The Big Field

by Mike Lupica

  He didn’t need songs or flags and he was sure nobody else on the team did, either.

  Mr. Cullen won tonight’s coin flip, making the Cardinals the home team, meaning they had last ups again, just like they wanted. When he came back into the dugout, he called them all together in front of their bench.

  “I’m gonna keep this short, and simple,” he said in a voice so quiet, Hutch wondered if everybody could hear.

  “Boys, if you’re lucky, you might get a handful of games like this in your lives. I don’t know how many, nobody does, that’s why you play. But what I do know is this: You’ve all got one tonight.” His voice got a little bigger now. “And what I guess I want to ask you is if you came here to lose the sucker.”

  “No!” they yelled, loud enough for the whole ballpark to hear.

  “Are you still too young?”

  “No!”

  “Is this your time?”

  “Yes!”

  He put his hand out. They all reached in. “Now go make this a night nobody can ever take away from you.”

  They broke their huddle and ran out from behind the dugout screen and took the big field.

  Rocket Rod Brown was throwing even harder tonight than he had in Game 1, even with just two days’ rest. Nine up and nine down through three innings, six strikeouts, only one ball—a fly ball to left by Darryl in the bottom of the second—out of the infield.

  “This is beyond dirty,” Cody said after striking out looking to end their third.

  “Long way to go,” Hutch said.

  “I’m aware of that,” Cody said, taking his glove and cap from Hutch. “But that last splitter he threw me? That was pure filth. If it’s a movie, it’s got one of those ratings where nobody under seventeen is allowed to go.”

  “We’ll get to him,” Hutch said.

  “When?” Cody said.

  They were already trailing 2–0, because of a two-run Rocket home run. And while Hutch was never going to admit this, he was starting to wonder just when they were going to do anything against Orlando as long as the Rocket was still pitching the way he was.

  When they finished throwing the ball around before the start of the fourth, Hutch ran in for a quick chat with Tripp, who’d really only thrown one bad pitch so far—the one Rocket had hit over the 325 sign in left.

  “One thing?” Hutch said, taking the ball from Tripp and rubbing it up for him.

  Tripp said, “What?”

  “No more runs.”

  Tripp got through the top of the fourth, one of the outs coming when Hutch ran like an outfielder toward short right and made an over-the-head catch on a ball the Orlando shortstop had hit. Then the Cardinals came to bat in their half of the inning.

  It started innocently enough, with a walk to Hutch. But Hutch then stole second on the first pitch to Darryl, the first time all game the Cardinals had a runner in scoring position. And with the Cards’ best hitter at the plate in the form of Darryl, the Astros must have figured Hutch would stay put and let the hitter do his job. Maybe that’s why the Rocket didn’t even look back at Hutch when he had Darryl 0-2 in the count.

  Hutch kept walking into a bigger lead. And as soon as Rocket went into his motion, he took off for third.

  Didn’t even draw a throw.

  The pitch was high and Darryl laid off it for a ball.

  The extra stolen base seemed to knock Rocket off the rails for a second. He overthrew his next pitch—a splitter that bounced about two feet in front of the plate and away from the Orlando catcher toward the Cardinals dugout.

  Hutch didn’t hesitate, he was coming home all the way. Their catcher got to the ball fast, and the Rocket was off the mound to cover the plate almost as fast. But Hutch beat the play with a straight-on slide and the score was 2–1 now.

  “Cheap run,” Rocket said when they were both still down on the ground, even giving Hutch a little shove as he stood up first. “Cheap, cheesy run.”

  Hutch bounced up now, ignoring the shove, since the last thing he was going to do was get into it with their pitcher in a game like this. He did point out at the Bank of America scoreboard, though. “Check it out,” Hutch said. “They’re gonna put the run on the board anyway.”

  Darryl flied out to deep center to end the inning. Yet at least the Cardinals were on that scoreboard now. They were still getting no-hit. But they weren’t getting shut out. It felt like something, maybe even more than just one run. It felt like hope, even the way the Rocket was still bringing it.

  It stayed 2–1 through the top of the fifth, even if it was a struggle for Tripp. He managed to get through the first four guys in the Orlando order without giving up another run, but needed thirty pitches to do it, the third out coming on a vicious line drive from Rocket Brown into Hank’s glove at third.

  In the dugout, Mr. C told Tripp that had been his last pitch of the night.

  “Please let me stay in,” Tripp pleaded when he got to the dugout. “I can hang in there against this guy, I know I can. I can stay out there as long as he can.”

  “Son,” Mr. C said, “you’ve already done the thing that makes everybody want to play this game in the first place.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Been even better than you thought you could be,” Mr. C said, and then shook his hand and told him to go get his first baseman’s mitt.

  The Cardinals went quietly in the bottom of the fifth, and there was a slight delay when Chris Mahoney came out to pitch the top of the sixth because Rocket’s landing spot had created a huge divot at the bottom of the mound, one the groundskeeper needed to fix.

  It gave Hutch a chance to take another look around.

  Like taking one more snapshot of the night.

  His parents were in the same seats they’d been in for the first two games, the last row in front of one of the Comcast signs. Mr. and Mrs. Hester were next to them. And next to Mrs. Hester was a woman Hutch had never seen before, but who looked too much like Darryl not to be his mom.

  Hutch couldn’t help but smile.

  The Orlando right fielder singled with one out in the top of the sixth. When Cody fumbled the ball in right center, the kid kept going and made second standing up. Their second baseman was next up and bunted the first pitch toward third, attempting to sacrifice with one out. Maybe the thinking in the Orlando dugout was that if they could get the guy over there, they could get one of those cheap, cheesy runs Hutch had gotten.

  Hank picked up the ball with plenty of time to throw the runner out at first, but for some reason he rushed, maybe the nerves of the moment grabbing him by his throwing arm. The ball bounced in front of Tripp at first and when he couldn’t come up with it cleanly, everybody was safe.

  First and third, still just the one out, the Orlando left fielder coming up. Mr. C waved the infield in, not wanting to give up another run here even if it meant giving up a shot at a double play. Because if they tried for a double play on some kind of slow roller and didn’t get it, the game was going to be 3–1. A lead like that, the way Rocket was pitching, was going to feel like a lot more than two runs. And Hutch was starting to worry that the guy might have it in his head to go the distance.

  So if the ball was hit to Darryl or Hutch, they were coming home if the runner from third tried to score. Or they were going to hold him there and get an out at first. That was the plan, anyway.

  Before Chris went back to the mound, Darryl called over to Hutch.

  “Hey.”

  Hutch shot him a quick look.

  Darryl said, “It comes to us, we got this, right?”

  And somehow Hutch knew exactly what he meant without asking. Just knew. Somehow, in the last game, they were finally on the same wavelength. They were never going to be friends. They might not ever play together after tonight.

  They were just two teammates trying to figure out a way to win the game.

  At 2-2, the left fielder hit a grounder up the middle that Chris Mahoney barely missed grabbing with his bare hand. The ball was he
aded right at second, which meant that it could have been Hutch’s ball, or Darryl’s.

  Hutch let the shortstop take it.

  Darryl flashed to his left, in front of the bag, and in that moment Hutch flashed right behind him.

  Because he knew.

  “Home!” Hank shouted from third.

  Hutch knew the shortstop wasn’t going home.

  Darryl Williams gloved the ball and made no attempt to turn his body, or even glance at second, just shoveled the ball with his glove to where he knew Hutch would be.

  Hutch didn’t even bother with his glove hand, just barehanded Darryl’s toss and in the same motion snapped off a throw to first that got the left fielder by two full steps and got the Cardinals the double play that got them out of the top of the sixth.

  The crowd at Roger Dean made a sound that seemed to be a lot bigger than the number of people in the place.

  Hutch smiled now, not because of the cheer, but because Darryl hadn’t even stopped running after he gloved the ball over to Hutch. He just slowed ever so slightly and nodded as Tripp took Hutch’s throw and the ump at first made the out call, then kept running right into the Cardinals’ dugout.

  Hutch came up with two on in the bottom of the seventh. Alex had singled with two outs, a clean single up the middle, their first hit. Finally. Then Rocket Brown, still in there with a 2–1 lead, nobody warming up for Orlando, walked Brett.

  Hutch had noticed something watching Rocket pitch to Alex and Brett: He was throwing fewer splitters now, just relying on heat more and more. Then he proceeded to throw four straight fastballs to Hutch. Hutch had missed two and two had been out of the zone.

  Rocket wasn’t just throwing fast now, he was working fast, and Hutch could see he was ready to throw the 2-2 pitch as soon as he got the ball back from his catcher, like he wanted to finish Hutch off right now.

  So Hutch decided to slow things down a little.

  He asked for time at 2-2, stepped out, rubbed some dirt on his hands, looked down at Mr. C in the first-base coach’s box as he did, saw Mr. C make a motion as if he had a bat in his hands.

  Then, right before he stepped back into the box, Hutch took a quick look into the stands. His dad was staring at the pitcher, but his mom smiled brilliantly at Hutch, like one more light in the stadium, and pointed to her head.

  Telling him, in her own way, to dream a big dream for himself right here.

  A big hit.

  Rocket went into his stretch and came with high heat again. What the baseball announcers just loved to call high cheese.

  Hutch swung right through the ball. Through it and underneath it and not even close to it. The ball was right in his grill and he’d been beaten by it, straight-up. Rocket Brown stopped and pointed at him before he ran off the field. “We’re even now,” he said.

  Game 3 still wasn’t.

  30

  RUBBER ARM MAHONEY WALKED THE ASTROS’ LEADOFF HITTER TO start the eighth, but when the next batter hit a slow roller in front of the plate, Brett was a blur getting to it and gunned the ball to Darryl covering second, and they cut off the lead runner. Chris took care of business from there, getting the next two guys to fly out.

  It was still 2–1.

  Six outs left. Nobody on the Cardinals was hanging his head. The dugout was as alive as it had been at the start of the night. There was all this chatter about how they were gonna do this, they were not losing this game, they were gonna get the first guy on and go from there.

  The Rocket was out there again for the eighth. To Hutch, he didn’t look tired, didn’t even look like he’d broken much of a sweat even as he went deeper into the game. But Darryl hit the second pitch he saw for a double, then stole third. Hank Harding walked to give them first and third. But when Paul Garner struck out on an 0-2 pitch, Hutch was afraid that Darryl would stay at third with the tying run.

  He didn’t. Tripp singled hard up the middle, a clean hit. Even though he wasn’t pitching, he and the Rocket were even now. The Rocket struck out Tommy O’Neill after that, threw a fastball at 0-2 that Hutch thought must have sounded like a police siren going past Tommy.

  No matter.

  Game 3 was 2-all.

  Last ups, for everybody.

  Taking grounders from Tripp while waiting for the top of the ninth to start, Hutch was calmer than he’d expected to be. There hadn’t been a lot of conversation in the dugout as they’d all grabbed their gloves, other than everybody congratulating Tripp for his RBI hit. They were all business now, knowing the next play could decide everything.

  So here they were.

  Bunch of neighborhood kids, bunch of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds from East Boynton and Boynton Beach and Lantana trying to be the best Legion team in the state. Trying to knock off the defending champs. Trying to do it at Roger Dean and do it on TV and do it in front of an even better audience than that—family and friends.

  All that wrapped up in the next few minutes. It was another part of sports that Hutch knew he’d have a tough time explaining to people who’d never experienced anything like it.

  Mostly it was the feeling that you wouldn’t want to be anyplace else in the world.

  A sense of being exactly where you belonged.

  Pedro Mota pitched the top of the ninth. He had no problem with location tonight. He blew away the first two guys with fastballs, walked the next batter when he got a little too carried away with how hard he was throwing, then recovered to strike out Orlando’s catcher on three pitches.

  Just like that it was the bottom of the ninth.

  Maybe the bottom of the whole season.

  The Rocket came out, as expected, to pitch. Hutch was scheduled to bat fourth in the inning, which meant that he needed for somebody to get on if he was going to get one last shot at this pitcher.

  His best friend was the one who obliged. Cody, who’d looked terrible all night against Rocket Brown, singled to lead off the inning from the nine hole. It was a good pitch, in on his hands, but somehow he managed to fist it over the first baseman’s head and just inside the right-field line. It wasn’t pretty. Didn’t matter. Winning run aboard.

  Alex fouled off a pitch trying to bunt. Then he laid off the second pitch he saw, thinking it was high, but the ump disagreed and said it was strike two. Which meant 0-2. Hutch looked down at Mr. C in the first-base coach’s box, because even from over there he was the one giving the signs.

  Mr. C kept the bunt on, even with two strikes. And Alex delivered for him, between the pitcher’s mound and first. The Rocket got over to the ball quickly enough, took a look at second, then decided to take the sure out at first. One down. But Cody was on second now, which meant a hit would win the championship.

  Brett was up now, with Hutch on deck. Rocket got ahead 0-2 before wasting a high one that Brett laid off. Then Brett guessed right on the 1-2 pitch and ripped a fastball over third base, but he’d opened up just a split second early and the ball landed foul by a foot.

  Hutch could hear everybody in the Cardinal dugout groan at the same time, like they’d all been punched in the gut. Still 1-2. Not for long. Now Hutch watched along with everybody else in the ballpark as Rocket poured a fastball past Brett for strike three. A fastball at the knees, on the outside corner, totally unhittable.

  Dirty.

  Hutch’s turn. He put his bat down for a second, got some dirt to rub on his hands, saw that his hands were shaking. He told himself it was all right, these were good nerves, that he wasn’t scared, that his whole life he’d wanted to be up in situations like this. A dream situation, with everything on the line.

  Dream big.

  Darryl came out of the dugout behind him. “Captain,” he said.

  Hutch turned around.

  Darryl said, “You know how I’m always sayin’ it’s you or me in situations like this?”

  “Yeah, D, I do.”

  “Don’t feel like you have to wait on me tonight.”

  Hutch walked slowly to the plate, making himself breat
he deeply, trying to get his emotions under control, trying to get his mind just right, ready to stand in there against a pitcher who might just have thrown the best fastball he’d thrown all day. In the bottom of the ninth.

  Hutch leaned over, rubbed more dirt on his hands, dug in now, looked out at the Rocket. Rocket checked Cody at second to keep him close, not about to make the same mistake twice in the game and let Cody just stroll over to third. Then he reared back and threw a fastball in the direction of Hutch’s eyes. Threw one up and in and put him on his back, Hutch flipping himself backward like one of those backward high jumpers in the Olympics.

  His helmet went flying. So did his bat, and the back of his head hit the ground hard. Even as he landed on his back, he was hoping the ball might have gotten away from their catcher so that Cody could move to third, but when he sat up, he saw Cody still standing on second base.

  “Sorry,” the pitcher yelled in to Hutch, even though he didn’t sound very sorry. “Sucker slipped.”

  Hutch didn’t think so. He was sure he’d been buzzed on purpose, sure that Rocket didn’t want Hutch hanging over the plate for the rest of this at-bat. Hutch was just as sure of something else: The next fastball was going to be the one Brett had just struck out on, a fastball away. That was why Rocket had just tried to move him away from the plate.

  Hutch didn’t care where, but he knew he was hitting this next pitch hard somewhere. This wasn’t like practice that time when his dad was watching and Hutch had nearly screwed himself into the ground trying to hit a home run, and ended up barely getting his bat on the ball. He didn’t need a home run and neither did his team.

  Just a base hit.

  He’d never been more determined in his life to get one.

  Hutch thought: This guy is mine.

  He cleaned off the front of his jersey, started to get into the box, good to go.

  It was then that he stopped. Like there was a voice inside his head telling him to pause.

  The voice was his dad’s.

  “Hey,” his dad would say when he wanted to get Hutch’s attention, or even reprimand him sometimes. “Hey,” he’d say in a real sharp voice.