by Mike Lupica
So he never even touched the ball as it rolled under his glove, through his legs, and toward Cody in right field as the No. 3 hitter for Orlando crossed home plate with the run that gave his team Game 1.
24
HUTCH DIDN’T MOVE AFTER THE GUY CROSSED THE PLATE.
He had made errors before; every kid his age made errors. Just never like this.
He had never lost a game all by himself like this.
They called it a walk-off home run when one swing ended a game in the bottom of the ninth. What did you call this—a walk-off E-4?
It was the biggest game he had ever played in his life, and it had ended on a nothing ball like that, going right through the wickets the way that ball had gone through Bill Buckner’s legs in the World Series in 1986 against the Mets.
Now Hutch was Buckner, frozen in place between first and second at Roger Dean as the Orlando kids celebrated at home plate. He looked around at his teammates. Pedro Mota was finally walking off the mound, trying his best to avoid the celebration. Brett was already in the dugout, taking off his catcher’s equipment so he wouldn’t have to wear it on the long walk to the Cardinals’ clubhouse out in right field.
Mr. Cullen just sat by himself at the end of the bench, staring out at home plate, watching the Orlando kids pound on each other like the series was already over.
Hutch didn’t even want to look into the stands where his parents had been sitting with the Hesters, didn’t even want to make eye contact with his dad.
Instead he just put his head down, staying right where he was, kneeling now in the soft infield dirt that was almost reddish in color, like a clay tennis court. That was where he was when he heard Cody’s voice behind him, felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder.
“C’mon,” Cody said. “Let’s bounce.”
Hutch still didn’t move.
“Codes,” he said, “I make that play in my sleep.”
“I saw the whole thing,” Cody said. “I’m a second baseman, right? I saw how the ball stayed down on you.”
“Now we’re down a game, all because of me.”
“Down but not out,” Cody said. “So get up.”
When Hutch still didn’t move, Cody grabbed his arm and pulled him up and then the two of them were walking back toward right field together. Like always. Like they were walking something off. When they were nearly to the open gate in the outfield fence, a guy in a Sun Sports blazer who looked young enough to be one of their teammates got in front of them. He had a microphone in his hand and a cameraman with him.
All Hutch had been thinking about was how he’d let his team down. He’d forgotten, for the moment, that the game had actually been televised.
“Tim Fox,” the guy in the blazer said to Hutch. “Sun Sports.”
“I can see that,” Hutch said.
“Ask you a couple of questions?”
Cody leaned in and whispered, “You’re allowed to say no.”
Hutch turned to Cody. “I let them talk to me on TV when I hit that home run.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Cody said.
“Yeah, I do,” Hutch said. “I’m captain of the team.” He turned back to Tim Fox of Sun Sports and said, “Go ahead.”
“How does it feel to lose Game One on a play like that?” Tim Fox said.
Hutch said, “I feel bad any time I make an error. I just feel worse tonight because I let my team down on such a bonehead play.”
“What happened?” Tim Fox said. “When it came off the bat, it looked like you guys were headed for extra innings.”
“I forgot the first thing my dad ever taught me in baseball,” Hutch said. “To put my glove down.”
Tim Fox thanked him and he and his cameraman ran toward the Orlando side of the field, done with the losers now. Hutch and Cody kept walking, past the thick yellow foul pole that had Metro PCS written on it, the letters running from top to bottom, through the gate, toward the clubhouse.
All season long Hutch had told himself he was still a shortstop, that nothing had changed, that he really wasn’t a second baseman.
Well, tonight he’d proved it.
He wasn’t a second baseman.
Mr. Cullen gave them a quick talk when they were back inside the clubhouse, reminding them of something he told them a lot, that the last play was never the only one that decided a game in sports, win or lose.
Even if a guy hit a grand slam in the last inning, he said, a lot of other things had to happen to get those bases loaded.
He wasn’t talking to the team now and they all knew it. He was talking to Hutch, obviously under the impression that anything he said in here was going to make Hutch feel better.
As if anything anybody said was going to make him feel better between now and the start of Game 2, which felt about a hundred years away.
“I’m a Mets fan,” Mr. Cullen said, grinning, trying as hard as he could to lighten the mood. “All you Yankee fans on our team know that. And Mets fans never forget Bill Buckner letting the ball roll through his legs in the ’86 Series. But if you’ve ever seen the end of that game on one of those classics shows, you know how many other things had to go wrong for the Red Sox before Mookie Wilson dribbed that ball down the line.”
Hutch wondered where he was going with this, thinking: All I want to do is go home.
“But before we go, I want to tell you about Game One of that Series, which only I remember,” Mr. C said. “The Red Sox won that game. The score was 1–0. And you know how they got their run? On an error by the Mets second baseman, Tim Teufel.”
Boy, Hutch thought, I feel so much better already.
“The Mets didn’t let one play cost them their World Series, and we’re not going to let one play cost us ours,” Mr. Cullen said.
Then he told them to get their stuff together and start heading for the bus, it was time to call it a night.
Before long, Hutch and Cody were the only two players left in the clubhouse, in front of the last two lockers next to Tony La Russa’s office.
The door opened and they saw Mr. C standing there, hands on hips.
“When I said ‘start heading for the bus,’” he said, “what did you two hear me saying?”
Mr. C ran ahead of them, saying he was going to check the dugout one last time, make sure nobody had left anything. Hutch and Cody walked back through the gate in right, back across the outfield grass toward home. It was the same field it had been a few hours ago. Same dimensions: 400 to center, 325 down the lines.
It just looked different now.
When they got to the infield, Hutch said, “Maybe I should just dig myself a hole right here.”
“Awesome idea,” Cody said. “That way you could do what you want to do, and feel even lower than dirt.”
“Codes,” Hutch said, “you’ve played with me pretty much our whole lives, right?”
“Longer.”
“You ever see me do anything like that in a big spot?”
“No.”
“So why did I have to do it tonight of all nights?”
Cody stopped near the pitcher’s mound. They were facing the dugout, where Mr. Cullen had come up with somebody’s bat, and a batting helmet. They heard him saying, “Like picking up after my own kids.”
In a quiet voice, so Mr. Cullen wouldn’t hear, Cody said, “I’m gonna say this, and then we’re not talking about this the rest of the night and I’m gonna make sure you stop feeling so sorry for yourself: It happened to you because it happens to everybody sooner or later, even if they’ve spent their whole career feeling like Captain Hero. Because we watched that World Series where the Tigers pitchers kept making errors on the simplest plays in the world. Because one of your Yankee heroes, Mo Rivera, probably the greatest closer in the history of the game, threw a simple ball away in Game Seven one time and the Yankees blew a whole World Series in the bottom of the ninth.”
Mr. Cullen said, “Really, guys, we need for this night to be over now.”
“
Just one more sec, Coach,” Cody said to him. To Hutch he said, “What do you always tell me when I ask you why some game ended in some weird way?”
In a voice even quieter than Cody’s on the empty field, Hutch said, “I tell you that it’s baseball.”
“Baseball happened tonight,” Cody said. “And I promise, baseball will be better tomorrow.”
The bus was waiting for them near Gate B, everybody else on board by now, the engine running. Mr. Cullen got in ahead of them and took his usual seat in the first row. Darryl was alone in the seat behind him, slouched down, cap! pulled down low. Good, Hutch thought. He didn’t even want to make eye contact with Darryl right now, knowing that Darryl wouldn’t even have to say a word to him, he could probably lay him out with one mean look.
Hutch thought about going all the way to the last row, sitting back there alone, even though he knew Cody wouldn’t let him. But the last row was taken and so was the one in front of it, so Hutch grabbed the first empty window seat, on the ballpark side of the bus, took one last look at the lights of Roger Dean on this night, the night Mr. C said he wanted to be over now.
Not as much as I do, Hutch thought.
Cody sat down next to him, even though there were two empty seats across the aisle. In a voice just above a whisper he said, “I said all I’m going to say.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Codes,” Hutch said. “But good.”
“I’m just sayin’.”
The bus pulled away from the Stadium, went past the Florida Atlantic sign, took a right on Donald Ross, then the left that put them on 95 South. There were guys talking, but they were all keeping their voices down. Usually there would be a lot of noise on the bus, even after they lost a game, the guys using jokes and laughter and insults to start putting the loss behind them.
Not tonight.
Hutch kept staring out his window. Even when the Cardinals did lose, there was something about the ride home, having the guys all around you, that made the game hurt less. There was the feeling that it hadn’t just happened to one of them, it had happened to all of them. And it was just another thing that Hutch loved about sports, being a part of a team, being a part of something, that people who’d never been on a team couldn’t understand.
It just didn’t feel that way tonight.
Tonight it was as if it had only happened to him, as if the rest of the guys had won and he’d lost, all by himself.
It was then that Cody Hester stood up.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ve got a question.”
Cody’s voice was always loud. Tonight, because the bus was so quiet, quieter than it had ever been, his voice sounded much, much louder.
“It’s about the end of tonight’s contest,” Cody said.
“Cody,” Hutch said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Please don’t.”
Cody held up a hand to him. Like, not to worry.
“What do you think was worse?” Cody said. “Hutch’s error, or…Spider-Man 3?”
“Spidey,” Brett said. “No doubt. Too many bad guys.”
“Okay, then,” Cody said, “and moving right along.” Sounding like one of those peppy game show hosts. “Hutch’s error, or…that time we lost the Internet for a whole week because of the hurricane?”
“Not even close!” Hank yelled from the back. “No IM-ing for a whole week? It was like being in jail, dude.”
Suddenly, everybody was calling out suggestions on stuff they thought was worse than Hutch’s error. Hutch or the Marlins trading away all their good players the season after they’d won the World Series. Hutch or Season 6 of 24, which prompted Cody to say, “Hey, watch it now.”
Hutch’s error or the creepy guy with the octopus face in the last two Pirates movies.
And now the bus was filled with noise, and would be all the way to Santaluces. Cody didn’t sit back down, holding on to one of the overhead straps, until the ride was about to end and they were pulling into the school parking lot across from Field No. 1.
“See,” he said to Hutch. “It wasn’t the worst thing of all time. And if it does turn out to be the worst thing that ever happens to you, look on the bright side: It just means that the worst thing that is ever going to happen to you has already happened!”
“Codes,” Hutch said, “you are truly certifiable. And the best friend anybody has ever had in the history of the known universe.”
The bus doors opened and the Cardinals filtered out. Hutch and Cody stayed put, thinking they were the last two guys to leave. They weren’t.
Darryl was still in his seat.
Cody made a motion with his hand, like asking him if he wanted to go ahead of him down the steps, but Darryl slowly shook his head.
Once Cody was gone, it was just Hutch and Darryl on the bus, the driver having gotten up to open the luggage hatch.
Great, Hutch thought, he’s been waiting for me.
It wasn’t enough that Hutch had been beating himself up since the game had ended. Now it was Darryl’s turn to weigh in.
He still wasn’t making any move to get up, was still leaning back against his window, his bare feet up on the seat next to him.
“Hey,” he said.
“There’s nothing you can say about the play I haven’t been saying to myself,” Hutch said. “I messed up big-time.”
Darryl said, “Don’t want to talk about the play. Ugly as it was.”
“Thanks a lot,” Hutch said.
“I just want to tell you one thing: We’re still winnin’ this. You got it?”
“Yeah,” Hutch said.
“Don’t say it ’less you mean it.”
“Oh,” Hutch said, “don’t worry, I mean it.”
For the first time, Darryl extended his hand first to Hutch, in the form of a fist. Hutch gave him some back.
“Let’s do this,” Darryl said.
He didn’t wait for a reply, just got up, stretched like a cat, a very cool cat, and walked down the steps.
25
HUTCH WAS ON HIS BED IN HIS ROOM, LISTENING TO THE MARLINS-DODGERS game from Los Angeles, when he looked up and saw his dad standing in his doorway.
His dad never came up here at night when Hutch was listening to baseball on the radio. Hutch had never thought about it before, but it was as if this was his private place for Marlins games, the way the living room was for his dad.
Maybe without knowing it, Hutch had put up a force field of his own, just without the beer can.
“Hey,” his dad said.
“Hey.”
“Your mom asked me…” Carl Hutchinson began.
Even now, he had to be himself, not even act as if it had been his own idea to come up here.
“I get it, Dad.”
“She thought you might want to talk, or whatever.”
Tonight, Hutch thought. Tonight he wants to have another heart-to-heart talk. First he wants to do it when I get suspended, now when I feel even worse.
Yeah, Hutch thought, good times.
“Dad, I’m all talked out,” he said. “But thanks for asking.”
His dad stood there, as if waiting for Hutch to say something else. Or just tell him it was okay to go back downstairs and watch the game by himself, which was what Hutch was sure he really wanted to do.
“I played the game,” his dad said in a soft voice.
Hutch sighed, the sound louder than he meant. “I know you played, Dad,” he said. “Before the game, I was even looking through those scrapbooks Mom made for you. So I know you played, and I know how well you played, which is a lot better than I ever will.”
It was as if his dad wasn’t even listening, as if he were somewhere else. “I know what it’s like,” he said. “To lose.”
Hutch sat up. “Not like this,” he said.
He was suddenly very tired. Tired of talking about the game. Tired of even thinking about it.
“You’ll get another chance tomorrow night to make up for it,” his dad said.
Ther
e was a long pause from across the room and then his dad said, “Everybody deserves a second chance.”
Yeah, Hutch thought, they do.
Just not tonight.
Then he rolled over on the bed, his back to his dad, and said good night.
Connie Hutchinson called Mr. Cullen in the morning and asked if she could take Hutch and Cody over to Roger Dean a little earlier than the bus was supposed to bring them, and he said it was fine with him, both the field and the clubhouse would be open by four.
Hutch and Cody didn’t even bother going out to the clubhouse. They went straight to the field in T-shirts and shorts and spikes, hoping nobody else would be out there this early. And nobody was. But the infield had already been dragged, looked so new and clean Hutch almost felt bad about messing it up.
Of course, he’d done that the night before.
It was why he had work to do.
He went out to second and Cody went to home plate and started hitting him one ground ball after another, the ball against Cody’s bat sounding even sweeter than normal because this was a big-league park and they had it all to themselves, the way they would when they’d get to Santaluces or Caloosa early for a game.
“We couldn’t stay home and do this and take the bus along with everybody else?” Cody yelled out to him.
“If I’d known the field better,” Hutch said, “maybe I would have been more careful on that ball.”
Cody said, “Yeah, you’re right, bad hops probably only happen here. I’m surprised that hasn’t gotten out.”
Hutch said, “Shut up and hit.”
“Is that any way to talk to your best friend who’s standing out here in the middle of a hot oven feeding you balls like he’s one of those ball machines in tennis?”
“Sorry,” Hutch said. “I meant to say: Please shut up and hit.”
“That’s better.”
Hutch didn’t miss one ball from the time they started until he saw the rest of the guys filing in behind the first-base dugout and down the aisle to the field. None of the Cardinals even acted surprised to see him and Cody out there, having their own two-man infield.
