by David Aretha
“Don’t worry about it,” I told Rupa. “We’re gonna win this game for you.”
By the fourth inning, the teenagers at the party had learned of the drama on the diamond. David was facing Goliath in the championship game, and he was trailing only 1-0. At least a dozen of them came over to watch—and root for Morey’s Funeral Home.
With one out in the top of the fourth, Jackson made the defensive play of the game. With a man on third, Gary yielded a high fly to short center. Jackson caught the ball. Then, as the runner tagged and ran home, he rifled a perfect throw to the plate. The runner avoided Gus’s tag and then reached back to touch the plate. “Safe!” the ump exclaimed.
It looked like we were down 2-0, but Coach Quinn ran onto the field. “No, no, no!” Coach insisted. “The runner cannot touch the plate with his hand.” He turned to Coach Reynolds. “It’s in the rules.”
“The coach is right,” the umpire said. “The batter’s out!”
“Woo-hoo!” we screamed.
Coach Quinn had beaten Coach Reynolds at his own game—a rulebook technicality. “Way to go, Coach!” Riley exclaimed.
We didn’t score in the bottom of the fourth, but Gus shut down their hitters in the fifth. Incredibly, we tied the game at 1-1 in the bottom of the inning—thanks to Gary. He ripped a single, stole second, and went to third on a wild pitch. When Gus grounded to short, Gary came home easily.
“Yeah!” he yelled as he high-fived each of us with a vengeance. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”
The score remained 1-1 in the top of the sixth—the last scheduled inning. More partiers, and others from the neighborhood, came to see if history would be made. My mom and Mrs. Kovner sat anxiously in the bleachers. Someone cranked the music higher. “I’ll Stand by You,” by the Pretenders, inspired us to stay strong.
Jeffrey took the mound. “We need your A game, Jeff,” Coach said. Unfortunately, in the biggest moment of his life—on the day before he left for Kansas—Jeffrey couldn’t get it done. Of the first five hitters he faced, he struck out two but walked three. Jeffrey then faced Sludge with the bases loaded…and he walked him on four pitches. The next hitter ended the inning with a pop-out to Gary, but the damage had been done. We trailed 2-1.
Jeffrey walked off the field with his head down and sat on the end of the bench. He buried his face in his hands, and soon I saw tears roll down his fingers. Coach sat down next to him.
“It’s okay, Jeff,” Coach said.
“I let everybody down,” Jeffrey cried. “Everybody….”
“No, no,” his dad said. He wrapped his son in his arms, and Jeffrey cried like a baby. “It’s not you,” his dad said. “It’s not you…. Come here.”
Coach led his son away. In the distance, he and Jeffrey’s mom tried to comfort him. “I think,” my dad said to me, “that this is about more than just baseball.”
I barely noticed that the bottom of the sixth had begun. Jackson, always unpredictable, surprised everybody with a bunt. It was a beauty, and their third base man had no chance at throwing out Jackson. “He’s the tying run, guys,” Gary announced. “We can tie this thing!”
Or so we thought. Coach Reynolds brought in the Incredible Hulse to pitch. Our jaws dropped to the ground as he fired smoke into Sludge’s mitt.
“Oh…my god,” Tashia said.
“You can’t hit what you can’t see,” Riley said.
“Okay, Evan,” my dad said. “You’re up.”
The little guy lugged his bat to the plate. Three pitches later, he lugged it back to the bench. Tashia was next. She swung and missed on the first two pitches, but the second one got past the catcher, allowing Jackson to go to second. On the next pitch, she swung and missed. Two outs.
It was all up to the last man in the order, Rupa. I expected he’d be a quivering mess when he walked to the plate. But a calm had come over him. I could see the concentration on his face, like when he beat me at Connect Four.
“The best pitcher in the league against the worst hitter in the world,” I could hear Sludge say. “I wonder how this is gonna turn out.”
On the next pitch, Rupa lined a hard foul to the right side. “Yeah!” we cried. “Way to get a piece of it!”
For the next pitch, Sludge set up way inside. “You want a shot at glory…,” he told Rupa before the next pitch drilled him in the arm, “…but you’re not going to get it.”
Rupa writhed in pain on the ground as Coach came to attend to him. Amid sympathy applause, he got up and trotted to first.
“Blue,” Coach told the umpire while pointing to Sludge, “if this kid opens his mouth once more, I want him out of this game.”
With two outs and men on first and second, a red-eyed Jeffrey Quinn stepped to the plate. “Did you notice,” my dad told me, “that they’re playing songs for us.” I hadn’t realized it, but the kids at the party had been selecting inspirational songs: “The Climb” by Miley Cyrus, “Dream On” by Aerosmith, and now “With a Little Luck” by Paul McCartney & Wings.
Jeffrey swung and missed on the first pitch, then took two balls. Hulse reared back and fired a strike on the corner, making the count 2-2. By this point, everyone was on their feet. Jeffrey swung and fouled one back.
“Too much tension,” Dad said. Gary was in the on-deck circle biting his knuckles. My mom was clinging to Mrs. Kovner’s arm. Swing and another foul. Jeffrey’s mom knelt by herself on the grass, her hands clenched. My knees were quivering, and I felt my heart racing.
What happened next seemed to play out in slow motion—like a magical dream. Jeffrey swung and swatted a short fly ball to right field. “There is no end to what we can do together,” McCartney sang. “There is no end.” The ball hooked toward the line but landed fair. Jeffrey scored on the single to tie the score, and Rupa headed for third.
But he didn’t stop.
Coach Majus, the old man who had been that close to achieving his big-league dream so many years ago, waved his arm frantically like a windmill. “He’s gonna wave him in!” Gary screamed. Their second baseman held the ball, not knowing what was going on. “Throw it home!” Coach Reynolds shrieked, his eyes bulging. “Throw it home!”
Rupa cut the corner perfectly at third and turned on the afterburners. He blazed toward home plate, his eyes afire. Like the legendary Enos Slaughter, Rupa was attempting his own Mad Dash!
Sludge caught the ball on one bounce and blocked Rupa’s path to the plate. But Rupa threw it into overdrive and freight-trained into his nemesis. He knocked Sludge on his butt and busted the ball out of his glove. Rupa also fell to the ground. But as Sludge crawled and scrambled for the ball, Rupa got up and stepped on the plate.
Coach Reynolds ran at the umpire like a maniac. “The run doesn’t count!” he screamed to the ump in a knowing lie. “Run doesn’t count! Runner interference!” But the young ump was not intimidated. “The catcher was blocking the plate,” the ump pronounced. “Runner is safe. Game over!”
“Yeahhhhh!!!!!” we screamed, jumping to the heavens. I had told Rupa we would win it for him, but he had won it for us! We mobbed Rupa at home plate while our parents and fans went wild. We had achieved the impossible dream: We had beaten the Bankees!
Like Hank Aaron’s mom, Mrs. Kovner ran onto the field and hugged and hugged and hugged her son. Jeffrey, the other hero, grinned from ear to ear while bear-hugging his dad. Then, Coach Quinn picked up Rupa by the waist and hoisted him like a championship trophy. “You did it, Rupa!” Coach exclaimed, shaking him skyward. “You did it!”
Parents on both sides applauded and cheered. Rupa, pumping his fists in well-deserved pride, lit up the sky with his beaming smile.
During the trophy presentation, we all got to bask in the spotlight. Yet on this magical night, one more miracle remained: Dad pulled out his wallet. Making good on his promise, he treated all the kids to Farrell’s ice cream. The guys and I gathered around The Zoo for one last team photo. It was, and probably will be, the greatest d
ay of my life.
That night, I didn’t get to bed until after 12. Mom and Dad said goodnight and then turned off the lights.
“Dad,” I asked before he left the room, “why do you think Mr. Majus waved home Rupa on a single?”
“Well,” Dad said, “he probably thought that with two outs, it was worth the gamble—especially with a tough pitcher on the mound.”
I nodded.
“Then again,” he added, “maybe he thought that everyone deserves a chance to be a hero.”
Dad left, and I picked up my bear, who looked back at me with that goofy smile. He was holding an envelope. I opened it and read the short note:
We always believe in you.
—Chewy
Thank you for reading The Mad Dash
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Copyright
Copyright © 2017 by Twisted Key Publishing, LLC
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First Printing: 2017
ISBN 978-1-947744-10-3
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Dedication
To all the young ballplayers who love the game as much as I do.
