The Catch

by Richard Reece

  But that was it. We couldn’t make up the difference. The Eagles were in the finals. We’d be playing for third.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Danny, that was a hard-fought game. I’m sorry you fell a little short.”

  It was the fat guy in the now very rumpled white suit. He had sweat stains under his arms and across his back, and he was still wiping his head with the hankie. He had come down to the dugout right after we’d shaken hands with the Eagles. He’d had to wait a minute, though. PEPPERDINE had arrived first.

  “Sorry, Danny,” she said. “Nice triple, though.” It turned out her name was Kayla. She was a freshman communications major at the college she had advertised so excellently. She lived with her parents in Malibu, just a mile from school. I hoped we’d talk a while, but she saw White Suit waiting and just said, “I’ll be at the game tomorrow” before she left.

  The suit had a strong accent, maybe German, and introduced himself as Jack Strauss. “Actually, that’s my name for doing business in America,” he said. “My name at home is Joachim Strausshoffer. I spoke with your father yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir, he mentioned you’d be here.”

  “Good, good. Look, it’s getting hot out here. You probably want to get back to the hotel and clean up. I wanted to talk to you about a business proposition.”

  “Business? Me?”

  “Yes, yes. You can meet me maybe for a late lunch? I’ll be in the restaurant at your hotel at 1:30.”

  “Sure.”

  As he walked away, I noticed he had a black shoulder bag with a logo on it—a gold cat inside the letter O.

  I found the team bus and settled in by a window for the short ride back to the hotel. In a few seconds I had almost dozed off— the game catching up with me—when I was suddenly aware of Coach Harris in the seat next to me.

  “Hey, Danny,” he said. “Good game. Who was the guy in the suit?”

  I told him the man’s name and that he said something about business. “I’ll know more this afternoon,” I said. “The guy knows my dad.”

  “Did you notice the man purse?” the coach said.

  “Yeah.”

  “The logo—the cat?—that’s Ocelot. A German company. They make high-end sports gear. They’re big in Japan. Anyway, keep your nose clean.”

  Back at the hotel I showered and changed. I waved at Shotaro and the Xbox he’d become obsessed with playing and laid down for a quick rest. Good thing I set my phone alarm—when it went off I was well on my way to a long nap.

  The restaurant was separate from the dining room where we had team meals. This place was all crystal and linen tablecloths, with deep green carpeting and a view of the pool. It seemed like everyone in the room was fit and tanned and ridiculously good-looking, except for Jack Strauss, who waved to me from a seat by the window. I made my way over and he stood up, extending a pudgy hand. I ordered a $20 burger and a soda; Strauss got a salad with fruit and goat cheese and a bottle of Perrier. I was noticing this stuff so I could tell Mel about it later.

  “Well, Danny,” Strauss said at last, “let me tell you about my business. I represent Ocelot. We make all kinds of sports equipment and gear for all kinds of athletes, from amateurs to elite players like yourself. And we market all over the world. We are just now beginning to do business in America.”

  I nodded.

  “For some time, we’ve been watching the amateur baseball scene here, and we’ve noticed you. I’m not just trying to flatter you, Danny, but you have a great deal of talent, and something else. A kind of flair. And you’re likeable. When you made that catch the other night, people were impressed, but I think they were also happy for you. Anyway, we certainly noticed how you could help our company, and vice-versa.”

  “How?”

  Strauss smiled. “Suppose,” he said, “suppose when you made that catch you had been wearing some kind of gear with our Ocelot logo. How many people do you think saw that catch?”

  “Lots, I guess. It was on—”

  “One hundred and twenty-three million people in North and South America.”

  Our food arrived, and Strauss went on.

  “You will make more plays like that, Danny. I know you will. You have the skills. So the next time you do something people notice, Ocelot wants to share in the attention.”

  “You want me to wear your stuff.”

  “Exactly. And in addition to all the gear you want—well, I’ve spoken to your father and he’s very happy about your opportunity— Ocelot would provide quite generous financial compensation.”

  “I don’t think I can take money without turning pro. If I want to go to college . . .”

  Strauss held up a hand. “If you want to go to college, that’s great. We would simply pay your father, who will hold the money in trust until eligibility is no longer an issue. If you go pro, great. If not, when you finish playing amateur ball you’ll have a very respectable amount of cash to start whatever career you choose.”

  Wow. Strauss’s offer sounded pretty good. Finally, I said, “Thanks, Mr. Strauss. I’m interested. I need to talk to my dad before I make any agreements, though.”

  “Of course, of course!” Strauss beamed. “He and I will be in touch.”

  CHAPTER 6

  On the way back to my room, my head was spinning. I’m a good player, I know that. But why wouldn’t Strauss go after someone like Sammy Perez? Our right fielder was definitely headed for the pros, everybody knew that. What was the word Strauss used? Flair. What did he mean by that? I decided to rest on it. My head barely touched the pillow before I was out. When I woke up three hours later, it was time for our team meal.

  Not everyone on the team eats supper together on these trips. Sometimes players will hang out with their families. But the coaches are always there, and it’s relaxing. No heavy baseball discussions. They save the serious stuff for practices.

  I found a spot next to Coach Washington. We hadn’t spoken since the night of The Catch, but he seemed all smiles, like he didn’t remember that conversation.

  “What’s up, Danny?” he said. And I just told him. About Strauss, the deal, everything.

  “Wow,” he said. “All that attention must feel pretty good.”

  I told him I guessed it did.

  “You might have a problem with the logo deal, though.”

  “How?”

  “You ever noticed the star on the back of your cap and the shoulder of your jersey?”

  “Yeah, I suppose it’s a brand or something.”

  “Or something. The Runners get all their gear from Pop’s Stars Sporting Goods.”

  “The giant sports store in Vegas?” I was surprised. I’d been in the store a few times.

  “Actually three giant stores. You know Pop Mancini?”

  “The old guy who comes to practices and hangs out?”

  Wash chuckled. “Yeah, him. That ‘old guy’ owns Pop’s Stars. He’s been supplying the Runners with uniforms and equipment since before you were born. He started out with a little storefront downtown; now he’s got three of those megastores in Vegas and the ’burbs.”

  “I thought he was just a fan. A retired guy with time on his hands.”

  “Oh, he’s a fan all right. The man has always loved baseball. And Pop knows everyone in the game. A couple of years ago he showed up at practice with Tommy Lasorda. He’s not retired, though. Still runs his stores.”

  “So . . . the logo? You think he’d have a problem with Ocelot?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. His agreement with the Runners goes back before my time. Probably based on a handshake. That’s a matter of pride with Pop. He’s as good as his word.”

  “But I’m not covering up Pop’s stars, just adding a few things of my own.”

  “I can’t tell you if there’s any problem on the business side. That’s probably between Pop and Ocelot, and anyone who knows Pop knows he can take of himself when it comes to the competition.

  “In Pop’s eyes, though, those stars are abou
t more than business.”

  “What are they about?” This Pop guy sort of sounded like a sap.

  “Like three seasons ago at the banquet, the team gave Pop an award, a plaque, you know? For thirty years of backing the Runners.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Pop gave a little speech. He said the biggest reward for him was seeing his stars on generations of young players and knowing he’d helped them be a part of the game.”

  That was definitely sappy. “I still don’t get why he’d object to—”

  “Because Pop earned that space. He didn’t just buy it. And now some new kid on the block wants to act like he can stand in the same space, like he’s equal.”

  I guess Wash had a point, but Ocelot was offering me something unique. I needed to think about it. I hoped Pop wouldn’t be a problem for Strauss.

  When my phone rang that night, it was Dad.

  “Danny! How’s my boy?”

  “I’m good, Dad. How are you?”

  “Excellent. I heard you had lunch with our friend Strauss.”

  “Yeah. I’m still trying to sort that out.”

  “What’s to sort out? It’s a great opportunity!”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely! Look, Danny, since that catch the other night, you’re a star! Seize the moment!”

  “Do you know Pop Mancini?”

  “Everybody in Vegas knows Pop. He’s got more money than—”

  “I know. Coach Washington told me he has an agreement with the Runners. It’s like he’s our exclusive supplier or something.”

  “Supplier, yes. Exclusive? I don’t think so. Look at your glove. It says Mizuno. No one has a problem with that. Anyway, this isn’t about taking anything away from Pop’s Stars. It’s about adding something for Danny. Grab it, son.”

  “So I wouldn’t be breaking any kind of rule?”

  “Nope, I’ve worked it all out with Strauss.”

  “Okay, Dad, if you think it’s the right thing . . . ”

  “Great. Now who do you play tomorrow?”

  “Oakland.”

  “The Bay Bombers! All right, you rest up. I’ll give Strauss a call, tell him we’re cool, and we’ll make plans when you’re back in Vegas. Go get ’em, son!”

  Despite the nap before dinner I slept fine that night. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

  CHAPTER 7

  The consolation game between the Las Vegas Roadrunners and the Oakland Bay Bombers was scheduled for the morning. The Phoenix Eagles would play under the lights in the final, against a team from Mexico.

  We had never played the Bombers, so we were eager to hear Coach Harris’s scouting report on the bus to the ballpark.

  “Listen up, guys,” he began. “Today you’ll be looking in the mirror. The Bombers look a lot like us. They’re strong at every position; they’ve got some serious power and a couple of all-stars. It’s all going to come down to execution.

  “If we have an advantage, it might be our speed, but more important is our hustle. I’ve talked to some of the other coaches, and they said that every now and then the Bombers get lazy. But we can’t count on that, and anyway, you could say the same about us.

  “Their pitcher. Bart Kenner. He’s not the fastest guy you’ll face, but he’s got good command of three pitches: fastball, slider, and a twelve-to-six curve that can make you look very silly at the plate. Watch for the fastball— it’s hittable if he doesn’t locate it just right.”

  A lot of times when we arrive at the field, the fans and family members there will pat us on the back or shout “Good luck!” Today, however, something truly weird happened. Among the fans were what looked like a Little League team—a dozen ten- to twelve-yearold boys in uniforms with leopard-spotted shirts and hats with big Ocelot logos on them. When they saw me, they ran over and crowded around, holding up pens and baseballs. “Danny! Danny Manuel! Will you sign?”

  I was thinking, What the . . . ? when I noticed, a few yards away, two guys with important video cameras. What could I do? I signed the baseballs. But I could feel my teammates staring. When we got to the dugout, Nellie came up to me.

  “Man, what was that all about?”

  “I’m not really sure,” was all I said.

  During warm-ups I spotted Kayla in her usual spot behind the plate. She waved, and I waved back. And before long, here came Jack Strauss, water bottle in hand, settling down behind the dugout in the third row. In front of him was Team Ocelot. When Mr. Strauss saw me he stood up and waddled down to the rail, motioning me to come over.

  “Hi, Danny, I just wanted to wish you—” His phone beeped.

  He looked at the ID and gestured for me to hold on a second.

  “Yes?” he said. “What? Who does this Pop Mancini think he is? Ten percent? What a joke! Okay, I’ll meet with him. Maybe he thinks he’s hot stuff in Vegas, but he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with!”

  Strauss put his phone back in his purse. I’d never seen him upset before.

  “Sorry, Danny. This guy Pop Mancini is trying to squeeze us. He says that the Roadrunners’ uniforms and the Roadrunners themselves are his advertising space! He has no problem with the Ocelot logo being displayed on ‘his space,’ but he wants ten percent of our profits on any gear we sell in Nevada. Can you believe it?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Sue him, if it comes to that. I’m going to meet him tomorrow and let him know just where we stand. Anyway, that’s not your worry. I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

  We were the home team today, and Coach started Jonas Creeley. I once heard Nellie say that everyone likes Jonas except Jonas. And that kind of pinpointed the problem, when there was one: his confidence.

  Jonas had mad skills: a live fastball that tailed away from righties and handcuffed lefties, an undetectable change, and a wicked slider. When he was locating, Jonas was nearly unhittable. In fact, he had thrown a no-no for the Runners last season. But when Jonas started slow or someone got to him, he would get down on himself. He’d start muttering things like, “Jonas, you idiot!” He’d start walking batters and finally get wild. For Nick, our catcher, Jonas was high maintenance. The rest of us just prayed he would start strong.

  Fortunately, that was the case today. He no-hit the Bombers for the first three innings, with three Ks. In the same span we had only one hit, but it was a home run with a man on base, hit by yours truly. Kenner had walked Sammy. Carlos “Trip” Costas had grounded wide to short, so they had to play at first. And I guessed fastball on the first pitch and there it was, belt-high over the plate. I don’t have the kind of power that Sammy and Nellie do, but over the fence is over the fence, and that’s where I put it.

  As I rounded third base, I saw Team O doing a sort of mini-wave and shaking leopard-spotted towels. One of the video guys was shooting them, and the other one was shooting me as I crossed the plate and got congratulated in the dugout. I shot a smile at Kayla, who was jumping up and down and cheering.

  After that it seemed like our team could do no wrong. Jonas finally gave up a hit—a double—in the sixth, but the Bombers stranded their runner. I singled in the fourth and doubled in the seventh, driving in runs both times. By the eighth we were up 6–0.

  But then things started to go south. Jonas walked the first two batters and gave up singles to the next two. Shotaro started working in the pen. With the score 6–2, men on first and third, Jonas threw wild. Now it was 6–3 with a man on second. Jonas was talking to himself, and when he walked the next batter, Coach yanked him.

  Shotaro struck out the first batter he faced, but the second singled: 6–4, runners on first and third. Then, disaster. The batter hit a short fly to Darius in left. The runner on third tagged, and Darius threw to the plate—a perfect strike. Nick had the plate blocked, but the runner slammed into him. Nick held. The runner was out. But our catcher was down.

  CHAPTER 8

  Players and coaches from the dugout and the field converged on the plate. It was a clean
play, no question. But Nick was the brains of our team on the field, besides being one of the best-liked guys on the roster.

  By the time I got to the plate Nick was already sitting up, but he was only half there. The trainers took off his mask and helmet, wiped his forehead with some wet towels, and felt his head. They let him rest where he was for maybe five minutes, and then they gently helped him up and led him into the clubhouse.

  Our guys—Darius, Gus Toomey, and Nellie—went down in order in the bottom of the eighth. In the ninth, Shotaro looked lost. He walked the first batter, who promptly stole second. The second batter doubled in the run. The next guy at the plate was their cleanup hitter, a lefty, and he drove Sammy to the wall in right. Sammy made the catch, but the tying run was on third.

  The next play was almost identical, except this time the tag-up tied the game. Shotaro was really unnerved, and Nick wasn’t there to calm him down. On the first pitch, the next batter ripped a line drive down the third baseline, but somehow Nellie snagged it for the last out.

  It was the bottom of the ninth inning and the score was tied at 6. Sammy was at the plate, Trip was on deck, and I was in the circle. Sammy got to 3–2 quickly, and then he fouled off three pitches before he connected. Their left fielder played it well off the fence, but Sammy’s speed got him to second standing up.

  You could make an argument that Sammy is the best player on our team. He’ll probably go pro some day. But once in a while he’ll get overconfident. Like this time. With no one out and Trip at the plate, Sammy decided to steal third base on the first pitch. I heard Wash swear. The element of surprise was no match for their catcher’s arm. Sammy was out, and he hung his head on the way back to the dugout.

  Trip worked the count to 3–2 like Sammy had done but then got called out on a pitch that looked like it was around his ankles. He looked at the umpire in disbelief and then said something quietly that got him thrown out of the game in record time. Whatever Trip had said, it couldn’t have been as bad as the stuff his dad, Julio, was yelling from the stands. Maybe the ump didn’t hear him.