The Catch

by Richard Reece

  Now I was up with two out. I’d been watching the pitcher—a reliever now—and he had thrown a fastball on the first pitch to almost every batter he’d faced. So I was dug in dead red when the ump called time and the Bombers’ coach motioned to the bullpen for a new guy. Man!

  I watched him warm up, but that was no help. He was an average-sized guy—even a little chubby. He didn’t look overpowering. While I was waiting, Wash came over.

  “Junk,” he said. “Wait on the pitch as long as you can.”

  “Junk” was right. The first pitch was a floating curve that had yard written all over it. But I waited like Wash said, and just as it got to me it jumped up about six inches. Ball one, high. The second one moved late, too, in on my hands. I fought it off foul. One and one. On the third pitch he made a mistake. It was a floater like the first one, but I waited and it just stayed right there. So I pulled the trigger.

  I didn’t even look to see where it went. I knew from the feel of the ball on the bat and the noise of the fans that it was gone. When I got to home, the team was waiting for me. My team, the Roadrunners, and little Team Ocelot in those spotted shirts. And Kayla, with a long, hard hug. It was a moment, I have to say.

  I made plans to watch the final with Kayla in the evening. It was a good game: Phoenix beat the Mexican team, winning the way they usually did: bunts, stolen bases, timely singles, and stingy pitching.

  After the game they gave out the trophies. The Runners were third overall, and we all ran up together to get the cup. Then came the surprise that ended the day. They called my name on the loudspeaker. I was voted MVP of the tournament! The noise, the excitement, and the people pounding me on the back put me in a kind of daze as I went up to accept the plaque.

  Before the Palm, I hadn’t experienced the hero thing. Now I was discovering that I liked it—a lot.

  CHAPTER 9

  As I walked through the hotel lobby with the rest of the Runners on the way to our bus to the airport, I felt a firm, sweaty grip on my shoulder.

  “Danny! Just a minute!”

  I turned, startled, to see Mr. Strauss towering next to me. I wondered how I possibly could have missed him.

  “Mr. Strauss?”

  “I know you’re on your way home, Danny. I just wanted to give this to you before you left.” Mr. Strauss handed me a sheet of paper with something typed on it.

  “It’s your commercial!”

  I couldn’t believe it. My own commercial! Ocelot was obviously the best thing that had ever happened to me.

  “We’ve already got it made. It will be posted on the Internet today. Next week you’ll see it on TV!”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just yelled, “Awesome, Mr. Strauss!” and raced to catch up with the team.

  On the bus, I read the screenplay for the commercial:

  Intro: Faint guitar instrumental.

  Young blond boy in spotted shirt, Ocelot logo on black cap: “Danny, will you sign my baseball?”

  Suddenly, whole team of kids similarly attired: “Danny! Danny!”

  Cut to Danny and crack of the bat.

  Cut to cheering Ocelot-clothed kids waving towels.

  Cut to Danny crossing the plate, crowd crazy.

  Cut to Danny in interview: “Just, you know, get it.”

  Cut to video: The Catch.

  Voiceover: “There’s no way. The Eagles win. No, wait! Oh. My. Gosh! Did you see that?”

  Danny interview: “Just, you know, get it.”

  Cut to video of MVP Award.

  Voiceover: “And the MVP of the Palm Springs Invitational Amateur Baseball Series: the Las Vegas Roadrunners’ Danny Manuel.”

  Danny: “Thank you. I feel like Superman today.”

  Zoom in on logo.

  Silent slow-motion of The Catch.

  Danny voice over: “Just, you know, get it.”

  Ocelot logo to Fade Out.

  It was awesome. I couldn’t wait for everyone to see it.

  When I got back home Dad and Sal were there to welcome me. A week later, Mel stopped by. Her season was over and school was out, but she was going to play in Japan and Europe over the summer. She was here just for me, and knowing that made me feel great.

  “So,” she said when we finally got a chance to talk alone, “how is all this hitting you?”

  “I like it a lot,” I said. “It’s kind of cool to think of little kids looking up to me and stuff. Did you see the commercial?”

  She looked at me a little funny when I said that, but she went on. “Yeah, it’s cool. But what do you think of this ‘arrangement’ with Ocelot? Dad seems happy.”

  “You know, since the TV stuff I’ve been getting mail. Last week some girl proposed.”

  Mel laughed. “Are you going to accept?”

  “No, I’ll wait a while. Consider my options, ya know?”

  “Where is all this going, then, little brother?”

  “Well, I talked to Mr. Strauss. We’re doing some more commercials. And figuring out how to make the logo more visible during games. That footage is really valuable for promos if we can show the brand.”

  “Wow, Danny, you are growing your marketing vocabulary.”

  “Thank you,” I laughed. “I think. The deal is our team has a verbal contract with Pop’s Stars Sporting Goods—”

  “Love that place!”

  “Yeah. So we wear their logo on our gear. But the lawyers think—”

  “Lawyers?”

  “Licensing guys. They think that as long as Pop’s logo is visible, there’s no problem showing other brands as well. Pop’s is a retailer, not a manufacturer. So we won’t touch his stars, but we’ll use other opportunities for visibility.”

  “Hey, if you decide to leave baseball, maybe you can go into law.”

  “Well,” I grinned, “if I do, law school is paid for.”

  With all the marketing stuff and our next series of games, I had a big couple of weeks.

  It was crazy busy. With practices and Ocelot stuff I didn’t have much down time. I texted with Kayla in my spare moments. We had a tournament in LA in a few weeks, and I was starting to think about her—to think about us—a lot. Maybe we had a future.

  Future. That was the biggest thing on my mind then.

  “You make your future now,” Mr. Strauss told me. “Perception is reality. You want to play in the pros, get the media talking about you. This is the foundation. People learn who you are, they see you play, and doors open. These days it’s not enough to be good. You need to be . . . attractive.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Since the Palm, the Runners had good news. Nick, our catcher, was back in action. Apparently he was only shaken up in the collision in Palm Springs. We had a couple of practices in Vegas. Then we went up by bus to a weekend series in Carson City. The Carson City Capitals are a good team, especially at home. The plan was we’d play them both Saturday and Sunday afternoon, with a Sunday-night game if necessary.

  On the highway, we were a caravan. The team bus was followed by team family vehicles, some of them big RVs that probably cost more than the bus. Carson’s folks had one the size of a yacht, with a satellite dish on top and a name painted on the back: Ship of the Desert. Once we actually had a team party—you’re talking thirty-some people—inside that RV.

  This trip one of the floats in our parade was a leopard-spotted van with an Ocelot logo on the side.

  I think it was when we pulled up to the field on Saturday that it really hit me: I was a star. When I got off the bus there were kids chanting, “Dan-ee! Dan-ee!” Of course a certain sports gear company was on the scene handing out free T-shirts to everyone: leopard spots and the Ocelot logo, like the one I was wearing under my jersey. They also had balloons with the same spots and logo, and every little kid seemed to be holding one. Last but not least, they had 8x10 glossy photos of me making The Catch. They all wanted me to sign their photos.

  On Saturday things went our way. Carson was in a groove, our power guys were hitting,
and I handled a lot of business—in more ways than one—in center field. Mr. Strauss and I had worked out that I’d unbutton my jersey a little when I was in the field so the Ocelot T-shirt would show for the fans—and the cameras, of which the company now had four placed at different spots around the field.

  With one out in the sixth, the Capitals’ catcher drove one hard to the fence in center. I caught up with it, though, and grabbed it over my head. The crowd yelled and waved the spotted balloons, and I just held up the ball for a minute and grinned, showing the shirt, before I remembered there was a runner on second.

  Sure enough, he had tagged up and was streaking for third. I gunned it in towards third, but Trip cut it off. Even if the throw had gone to the base, Nellie would have had to handle it on two hops. Better to let the guy take third.

  Uh-oh, my bad. As it happened, the next guy grounded out, so the runner was stranded. Still I could feel the glares of my teammates and Wash as I returned to the dugout. All Wash said as I passed him was, “Your shirt’s unbuttoned,” but his tone said a lot more.

  Whatever. I drove in a run that inning, and we eventually beat the Caps 5–2. No one spoke to me on the bus ride back to the hotel. Nellie stopped for a minute on the way to his seat and looked at me like he was going to say something, but then he just raised his eyebrows and passed by. Shotaro was in the seat next to me, hooked up to his earplugs and iPod.

  “Is it a little chilly in here?” I said to him, but of course he didn’t hear.

  Baseball—heck, all sports—is funny. One day you’re totally, effortlessly focused; the next day you’re flat. You’d think, since a baseball team carries a couple of dozen different players, that the individual ups and downs would even out. But it doesn’t always work that way; sometimes the whole team bottoms out at once.

  That’s what happened to us Sunday afternoon. The Caps weren’t bad. Their pitcher was steady and their infield was scooping up everything hit on the ground. Which was part of our problem. Almost everything we hit was on the ground. In nine innings, we had three hits and the Caps had turned three double plays. Jonas pitched well for us, and he deserved better. But our cold bats made him the loser, 3–0.

  The guys were quiet at supper. We’d lost something, and we didn’t know where to find it. At dessert, though, Coach Harris stood and spoke. He actually seemed pretty upbeat.

  “Look guys,” he said, “once in a while you’re going to have a game like that. Sometimes you can’t tell why. It looked to me like everyone was hustling. When I see that, I’m not too discouraged. And the good thing is, we had it to spend. We can still go home winners tonight, okay?”

  Nellie spoke up. “We will, Coach. Right, guys?”

  The leader thing. Coach has it. Nellie has it. And we all trusted it. Somehow we snapped out of our funk. At least that’s how it felt.

  CHAPTER 11

  When we got to the ballpark I was in for a surprise. Dad was there, along with Sal, and they were talking with Mr. Strauss.

  I ran over and hugged Dad, who seemed to be in a great mood.

  “I have a good feeling about this game,” he said. “Right, Jack?”

  “Without a doubt, sir. Danny, we’re shooting a new advertisement this series. I think you’ll love it. Great job showing the colors yesterday—just what we need. Here, I brought you something.”

  He reached in his man purse and pulled out a spotted doo-rag with the Ocelot logo on the top.

  “I’ve been talking with your father about incentives. We pay a certain amount for you to wear our gear; you know that. But every time our cameras spot the logo in a play situation, there’s a bonus.”

  “A bonus?”

  “It’s a great deal, son,” Dad beamed. “Just do what you . . . do.” And he winked and nodded at the doo-rag.

  I turned to Mr. Strauss.

  “Did you meet with Pop Mancini?” I asked.

  “Why yes,” Strauss muttered. “It turns out Mr. Mancini is well connected in this area. He’s friends with judges, casino owners, you name it. An outsider like Ocelot would have a difficult, expensive time getting a favorable decision in a lawsuit in Las Vegas.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Pay him what he asks, for now.”

  My dad looked concerned. “That payoff isn’t coming out of Danny’s earnings, is it?”

  Strauss put this hand on my dad’s shoulder, “Oh, no, no. We’ll pass the extra cost along to the consumer. We’ll simply raise our prices by eleven percent. It’s cheaper than going to court.”

  “Well, that’s reasonable,” my dad commented.

  I heard Coach calling in the players.

  “Okay! Team’s calling me. See ya later!”

  “Good luck, son!” yelled my dad.

  The renewed confidence we’d felt at dinner was tested in the very first inning. We had gone hitless in the top, and Carson struck out their first two batters. But then Bo “Beast” Bronsky, their first baseman, came to the plate. Six-four, around 240, Beast looks about twenty-five. He was first and foremost a football player—a defensive tackle who was being recruited by colleges like Texas and Nebraska. But he was a good enough athlete to play for most traveling teams, and his power at the plate was legend. The Caps had played an exhibition last season at AT&T Park, where the San Francisco Giants play, and Beast put one in McCovey Cove.

  Carson made him fan on two curveballs and then thought he could slip a fastball by for strike three. Wrong. Beast walloped that pitch over the light poles in right and literally out of sight. When the yelling stopped, you could hear a car alarm going off somewhere in the distance.

  Their cleanup batter tagged one too, toward center, but not as far as I thought at first. I sprinted about five strides, then looked over my shoulder and saw that I could come in a few steps and wait for it to come down. I caught it for the third out. Then I whipped off my cap so folks could see the spotted doo-rag on my run back to the dugout. Ka-ching!

  It turned out the Beast hadn’t scared us for long. In the top of two, our first three batters—Sammy, Trip, and I—singled. Zack popped up. But then Nick, just to prove he was back, went yard on the first pitch. It was 4–1.

  Carson settled down in the bottom of three, getting the side in order. Things were looking good. But in the fourth, the Caps brought in a new pitcher and our bats went quiet. It was just like earlier in the day— ground balls. Meanwhile, the Caps nibbled away—a run each in the fourth, the seventh, and the eighth.

  We came to bat with the score tied in the top of the ninth. Sammy, leading off, was ready for the pitch when suddenly the catcher called time and headed to the mound. He spoke to the pitcher a moment, and then he waved to their dugout. Out popped their coach, who trotted in for a conference on the mound. A minute later a trainer was out there as well.

  It was something with the pitcher’s throwing hand. Probably a blister. Whatever it was, the coach called for a reliever. From our point of view, anyone new was a sign of hope. On the reliever’s first pitch, though, Sammy fanned. On the second he tried to check up, but the ump said he swung. Strike two.

  Pitch three was a ball, high, and on the next delivery Sammy grounded hard to the shortstop.

  Sammy never gives up, though, and the speed he was showing down the line must have made the shortstop nervous. He hurried and bobbled the ball just a beat as he grabbed it to throw, and Sammy was safe at first.

  Trip Costas walked. Sometimes Trip doesn’t seem very aggressive at the plate, but he has some of the best eyes on the team. The pitcher was throwing breaking stuff and just missing.

  My turn. I put on my cap—I’d had it off in the on-deck circle—and batting helmet and stood in the box. I was looking to just make contact; with Sammy’s speed, he might score on a single. But when this big, slow pitch came in right over the plate, I had to take a rip. I just about fell down I swung so hard. But I missed it by a foot. I heard some people in the stands laughing, and even the umpire chuckled a little when he said, “That was a cu
rveball, son.”

  I figured the pitcher made me look so bad on that pitch that he’d try it again, so I was taking on the next one, which turned out to be a knee-high fastball right down the pipe. Who was this guy?

  Same pitch next time, but just low for ball one. Then another big curve. It was all I could do to take that one, but it broke down into the dirt at the last minute. I stepped out of the box to remind myself what I wanted to do. Just make contact. A short swing.

  Here came the windup, the pitch. I took a short, crisp stroke and caught . . . air. Sometime in my follow-through the ball crossed the plate. Strike three. But that wasn’t all. For some reason Trip had started for second. Sammy was on his way to third! The catcher gunned it to third. Sammy was hung up, desperately trying to avoid a tag until Trip could get to second or back to first.

  Trip decided on second and was on his way there when the third baseman tagged Sammy and threw to second, now covered by the pitcher. Trip slid. Safe! I had just about triggered a triple play.

  I wasn’t feeling too good even then, but it got worse in the dugout. Wash was all over me.

  “The hit and run was on, Danny!” he hissed. “Didn’t you see the sign?”

  I never looked for the sign. I was focused on saving the day all by myself.

  CHAPTER 12

  We were still tied, though, and when Zack doubled to right center we were a run up. And that’s how things stood when the Caps came up in the bottom of the ninth.

  Coach had Shotaro on the mound to close things out, and he started steady. Their first hitter grounded to short. The next guy struck out.

  Their third batter, though, just wouldn’t go out. The count had gone to 3–2 when he started fouling everything Shotaro had. And Shotaro wanted him bad, because the guy on deck was none other than Beast Bronsky. But after six fouls, Shotaro lost the battle. He threw a ball outside, and the Caps had the winning run at the plate.