Plunked

by Michael Northrop

  He pauses, then says, “I don’t want a repeat of last year.”

  The Craven Yankees beat us after we blew a late lead last year. Most of us were on the team for that, and the new kids have at least heard about it. The Craven Yankees’ coach is a loud, angry jerk, and the team is pretty much the same way. No one wants to lose to them again.

  Coach draws a line in the dirt of the first-base line with the toe of his shoe. We all look at it, and he erases it with his other foot.

  “That’s how quick it could go,” he says. “You got me?”

  “Yes, Coach!” we yell.

  It’s still sweet.

  Friday night: big whoop-de-doo!

  There are all of those songs and stuff about Friday night, but there’s not much to it when you’re twelve. I guess the big thing is that there’s no school for two days, so you don’t have to do any homework. I usually start mine on Saturday, just so I won’t have to spend all Sunday doing it. No homework is good, but I don’t think anyone has ever written a song about it.

  All I’ve got planned for tonight is watching the baseball game with Mom and Dad. Yeah, rock on, right?

  I don’t mind, though. I kind of like it. I’ve been thinking about the game against Haven all day, and there aren’t a lot of things that can get my mind off that. Definitely not school. But it’s funny: Sometimes the best way to distract yourself from baseball is with baseball.

  It’s some special game in Japan, and it’s Dodgers versus Brewers. It’s like they set out to scientifically select the two teams I know the least about. It seems kind of random, like there was this big meeting of all thirty teams, and the Dodgers and Brewers were just the last two to say, “Not it!”

  It’s OK. Both teams have some good players, and we have chips and salsa and soda and some ice cream for later. It will be time for bed when it’s over, and when I get up, it will be game day.

  Sometimes I sit between Mom and Dad for games, and sometimes they sit next to each other and I sit on one side. Sometimes it’s like I can sort of tell how things are going between them by where I wind up sitting.

  Tonight, they’re over on the left side of the couch and I’m on the right. That’s good: They’re probably still in one of their lovey-dovey phases after that concert, and I don’t really like to sit between them anymore. I’m not eight, you know?

  The second batter goes deep for Milwaukee. “One-nothing, Brew Crew!” says the announcer.

  I settle into stuffing my face and watching the game. I like to watch the left fielders when no one else is paying attention to them, like when the runner is taking a lead off second. What would it be like to play in the big leagues? What would it be like to watch that guy take that lead from a hundred feet away? Awesome, right? It would be awesome.

  The Dodgers get last licks in the inning, so I ask, “How do they decide who’s the home team when they’re both in Japan?”

  “Coin toss?” says Mom.

  “Rock-paper-samurai swords?” says Dad.

  Ugh.

  “That was pretty bad, hon,” says Mom.

  “Yeah, like even worse than usual,” I say.

  “What are you, teaming up on me now?” says Dad, which gives us an idea.

  Just to make it more interesting, we choose sides. We don’t have any samurai swords, so we toss a coin to see who picks. Dad wins the toss and chooses the Brewers. He won’t say whether it’s because they’ve got the lead or because he’s got a beer. Mom and I, the soda swiggers, end up rooting for the Dodgers.

  Mom knows baseball. On TV, the mom is always in the other room when the dad is watching baseball with his buddies; you know, rolling her eyes when they spill nachos on the carpet. In real life, Mom has a Diet Coke and a seat on the couch.

  She knows plenty about the game. I don’t know if she always has, but she’s been taking me to practices and games since T-ball. She’s been cheering from the stands and listening to me complain and brag and everything in between for years. These days, she can tell you which team in the NL Central has the best double-play combo.

  The two of us piece together what we know about the Dodgers and combine into a halfway decent L.A. fan.

  “This guy’s pretty good,” I say. “That guy used to be with the Tigers.”

  “He put a good swing on that one,” Mom says.

  In the fifth she says, “I wonder if they’ll pinch-hit for the pitcher?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “he doesn’t have it tonight.”

  And he doesn’t, so we have to listen to Dad’s Brewer trash talk. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he’d been a fan his whole life. Of course, he has it easy, since he can just do play-by-play on their home runs and stolen bases. It’s like the Dodger pitcher and catcher both got their arms secondhand.

  The L.A. bullpen is better, though. (And they do pinch-hit for the starter in the fifth.) The Dodgers mount a little comeback in the seventh. It’s just a few runs, but it’s enough to keep us from flipping the channel. By that point, Mom and I are calling them Los Dodgeros for no good reason, and it’s like we have been fans our whole lives.

  It isn’t even a save opportunity, but the Brewers bring in their closer and he lights-outs my poor Dodgeros. After that, I boo Dad one more time and head to my room. He makes a motorboat sound with his lips and waves me away. He’s on his fifth beer, at least, and is in a really good mood.

  Up in my room, I think about the game. I don’t mean Dodgers-Brewers. I mean mine.

  We arrive at the game early, but it seems like everyone on the team does. First game of the season! Some of us are milling around and talking to each other. Others are still sitting in their parents’ cars because it’s a cold morning.

  I’m talking to Andy, and we’re both stomping the ground and blowing into our hands. The Weather Channel said it was forty-eight just before I left home. The air is kind of damp, too, which makes it feel colder. I’d play baseball on the Siberian tundra, but to be honest, I like it warmer. Everyone does.

  Everything stings more when it’s cold: The bat stings your hands when you make bad contact, and the ball stings more when you catch it on the palm. It would definitely sting more if you got beaned.

  Most of us are wearing long-sleeved T-shirts under our jerseys. That’s not much in terms of warmth, but it’s sort of uncool to wear anything heavier. Plus, it’s still early. First pitch is a ways away, and it will probably warm up some by then. The cloud cover could burn off, and next thing you know you’re standing around sweating.

  Anyway, we all hope we’ll be circling the bases and making so many great plays in the field that we can just stay warm that way. A few of the younger kids have sweatshirts on under their jerseys, but you can’t really blame them. As far as I’m concerned, the coldest place on the entire planet is sitting on the bench.

  After fifteen minutes, the last few Braves arrive, and the others finally climb out of their cars. They look up at the gray sky like it just punched them. So here we are: the Tall Pines Braves, all present and accounted for. And there still isn’t a single Craven Yankee in sight, just some unfamiliar parents sitting together on the bleachers. It was the same thing last year. I think the Yankees make a point of arriving late. It’s like psychological warfare or something: build up the suspense.

  Normally I’d say it just gives them less time to warm up. Today, I think it gives them less time to cool down. Whatever the case, we take the field to stretch and run through some drills. With only one team here, it could almost be a practice. If they don’t arrive soon, it will be.

  We have league umps for games, and they stand together sipping coffee. I guess it’s coffee, anyway, because they hold their hands around the cups like they’re warm rocks. Dad let me try coffee once when I was seven. I don’t know how anyone ever drinks that stuff.

  Anyway, we’re just running through the normal pre-game stuff, and here comes this big, shiny passenger van, pulling in to the lot and honking its horn. It’s dark blue, Yankees blue. They must have
rented it for game day.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.

  As soon as it pulls to a stop, the side door slides open, and the Haven Yankees start pouring out of it like it’s a landing craft in a World War II movie.

  “Hey, Jack,” Dustin says.

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s dark blue and full of idiots?”

  I laugh and throw the ball back to him.

  The Haven coach heads right for Coach Wainwright. He starts barking words at Coach when he’s still ten feet away. I notice the two of them don’t shake hands, and I sort of understand why the Haven games always seem to mean a little more to Coach than the others.

  Anyway, long story short, they kick us off the field. They’re late (and whose fault is that?), so they need to warm up right away. We’re almost done, anyway, but it’s still annoying.

  I’m glad when the officials tell them to hurry it up. Now that their coffee cups are cold and empty, they want to get the game started. Fine with us, we were on time.

  The Haven coach barks about that, too: yap, yap, yap. Finally, he says, “All right, give us ten minutes.”

  “You got ten,” says the home plate ump.

  Ten minutes till the start of the season. I can’t wait!

  We’re in the field to start things off. I wave to Mom and Dad once — just once, I swear — and then look in toward the plate. J.P. is finishing up his warm-up throws. He’s just getting going, but I can hear the ball hitting the mitt clearly all the way in left. I wonder what it sounds like to the kids on the Haven bench.

  They’d all know his name, of course. Walters, they’d be saying. That’s J.P. Walters. The new kids on the team would be trying not to stare. It’s true what they say: A really good pitcher, a real ace, has a strike on the hitters before they even step to the plate.

  Anyway, we’re the home team. It’s kind of funny because this isn’t our home field. It isn’t where we practice, anyway. Culbreath Field is kind of a dump when it comes right down to it. “Not suitable for entertaining,” Coach always says.

  It’s sort of a disappointment because it’s a dump, but it’s our dump. It would be nice to play on the same field you practice on. As it is, it’s sort of like an away game for us, too.

  Pop! I hear J.P.’s last warm-up toss. That makes me feel at home, at least.

  “Look alive!” Coach shouts out to us. Then he gets Malfoy’s attention and waves him a little deeper back. Their first batter is a lefty, so he’s more likely to hit it to right. But he strikes out on four pitches, all fastballs. Lefty-righty matchups don’t mean much to J.P.

  Their second batter draws a walk, though. You can see J.P. doesn’t like a few of the calls. Maybe he’s a little shaken up or afraid the umpire is “squeezing the strike zone” on him. They did that a lot last year, too, just because he’s so good.

  Anyway, he grooves the first pitch to the next batter right down the middle, looking for strike one. This is their number three hitter, so one of their best. He puts a good swing on it and hits a hot shot to Andy at third. Andy tries to field it on one hop, but it kind of eats him up and he doesn’t field it cleanly. By the time he gets it, he has to make a really strong throw just to get the runner at first.

  So, there are two outs, but there’s a runner in scoring position at second.

  Their cleanup hitter is up next. It’s their big pitcher. He’s first-pitch swinging, looking for another one in the center of the plate. But J.P. is smart and throws a fastball up in the zone.

  The kid, his name is Tebow, gets underneath it and hits a high pop-up in my direction. I try to get a bead on it, but it keeps carrying. I start backpedaling underneath it, slowly at first and then faster.

  I start thinking about the fence, somewhere behind me but coming up fast. I can’t turn around to see, or I’ll lose track of the ball. If I hit the fence, I hit the fence, I tell myself. But my brain can’t quite let it go. I’m backpedaling fast, and hitting the fence would be a train wreck.

  The ball is coming down now. There’s no sound at a moment like that, just your eyes, your glove, and the ball. Three more quick steps back, and it slaps into my glove for out number three.

  “There ya go, Mogens!” someone calls.

  I look in and realize it’s Geoff. Kind of a classy move, right?

  Before I jog in to our bench, I turn around to check. The fence is maybe three feet behind me. This field is nice, but it needs a warning track. Andy waits for me at third, and we jog in together.

  “Nice throw,” I say.

  “Nice catch,” he says, and slaps me on the arm with his glove.

  “Man,” I say, “that big dude was fooled on the pitch and almost hit it out!”

  “Yeah,” says Andy. “Serious power. And now we have to try to get a hit off him.”

  “Great,” I say. “Just great.”

  I’m up fifth and don’t really think I’ll get to the plate in the first inning against that big ol’ horse they have pitching. I figure maybe someone will get on base ahead of me, and I’ll end up leading off the second.

  Turns out Tebow is kind of wild today. He walks Manny and then strikes out Andy on a full count. Andy kind of gets overpowered by a fastball on strike three and rolls his eyes at me on the way back to the bench.

  “Good cut!” I say to him when he gets back. “Way to stay aggressive.”

  “Should’ve taken it,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “Looked high.”

  Andy looks back over his shoulder at the pitcher. “This guy’s all over the place today. I did him a favor swinging.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Still a good cut.”

  Andy sits down and I do some stretches to loosen up. I think about what he said: “all over the place.” It seems like such a good thing.

  Tebow grooves one to Jackson, trying to get ahead in the count, just like J.P. had grooved one to Tebow. But Jackson doesn’t miss. He slaps a single into shallow left, and just like that, we have runners on first and third with one out.

  Dustin is batting cleanup. I watch his at-bat from the on-deck circle. Unless he hits into a double play, I’ll be up this inning. And unless he hits a homer, I’ll be up with runners on.

  I take some practice swings and try to time Tebow’s pitches. Dustin takes a strike and then swings through one. Pitch number three is in the dirt. Their catcher makes a good play to keep it in front of him and maybe save a run. All three pitches are really fast.

  Dustin swings through the next one to strike out, and it seems like maybe Tebow is settling down. I take a deep breath and head to the plate with two out and two on. Runners on base: ducks on the pond … I always liked that saying.

  I’m a little nervous, sure. But I’m also sort of comfortable. I’ve done this so many times before: batting cages, batting practice, and game after game, all the way up the Little League ladder. This guy is really bringing it, I know that, and maybe he’s a little wild. J.P. is on deck, and Katie is in the hole, and it’s my job to keep the inning going.

  I step to the plate like I always do, and I go through my routine. I’m not sure how much time the ump will give me, so I get right to it.

  First, I sort of dig my front foot in. I twist the toes into the dirt at the front of the batter’s box a few times. Then I settle my weight onto my back foot.

  The ump still hasn’t said anything, so I begin my mini swings: two fast and two slow.

  “All right,” the ump says behind me, but I’m already done.

  I cock my bat back and look up. I squint out at the mound. Tebow goes into his windup and my eyes are laser-focused. I need to pick up the ball as soon as it leaves his hand.

  His arm comes up and forward, and the ball is out and headed toward the plate. But something is wrong. The pitch is high and bearing in. I should just take this one, get ahead in the count, ball one, but it just keeps bearing in on me. It’s a fastball, and suddenly I know: I’m going to get hit. I’m going to get hit in the head.


  All I have time to do is flinch. And then it’s like an explosion, so much sound and power. It’s like when a thunderstorm is right on top of you, when the lightning and the thunder come at the same time. I’m knocked off my feet at the same instant I hear the crack.

  I think it hit my helmet, right on the earpiece, but I don’t know anything for sure. That crack could have been my skull. All I know is that I’m on the ground, looking up. Their catcher is standing over me, looking down, and then the ump is, too, and then more people. Everything looks twisted and fractured, and that’s how I realize there are tears in my eyes.

  I honestly don’t realize how bad it is until I see Coach. He says a lot of things, but the words I hear are these:

  “Pinch-runner.”

  There’s something I would like to say, like, officially: Ooooooooooowwwww!

  I’m lying there at home plate, looking up at all the people standing over me in a circle. Their catcher has his mask pushed up on top of his head. The ump’s mask is totally off, and he has this weird look on his face, like he’s about to start laughing or crying. Then there’s Coach and someone I don’t know. And they’re all still talking. I know it’s about me, but I’m not catching most of it.

  I’m looking up at the sky, and it feels like the whole world is vibrating. I have that feeling you get after you drop something, like you need to bend down and pick it up. Except I’m already down, and the thing I want to pick up might be my head.

  They take turns kneeling down and asking me things. Coach leans close and says, “You all right there, Mogens?”

  “I got hit!” I say.

  Like he wouldn’t know that. I really need to shake this off. I wipe my arm across my face then turn my head to the left and spot my batting helmet lying on the ground. That’s what I wanted to pick up.

  “I get to go to first base,” I say.

  I try to get up, but Coach puts his hand on my shoulder. That sort of annoys me. I want to get up now: pinch-runner, my big red monkey-butt!