Coach Driscoll encouraged Phillip to keep trying and suggested he watch Melanie’s footage to help get a clear picture in his mind of what the face-wipe gesture looked like. Melanie had given Phillip a copy that evening.
“I watched the clips over and over,” Phillip had told Liam that morning. “I can see what I do perfectly. Unfortunately, it was too dark out last night for me to try the changeup again.”
“Don’t worry,” Liam said reassuringly. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”
Deep down, though, he wished Phillip had had time to practice the visualization technique for real at least a few times. So when the game began, he was happy to cheer on his teammates from the bench. But he kept it to himself.
He and Phillip subbed in after the third inning, but not as catcher and pitcher. Instead, Coach Driscoll assigned them to outfield and third base. They both did well there and contributed to the offensive efforts with a single apiece. Neither managed to reach home, though.
Just before the end of Ravenna’s at bat, Coach Driscoll called them over.
“Phillip, you’re pitching. Liam, suit up in your catcher’s gear.” He named other players and the positions they’d be assuming that inning. With the score Ravenna 5, Zaragoza 4 at the top of the fifth, he sent them all onto the field with one instruction: “Hold them.”
Liam caught Phillip’s eye then. On the spur of the moment, he did the nose-bop gesture—but with a modification. Instead of touching his chest, he touched his shoulder. Instead of his nose, he tapped his temple. Only then did he point at Phillip.
Phillip grinned his understanding. Then he headed to the mound, where he did as Coach Driscoll had instructed: He held them at four runs by striking out the first three batters. Four of the missed pitches were changeups—minus the face-wipe.
Unfortunately, Zaragoza’s pitching was just as strong in the bottom of the fifth. Ravenna got just one hit. The other three batters struck out.
As Liam tugged on his gear for the top of the sixth, he imagined what a sportscaster might say about the previous inning. “With a shot at the championship on the line, this game is coming down to a classic pitchers’ duel.” He hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud until James nudged him and said, “Let’s cross our fingers that Phillip wins!”
“I’m crossing my toes, too,” Dom put in. “And I’d do my eyes if I thought it’d help!”
Phillip didn’t add any more strikeouts to his tally. The first batter popped out to Dom. The second hit a grounder that James fielded and sent to Mason, who was now playing first base. And the last batter ticked a foul ball that rose straight in the air and landed right in the pocket of Liam’s mitt.
Final score, after five and a half innings: Ravenna 5, Zaragoza 4.
Immediately after the game, Liam and his teammates lined up by home plate to congratulate the Zaragoza players on a good game. The time-honored ritual gave them a chance to see their competitors up close. Out of respect for their opponents’ feelings, they made sure their acknowledgments were short but sincere and to keep their own soaring elation hidden.
Once the hand-slap was finished and the teams apart, however, the players gave voice to their joy, with Rodney Driscoll leading the charge as usual.
“Southern California Championship, here we come!” he crowed in the dugout.
Liam joined in the cheers and then started packing up his gear to head home. He was tired, hot, dusty, and preoccupied by thoughts of the cool shower ahead when he noticed Phillip talking to Owen outside the dugout. They were too far away for Liam to hear what they were saying, but he had no trouble reading Owen’s body language.
Owen’s hands were jammed into his shorts pockets. His shoulders were hunched. He was kicking at the dirt, raising a dusty cloud around them. He was scowling.
Suddenly aware that he was staring, Liam returned to his gear. But then he heard Phillip call his name. He looked up to find the pitcher beckoning him over. Liam hesitated, for Owen still looked annoyed. Curiosity won out, however.
“Hey, what’s up?” he asked.
Phillip prodded Owen. “Go on, man. Tell him.”
“Tell me what?”
Owen let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. “Your idea worked.” He glared at Phillip. “There, you happy, DiMadge?”
In response, Phillip threw a playful choke hold around Owen’s neck and planted noogies across his skull. “Yeah, I’m happy! I’m really happy! You know why? Because we’re going to the SoCal Championship!”
“Ow! Quit it!” Owen protested. But his words carried no weight because he was starting to laugh.
Phillip let him go. “You’ll be there to cheer us on this weekend, right, IceBerg?”
Owen nodded. “I’ll be there and I’ll be cheering for you.” He cut his eyes to Liam. Then he put out his hand. “Good luck… McG.”
Grinning, Liam clasped Owen’s hand and replied, “Thanks… IceBerg.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
While Liam and his teammates were celebrating their victory over Zaragoza, Carter and the rest of the Forest Park team were heading to the field at the top of the sixth inning. They were playing Burton, a tough team that had overpowered Pine Ridge and Spotsville, winning those games with scores of 13–6 and 7–2. Coach Harrison had called Burton an offensive powerhouse—so the fact that Forest Park had allowed them just one run in five innings had made him and the assistant coaches very happy.
Of course, everyone in the Forest Park dugout would have been happier still if they had earned runs. Unfortunately, their side of the scoreboard showed nothing but goose eggs.
Carter grabbed his glove and headed to third base. He would have loved to be on the mound to try his hand at shutting down Burton’s offense.
But Coach Harrison had elected to keep Peter in instead. Peter was a strong pitcher—some days. Other days, he seemed to let the pressure get to him. He’d been having a very strong game so far. But now he seemed to be tiring.
He walked the first batter. The second laid down a bunt that catcher Ron Davis fielded and sent to first. The batter was out, but the runner reached second. The next batter fouled off three pitches and then missed the fourth.
“There you go, Peter!” Carter cried. “Let’s see you do it again!”
Peter didn’t do it again. Instead, he threw a fastball that wasn’t very fast—and to Burton’s cleanup hitter, a tall boy named Marco Bellini.
Crack!
The ball launched off Marco’s bat and headed straight to deep center field. Ash, who was playing outfield, took off at a sprint.
“Go, Ash! Go!” Carter cried. He held his breath, willing Ash to get under it in time, make the catch, and end Burton’s chances of adding to the score. The other Forest Park players were in motion—second baseman Freddie racing to cover first, shortstop Allen moving to second, and first baseman Keith positioning himself in the cutoff spot. All were ready to act if Ash didn’t make the catch.
He didn’t. The ball missed his outstretched glove and dropped into the dirt.
The runner on second was already rounding third and heading to home plate when Ash picked up the ball.
“Here! Here!” Keith screamed.
Ash straightened, reared back, and hurled the ball with all his might. He had one of the most powerful arms on the team; as a catcher, he had experience throwing the ball while rising from a crouch. Usually, his throws were dead-on accurate. But if he had been aiming for Luke’s glove, he missed by a mile.
Oh, no! Carter groaned inwardly.
The ball soared over Keith’s head. If it had had a little more oomph, it might have reached Ron. Instead, it fell short of that mark, landing three feet in front of home plate. Peter dashed forward to get it, but he was too late. The runner slid across home plate seconds before the ball hit Ron’s mitt.
“Safe!” the umpire cried.
The next batter popped out to end the inning.
The mood in the Forest Park dugout was somber. Ash wou
ldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Carter’s attempt to talk to him earned him a glare.
“I blew it, okay?” Ash growled. “I thought I could throw it to home. I couldn’t. And if we don’t get on board—”
“—we’ll still be in the semifinals.”
As one, the players snapped around to look at Coach Harrison. He strode to the front of the dugout and stabbed a finger at his clipboard. “The top two teams from each pool advance to the semifinals. If we lose today, we’ll be in a three-way tie with Pine Ridge and Spotsville. According to tournament rules, in such a case, second place is awarded to the team that allowed the fewest runs overall.” He indicated his clipboard again. “Unless my calculations are wrong, that’s us. But let’s not rely on my addition! Let’s earn the runs we need to beat Burton! Okay?”
“Okay!” the players shouted.
Unfortunately, their enthusiasm didn’t translate into hits. Burton swapped pitchers for the last inning. The new pitcher retired the side in order. Final score: Burton 2, Forest Park 0.
Jonathan Boyd caught up to Carter after the game. “Tough loss,” the Pine Ridge player sympathized. “But, hey, at least you guys held them to two runs. That’s way better than what we did. Or Spotsville.”
“Yeah,” Carter replied. “I just hope we don’t have to face them again. Or if we do, I hope I’m on the mound. I’d like to see what they can do against my knuckleball.”
Jonathan nodded. “You have to beat the East’s number one team first. That’s Jeremiah. I caught one of their games. They look really good.” Then he gave Carter a big smile. “But I think you guys can take ’em. And I think you can win the championship game, too, and get to the Mid-Atlantic Regional Tournament. At least, I hope you will. Know why?”
Carter shrugged. “Why?”
“Because me and my team won’t be going. And since we won’t, I’d like to know someone on the team that will be there. So when you make it—and note I said when!—I hope you’ll keep in touch and let me know all about it, okay?”
With that, Jonathan dug out a piece of paper and a stub of a pencil and scribbled a number on it. “That’s my cell,” he said. “Call or text me anytime.”
Carter took the paper, tore off a piece, and jotted down his number for Jonathan to have. The two shook hands, and then Jonathan turned and walked away. Carter lost sight of him in the crowd of spectators.
Mr. and Mrs. Jones appeared by Carter’s side a moment later. “Who was that?” his mother asked.
Carter glanced at the scrap of paper in his hand and smiled. “A friend,” he said.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Thursday morning Liam woke to an empty house. A note from his mother informed him that she and his father were both at work—his father was a businessman and his mother designed playground equipment for a new company—and Melanie was having breakfast with a friend.
“Take plenty of water with you,” the note said. “See you for dinner. Call if you need anything.”
Coach Driscoll had called for a light practice that morning and had arranged to pick Liam up at his house. Ten minutes to ten, Liam heard a horn toot. He grabbed his water bottles and hurried to the garage to get his mitt.
“We’re just doing some hitting, fielding, and throwing,” he said. “No pitching.”
A few Ravenna players were already at the field when they arrived. The rest came within a few minutes. All were in high spirits, still jubilant after their undefeated run through pool play.
“I can’t wait to take on Hollyhock!” James said, pounding his fist into his glove. “I wish we were playing tomorrow.”
“Saturday will be here soon enough,” Coach Driscoll said. “Now everyone but Liam into the field. Liam, you stay here behind the plate. I want to see clean pickups and accurate throws that hit Liam’s glove smack in the pocket.”
When the players had scattered onto the grass, Mr. Madding, the assistant coach, knocked out some grounders for the infielders. After a few minutes, he switched to fungos. He ended with some high-flying hits to the outfielders. Liam, standing to one side of the plate, caught the incoming throws and then fed the ball back to Mr. Madding.
“Looking good, looking good!” Coach Driscoll called. “Now throw to first after the catch!”
The fielding drill continued with the throws going to second and third. Then Coach Driscoll called the players in for batting practice.
“I understand your cousin’s team made it to the semifinals,” he said to Liam while watching Rodney take his turn at the plate. “You planning to listen to the broadcast later?”
“Sure am,” Liam said. “They play at seven, so that’s four our time. I was going to invite Rodney and Sean over, if that’d be okay with you.”
“Since your folks won’t be home from work yet, why don’t you come to our house instead?” the coach offered, then added in a louder voice, “Anyone who wants to listen to the Pennsylvania State semifinals, be at our place at four! Ice cream will be provided.”
Such a loud cheer rose from the players that Liam wasn’t surprised when a sizable group showed up at the Driscolls’ house that afternoon. He helped set out the bowls and spoons and then helped himself to a generous portion of his favorite ice cream, mint chocolate chip. By then, the coach had found the website broadcasting Carter’s game. The announcer’s voice boomed out of the state-of-the-art sound bar connected to the coach’s laptop.
“Welcome to the second semifinal game of the Pennsylvania State Little League Tournament! For those just tuning in, earlier today the number one West team, Burton, defeated the number two East team, Edgemere, by a score of fourteen to nine. Now Jeremiah, the top East team, will play the West’s second-place Forest Park.”
Then he announced the lineups for both teams. Liam was a little disappointed to learn that Carter wasn’t pitching. But he figured Coach Harrison was saving him for the championship.
When the game began, there was a smattering of applause from the Ravenna players, most of whom were more interested in their ice cream at that point. That changed, though, as the action unfolded, for as much as they loved sundaes, they loved baseball even more.
Forest Park was in the field first. It prevented Jeremiah from scoring and then got on board first with a pair of runs thanks to a single from Craig Ruckel followed by a homer from Charlie Murray.
“Murray is taking the bases at full speed rather than the usual home run trot,” the announcer said, his voice amused.
“That sounds like Charlie,” Liam said with a laugh. “I swear, his motto is ‘Why walk when you can run?’ ”
Jeremiah answered with three runs at its next at bat. But Forest Park jumped right back into the lead with two more runs.
“This is shaping up to be another high-scoring game,” the broadcaster announced.
That prediction turned out to be true. Both teams added a run nearly every inning. At the bottom of the sixth, the score was tied at seven each.
The boys in the kitchen fell silent as Luke Armstrong came up to bat. So far, Luke had struck out and popped out.
“Come on, Luke, you can do it,” Liam murmured. But Luke grounded out.
Next up was Craig. He’d singled twice. He did again. That brought Charlie M. to the plate.
“Think he’ll bunt?” Sean whispered to Liam.
“Doubt it,” Liam whispered back. “Coach’ll trust him to connect.”
Charlie M. did. It wasn’t a home run but a solid double that advanced Craig to third.
“Now batting, Ash LaBrie,” the announcer informed the listeners.
For the first time ever, Liam found himself rooting for Ash. Then he found himself cringing—as the pitch hit Ash right in the ribs!
“Oh, man, I bet that’s gonna leave a mark!” Rodney said. “Think the pitcher did it on purpose?”
“If he did, the umpire would have something to say about it,” Coach Driscoll said.
The umpire must have thought it was unintentional, however, for play
continued uninterrupted.
“And Carter Jones takes his stance.”
Liam’s stomach flip-flopped when he heard the broadcaster. “Oh, boy. Oh, boy,” he said. “C’mon, dork. You can do this.” He closed his eyes and sent his cousin all the positive energy he could.
Crack!
“It’s a hit to right field! That ball is soaring! Jeremiah’s outfielder is racing to get under it! He’s almost there, he’s reaching—he missed it!”
The Driscolls’ kitchen erupted with cheers.
“Quiet!” Liam demanded.
Silence fell. The only voice was that of the announcer as he tracked Craig’s dash for home. “He’s giving it all he’s got, folks, really churning up that base path! He’s hit his slide. And… he beats the throw! Ladies and gentlemen, that’s the game! Forest Park wins eight to seven!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Liam shouted, pumping his fist in the air with each cry. “They made it to the championship!”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The sky over Pennsylvania was a brilliant blue Friday afternoon, the July sun bright—and hot. Forest Park was scheduled to play Burton at five thirty. By five, when the players ran onto the field to warm up, the temperature on the field had leveled out at ninety degrees. By 5:01, everyone was slick with sweat.
“Man, this is going to be brutal,” Ash said in the dugout afterward. He mopped his brow with his sleeve.
Mr. Walker passed out cups of cool water. “I want to see everybody drinking plenty of water between innings, whether you’re thirsty or not,” he instructed the players. “We have plenty of cold, wet towels for you to put on your heads and necks, too. And if anyone feels the slightest bit dizzy or anything else unusual, you tell me right away.”
Carter and the others nodded. They knew the coach was doing everything in his power to prevent possible heat illness. They took his instructions seriously; a player had fainted the day before because he’d become dehydrated. He was fine now, but no one wanted that to happen to him.
Coach Harrison called for the team’s attention. “Let’s review what we know about Burton. One: They can hit. Their high scores prove that. Two: They are fast on the base paths. I’m talking Charlie Murray fast.”
Perfect Game Page 6
