“Sir?”
“You might find that you’re too big and strong and accomplished for our league, but not ready for theirs.”
“Then what happens?”
“Then you sit out a year and we look at you again.”
Momma looked at me and squeezed my knee. “That might be for the best, El,” she whispered.
“Are you kidding, Momma? I’d die! You know how long I’ve been looking forward to this! I need better competition.”
“But thirteen- through fifteen-year-olds. Elgin, I don’t know.”
“At least let me try out, Momma. Please!”
“I don’t guess there’d be any harm in taking a look at you on the field with those kids. When do they try out?”
“This afternoon, ma’am. But let me put you in touch with that league commissioner first. There’s no sense makin any promises before I get a chance to talk to him.”
The four of us met in a classroom away from the registration table. Mr. Richter, the older league’s top man, was tall and bald. He held a red cap in his hand as he greeted Momma and me.
“You have another son who wants to try out for our league?” he asked.
“No, Carl,” Mr. Morrison said, “this here is the boy.”
“Fine. What’s the problem?”
“Well, he won’t be eleven till the season starts.”
“Eleven? Have you seen the—”
“Yes, I’ve seen the birth certificate.”
“What happens if he gets hurt in the tryouts?”
“If you saw him hit, you wouldn’t worry about it. His mother won’t let him pitch, catch, or play the infield anyway.”
“Well, neither would I. But can he run like the older boys and catch up with fly balls? What’s the sense of having a younger kid on a team if he’s going to ride the bench? How about we have a look at him, and if he doesn’t make it, you take him back.”
“I’ve already explained to them, Carl, that this boy will not be playing at our level.”
“You afraid of him? Afraid you won’t get him on your team and he’ll show you up?”
Mr. Morrison smiled at Mr. Richter. “Carl, if I’m afraid of anything, it’s that I’ll get him, and he’ll kill somebody with a line drive in the first inning of the first game.”
12
By the first practice of the Tigers, the thirteen- to fifteen-year-old team I was assigned to, I had turned eleven. The kids new to this league because they had turned thirteen looked young and inexperienced, except maybe Barry Krass, the one who had made Sports Illustrated by hitting five consecutive homers.
Momma said I was the talk of the team and of the league. I guess I was the reason so many other kids and coaches showed up to watch us practice. But I couldn’t think about that, unless it made me play better.
The pitcher stood fifty-four feet from the plate, nine feet farther than I was used to. I thought that was great. More time to see the ball. I would have to get used to the new distance between the bases, seventy-five feet rather than sixty. For once I would not be the fastest runner on my team. I was about fourth, and the only thirteen-year-old faster was Krass.
The Krass boy especially intrigued me, because Elgin was mostly quiet about him. It was a new experience for Elgin to be outrun by someone only a few years older, and I watched for signs of jealousy. Elgin was clearly going to be a star, but it did not appear he would lead this team in anything. He had found a level where he could compete equally.
“There’s a lot of pressure on the boy,” his new coach, Maury Rollins, told me. “I don’t believe he has the arm to pitch at this level, which means he can’t catch either because you need a strong gun to second base. The infield is too big for his arm, and he’s too small to play first base. I put him in the outfield like you asked, which he admitted he’s not too excited about, but he didn’t argue because he knows the game.”
“You noticed that?”
“Yes, ma’am. He might drive me crazy, but I could almost make him an assistant coach. I’m seriously thinking about having him coach one of the bases, but I’d probably get in hot water. I have to be careful not to favor him.”
“Um-hm.”
“He told me that if he was the manager and this was the American League, he’d make himself the designated hitter. I told him he’ll have to wait a few years to make the American League! Anyway, I think he might have himself underrated as an outfielder. He has much better than average speed for a thirteen-year-old, and we both know how old he is. He gets to the ball well, senses it off the bat, hits the right cutoff man—not with a huge throw, but he gets it there—and I think will make a fine left fielder. I’ll probably hit him in the lower third of the batting order.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t guess he’ll like that.”
“Oh, probably not, but there are five or six hitters on this club who deserve to hit ahead of him. Krass is one. He’ll be the only player under fourteen hitting ahead of Elgin in the lineup. Have you seen that boy hit?”
“No. Is he fixin to hit today?”
“He’s in the hole,” Maury Rollins said. “Stick around.”
I watched from the stands. One of the assistant coaches was throwing three-quarter-speed batting practice, and the kids sent a lot of fly balls and line drives into left where Elgin seemed to be having great fun chasing them down.
From what I could tell, and from what I had heard, Krass would be difficult to dislike, even if he was better than Elgin. He was polite and good-natured, and though he may not be as obsessed with the game as Elgin, he clearly enjoyed it. Everybody knew when it was his turn to hit.
The home run fence was two hundred fifty feet down the lines and two-eighty to center. Krass was a right-hander, and Elgin played him closer to the left field line than he had the other hitters. Of the fifteen balls he hit, I counted six that would have been homers on the smaller field. He hit none over this fence, but one chased Elgin to the warning track. He lost the ball in the sun and saw it bounce over the fence. I could tell he was angry. He kept looking behind him and resetting himself, as if he’d love to have the chance to have that play over.
Krass hit nearly as well as the older boys, but they had a little more strength, most putting one or two over the fence, the big first baseman sending one over the center field wall. Krass went out to play second after he hit, and when it was Elgin’s turn, he stepped in left-handed against the right-hand coach.
I sensed everyone watching carefully, and I could see Elgin was nervous. I wanted to tell him to just relax and loosen up. The coach had not been throwing hard, so Elgin should just work on his swing, not trying to impress anyone.
That must’ve been his plan, because on the first pitch, he swung easily but was way late. He looked embarrassed, but I knew what had gone wrong. Elgin had been studying the coach’s pitching for half an hour and had his speed down, but the coach threw harder to Elgin. He was ready for the next pitch and lashed a screamer so hard at Barry Krass’s feet that all he could do was skip out of the way. I heard low whistles of approval from the crowd and wanted to see Elgin hit one over the fence. Just one. One more than Krass.
Listen to yourself! I thought. Now who’s jealous and competitive?
Elgin was fooled on a couple more pitches, missing one and fouling one off. But then on ten straight he drove line drives into center and right. On the second to last pitch he bounced one over the left field fence. I wondered if he had done it on purpose, to show that he could hit as far as Krass but to the opposite field.
“Exactly,” he told me later.
“Are you serious?”
He nodded. “I’m glad you noticed.”
I smiled. “You little scoundrel.”
“Tell me you didn’t love it, Momma.”
“I did. That Krass boy sure seems nice, though.”
“Oh, he’s a great kid. We have a good team even without me. We’ve got trouble, though. Last year’s left fielder. His dad’s not happy. He hit ninth all l
ast year anyway, but this year he won’t play much.”
“Because of you.”
“Right.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Momma, it doesn’t have to be that big of a deal, does it?”
“You don’t need that kind of pressure.”
“It’s no pressure. I run faster, throw harder and farther, and I hit better from either side of the plate.”
“So what’s his problem?”
“His dad said something to Mr. Rollins about a little kid pushing a fifteen-year-old out of the lineup. Coach told him no decision had been made yet, and that he was sure both of us would see a lot of playing time.”
“That didn’t satisfy him?”
“He said he was going to take it to the board.”
“Oh, great.”
“I’m not going to worry about it, Momma. What can they do? They won’t let me play with kids my age, so I tried out and made this team. If I’m the best left fielder, that’s where I should play, right?”
I shrugged.
“Am I wrong, Momma?”
“Course not. But we’re lookin at it from our own point of view. How would you feel if you were that boy?”
“Like I got my butt whipped by a kid.”
“Elgin!”
“Well—”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“That’s how I would feel, and I’d start working on my game till I won my job back, or some job anyway.”
“Don’t be getting conceited on me.”
“I’m not! You asked me and I told you.”
“I don’t mind tellin you, young man, that if the shoe was on the other foot, I wouldn’t like it one bit.”
In his first game of the season, Elgin batted seventh behind Barry Krass. The Tigers won 7–1. Krass was oh-for-two with a walk, a strikeout, and a groundout. Elgin was two-for-three with a double to right center, a single to left, and a deep fly to left. He stole a base, was caught stealing once, and caught everything that came his way. After the game, I saw the father of last year’s left fielder standing toe to toe with Coach Rollins.
“Say what you want, Maury, but you’re gonna find a place for my kid, or—”
“Ralph, he pinch-hit in the last inning and struck out!”
“His timing is off cause he’s not gettin enough action!”
“Where am I supposed to put him? You still think he’s better than my new left fielder?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just sayin he’s a veteran with a lot of experience and he ought to be starting.”
“When he beats somebody out or somebody gets hurt, I’ll put him in, but until then, I’ll coach and you watch, okay?”
“You haven’t heard the end of this, Maury.”
Elgin was still excited as we walked to the bus. When I took a left instead of a right, he stopped and looked at me.
“What’re you doing?”
“I thought you deserved a cheeseburger for each of your hits today.”
“Really? We can afford it?”
“I put a little aside for this.”
“Yeah!”
Kids in various uniforms sat with their friends and families in the fast-food place.
“I can’t do this every game,” I whispered.
“I know, Momma. I can hardly believe we’re doing it now.”
“I know it’s been hard on you, El. We’ve never had much.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. I wish you could have a bat bag and your own bat again, a newer glove, wristbands, all that.”
“I wish I could go to a movie once in a while.”
“That we really can’t afford. Honestly, Elgin, I don’t know how suburban people do it. Those kids are always at movies, buy the latest CDs, wear expensive gym shoes, and dress in style.”
Elgin sat staring out the window after he had finished eating. There were long lines at the cash register and people looking for places to sit, but it was as if he didn’t want to leave.
“Those kids don’t work, though, Ma, and they aren’t very good ballplayers. Even the ones who are in shape, and there aren’t many, don’t know not to throw behind the runner. They never take the extra base, they throw too many times on a rundown, or they run a man to the next base instead of back to his old one.”
“You don’t mind not havin all that stuff then?”
“Sometimes. I don’t like people knowing where we live, and my baseball shoes are too small. My clothes never look like much, so I’m glad I’ve got a uniform. On game days I look like everyone else.”
“But how about when kids play their music or talk about the movies they’ve seen?”
He nodded. “Sometimes I wish I could see what everybody else is seeing, but I know we can’t afford it.”
That hurt. How I wished I could afford whatever this child needed and wanted!
Elgin slid to the end of the booth but stopped before he stood to leave. “There’s something I want more than any of that stuff, though.”
“What’s that?”
“A letter from Daddy.”
13
By the end of the regular season, when it came time to choose the all-star team, I had had a great year. I wasn’t the best player or even the best hitter on my team. But my average was almost five hundred, fourth among all players and second on the Tigers only to the leading hitter in the league.
I had played every inning of every game and had made just two errors, one on a fly ball and one on an overthrow of home from in front of the foul pole. Though it was an error, it was the play of the game; nobody believed a kid my age could throw a ball that far.
Elgin had moved up in the batting order to second and finally to lead off, where he had a great on-base percentage. He hardly ever struck out, and it seemed to me that every time I turned around, Elgin was spraying a single or double into the gap. He faced only a few left-handed pitchers, but when he did he was nine-for-twelve from the right side of the plate.
Barry Krass had shown well for his age. He wound up hitting in the eighth spot in the lineup, starting at second base, and hitting just over .250. He did not make the all-star team.
Best of all, especially to me, there had been little trouble. Ralph had taken his son out of the program because the league refused to force Coach Rollins to start him, and they wouldn’t put him on another team either. And no one was saying that Elgin hit the ball so hard that their sons were in danger. He wasn’t hitting home runs left and right the way he would have in the younger league. And he wasn’t pitching, so no one was making any noise about that.
After my great throw to the plate, even though it was an error, Coach took me behind the stands and watched me pitch.
“Your dad didn’t teach you much in the way of mechanics, did he?” he said.
“No, sir. He wasn’t a pitcher.”
“Well, you’re not either, but you could be next year. There’s a pitching instructional book at the library.”
I named it.
“Get it.”
The next time Coach Rollins watched me pitch, he said, “Difference between night and day, kid. You’re gonna pitch for me some next year.”
“And play short some, I hope.”
“No question. For now, do your best in the all-star tournament. You should have a lot of fun and get some good experience.”
Experience was an understatement.
“What I love most about this team is the uniform,” Elgin told me.
He savored everything from stirrups to sanitary hose to colored-sleeve undershirt. He padded out in stocking feet to show me. He looked like a major leaguer, all red and gray and white from head to toe.
“I only wish I could afford to get you new shoes,” I said.
“That’s all right. Hardly anybody else has new ones either.”
Elgin’s teammates were all city kids, most barely able to afford the registration fees. When they traveled to the suburbs, they faced teams that had the latest equipment,
bat bags, gloves, wristbands, batting gloves, glove pads, even weighted rings for swinging a heavy bat in the on-deck circle. Even more impressive, they had warm-up jackets made of brightly colored nylon that made them look professional. To me, Elgin and his teammates looked intimidated when the other teams ran in a line onto the field, circling the home run fence, displaying all their fancy stuff, doing exercises, singing, and chanting. One team chanted, echoing their leader:
“Everywhere we go… (echo) People want to know… (echo) Who we are… (echo) Where we come from… (echo) So we tell them… (echo) Who we are… (echo)!” Then, in unison, “We are Granger! Mighty, mighty Granger!”
They also practiced a chant for when they got runners on base. They would say of the hitter, “Billy is a friend of mine, he can stroke it down the line. Stroke-it-down-the-line, stroke-it-down-the-line!”
In the event of a rally, they’d practice, “Rip, a-rip-city, rip-a-rip-a-rip-city, come on now, rip!”
I felt self-conscious, and not in a good way. Our team didn’t look like more than a bunch of guys with pretty uniforms and old gloves and shoes. A couple of them even had high-top black tennies, which made the Granger guys laugh. We didn’t have any chants or routines.
Coach called us around him before infield practice.
“Listen up. Some of you guys are finished already. I can see it in your eyes. Are these kids older than you?”
“No!”
“Yes!” I called out, and everyone laughed.
“Okay,” Rollins said, “but they’re not older than the rest of us! And you know what? All that stuff, the chants, the equipment, none of it wins ball games, does it?”
No one responded.
“Well, does it?”
The players shook their heads.
“I don’t know if you guys are scared or just jealous. You want cool stuff or you want to win?”
“We want to win!”
“Then let’s show em how a real team plays ball! Take the field!”
The Youngest Hero Page 8
