by Mike Lupica
Hey, Hutch heard now.
He looked up to where his dad and mom were, and the Hesters, and Darryl’s mom.
Looked there just as his dad stood up.
31
HIS DAD WAS LOOKING RIGHT AT HIM.
Carl Hutchinson tried to make it look casual to the people around him, like he was getting up to stretch, not having to worry about blocking anybody’s view because there was nobody sitting behind him.
His eyes, though, never left Hutch’s.
All those nights and all those games when Hutch just assumed his dad wanted to be somewhere else. Not now. He was staring as hard at Hutch as Hutch had stared at him last night in the batting cage at Fallon.
Like he needed to get his attention.
Then Hutch saw why. Saw his father drop his hands the way coaches did when they were telling you to bunt.
Bunt?
Was he nuts?
His dad wanted him to bunt with the winning run standing there on second base? With two outs? And a chance to end this game with one swing?
Hutch said to the ump, “I need one more second, sir, I’ve still got some dirt in my eye.” He stepped back, rubbed a finger in an eye that didn’t need rubbing, then squinted over toward third base, as if he wanted to make sure he could see straight.
The third baseman was playing way back. Too far back and guarding the line, even though any kind of hit was going to win the championship for the Cardinals, whether it went for extra bases or not.
But still…a bunt?
Hutch put his back foot into the batter’s box and dug in, and as he did, he shot one last quick look at his dad as he cocked his bat. Saw him nod again.
Then Carl Hutchinson did something he hardly ever did.
He smiled.
The Rocket checked Cody and then threw his fastball on the outside of the plate, just as Hutch had known he would.
Hutch bunted.
He dropped the bat head the way you did when you were bunting for a base hit, got the fat part of it on the ball, deadened the ball right down the third-base line, and took off for first.
Cody would tell him later that the third baseman started in when he realized what was happening, then stopped like he’d forgotten there were two outs, stopped like he thought he might have to cover third with Cody coming hard from second. Once he did, it was all over. He couldn’t get to the ball in time, the Rocket had no chance, and neither did the catcher.
Hutch didn’t turn around until he’d crossed first base safely. He wanted to clap his hands when he saw that everybody was safe, that they had first and third for Darryl. He didn’t. Even now he was old school. He wasn’t looking to show anybody up, not even the pitcher who’d just put him down.
He was just looking to win the game.
And he’d left it up to the team’s best hitter to do just that.
Hutch did allow himself another look up into the stands. His dad was seated again, staring in at home plate.
But still smiling.
Carl Hutchinson wasn’t in his seat for long. Nobody at Roger Dean was. Because on a 1-0 pitch, Darryl got everybody up. Because Darryl was the one making the scrapbook swing, putting that sweet swing of his on the ball, the ball making a sound coming off his bat that was louder than ever to Hutch, like something they could hear in the parking lot.
The ball cleared the Dunkin’ Donuts sign with ease, cleared it and rolled toward the Cardinals’ clubhouse.
Cardinals 5, Astros 2.
Championship.
All of the Cardinals were at home plate when Hutch got there. They started pounding on him the way they’d pounded on Cody and then they all waited for Darryl. Who was, of course, being Darryl, taking his time going around the bases, styling to the end.
When he got near home plate, he tossed his helmet away, the way David Ortiz of the Red Sox did when he hit a walk-off home run, and then it was the whole team there celebrating together, everybody pounding on everybody else, again.
Hutch and Darryl were the first ones to pull loose from the crowd. When they did, Darryl was grinning at him.
“What?” Hutch said.
Darryl said, “I gotta be honest, Captain. I would’ve been happy if it was you got the big hit.” Now he wasn’t just grinning, he was smiling all the way, as big as Hutch had ever seen from him. “But let’s face it: It was supposed to be me.”
Hutch laughed. “When you put it that way, I suppose it was.”
Darryl said, “Ask you something, before I go talk to TV?”
“Anything.”
“What made you lay it down like that?”
Hutch said, “My dad told me to.”
“Told you,” Darryl said. “Man can coach.”
Then D-Will walked over to where the young guy from Sun Sports was waiting for him, walked in front of the camera and into the TV lights, as if that was another place where he was supposed to be.
And in that moment, away from the lights, away from the rest of the Cardinals, it was just Hutch and Cody on the big field.
“You know what tonight is?” Cody said.
“What’s tonight?” Hutch said.
“The first of many just like it, dude. First of many.”
Cody kept talking then, the way he did, but now Hutch wasn’t hearing him, he was hearing Darryl in the clubhouse before the game, telling him that maybe everything he needed wasn’t at some school up north, or anywhere else in this world, maybe it was right here.
Then Hutch left Cody Hester standing there and made his way through his teammates, made his way through the gate at the end of the dugout and up through the stands at Roger Dean and did something he had not done in a very long time:
Hutch hugged his father.
And his father hugged him back.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mike Lupica, over the span of his successful career as a sports columnist, has proven that he can write for sports fans of all ages and stripes. And as the author of multiple hit books for young readers, including Heat, Travel Team, Summer Ball, and Miracle on 49th Street, Mr. Lupica has carved out a niche as the sporting world’s finest storyteller.
Mr. Lupica, whose column for New York’s Daily News is syndicated nationally, lives in Connecticut with his wife and their four children. He can be seen weekly on ESPN’s The Sports Reporters.
