The Only Game

by Mike Lupica

  “It’s just that I feel like I’m learning baseball all over again.”

  “I’m not expecting you to be a great catcher,” Coach said. “You’re a good baseball player. Just be yourself.”

  “Yeah,” Gus said from first. “A slow runner and a slow thinker.”

  Hawk said, “Look who’s talking.”

  “Hey!” Gus said. “I am not a slow runner.”

  By the time practice was over, Hawk had shown some slight improvement. Coach called all his players around him.

  “Gonna repeat this one more time: Hawk is gonna be fine, and we’re gonna be fine. I know we lost Scott, and that’s a huge loss. But the last time I checked, we hadn’t lost a game in a long time.”

  Coach put out his hand. The Rays put their hands on top of it.

  “Anybody else want to add something?” he said.

  Jack was the one who spoke.

  “Beat the Rockies,” he said.

  Their opponent the next night.

  Then they were all jumping up and down, except for Scott, yelling, “Beat the Rockies!”

  One more time Jack wondered what people who weren’t a part of a team did to feel the way he did just then.

  • • •

  The Rockies had a 7–4 record, which meant they were only one game behind the Rays in the standings. Andre was starting for them. Coach had told him he might stretch him out to four innings if his pitch count was manageable, then go straight to Jerry York for the last two innings if they had the lead.

  They didn’t.

  A lot of it was because of Hawk.

  Not all of it, not even close. But this was one of those games when Andre struggled with his control, walking the first guy he faced in the top of the first. Jack had hoped they could avoid dealing with base runners in the first inning, for Hawk’s sake.

  The Rockies knew Scott was hurt even before they saw him on crutches. Every team with a shot at winning the Atlantic knew by now. So they didn’t waste any time testing Hawk. Their leadoff man, Brian McAuley, took off on the first pitch. Hawk came out of his crouch and came up throwing, but bounced the throw as badly as he’d been bouncing them in practice. T.W. looked like a hockey goalie, blocking the ball with his right leg so it wouldn’t go past him into centerfield and give Brian third base with nobody out.

  The pitch had been a ball. Brian took off from second on the very next pitch and would have stolen third easily, except that Andre hit the batter, Shemar Miller.

  First and second, nobody out.

  On the first pitch to their number three hitter, both Brian and Shemar took off on a pitch a foot outside. Hawk tried to make the shorter throw, to third. But the ball sailed over the head of Dan Neenan, in for Hawk at third, and rolled all the way into the leftfield corner. By the time the ball was back in the infield, both runners had scored. It was 2–0, Rockies, after just seven pitches, and nobody on the Rockies had put a bat on the ball yet.

  Their number three hitter, Max Kalfus, did put his bat on the next pitch Andre threw, hitting it over Jerry York’s head in right for a double. Then he stole third. He came home when an outside pitch that Hawk could have caught tipped off his glove and went behind him.

  It was 3–0. Andre collected himself and got three ground balls after that to finally end the inning.

  Hawk was talking to himself all the way to the bench. “I stink, I stink, I stink!” he said.

  “Not as bad as I do,” Andre said.

  Coach came over and put his arms around both of them. “Now even though I think this has the potential to be a lively debate about which one of you stinks more, how about you both stop feeling sorry for yourselves so we can all have some fun coming back on these suckers?”

  “Only the top of the first,” Jack said. “We’ve got all night to do it.”

  The game was a mess, lots of scoring, fun to play as long as you weren’t one of the guys pitching. Or if you weren’t Brett Hawkins, who really did look as if he were learning to play baseball all over again.

  Or maybe hadn’t learned in the first place.

  Andre gave way to Gregg Leonard after the second. Gregg didn’t pitch a lot in relief, but his dad trusted him because he was a strike thrower. But the Rockies were hitting strikes all over the ballpark tonight. So were the Rays. By the time Jerry York somehow managed to pitch a one-two-three inning in the top of the fifth, the Rockies were ahead 12–8.

  The Rays went down in order in the bottom of the inning. Jerry gave up a couple of hits in the top of the sixth, but finally stranded them on second and third. It was last ups for the Rays. The top of the order was leading off: T.W., Gregg, Jack, Gus after that if at least one guy got on.

  “I haven’t been in a game my team lost since last year,” Jack said to Gus.

  “So let’s do this.”

  T.W. beat out a bunt. Gregg singled to right. T.W. probably shouldn’t have been trying for third, down four runs, but their rightfielder couldn’t throw him out. Just like that, the Rays were in business.

  The Rockies’ closer was Steve Stewart. He was small but had a big arm, Jack knew from when they’d played a couple of weeks ago. And he was a hard thrower who had control. He was the same as Jack, then: a kid who actually knew how to throw strikes without throwing them over the middle of the plate.

  Jack had paid attention to the way he’d pitched to Gregg Leonard, trying to work him away, Gregg doing a great job of taking an outside strike to right.

  Steve tried to put his first pitch to Jack low and on the outside corner. And it was on the corner, all right. It just wasn’t low enough. It was up in what Gus had always called Jack’s “happy zone.” Jack Callahan was one of those guys who had as much power to the opposite field as he did pulling the ball, like Miguel Cabrera of the Tigers, somebody Jack thought was the best hitter in the world.

  Jack was all over it, hitting the ball as hard as any ball he’d hit this season. He knew it was gone before anybody at Highland Park did.

  As he ran toward first, he saw the Rockies’ rightfielder turn to chase the ball. Then he saw the kid come to a dead stop, knowing he was wasting his time. The rightfielder watched the ball disappear with ease over the fence. The home run made the score 12–11.

  They were still a run down. But nobody was out. Jack just gave Gus a quick high five on his way past him, not wanting to act as if he’d done anything other than make the game close.

  “Keep it going,” he said.

  “On it,” Gus said.

  Gus singled to left. Andre struck out. Jerry York singled to left. Gus stopped at second. He was the tying run, Jerry was the winning run.

  Hawk at the plate.

  Jack knew this happened all the time in sports and was happening now: Hawk was getting the chance to win the game after having done so much to lose it for the Rays.

  Steve Stewart came right at him, not trying to work the corners anymore. Hawk hit the ball on the nose. Right at their shortstop, who was moving to his left as the ball was hit. The shortstop fielded it cleanly, stepped on second, then threw to first for the double play that ended the game.

  The play was close at first, but Hawk was clearly out and knew it. They all did. Hawk stood about ten feet past the base, but staring at the field ump as if hoping he might change his mind. Finally he walked slowly back to the bench, head down, batting helmet in his hand. Jack got to him first and tried to console him, telling him he’d hit the ball on the nose. Then more of the Rays were around him, telling Hawk it was just one bad game. Telling him they’d bounce back on Thursday.

  But Hawk just wanted to sit at the end of their bench and be left alone.

  Before Jack walked over to where his parents were waiting for him, he saw Cassie. She’d come over to watch the end of the Rays-Rockies game after having already won her own.

  “You need a catcher,” she said.

  “I think I know one,” Jack said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  No,” Teddy said. “No way.”

 
“You can do this,” Jack said.

  They were in Jack’s backyard the next day after school. There was no official practice scheduled for either the Rays or the Orioles.

  But after Jack told Coach Leonard about Teddy, and how he thought Teddy was a good enough catcher to help him, Coach told Jack he was available to work out with Teddy on short notice.

  “You know I can’t promise him a spot on the team,” Coach had told Jack over the phone. “I’m not sure the league will even allow us to add a player who never tried out for the league this late in the season.”

  “Tell all the other coaches they can tell their players that it’s the kid they call Teddy Bear Madden,” Jack had said. “The guys will be begging for him to join our team.”

  But first Jack had to persuade Teddy to try out for Coach.

  “I’d rather go back to Small Falls than even think about playing for your team,” Teddy said.

  “We need a catcher. I told Coach you can catch better than anybody we’ve got.”

  “Forget about catching,” Teddy said. “I can’t play! It’s why I quit playing!”

  “If I didn’t think you could do it, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

  “You’re trying to win a championship,” Teddy said. “And I’m . . . I’m me. You’d be better off playing Scott on his broken ankle.”

  They were sitting in the grass, Jack’s Pedroia and Teddy’s mitt between them.

  “I’d do a lot for you, Jack. But not this. Uh-uh. Not happening.”

  “You’d be doing me a big favor if you’d at least try out.”

  “No, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m going to do you a big favor and not try out.”

  “What have you got to lose? Think of it that way.”

  “You know what I have to lose? Face. If I do this and fall on my face, I go right back to being the same joke to Gus and the guys that I always was.”

  He picked up his glove and stood up. “You can go ahead and cancel our workout.”

  “Wait,” Jack said.

  “I’m done talking about this,” Teddy said, looking past Jack, like he was looking for the fastest way back to the house.

  Jack moved slightly so he was standing in Teddy’s way, looking him in the eyes. “I’m asking you as a friend.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Already did. Only you and Coach and I will know. He said he’d meet us at the field at school. He’s got all of Scott’s catching gear in his car. If he looks at you and decides the whole thing is a big waste of time, then it’s no harm, no foul.”

  Teddy put his head down, then shook it slowly from side to side. “It’s easy enough for me to make a fool out of myself on my own. You and Cassie and Gus saw that at the Falls. I don’t need any help doing it.”

  “I’m the one asking for your help,” Jack said. “If you say yes, I’ll never ask again.”

  Teddy just stared back at him, his face telling Jack nothing. Then he said, “Yeah, you will. Ask for my help again. It’s what friends do.”

  “So you’ll do this?”

  Teddy nodded, then grinned.

  “One favor?”

  “Anything,” Jack said.

  “Call Coach and tell him to bring Scotty’s cup,” he said. He grinned again and said, “And you know what kind of cup I mean.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  When they got to the field, Teddy said he had to get something from his house before they started. When he came back, he was wearing new baseball spikes he’d never mentioned buying, and a red Cardinals cap.

  “Cardinals?” Jack said.

  “I watched a few games and like that Molina guy who catches for them.”

  “You like catchers now, huh?”

  “Shut up.”

  “You sound like Cassie.”

  “You’d be better off putting her on the team,” Teddy said.

  Coach showed up fifteen minutes later. He said to Teddy, “I hear Callahan has turned you into a ballplayer.”

  “He thinks he has.”

  “It’s all in the coaching,” Jack said.

  “See there,” Coach said, “that’s what I’m always trying to tell you and your teammates!” In a quieter voice he said to Teddy, “Are you sure you want to do this, son?”

  “I do,” Teddy said, then looked over at Jack and said, “No joke.”

  Coach pitched to Teddy first, throwing balls high and then in the dirt and then inside and outside, a lot more outside, wanting to see if Teddy could reach across his body and make backhand catches. Jack stood out near second and watched them, understanding as he did what it must be like to be Coach Leonard or any of the other coaches in the league, rooting for the kids on their team to do well.

  After about twenty pitches, Coach said he was going to change it up. He told Teddy that when he called out “Stealing!” he wanted him to come up throwing to Jack at second.

  The first time, Teddy threw the ball high and wide over Jack. He was trying to put too much on the ball. The second time he did the same.

  The third one, though, was perfect, right on the bag. Jack pretended that he was putting a tag on an imaginary runner. He saw Teddy smiling at him from the plate, mask in hand. He gave a small nod to Jack. Jack nodded back.

  About five minutes later, Teddy made another great throw, but Coach said, “Don’t move too early, even though there’s no batter. In a real game, if the guy had been swinging, he would’ve clipped you in the head.”

  “Sorry,” Teddy said.

  “Don’t apologize,” Coach said, talking to him like he was a real player already.

  “Just don’t do it again,” Coach Leonard said.

  Teddy didn’t. Before long Coach had moved Jack over to stand on first. Then he’d call out “Bunt!” every few pitches and roll the ball either toward the first-base side of the field or the third-base side. Teddy would come out of the box—maybe surprising Coach with his quickness—pounce on the ball, pick it up with his bare hand, and gun it to Jack.

  They took a break for some Gatorade. When they were ready to go, Coach asked Teddy if he was ready to hit. Teddy said he was. Coach asked if he had his own bat, and Teddy said he didn’t but that he was going to use Jack’s Easton. When Coach went back to his car for his bag of old practice balls, Jack said to Teddy, “You’re doing awesome.”

  “Let’s not get crazy here.”

  “Don’t try to kill the ball. Just meet it.”

  “Who’s the coach here, you or Mr. Leonard?”

  “Both.”

  Teddy went over to the bench and took off his shin guards and chest protector. Jack sat next to him.

  “Even if Coach wants me,” Teddy said, “you really think the guys on the team will?”

  “They want to win,” Jack said.

  When Coach came back with the balls, he told Jack to get out on the mound and pitch to Teddy.

  “Do not go easy on me,” Teddy said. “I mean it.”

  “I won’t.”

  Teddy was nervous at first, even more nervous than he’d been behind the plate. He missed the first few balls badly, swinging whether they were strikes or not. And overswinging. Jack wasn’t throwing his hardest; he never did that at practice. But he wasn’t babying the ball either.

  Finally Teddy hit a hard grounder to the left side of the infield. Then a clean single to right. Then he got quick and overanxious again, dropping his right shoulder, popping up a couple of very hittable pitches.

  Coach stopped them then. He pointed to Jack and said, “Your personal coach here ever tell you to wait on the ball?”

  “All the time.”

  “So wait on the ball.”

  Jack knew there were times in baseball, a lot of times, when that was easier said than done. So Teddy swung through a couple more pitches. Fouled a couple back.

  Finally, though, he waited. Kept his hands back and his weight back and his head on the ball and drilled a pretty decent Jack Callahan fastball to the bottom of the rightfield wall.

  Jac
k didn’t say anything, just turned and grabbed another ball out of the bag. As he did, he smiled at Coach, who was standing on second base.

  Coach smiled back.

  Then he yelled in to Teddy, “Next time you hit one like that, run it out.”

  Three pitches later he jumped on a ball on the inside half of the plate, lined it over third base, and took off for first.

  The chance to make the Rays hadn’t suddenly turned him into a sprinter. He really wasn’t all that much faster than he’d been the first time Jack had worked him out.

  But as Jack watched him make the turn at first and head for second, watched Teddy Madden moving as well as he’d ever seen him, he thought, If you didn’t know, you’d just think he was running like a catcher.

  A real one.

  When he got to second, Coach held him up and then high-fived him.

  “We’re done here,” he said.

  Jack walked out to them. He and Teddy waited until Coach Leonard said, “I have absolutely no idea what our board members are going to say about this crazy idea of ours. But if they say it’s all right, you can play for me anytime, kid.”

  Now he put out his hand for Teddy to shake it.

  The three of them scattered to go pick up balls. When they finished with that, Teddy said he had to go. He and his mom were going to Lewisboro to have dinner with his aunt.

  “You did good,” Coach said.

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  “If I hear something tonight, I’ll call you, or Jack will.”

  Teddy ran for his house as hard as he’d just run the bases.

  “Interesting kid,” Coach said to Jack.

  As they walked to the parking lot, Jack told him just how interesting he thought Teddy was, starting with the day they’d first started to become friends at gym class, all the way to Teddy freezing at the bridge.

  “It would be good for us if they let him play, Coach,” Jack said. “But it would be great for him.”

  Coach told him to keep his phone on.

  Two hours later he called and said, “Call your buddy and tell him he made the team.”