Bobby was careful with Schroeder, working the corners for anything Five-by-Five would give him. Making good location pitches with his curve and slider, he finally worked the count full and hoped his fastball was up to speed again. It wasn’t. But it had enough movement on it to draw an easy pop fly that Cagle glided under in left center.
Hockbarry stepped to the plate. He hits outside fastballs, Bobby reminded himself.
Bobby’s mind was always racing on the mound. He carried on a silent dialogue with himself while pitching. The fans saw Bobby hitch his shoulders several times in a peculiar manner. The few who gave it any thought wrote it off as another crazy pitching ritual. What Bobby was doing was hiccupping. Inside his head, he said, “Hickenberry, hic, hic,” and jerked his shoulders.
Chozen signaled fastball, low outside corner; fastball, low inside corner; and fastball so low a midget couldn’t hit it. Bobby threw the first two for strikes but waved off the last. He wanted to let go with another rising fastball high in the strike zone. He wanted to go to Little Rock again.
Chozen gave him the ticket, and the ball was in Chozen’s glove by the time the batter started his swing.
There is no feeling like that, Bobby said to himself, his eyes tearing up as a chill tightened his scalp.
He loved the feeling of the explosive force racing from the toe of his plant foot up his leg and through his torso, then down his arm as it whipped around. All that remained was the lazy follow-through of his trail leg coming alongside him of its own will, like a stranger sidling up next to him at a bus stop.
Bobby received the ball from Chozen and gripped it in his left hand, squeezing it as tight as a lover. He turned to make his short journey up the hill and raised his glove to cover his mouth. He had to laugh, but it was not in his nature to show anybody up, so he coughed into his glove to mask his boiling-over laughter.
What happened to him when he threw the Little Rock Express, as he had already labeled the returned lover, had nothing to do with anyone else—not the batter he threw it by, not Chozen who caught it, nor the fans who could never know the explosive pop of that broken speed barrier.
Bobby’s heart felt like it did when he saw an attractive woman and she returned the look and he knew they would be together before the night was over. He turned toward Chozen and saw the absurd Sadaris shaking his bat like he was King Kong. Bobby could not keep his head from wagging side to side as his mind said, You silly little fake wannabe weasel nobody.
Bobby threw him three straight fastballs, literally praying before each windup that he could visit Little Rock one more time, one more time, one more time.
The first was just a regular fastball, but it was way more than Sadaris could handle. The second fastball took Bobby to Little Rock. Sadaris swung at it like a Girl Scout with a broken arm. He couldn’t believe he was this lucky, not after five years, and he wondered how long the Express would stay with him. His mind said, Not long enough, so I’m gonna throw it every chance I get and I don’t give a rat’s ass whether someone catches up to it and hits it to Pocatello, Idaho, because it feels like Bill coming home when I thought we had lost him, his name right there in black and white under “Presumed Dead.”
He stalled for as long as he could before the next pitch, trying to let his arm recharge. He played with the rosin bag for a while, then worked the mound into shape, using his front cleats like a hoe, then bending over and grooming the dirt with his hand, which he never did, but he wanted that feeling just one more time before his arm tired, and he could already feel it running out of gas.
The third was another Little Rock fastball, but it sailed over Chozen’s head, out of reach by three feet. The baseball was still rising when it hit high on the backstop, where it stuck in the fencing. Nothing could have made Bobby happier than the wild pitch because it gave him a chance to laugh out loud—loud and long. The fans and the players, his teammates and opponents, thought he was laughing at himself. They laughed along with him and that was fine with him.
He composed himself while rubbing up the new ball. Before he turned around, he knew what he was going to do. Sadaris looked pathetic. “Pitiful,” Bobby said to himself, “shaking like a boy who broke his father’s pocketknife throwing at a tree, waiting for the old man to come home. Well, here comes the old man.”
Bobby rocked back, raised both hands over his head, gave a ferocious high-leg kick, and threw Sadaris the most frightening changeup he would ever see. By the time Sadaris had finished his mighty swing, the ball was just arriving.
Walking off the mound, Bobby couldn’t keep himself from laughing, but he had the grace not to look at Sadaris, and his glove covered up everything but his nearly closed, twinkling eyes.
Keith Wiseman went quickly through the bottom of the Lunkers’ order, and Bobby was back on the mound where he wanted to be. He wanted to be there for two reasons. One was the Little Rock fastball. The other was Wiseman. Bobby wanted to make sure Wiseman would never intentionally hit or hurt him or any other Lunker for the rest of the season. He was still warm from the previous inning and decided to open with the Little Rock Express.
The first one came into the station right under Wiseman’s chin. As a pitcher himself, Wiseman knew the throw could have been intentional. Or the result of late-inning wildness. The next pitch zipped behind his knees, folding him like an accordion in the dust.
Bobby threw the third fastball for a knee-high strike over the inside black of the plate. Bobby fought back a grin, not because God had given him another Little Rock fastball but because Five-by-Five had given him the call.
Wiseman tried to salvage what he could of his dignity by choking up. He had seen Sadaris and didn’t want to look like that fool even if, as a pitcher, not much was expected of him at the plate. Smiling inside, Bobby said to himself, “Wiseman, standing that far back in the box, you couldn’t reach this next pitch with a bedpost.”
Bobby threw another Express on the outside corner. Five-by-Five didn’t have to give him that one because Wiseman swiped at it like a toddler taking his first lick with a plastic bat.
Bobby was having so much fun he had forgotten the count. He looked at the umpire with a questioning movement of his head. Five-by-Five held up a pair of deuces and Bobby smiled inside. He tried to throw another Little Rock fastball at Wiseman’s chin, but it sailed high and wide and Bobby knew he would not see Little Rock again until his next outing.
The count was 3-and-2. Both pitchers knew Bobby had to deliver, but only one knew he didn’t have the hard fastball. When Wiseman saw the white bullet coming right at his head, he bailed out like a storm trooper from a burning bomber, and the ball curved in for strike three.
Bobby let the momentum of his follow-through carry him off the mound and toward home in one unbroken movement. As Bobby took the short throw from Chozen, he made sure Wiseman caught his eye. When he did, Bobby nodded once. End of discussion.
Bobby made easy work of the number-nine batter, using him to check his changeup because he would need it in the final two innings.
The Roughnecks’ leadoff man, Duke Spencer, was up next. When the count was 1-and-2, Chozen called for a slider. Bobby thought, “You read my mind.” If Five-by-Five wouldn’t give him the call, he figured there was no harm done.
He threw it. The umpire hesitated for a split second, then called strike three.
Duke Spencer came unglued. He screamed at the umpire, accusing him of changing the strike zone he had established early in the game. The ump let him wind down, then said, “Strike zone’s the same for every batter, every time.” Spencer said something no one could hear because the players were running onto or off the field. The umpire pulled a notepad out of his back pocket. “It might be a good idea to take your position.”
When Bobby retreated to his usual place near the back of the dugout, a quartet composed of Lamb Daniels, Scoop, Bill, and Big Chief Cagle was crooning a low chorus.
Mister Five-by-Five,
Got fifteen chins and a line o
f jive.
He’s a mellow old cat, a real hep fat,
He be Mister Five-by-Five.
Bobby was tired and a bit worried about the next inning, but he couldn’t resist. In his best Harry Chozen voice, he said, “All right. You boys cut that stuff out. You know that kind of talk always comes back on you.” The quartet responded by fading on the chorus.
He don’t measure no mo’ from head to toe
Than he do from side to side, from side to side, from side to side….
Near the end of the inning, the Lake Charles Lunkers had two ducks on the pond. The one on first was quacking with Chuck Key-9, the gabby Indian and crafty veteran. Lulled into a false sense of security, the runner stepped off the bag as the pitcher approached the rubber. The Indian pulled the hidden-ball trick and shot down the sitting duck for the third out.
Back in the dugout, remembering what their manager had said about leaving too many ducks on the pond, the players silently prepared to take the field. They didn’t say anything to Chozen. What could they have said to the sitting duck that had just been mortally wounded?
After the long half inning, Bobby’s rested arm struck out Key-9. Then Schroeder worked him for a deep count and he walked him on a fastball that got away. Hockbarry singled. Somebody he had never seen replaced Sadaris. He didn’t look like much. A skinny kid on his way up. Bobby served him a curve that he grounded to short. Scoop threw to third for the fielder’s choice.
The next batter was a left-hander. The loudspeaker squawked a name Bobby couldn’t make out. Hailing from a squawkish Major League team, Squawky Squawkson was rehabbing an injury to his right squawk. Bobby threw a fastball he fouled off. He thought he’d try to back him up with a slider and hope for a called strike. The batter swung. The slider still had enough hiccup to earn Bobby a routine groundball putout. The ball went by him and, as he started for the dugout, he watched his brother at second. The ball hit a bad spot and Bill booted it into right field.
Everything shifted into fast motion. The runner on second was almost to third. Bobby ran home to back up Chozen. Nettles threw a strike to the relay man, and Scoop whirled and fired home. Five-by-Five was positioned to make the call, but the throw went wide and the ump had to skip over Chozen’s hands as he lunged for the ball. The umpire turned to watch Bobby field the ball and charge the plate. Off balance, Five-by-Five jumped back to avoid Bobby and almost fell into the runner, who slid around him just as Bobby made a dive for the plate. The umpire flung his arms out to keep his balance and called the runner safe. The score was tied, 1-1.
Mr. Five-by-Five was the only man standing in the rising cloud of dust. Chozen started his argument from the ground and continued it in the umpire’s face. Five-by-Five performed a little dance step that swung Chozen around to shield his protest from the crowd. At a pause, the umpire said, calmly, “Mr. Chozen, this is a good, close game that just got closer. Now why don’t we resume play and see how it turns out?”
With men on the corners, Bobby trudged back onto the mound. He wanted to save his arm for the ninth. He remembered throwing fourteen innings in a Laredo dust storm the previous year and Tycer getting the victory because he relieved him with the score tied.
Bobby thought about pitching from the stretch, but he was more effective with a regular windup. He decided he would rather stay comfortable, focus on the batter, and give the runner second.
Chozen signaled fastball, and Bobby shook it off. Chozen rolled through 4, 2, 3, then back to 1. Bobby waved off all of them. Chozen paused for a second and flared out five fingers. Bobby looked at the sign, then leaned over and squinted to make sure he was seeing it right. He remembered he had another pitch in Little Rock, a screwball, but he hadn’t thrown it in five years. Trying it now might yank his elbow out of socket. He had messed with a knuckleball in high school, but dropped it because it threw off his other pitches.
Bobby was frozen on the mound.
Having no idea what to do, he looked over Chozen’s shoulder into the grandstands. On the top row, a lone boy was pointing, shielding the secret sign with his palm. Throw to first. Instantly, Bobby knew he was right. He turned and fired, picking off the runner who had already taken for granted that second was his gift.
Bobby stepped off one battlefield onto another. He was batting first in the top of the ninth. As he was selecting a bat, Bill slapped him softly and said, “Sorry about the error.”
“It’s only on a scorecard,” Bobby said. “It’s not like it’s a war.”
It was an old exchange and the two made it without looking at each other. As Bill turned away, Bobby heard him singing just below Harry Chozen’s radar.
That man (my, my!)
Can really jump it for a fat man.
Bobby couldn’t remember the next words and paused on the threshold of the dugout to listen.
Boys, the trouble is there’s no way of knowin’
Whether he’s comin’ on . . . or goin’.
Bobby smiled and stepped onto the field. It was his first at-bat since he had taken Wiseman to school for knocking him down. A Major League pitcher would have retaliated, but Bobby had evened the score and knew Wiseman didn’t have the gumption to hit him and then face him again.
Bobby worked him hard, fouling off three pitches before finally walking. Zig Emory was up next and he was streaky. He hadn’t gotten a hit tonight, so Bobby thought he had better not count on him. Bobby carefully watched Wiseman’s southpaw motion. On the third pitch, he watched the catcher. Bobby figured he couldn’t have much of an arm or he’d be in Triple-A. Plus, this late in the game, his legs would feel like lead. Just as Wiseman started his motion toward home, Bobby put his head down and drove for second. He slid and let his speed hitting the bag stand him up. He beat the throw by two steps.
Ziggy was walking to the dugout with his head down, so Bobby knew he had struck out.
The speaker squawked out Bill German’s name. Second baseman. Throws right, bats left.
Bobby looked over at Schroeder, the Roughnecks’ second baseman. He was shading towards first for the left-handed hitter. “Come on,” he said to himself to Bill. “I’ve seen you do this umpteen dozen times.” Then he recited what they had been saying to each other since Little League. “You’re good. But you ain’t that good. But you’re good enough.”
Bill waited for his pitch and drove it into right. Bobby rounded third glancing at first. The throw wasn’t there yet but it was on its way. The ball reached home just before Bobby and he tried to slide outside the tag. He was about to sweep the plate with his left hand but saw the catcher’s mitt swinging around so he pulled it back and as he went by the plate he reached in with his right and touched home.
Chozen sent Hardie Nettles in to pinch hit and Nettles made contact with a ball no one else would have swung at. It produced one of those incredibly high pop flies that make Double-A outfielders stagger around like drunks and make scouts draw lines through their names. But this drunk caught it. Now all Bobby had to do was preserve his one-run lead for three more outs.
C. O. Blanden, the Roughnecks’ potbellied third baseman, carried a telephone pole to the plate and Bobby made a fool out of him with two curves and a fastball.
Next, he threw two fastballs to Spencer before he caught up with the third and fouled it into the stands. Chozen signaled changeup and Spencer drove it hard just outside the third-base line. Chozen indicated curve. Bobby threw it in the dirt. Suddenly, Bobby felt the sand in his uniform from sliding into home. The grit reminded him that he deserved this win, but it also felt like ants were marching across his skin. He plucked at the uniform.
Some toddlers wear down slowly, fuss awhile, and are helped to bed. Others tire quickly and fall asleep while eating, their mouths still chewing an imaginary morsel. Bobby was a pitcher of the latter sort. One pitch was effective, the next headed for the moon.
Chozen signed for a slider and Bobby shook it off. When the changeup left his hand, he knew it was a mistake. The next time he saw the
ball, it was shrinking against the blackness above the left-field lights. Charlie Harper was almost to the fence when the ball hit and bounced over for a ground-rule double.
Bobby felt like a man who had been told he was going to be shot and only got stabbed. It was a wound, but it wasn’t mortal. He banged his heel on the mound. His shoe didn’t feel tight, but it felt good to bang his heel on the packed dirt.
He hated pitching from a stretch. He leaned over and looked for the sign. Fastball. He waved it off. Chozen ran through the changeup, the curve, the slider, and came back to the fastball. Bobby couldn’t believe four pitches was all he had. He squeezed his eyelids tightly shut, then opened them for a second look. Nothing had changed. He threw the fastball. The batter was late but managed a right-field single that moved Spencer to third.
Chozen called timeout and jogged to the mound.
“You tired, Bobby?”
Switch Pitchers Page 10
