the catcher’s toss was still in midair. The game was tied.

  They were all jumping up and down again. Tim was hugging George while the disgusted pitcher trudged back to the mound. Clarice was dancing in the stands behind home plate, her hands in the air like a high school girl at a Snoop Dogg concert. George came running toward Dave, then jumped into his arms like Dave was Santa Claus.

  “Yeah, baby! You all that, my man, you all that!” Dave yelled into George’s ear before he set him back on the ground. George headed for the dugout, where the rest of the team was waiting to give and receive high fives, hugs, and slaps on the back.

  “Okay, Tim, you still the man,” Dave hollered, giving Tim the “take” signal. Dave was willing to bet the pitcher had to be at least a little rattled. Sure enough, the next pitch was high, for ball three. Everybody in the ballpark knew Tim was taking the next pitch, including the pitcher, who must have tried to steer it just a little too much. It was right in the fat part of the plate, and Tim took it just over the second baseman’s outstretched glove.

  Darius was rounding third by the time the center fielder got to the ball. There was no chance of the fastest kid on the team getting thrown out; the ball bounced into the catcher’s mitt a full second after Dave’s third baseman stepped on the plate. Marcus was holding at second and Tim was standing on first, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

  In just a few minutes, they were suddenly up a run with a runner still in scoring position. Dave hollered until his throat was raw. Darius skipped all the way to the dugout, pumping both fists in the air. The team was standing on the bench of the dugout, yelling and slapping each other and hopping up and down. Brock was doing some kind of white-boy jig over by third base, and Julie was up in the stands, laughing her head off.

  The other coach was walking out to the mound, along with the catcher. He put his hand on his pitcher’s shoulder and told him, Dave guessed, what he’d have told his own player in the same situation: stay within yourself, it’s not all on you, trust your fielders, relax, you can do it. And the pitcher responded like any eleven- or twelve-year-old kid would have. He listened with his face downcast, nodding every so often.

  Next up was Carlos, the center fielder. He was one of the others who had this pitcher’s number. He was smiling when he came up; Dave guessed he was already thinking all about how he was going to put Marcus across the plate.

  But it didn’t work out that way this time. The pitcher got down to business, striking Carlos out on three consecutive pitches. Dave had to respect the kid for shrugging off the wild pitch and two runs and getting his team out of the inning.

  “Awright, gentlemen, let’s get out there and be some fielders!” Dave said, slapping the boys on the rear as they came trotting out of the dugout. “We just need three, awright? Just need three,” he yelled.

  Jaylen came out last, walking toward the mound. Dave stopped him.

  “How’s your arm, little bro? Doing all right?”

  “I got your back, Coach,” Jaylen said. “We fit’n to take this thing home.”

  “Awright, then, my man, get out there and show me something.”

  Brock came over to grab a mitt and warm up Jaylen while Malcolm was donning the catcher’s gear.

  “How’s he feeling?” he asked Dave, nodding toward Jaylen.

  “I think he’s all right.”

  “I think we ought to let him throw the curve.”

  “Are you on crack? We’re in a position to win the league—”

  “Listen to me, Dave, just listen. He can throw it. I’ve caught him. And nobody’ll be expecting it since he hasn’t been showing it all season.”

  Dave stared out toward left field, wrestling with his skepticism.

  “Come on, man. I’m telling you, he can do this. Give him a shot.”

  “He and Malcolm got the signals worked out?”

  Brock nodded.

  Dave took a deep breath. “All right. We’ll see how it goes with the first couple of batters. But I’ll be on that mound in two seconds if something starts looking funky.”

  Brock shrugged.

  While Brock warmed up Jaylen, Dave hit grounders to the infield and easy flies to the outfield. All the time, he kept one eye on Jaylen. I hope I don’t hate myself tomorrow.

  “Play ball!” the umpire yelled, and the butterflies in Dave’s stomach started doing a rhumba. They were three outs away from the league championship. It would be something these kids would never forget, a hundred-percent winning experience based on hard work and cooperation. Sure, Dave wanted it for himself, but he wanted it for them too. Three outs!

  By the time Jaylen had thrown two pitches, Dave knew it was all over. His little two-under curve wasn’t really breaking as much as it was hesitating, but that was enough to throw off the batters and get them watching a little too hard. And Malcolm was smart; he kept mixing the curve with Jaylen’s bread-and-butter fastball and circle changeup. It was the best series Jaylen had pitched all season. He struck out the first batter on four pitches and got the second one to pop up to shallow right. The third hitter got on board, courtesy of a bad throw by an overanxious George, but the fourth batter fanned on three straight fastballs. The game was over; they’d won.

  All the players rushed the mound. Dave was right there in the middle of them, laughing and grabbing them to swing them up. He was in the middle of a swirling mass of small sweaty bodies, and all he could feel was the steady, high-energy throb of success.

  Somebody grabbed him from behind; arms went around his middle and squeezed. He turned around to see Clarice laughing and yelling. “You did it, Dave, you did it! Your boys did it!”

  “Hey—did you just call me Dave?”

  She grinned and shrugged. “That’s all I’ve been hearing all night, all around me; the boys’ folks saying Dave this and Dave that. I couldn’t help it.”

  She gave him a good tight hug. “I’m proud of you,” she said, her lips close to his ear. “And now I’m starting to see why this is so important to you.”

  “Thanks, Boo,” he said. “That means a lot, it really does.”

  Brock was over on the third baseline, hugging Julie. The boys were jumping up and down, chanting “Hawks, Hawks, Hawks.” The few parents and relatives that had made the game were grinning and high-fiving like youngsters.

  And for some reason, in the middle of all this delirious, unself-conscious celebration, Dave started thinking about everything that had happened since the beginning of this baseball season. He’d met one of the most amazing young men he’d ever known, and witnessed his untimely death. He’d met a woman who, under slightly different circumstances, he could have loved, and it had nearly cost him his marriage and his self-respect. He’d learned things about himself he wished he didn’t know, and a few things he was glad to find out. He’d witnessed—and been part of—a dark pilgrimage through guilt, grief, and death that had turned slowly, slowly back toward life, light, and the rediscovery of love and respect.

  At this moment, it seemed to Dave that it was all tied together, all twisted like the strands of a rope that pulled you forward, even when you weren’t sure where you were going. A cord with three strands, maybe. You couldn’t have the joy without the pain, the salvation without experiencing what it meant to be lost, at least for a littl
e while. It was life, and he’d lived it, was living it. In this moment, that realization held enough truth to keep the confusion and unanswered questions quiet for just a little while.

  Dave thought of something his grandmother used to say: “The road may go down and it may go up, but long as you keep walking, you going to get there. Just don’t sit down on the side.”

  Brock and Julie were coming out toward the mob, holding hands. Clarice saw them and went over to them, smiling and talking. Brock yelled something over the racket and the boys broke for the entrance to the field, still screaming like an Apache raiding party. Brock trotted off behind them and Julie followed at a slower pace.

  Clarice turned around to look at him. She waited for him to get to where she was.

  “I think the boys are ready for their soda and candy,” she said. “How about you?”

  “Sounds pretty good to me,” Dave said, taking her hand. “Let’s go.”

  Notes

  CHAPTER 2

  1. Ecclesiastes 4:8–12 (back to text)

  CHAPTER 19

  1. Ecclesiastes 4:8–12 (back to text)

  CHAPTER 20

  1. Ecclesiastes 3:1 ASV (back to text)

  2. Ecclesiastes 4:12 ASV (back to text)

  3. Ecclesiastes 12:13 ASV (back to text)

  Also available from

  T. D. Jakes . . .

  Cover Girls — a novel about four very different women confronting the biggest challenges of their lives . . .

  Michelle, Tonya, Mrs. Judson, and Miz Ida. African American, white, rich, poor—they seemingly have nothing in common. Yet every day they face the complex realities of twenty-first-century urban life as they try to balance their needs with their belief in God. Through the course of a year, these women must come to terms with the past, discover their true identities, and recognize the unexpected miracles that reveal God’s all-encompassing love. An honest, inspiring, and unforgettable story.

  Bishop Jakes knows the struggles real women encounter and the losses that make it difficult to face the future. He brings compassionate insight and deep wisdom to his novels and proves that he is not only a gifted preacher, but a born storyteller.