by John Ritter
Or maybe not.
Billee would go on to face seven more batters that inning. He would retire none. The whistles and cheers came no more. After the third walk of the inning, two with the bases loaded, Billee was gone.
What happened? thought Stats. Everything was supposed to be so perfect after such an amazing night. Was it just too soon to expect anything to have changed? Or, worse yet, could it have all been for nothing?
While watching reliever Kurt Pfenning chill the White Sox, fanning his first hitter and getting ahead on the next guy, Stats noticed the pitcher casually rotate his right shoe a few times, as if loosening his ankle.
After two more pitches, Coach Stallings jumped out onto the field, asked for time, and conferenced with Pfenning. Immediately, the coach waved for the trainer.
Pfenning would not throw another pitch.
“What happened?” asked Stats.
“He landed wrong,” said Mark. “It was four pitches ago. I remember seeing him hop a little after throwing a changeup. Didn’t seem right.”
It wasn’t. Pfenning left the game, and the carnage resumed.
What followed was a long game, as the Red Sox went through five pitchers on the night. What followed for Stats and Mark was a long, quiet bus ride home. Mark was eager to get to bed. Stats was eager to get free of a weird feeling that had crept into his mind. Before he turned out the light, Stats checked a few of the blogs, just to see how Red Sox Nation was reacting.
Most were convinced that Billee needed to be sent down to Pawtucket to work out his kinks. No, thought Stats. Don’t send him away. We need him. Some fans argued for a bull pen stay, letting Billee pitch only in the middle innings of games that didn’t matter. A mop-up guy. And those were the friendly ones.
In the morning, Stats checked again. He had awoken with the same feeling he had retired with. That Billee was going away. And he was right.
The Sox were sending Billee to Pawtucket for a “rehabilitative” stay. Stats knew what that meant. If he could not regain his form, he would be gone. Out of baseball. History.
He realized then, it had all been for nothing.
CHAPTER 33
“Hey there, good to see you, Mr. Lucchesi,” said Pops as he spotted the Boston Red Sox president the next day approaching the stand. “Step right on over here. I’ll give you personal service.”
Mr. Lucchesi, thought Stats. Maybe I can find out what his plans are for Billee. What if the Sox don’t ever want him back? Were they thinking about trading him to another club?
“That’s what I like about this place, Pops. Plenty of personal service by the family who knows what they’re doing.”
“Been doing it so long, the chili dogs are starting to follow us home.” He barked out a laugh and tapped the grill to clean his tongs. “What can I do for you?”
“I wonder if I could speak to Freddy for a minute.”
“Absolutely.” He turned. “Alfredo, Mr. Lucchesi wants a word.”
Stats had heard the whole thing, but had only just then looked up, pretending to be quite busy. “Sure, be right there.” He gave the chili kettle another stir.
Pops winked at the Red Sox chief exec. “Can’t rush magic, eh?”
The club president understood completely. “I haven’t been able to yet, Pops.”
Stats wiped his hands on his apron and stepped over behind Pops at his station. “Hello, sir.”
“Hello, Freddy. I want to ask you something. The video production people thought it might be fun for you to give your little speech during a game instead of taping it ahead of time. What do you think?”
Stats shrugged. “I don’t know. Might not be as good if I don’t get a chance to rehearse it in front of the cameras a few times first.”
“Well, that’s part of the idea. We don’t want a slick production from you. You’re the fan of the future. You love the game. You’re loyal. Your family has a long history of being associated with Fenway Park. We thought it might be nice if you told us what you like about being here. No rigmarole. No script. Just something short and sweet from a true young fan. What do you say?”
“I like the ‘short’ part.”
The man laughed. “Don’t blame you. Twenty, thirty seconds tops. We think you’ll be great. Half the crowd knows you and your family anyway from all the years you’ve been down here. It’ll be a real treat for everybody.”
Oh, man, thought Stats. If only he knew those days may soon be over, that Pops is on the verge of selling the stand, just so we can afford to pay our bills. Still, Stats had to try. Billee would want him to.
“Okay, I can probably do that.”
“Super.” He rubbed his hands together. “What about tomorrow night? With the Yankees in town, it’ll be a good crowd. Saturdays, we usually get a lot of kids coming out.”
“Sure, I guess.”
Tomorrow! During the Yankees series? With Billee in Pawtucket?
But what could he say? “Uh, could I ask one thing? How long do you think Billee will be gone?”
Mr. Lucchesi scratched at the gray stubble on his jawline. “Can’t say, Freddy. I want him back up here as much as anyone. We’ll give him a few starts in Paw and see how it goes.”
Stats nodded. “Hope it goes good.”
“As do I.” He stepped back. “Okay, all set?”
Stats gave another nod.
“Super, super.” He turned. “Pops, a star is born. The kid’s a natural.”
“He’s a bright boy,” said Pops. “He’ll do all right by you.”
The man thanked Stats and Pops and left.
“You think so, Pops?” he asked.
“Of course. You’re gonna knock ’em out. You’ll be terrific.”
“No, I mean what you said about being bright.”
Pops gentled his eyes. “Ah, Alfredo. You’re the brains of this whole family.” He spoke louder. “You’re so brilliant you make us all shine just hanging around you. Ain’t that right, Markangelo?”
Mark turned from the customer he was helping to shout out one of his plays on words. “You got that bright!” He went back to work.
And that was that.
All Stats and his bright brain had to worry about now was thinking up something brilliant to say.
Stats decided to study the Fen-Cent message delivered during Friday night’s game, looking for clues. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a “slick production”—just the opposite of what he would do.
Two Boston singers, Kay Hanley, dressed in old-fashioned dance hall clothes from the 1920s, and Amanda Palmer, dressed basically in old-fashioned underwear, teamed up to perform their Red Sox tribute called “The Knights of Fenway.”
Every night the Knights of Fenway
Segue into my soul
Every night they tend to send me
Someplace outside control
My all-time heroes are a couple of Bill-os
Who remind myself of me
One of them’s named Buckner
The other one’s name is Lee
Mark could not tear his eyes away. It was fancy. It was dancey. “See, Freddy, that’s all you gotta do.”
“Wear skimpy clothes and shake a lot?”
“No, just talk from your heart. Personal stuff. How much you like coming to the park, hanging out with Billee Orbitt, snagging foul balls during the game.”
“You always get the foul balls. I’ve never caught one.”
“Yeah, but you’re excited when I glove it, aren’t you? And tell ’em how you always keep score. People eat that stuff up.”
“Really?” That sparked an idea. “Maybe they’d let me announce one batter’s entire at bat, pitch by pitch. That would be awesome.”
“That won’t happen. But look at it this way. Your whole message will be a baseball broadcast. It’s like a dream come true, Stat Man.”
Stats smiled at Mark. No one but Billee had ever called him that. But now Billee was gone.
On one point, however, Mark was right. It was
a chance in a lifetime to speak to the crowd at Fenway. Even for twenty seconds.
But what in the world was he going to say?
CHAPTER 34
At least there existed one aspect of Stats’s life where good news prevailed. It was the only bit of hope he had to hold on to, that maybe something in his life might turn out all right. As of today, Saturday, June 23, 2012, out of all YMBL shortstops in North America, Mark Pagano’s numbers were the best. Only one game to go.
“Congrats, dude,” said Jacky as Mark and Stats arrived in Stonybrook for the ten o’clock game.
“Way to go, Mark.” Sully Frankson slapped his hand.
The congratulations came from everyone on the team, leaving Mark a little out of sync and the last one ready to take the field for warm-ups. As he hurried to lace up his cleats, Coach Carrigan sat down alongside him on the bench. Stats rustled through some pages and pretended not to be listening.
“I’ve seen all the numbers, Mark,” the coach said. “Looks like you’re a shoo-in for this thing. Chance of a lifetime.”
“I know. It’s hard to believe.”
“How do you feel?”
“Good, good. A little nervous about it, but good.”
“Yeah.” The coach let the word hang there a moment before adding, “I was thinking, why don’t you enjoy the feeling a little and sit this one out?”
“What do you mean?” asked Mark.
“Well, there’s still today. What if you get a few bad hops out there? What if you go oh-for-four? The thing is, there’s no one else for you to catch. You can only go downhill from here.”
Stats bent over the scorebook, coughing softly to kick-start his heart.
Coach Carrigan shook Mark’s knee. “Take a breather. That way, you’re in for sure.”
“I could do that? I mean, just not play?”
“This game doesn’t mean anything. We’re in first place. The Stallions are in fourth. The only difference today’s game might make is to slide you backward. You could lose your spot. Am I right, Stats?”
Stats pretended to be caught by surprise, taking a moment to glance up. Then he slid down the bench with his nose in the scorebook. “Well, technically, I guess. One error in the field would drop him to .995. Same as this other guy.” He pointed to a name. “Two errors would not be good at all. That would let a couple of better hitters gain ground in fielding, and they could close in if they have good days at the plate. But if Mark even goes one-for-three, one error wouldn’t matter too much. Overall, he’d still be ahead. Unless, like I say, one of these guys has a great day, and Mark has a really bad one.”
Mark sniffed a sharp breath and gazed out toward center field. His lips undulated as he pondered the matter. Then they tightened, and he hawked out a load of spit toward the chalk line.
“What if I go one-for-four?”
Stats calculated. “If you do that and this guy in L.A. goes three-for-four, he’d edge you out by a couple of points.”
“Up to you,” said Coach Carrigan. “But you pretty much got a sure thing here. Rather sit down, breathe easy?”
“Okay, I see what you mean.” Mark huffed out a short burst through his nostrils. He finished tying his second shoe. Slowly, softly, as if calculating, he said, “Sit down, huh?”
He pushed his lips forward, then sat back. “Coach, the thing is this. If those guys are playing, I’m playing. All there is to it.” He rose without giving the man another glance and started walking toward the ballfield. “Sit down, my butt.”
Stats did not move, letting Mark’s choice weigh in. He still had a great chance, but if he was going to play, he would no longer be a sure thing. Somehow, though, Stats was not surprised. After all, Mark was a ballplayer. And that’s what they do—play ball.
He watched number nine jog onto the field to join his team.
“Keep him in the lineup, Stats.” The coach stood up. “Geez, I hope he doesn’t regret this.”
It was a hope Stats shared as well. Even so, he had never in his life held more admiration for his brother than at that moment.
Next, he repeated in his mind the last thing Mark had said. Sit down, my butt.
Stats grinned and stretched his legs out, getting comfortable on the dark green bench. Mark might have meant that as a joke, but as far as Stats was concerned, those were words to live by.
Mark’s first home run of the day went to left. His second, though, was an oppo-field beaut, clearing the fence in the right-center gap by five feet. A real power blast. He was having no trouble at the plate that day.
The trouble was in the field.
In the third inning, he charged a red-hot skimmer to his left, which caught the heel of his glove and shot straight up and over his shoulder into center field.
Too hot to handle? Stats thought so. But to be sure, he went to check with Mr. Scorggins, the official scorekeeper, between innings. It was declared an error. With a shaky hand, Stats recorded an E-6 into his book.
Immediately, he checked with the Stat Pack. Since most of the meaningful games were farther west that day, there were no new reports. But for some strange reason, there was a new name.
“What the heck?” Stats shook his eXfyle, then reloaded the page. Same results.
On the top of the list of fielding percentages in the shortstop category, there was another guy with a one thousand mark.
“Who’s this Tony Welzer?” asked Stats, echoing his text to the Pack. “Where did he come from?” It had to be some kind of mistake. It would be impossible for another player to gain perfect status.
Soon enough he had his answer. The kid had been in the second-base category until game time. Having split his defensive duties between short, second, and third, he had only today recorded more innings at shortstop than at any other spot. Thus, he now qualified in Mark’s category.
“Oh, great.” Should I tell Mark? he wondered. Would he want to know? Or would it cause him to press too hard? He’s already made one error.
For the moment, Stats kept the info to himself.
Mr. 2B/3B/SS was one-for-two so far. And based on having a lower number of at bats, the guy, Welzer, could actually pass Mark’s average if he got another hit.
When Mark flew out to center his third time up, he fell perilously close to the guy in batting average. With another hit, Tony Welzer could climb to the top of the list of shortstops—in both categories.
A shadow passed over the scorebook. It was Mark’s.
“Why’re you looking so worried, Freddy? What’s going on?”
Stats squinted up at his brother. He could not lie. “Another guy just passed you. At least, he’s ahead in fielding and just a few points away in hitting.”
“What? You kidding me?” Mark shook his head. “Geez, somebody’s having a good day.”
That was all talk, and Stats knew it. Mark was doing his utmost to stay loose, treating the news lightly, trying to stay focused.
If only, thought Stats, Mark had just taken Coach Carrigan’s advice and had sat this one out. He’d still be perfect in the field.
“Forget about it, Freddy,” said Mark. “Seriously. Don’t tell me anything else about my situation. I just want to play my game.” He strode off.
Welzer’s game was moving along faster than Mark’s. He was soon two-for-three and had moved in front of Mark in hitting by one point.
It’s slipping away, Stats realized. Mark’s chance to play at Fenway, to represent America—the spot he owned going into this game—was slowly slipping away.
In Mark’s final at bat, he walked. Normally this would not be a bad thing. But today nothing was normal. With the walk, Mark’s average froze. That would have been fine if he were still in the lead. But he wasn’t. He was still two-for-three on the day and he had needed to gain ground if he were to have even one sliver of a chance.
Then the news got worse. Tony Welzer was now three-for-four, no doubt riding a wave of adrenaline, Stats figured. He sat four points in front of Mark. Four points. That
was like a million light-years ahead.
Uncatchable. By anyone.
In the bottom of the seventh, the final inning, Mark stood at shortstop pawing the earth. Could he possibly know what had happened? Had he felt the vibe of sadness that radiated from Stats?
All Mark’s team needed were three outs and they would win the game 4–2, but Stats barely felt like watching.
The first batter walked.
“Double play, Mark!” shouted Coach Carrigan from the dugout. “Let’s get two right here.”
At this point, if not for the scorebook on his lap, Stats would hardly have known he was at a baseball game. But a sad cloud hovering nearby kept reminding him. He was at the worst baseball game he had ever witnessed.
The next guy doubled, but was tagged out by Mark after he got caught in a rundown between second and third.
Though one run came in, the play had emptied the bases and essentially killed whatever rally might have been brewing. One down, two to go.
Nice job, Monty, thought Stats. Way to pitch yourself out of a jam.
When he walked the next batter, Mark started yelling. “Let’s bear down, Monty! Get this next guy, right here. Come on now.” He shouted across to Jonny Peskovich at second. “Let’s turn two, Pesko. Get this game over with.”
Monty bore down. And he plunked the next batter in the ribs with a fastball.
Stats didn’t even record the play. So Monty falls apart? So Back Bay loses? Something horrible had already happened, and Stats was the only one who knew about it.
He watched with drained emotions as the next hitter bounced a chopper over the mound. Mark had shaded the guy toward the middle, double-play depth, so he was in a good spot, but had to backpedal to reach the high hopper. He grabbed it with his glove hand. At second, Pesko had also broken for the ball, then gave way to Mark and ran behind him.
In a case like this, the pitcher should’ve covered second, but Monty decided to be a spectator, so no one was there to take Mark’s throw. All he could do was race to the bag. It was the only play Mark had, and he got there just before the runner slid in.
