The Youngest Hero

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Mr. Villagrande hollered an instruction to the batting practice pitcher, a real tall guy in his late twenties who threw hard and straight. The coach turned back and looked at me with dark eyes.

  “This is not the stands, is it, Señor Woodell?”

  My face burned. “No, sir.”

  “Let us see how well we can follow instructions and respect a man’s time and responsibilities; then we will see what kind of a ballplayer we are. Okay?”

  I felt terrible. I still wondered about starting cold, but I sure wasn’t about to ask again.

  “At about ten to noon, take a slow jog around the field. Don’t wear yourself out in this heat.”

  “Where should I leave my stuff?”

  I knew as soon as it was out of my mouth that my just-one-more-question had angered the man. Villagrande’s eyes narrowed. He tilted his head and sighed. “Anyone who qualifies for this team takes care of certain things himself.”

  I wanted to apologize, but I didn’t want to open my mouth again. I trudged high in the stands, where I sweat in the sun until almost noon. Even from up there, the players looked huge. Throws were crisp. No one was criticized for an error, but they were if they got out of position or threw to the wrong base. Hector Villagrande’s rage was hottest for anyone who didn’t hustle.

  “We have ballplayers,” he said, “standing in line for your jobs!”

  When the time came, I hurried down and dropped my bat and glove next to the first-base dugout. As I jogged slowly around the field, outside the fence, I watched the last few hitters take batting practice.

  They crashed hard liners and long fly balls all over the field against the big right-hander, who was throwing harder now. I hoped to face him. There was not a pitcher I feared, and I daydreamed about standing in against a major leaguer.

  Shortstop and second base were played by twins who looked as smooth and strong as any double-play combination I had ever seen, even on television. I wondered where I might play. Maybe in the outfield.

  Hector called his boys in to the third-base dugout. I got my equipment and walked across the diamond to hear. When he noticed me he stopped and spoke quietly. “Señor Woodell, if you would excuse us a moment, please.”

  When will I learn? I wondered, humiliated as I stepped out of earshot. I might enjoy this team if I could quit irritating Mr. Villagrande.

  The boys filed out and took a hard lap around the field. As they headed toward their cars, a couple of them approached me, which drew a small crowd.

  “You’re the rookie we’re supposed to worry about?” one said.

  “I guess,” I said, smiling.

  “What position?”

  “I can play any position.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yup.”

  “What’s your batting average?”

  I shrugged. “Haven’t found anybody who can get me out yet.”

  “You’re batting a thousand?”

  “No! But nobody can get me out regularly. Not even adults.”

  “Whoa! Excuse us!”

  I knew they were being sarcastic.

  “Well, we’d stay and watch you take our jobs, but—”

  “Yeah, all our jobs! He can play every position!”

  “—we were told we couldn’t. Guess you’d make us feel bad, or we’d make you nervous.”

  “You wouldn’t. I do better with more people watching.”

  “Oh, he does better with more people! Let’s stay!”

  “Coach said no. We gotta go. How old are you, kid?”

  “Twelve.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I am!”

  “Yeah, okay. Well, good luck.”

  I said thank you, but the players laughed as they left.

  “Mr. Woodell,” Hector said, ‘what time is it?”

  “I don’t have a watch, sir.”

  “It remains your responsibility to be on time. You are four minutes late.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Coach Michaels will time you around the bases. One chance and one chance only.”

  I took off with the command from the assistant coach. I slid in the dust around each base, but I felt fast. Coach Michaels raised his eyebrows and showed the watch to Hector, who pursed his lips.

  “Do you own metal cleats?”

  “If I did, I would’ve brought them.”

  Hector Villagrande glared at me. “Was that supposed to be an answer, or are you a smart aleck?”

  “No, sir. I was just saying that if—”

  “Do you own metal cleats, yes or no?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thank you. I am curious to know how fast you would be with real baseball shoes.”

  “Where would I rank on your team?”

  “Fourth or fifth,” he admitted.

  “And I’m not even thirteen yet,” I said, beaming.

  “Run two more times, but this time—”

  “You said just one chance.”

  The coach squinted. “Listen to me. Here is what I want to say to you. If something sounds not like something I already said to you, you do the last thing I say, okay? You don’t argue, you don’t ask, you don’t explain, okay? You just do.”

  “Okay,” I muttered, looking at the ground.

  “And with a good attitude,” Hector added. “Now I want you to run around the bases two more times, as hard as you can, without stopping, and not for time. I will watch you for speed, endurance, and technique. Go!”

  I sped twice around the bases as fast as I could, hitting each sack with my inside foot. It did not surprise me to see that Coach Michaels had a watch running.

  “Very impressive,” Hector announced. “Are you not winded?”

  I shrugged. “A little. But I could run it again if you wanted.”

  “I will let you know.”

  Coach Michaels swore, just above a whisper. “Man, any one of our kids would be on the ground suckin air right now! He got faster as he went and he could go again!”

  I smiled.

  “Want to do some hitting?” Hector said.

  I ran for my bat.

  “You are a switch-hitter, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Bat righty against the righty, anyway.”

  The tall pitcher hurried to the mound with a huge plastic bucket of balls.

  “Uh, sir, do you have a screen to protect the pitcher?”

  Hector stepped close to me. “You worry about getting your wood bat around on Neil’s fast ball, and I’ll worry about his safety, okay?”

  “Okay, but I’ve hit two adult pitchers, and I—”

  “Were they throwing from this distance?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then their pitches didn’t have time to do what Neil’s pitches have time to do.”

  I shrugged. Coach Michaels pulled on the catching gear. Hector moved to the third-base coaching box, but rather than giving signs, he merely hollered out what he wanted me to do.

  Lucky for me, even though Neil was accurate, he was not nearly as strong or powerful or fast or intimidating as Raleigh Lincoln Sr. And he certainly was no match for the pitching machine. The pitches looked fat and inviting, and the feel of the wood bat made me as comfortable at the plate as I’d ever been.

  39

  I’m not one for hunches, but somehow I knew the way I felt that morning had as much to do with dread as any illness. I padded around the flat in my robe and slippers, not eating and feeling faint by noon. I finally talked myself into a shower, a sandwich, and a cup of coffee, then sat reading an old magazine Mr. Bravura had saved me from the lobby.

  I admired Elgin’s devotion, his brain, and his abilities, but they were also taking him from me. I was excited at his progress and intrigued by his confidence, but I didn’t like his new cock-sureness. It didn’t wear any better on him than it does on anyone, yet Elgin’s certainty was based on his talent. How could I fault him when he was so obsessed, so unwilling to compromise? I wasn’t questioning his co
nfidence or his methods. It was his expression of it.

  Kids his age love to talk about themselves, to boast, to see where they fit in. He could not brag much on his daddy, except to say what he used to be and might have been. So what could make Elgin half as proud as what he had done with his skill? He had done this himself. Reading, studying, watching, trying, doing, he had turned himself into a hitter and fielder and thrower far beyond his years.

  I couldn’t shake my depression. I went down to get my mail. “Ah, lovely Mrs. Woodell,” the greasy Mr. Bravura said as I approached. “You have something we rarely get here.” He pulled a few pieces of mail from my pigeonhole, including a Federal Express envelope. “And from an unpleasant place.”

  “What time did you sign for this?” I asked coldly, noticing the return address: the Alabama Department of Corrections.

  “This morning,” he said. “I would have run it up to you myself, had I not been swamped.”

  “I would have appreciated that,” I said, turning.

  “No need for a tip,” Ricardo said softly.

  I spun to face him.

  “Just kidding,” he sang out. “Next time I will personally deliver it.”

  The first two pitches were high and outside, and the third was tight at the letters. I stepped but didn’t move my bat on any of them.

  “Reachable?” Hector Villagrande asked Coach Michaels from the third-base coaching area. The catcher shrugged and nodded.

  Hector moved up the line toward me. “You have a good eye, but this is batting practice. I—”

  “Oh, I thought it was a tryout. If you want me to hit like I have two strikes, I will.”

  Hector nodded, not smiling. “That is what I want you to do.”

  I took a low, inside pitch right down the line at Hector, who skipped out of the way. I grinned. “Sorry.”

  “Did you do that on purpose?”

  “Not really. I was trying to hit it fair.”

  “You can come that close to where you want to hit it?”

  “Even on an outside pitch.”

  Hector thrust out his chin, as if thinking. “Neil, move the ball around. Elgin, I will tell you where to try to hit each pitch. No matter where it is pitched, hit this to center field!”

  The ball split the plate. I barely swung, lofting a soft liner over second.

  A very hard, low pitch off the outside corner. “Same spot!” Hector shouted.

  I stepped farther, bent my left knee, and got around quicker. I pulled the ball over Neil’s head. I could read nothing on Hector’s face. Neil looked impressed, maybe a little embarrassed. He threw the same pitch, a bit harder.

  “Left field,” Hector said as it left Neil’s hand.

  It had been a chore to hit a low outside pitch to center, but to pull one to left, one with more on it—

  I did it. I was pumped. I loved this game.

  Throw me anything, tell me to hit it anywhere! I thought, and only the winding motion from the mound kept me from saying it out loud.

  “Right field!”

  The pitch was outside, just what I was waiting for: the chance to hit a pitch where it was thrown. I drove it on one hop to the fence.

  “Left field line!”

  I took a waist-high strike down the line, my hardest shot so far.

  “Now,” Hector said to Neil, then shouted to me, “hit this one out of here, wherever you can.”

  I revved up, but as Neil went into his motion, Hector’s saying “now” made me wonder. Was he calling for a certain pitch? I decided to take a chance. I would guess breaking ball. I still wanted to try to hit the ball out, but I wouldn’t allow myself to tense and set for a fastball.

  I could barely keep from grinning as Neil’s arm swept toward me and I saw the turn of the curve. The ball had good rotation, and though it appeared to be coming at my left shoulder, the pitch would get into the strike zone. Had I been thinking fastball all the way, I would have spun myself into the dirt trying to get at it.

  Was it possible Hector had had Neil throwing fastballs all during the previous batting practice and then on the first several pitches to me, just to set me up for this?

  I got out in front of the ball and under it too much. I sent a 275-foot towering fly ball to left, then stole a glance at Hector. The coach’s face had softened. Hector pointed at Neil, who nodded. The next pitch was a fastball, to the left of my rear end. Hector had not called out a field, and I fought the urge to back away, just like any hitter would. But if you do that, you wind up backing into those pitches and getting fanny bruises. I had done it more than once against the machine.

  The next pitch was at the back of my head. I didn’t like that. Follow your instinct to back away from that, and you can only hope the helmet does its job.

  I ducked and glared, first at Neil, then at Hector. Neither was smiling. The next pitch was at my feet. I danced to avoid it. I had hit pitches like that from the machine. How I hoped Neil would throw that same pitch again. How could I make him do it? I laughed aloud, as if to say that anyone could get out of the way of a pitch like that.

  Neil wound fast and quick-pitched me, a fastball in the same location and, if anything, lower. I took a chance, stepped and swung as if golfing. I ripped a shot at Hector, who had to dive to evade it. He came up dusting off his shirt and shorts.

  Neil came in under my chin with the next pitch, and I blasted it back up the middle on one hop. Neil somehow got a glove on it and, without winding up, fired it right back at me. I fought it off, fouling it back. And here came another pitch, right at me. I stepped back and lined it to Neil’s glove.

  Now I was scared. What if these guys didn’t let up? Could I outrun them? Would they both start throwing baseballs at me? Were they really trying to hurt me?

  Rules were out the window. I jumped around to the left-hand hitting side of the box and drilled the next pitch into the outfield. I fouled off a few more, swung and missed a few, and felt tears rising. I willed myself not to cry, and Hector began calling out fields again. I tried, not as successfully as before, to hit the balls where Hector said. But Neil’s control had left him. I swung at everything, in the dirt, over my head, behind me. I huffed and puffed and sweat, and I was mad. I wanted to fling my bat at the hulk on the mound. Oh, for a few good pitches!

  And with the thought came the pitches. I hit four towering fly balls into the outfield.

  “Routine fly outs,” Hector said.

  I tried hitting harder. I wanted to hit one out. That was a mistake. I was not a power hitter except against kids my age. I knew my long hits would come naturally with my normal swing. I hit a few shots, a few liners, and a lot of hard grounders. I fouled off a half dozen pitches and missed three more.

  “One more,” Hector said. “Give him a home run pitch, Neil.”

  For some reason, I didn’t suspect any deceit. They owed me a home run pitch. And here it came.

  I set the colorful, cardboard envelope on the kitchen table and avoided it like an intruder. It had to be from the chaplain, and it had to be bad news. I picked through my bills, a form from the personnel office, and a silly, no-occasion card from Lucas Harkness. What a nice friend he had become to Elgin.

  40

  My power did not reach three hundred feet. Otherwise, I might have hit the fat pitch over the center field fence. My choice now was to take off someone’s head. But whose? Neil seemed like a nice enough guy. He had only done what Hector told him to do. Hector was the target. And Hector had been warned. He said he was in charge of safety, and I figured that meant his own too.

  I did not want to hurt him and would have felt terrible if I had. I lashed Neil’s letter-high, inside fastball down the third baseline, and Hector’s eyes grew wide as he ducked.

  I didn’t smile. I didn’t even look at him. I could tell Hector was glaring at me, but I wanted to hit some more.

  “Are there any more balls in the bucket?” I said.

  Neil looked to Hector, who shrugged.

  “A hal
f dozen or so,” Neil said.

  “Bring em on!” I said.

  Hector nodded to Neil again. All seven pitches were fastballs on the inner half. I swung easily, driving each on a line into right field, almost into the same area. When the bucket was empty, I ran for my glove and waited for instructions. I had left Hector and Neil speechless.

  Coach Villagrande motioned to the balls in the outfield. “Fetch them and loosen up your arm by tossing them easily to Neil, please.”

  When I finished, I was hot and dripping, but I felt good. Surely, this strange coach had to be impressed. Could any of his regulars have done what I did?

  Neil stood at first base. Hector hit grounders to me at short. The first few were easy and right at me. I charged slow rollers, angled back on ones away from me. My throws to first were fast and true, though each took tremendous effort. I had never played on a field this big.

  Soon Hector was smashing liners and grounders at me harder than anyone had ever hit them in practice or a game. I enjoyed diving for them. A couple skipped off my glove. One bounced off my chest, causing me to grunt. On about fifty ground balls, I had three bad throws, two over Neil’s head and one that pulled him off the bag. Otherwise, I was flawless. I was exhausted, but I would have done it all day.

  Hector waved me in, and as Neil and Coach Michaels loaded the equipment into his car, I sat with the coach on the first row of the bleachers.

  “You are very young,” Hector began quietly.

  “Yes, sir, I know, but—”

  “You are very young and gifted and impressive, and—”

  “How did you like it when—”

  “Señor Woodell, I would like you to not speak until I am finished. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Yes or no is all I need. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to talk about what I saw today and a little about my team. First of all, I saw a young boy, big for his age, but not big for a high school team. You are a better-than-average fielder with a better-than-average arm, but I think your arm is at its limit from shortstop on a regulation field. In fact, were you to play for me, I would probably not risk putting you anywhere in the infield other than at second base.”