The Youngest Hero

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “I say, ‘Yes sir, I dare you.’ He laughs and says, ‘Okay, white bread, here it comes, and I mean you’re gonna get all of it.’ I could see in his eyes he was gonna do it.”

  “Did you or didn’t you?”

  “I did. I drove it right back at him. It was a hard shot too. I just about died. Before he snagged it in that wrong-handed glove, I was sure I’d hurt my third pitcher in a row. I swear I would have quit.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He did like this,” Elgin said, mimicking Lincoln’s double take. “You knew he had to have caught it on instinct because there wasn’t time to think. Then he went and got the pitching screen while all the parents laughed. While he was kicking it into place, he said, ‘You’re gonna see nothin but heat now.’

  “Momma, I just loved it. Zing, zing, zing, they came barreling in. Some were tight, some outside, some up, some down. He set me up, made me reach, jammed me, everything big leaguers do.”

  “How’d you do?” I asked him.

  Elgin sat back on the couch, grinning. “I hit him, Momma. I hit him pretty good. I swung and missed maybe six times, fouled off a bunch, took a few. I only popped up a couple. I hit at least five off that pitching screen, one that would have killed him. Two over the fence, both to right center. Lots of grounders.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said, ‘Folks, I’m not kiddin you. I’m throwing my best hard stuff. This is as fine a hitter as I’ve faced in a long time, and I mean of any age.’

  “Mr. Lincoln wiped his face and said, ‘One more pitch, boy. Hit this and we’ll make room for you on the city team.’ I knew he was kidding, but I sure wanted to hit that pitch.”

  “And—?”

  Elgin shook his head. “I don’t know what he put on it, but it was faster and had more movement. He busted it in on my hands and I just couldn’t get the bat on it. A few people clapped and cheered him. He came off the mound pointing at me. ‘Be clappin for him,’ he said. ‘We all will be one day.’ Later he told me he was going to tell Mr. Rollins not to let me play this year.”

  “What?”

  Elgin nodded. “He said the whole thing was a setup. They wanted Mr. Lincoln to pitch to me. He didn’t bring his glove on purpose because he wanted it to look like he’d just thought of it.”

  I sat shaking my head. “What are you supposed to do if they don’t let you play?”

  “Mr. Lincoln said there’s a high school summer team for sixteen- to eighteen-year-olds.”

  “Oh, Elgin, I don’t know!”

  “Momma, I need this!”

  “What did Mr. Rollins say?”

  “He said he’d be surprised if the league lets him keep me. But he also said, ‘Son, you’d better not get your hopes up about that high school team. It’s carrying fourteen all-stars right now, and there’s not one who would be willing to give up his spot.’ I asked him what am I supposed to do if I can’t play for him or the high school summer team. He said he didn’t know. He said lots of people would be happy to coach a kid like me, but he also said he couldn’t promise I’d be playing ball at all this summer.”

  36

  When word finally came that I could not play for Maury Rollins’s team anymore, I went to a last practice, threw a little, ran a little, said my good-byes, and heard my good-lucks. I would miss these guys. They didn’t know my secret, and I wasn’t going to tell them. Worse, they didn’t love or care about the game the way I did.

  Coach Rollins told me the way had been paved for me to try out for the summer high school traveling team. “Raleigh Lincoln Sr. put in a good word for you, and Hector Villagrande is looking forward to giving you a look.”

  “I’ll make it,” I said.

  I had been running, throwing, doing sit-ups and push-ups, practicing my fielding, and of course, hitting. I figured out how to adjust the machine to throw high, low, inside and outside, breaking balls from two directions. With each new setting I went through hours of not being able to even foul off a pitch, but slowly I caught on. Now I could hit nine or ten decent shots off the thing at its original setting, and two or three from each of the new ones for every basket of golf balls.

  Mr. Rollins told me, “They’re practicing at the old Lane Tech field Saturday morning at ten. Hector will give you a look at noon. It’s a long shot no matter what. Understand?”

  I just smiled.

  During the few days before my tryout, I worked out more, read more, saturated myself even more with baseball.

  I had never seen Elgin like this. Living with him had been like living with baseball history, but now his constant chatter and confidence were even getting to me. But I could hardly blame him. This was the break of a lifetime. Making this team would get his name in the papers, maybe even in Sports Illustrated.

  “I’d have to be the only kid on a high school team who’s not even in junior high yet, wouldn’t I, Momma?”

  “I guess.”

  “You know I would.”

  “I s’pose you would.”

  He was so hyper I wondered how he could sleep. But I didn’t hear him tossing or turning or getting up in the night. It must have been those grueling workouts. Sweat dripped off him, even in that cold, damp cellar, and I imagined his muscles maturing, growing, tightening. I just knew he would shine for Mr. Villagrande, and I was thrilled the tryout was on a Saturday.

  “I want to go with you,” I said. “I won’t say anything. I won’t even let on who I am.”

  “Momma, you’ll probably be the only woman there. They’ll figure it out.”

  “You don’t want me to come?”

  “It’s all right. The more people, the better I do.”

  “Elgin, what size is your bat?”

  “Thirty-two inches, twenty-three ounces. Why?”

  “Just wonderin.”

  “Is there any way I could get some metal spikes by Saturday?”

  I shook my head and closed my eyes. “I’ll tell you what, El: You make this team, and we’ll figure out a way to get you some metal spikes.”

  “Momma, how could I not make this team? I’m hoping to lead the team in hitting!”

  “I hope you do, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Friday was payday, and I was home a little early. Elgin was watching the end of the Cubs game.

  “Did you work out today?” I said.

  “Everything but hitting.”

  “Don’t wear yourself out before tomorrow.”

  “Momma, I’m in the best shape of my life.”

  “Still planning on doing some hitting?”

  “When the Cubs are over. Maybe for an hour before dinner.”

  When the Cubs won on a clutch hit, Elgin seemed to take it as a sign. “Everything’s gonna go right this weekend,” he said, grabbing his aluminum bat.

  As soon as he was gone to the basement I hurried out. Lucky’s Secondhand Shop was a little farther than I had remembered. As I had hoped, Lucky himself was there.

  “Mrs. Woodell!”

  “Mr. Harkness! I came to look at that bat.”

  “It may be a bigger bat than your son’s ever used,” Mr. Harkness said, “but it is very, very light for its length. You can see it bears the stamped name of a former Kansas City Royal who liked light bats. Elgin chokes up on this baby and he’ll be able to get it around. I’ve seen him play fastpitch, and he tells me about his exploits with the ball team.”

  “I’m sure he does,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe he used to be humble.”

  “He’s got nothing to be humble about, ma’am. Kid that age makes a team for older kids, well—”

  I told Mr. Harkness about the next day’s tryout. He whistled through his teeth. “Makes me wish I could give this bat to you at my cost.”

  “Which was?”

  “I could have paid thirty dollars for it.”

  “I heard on TV that bats like this, even for big leaguers, go for a little more than half what you’re saying.”

  “You’re of
fering me twenty?”

  I smiled. “No, sir, but I just found out you were lying about the thirty, didn’t I?”

  Lucas Harkness looked stricken. “I never said I paid thirty! I said I could have. But for a genuine big leaguer’s bat—”

  “I have twelve dollars,” I said. “And I’ll bet that would double your investment.”

  “Well, it’d be more like breaking even.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said, still smiling. “You telling me I couldn’t go to Kmart and find this same bat?”

  “No, and I’m telling you that honestly.”

  “But everything else you’ve said is dishonest?”

  The pained expression returned. “Now why do you want to say that?”

  “You’re the one who said you were telling me something honestly, as if the rest was just—”

  “I know, okay. You drive a hard bargain. Let me show you my original receipt.” He rummaged in a cardboard box behind the counter.

  “You have to prove to me that twelve dollars would make you only break even,” I said.

  “I said twelve would be more like breaking even. Closer to breaking even than doubling my investment. Here, see, I paid eight dollars for this bat.”

  The twinkle was still in his eye, but my financial mind was whirring. “I’ve finally caught you in a lie,” I said.

  “No, please. You didn’t. I don’t lie. I bend and twist and imply to get the best price I can, but don’t accuse me of that.”

  “My offer of twelve is four dollars more than what it would take for you to break even, right?”

  “Right,” he said carefully.

  “So I made you an offer that is just as close to your breaking even as it is to doubling your investment.”

  He thought for a moment. “You figured all that out just standing here?”

  I smiled at him.

  “I want to give you the bat.”

  “No way, Mr. Harkness. Twelve is a fair offer. Take it or leave it.”

  37

  I stood in against the pitching machine, hoping to break my record of ten solid hits for fifty-seven balls. I grabbed my old aluminum bat, the one that had been too heavy for me when I lived in Hattiesburg. I hit only five good drives then grabbed the lighter, fatter bat.

  I started by fouling off a half dozen pitches, then hit four line drives in a row. By the end of the first basket of balls with the aluminum bat, I had hit fourteen solid shots. I felt guilty, as if I had cheated. I would never completely give up using the fungo bat, but this was fun.

  When I finally trudged back upstairs, my mother seemed to have something on her mind. I told her how I had been able to adjust the machine to throw a variety of pitches. I said, “I wonder what would happen if I took that old piece of plastic railroad track, from the train that kid traded me, and stuck it between the wheels.”

  “What would that do?”

  “Seems like it would fit real tight between those wheels. It would jam them when the little ties came through, then release before the next tie. Some balls would just drop through, but other ones would have all different speeds and directions.”

  “You think of that yourself?”

  I nodded.

  “I have something else for you,” she said, smiling.

  “What, another bat?” I was teasing.

  Momma’s smile disappeared. “How’d you know?”

  “Oh, right! I’m sure you got me another bat.”

  “I did!”

  “C’mon, Mom!”

  “I did!”

  “Let’s see it.”

  She pulled it from behind the couch. For once, I was speechless. I could only shake my head as I hefted the new wood bat.

  “Where?” I managed finally.

  “Lucky’s,” she said.

  “He rip you off?”

  “Nope. He paid eight dollars for it. I paid him twelve.”

  “No way. He lied to you. If he paid eight, he would have sold it for sixteen.”

  “Hey, I’m a good bargainer.”

  “Not as good as he is. Did he show you what he paid for it?”

  She nodded.

  “He’s got a lot of phony receipts he can pull out from under the counter,” I said.

  “That scoundrel!”

  “Ah, he wouldn’t lie to you, Momma. He asks about you all the time.”

  I rummaged under my bed for the piece of plastic railroad track, then headed for the basement. I had to choke up about an inch to make the wood bat feel as light as my aluminum one, but what a wonderful feel! My dad had always told me I should switch to wood bats as soon as I could afford it, even if everyone else in my league was using aluminum.

  “It’ll cost you in your batting average,” my dad had told me, “because you can get hits off the handle of a metal bat that would break a wood bat. And you can figure a metal bat is gonna push the ball about twenty percent harder. But the sooner you get used to wood bats, the better.”

  I had been so young when my dad said that, I didn’t even know what a career was. I hadn’t even played in an organized league by then. Now, the advice sounded good. I would use the wood bat in my tryout the next day.

  It was late, but I wanted to try my experiment. I poured a basket of balls into the machine and started it up. I fed one end of the plastic track through the underside of the spinning wheels. The machine whined and groaned and nearly stopped. Then it seemed to heat up and struggle as the plastic was drawn through in a slow, herky-jerky motion. The contraption smelled of electricity. I counted sixteen pitches affected by the plastic. What those pitches did amazed me.

  Some hit the ceiling, some hit the floor, some shot out either side. But about five seemed to break three or four feet before banging into the wall for what would have been strikes.

  The machine slowed and strained, and then began to smoke. I tried to pull the strip out, but it was already halfway through and would go only in one direction. The machine nearly came to a stop, yet the motor kept grinding, emitting gray smoke.

  I yanked at the plastic from both ends, and now it wouldn’t go either way. By the time I turned off the switch, the smell sickened me. The switch clicked but the machine was still running. The cord! I yanked it and the machine slowly wound down.

  I found my tools and loosened a wheel so I could dig out the mangled strip of plastic. I quickly reassembled the machine, but when I plugged it in and flipped the switch there was only a low hum, heat, and that tiny column of smoke. I was sick. What did I know about fixing an electric motor?

  The last thing I wanted was worry about my pitching machine when I was supposed to be getting a good night’s sleep before the tryout. With a huge screwdriver I removed the whole motor, amazed at how heavy, and still hot, it was.

  Upstairs I told my mother the story. “I’m hoping Biker can fix this for me.”

  “What makes you think he knows anything about motors?”

  I shrugged. “He knows everything about everything.”

  * * *

  “How bad do you need this?” Luke Harkness asked me the next day. He plugged in the motor and flipped the switch.

  “Did I ruin it?” I said.

  “Smells like somethin’s melted in there. It’s froze up good. I got a friend who works on these things, but I could probably get you a rebuilt one for the same price, maybe better.”

  “How much?”

  “Thirty, forty bucks.”

  I scowled.

  “I could carry you for a while,” he said. “You could even work it off. Do odd jobs for me.”

  “I’d love that! Only thing is, I’m trying out for the high school summer league all-star traveling team this afternoon, and I don’t know when they practice and play and all that.”

  “We’ll work around it. See if you can give me a couple of hours a day.”

  “All right!”

  “Listen, just because you’re a good kid and you have a nice mom and I’m not payin you real money doesn’t mean I won’t expect you
to be here on time every day and work hard.”

  “You just wait and see.”

  “One more thing, buddy. You didn’t say anything about that bat.”

  “I love the bat! Thanks!”

  “I gave your mother a good deal on that. Didn’t do more than four bucks over breakin even.”

  I laughed. “Which worked out to a fifty percent profit.”

  Harkness smiled sheepishly. “You would be the kid of a numbers woman.”

  38

  My mother was under the weather Saturday morning, which was okay with me. I had wanted to go alone anyway and didn’t know how to tell her.

  I felt conspicuous at the dusty practice field across the street from Lane Tech. A dozen of the fourteen all-stars showed up, and they all had metal cleats, of course.

  The distances were major-league—the mound sixty feet, six inches from the plate, the bases ninety feet apart. A strange-shaped outfield fence was three hundred feet all the way around, about as far as I had ever hit a ball.

  I introduced myself to the coach, a stocky Mexican who wore a straw fedora with a black band, nice loafers, and a pullover shirt and shorts. He had a neatly trimmed mustache. He asked me to sit in the stands and watch until noon, when I would get my tryout. His accent was thick.

  “Could I sit in the dugout?” I said.

  He seemed to study me. “In the stands, por favor.”

  “Will I be facing you or one of your best pitchers?” I said.

  Again, Mr. Villagrande hesitated. “I will decide when I decide. In the stands, please.”

  “I brought a wood bat. I hope that’s okay.”

  Villagrande looked at me and then back to the field.

  “I mean, I can hit with either, but I’d like to get used to wood. My dad told me that. He was a ballplayer. Almost made the majors with the Pirates.”

  The coach turned his back on me.

  “Um, do you think someone could warm me up a little before noon, so I don’t have to start cold?”