by Todd Hafer
As he settled into his stance, Cody looked at Coach Lathrop, who was glowering at him from the dugout. Cody could read his coach’s expression like writing on the wall—“You better let Madison hit you, or I’ll hit you myself!”
Cody swallowed hard. God, he prayed silently, I’m way over my head here. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never disobeyed a coach’s orders in my life, but—
Cody’s prayer was interrupted by the next pitch, a scorching fastball right down the middle of the plate.
“Steee-rike!” the umpire called.
Cody shook his head in disgust. That’s Madman’s first decent pitch of this at bat, and yet I’m still one strike away from being out.
As he dug his cleats into the dirt, anchoring himself for the next pitch, Cody sensed that Madison would throw inside this time. He shot a glance at Coach Lathrop. His hands were on his hips, and he looked like he might march to home plate any minute and grind his stubborn center fielder into the dirt.
Cody wanted to pray again, but Madison was already well into his windup. With a gorilla grunt, Madison fired his next pitch. Cody saw the ball bearing down on him like a heat-seeking missile. Fighting his instincts to run away and sign up for summer tennis, he leaned forward, dipping his shoulder toward home plate.
The ball hit him below his left armpit, the blow spinning him halfway around. The site of the impact felt as if it had caught fire.
Man, Cody thought as he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, fighting back tears, how can a round ball give such a sharp pain? He felt his knees turning to gelatin, but he vowed not to go down. I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction, Madman. No way.
“Son,” the umpire was saying to him, “you may take your base, but are you okay? Want me to call your coach out here?”
Cody looked to the dugout. Coach Lathrop’s gotta know I’m hurting, he reasoned. Maybe he’ll send in a pinch runner. After all, he must have a heart somewhere in that barrel chest of his.
But all the coach did was glare at him—hairy arms crossed defiantly across his torso.
Cody inhaled carefully. His ribs felt like they would crack if he took in too much air. He prepared to speak, hoping his words wouldn’t come out as pathetic gasps.
“I’m fine, sir. Don’t need a coach, don’t need a trainer.”
“Okay,” the ump said, shaking his head. “Take your base, then. Batter up!”
Cody trotted to first. He could feel Madison’s eyes on him, so he fought the urge to wince with every stride.
Nelson greeted him when he arrived. “You okay, dude? That one looked like it left a mark. Man, Madison’s been throwing fire all year. But I think he’s getting stronger every game.”
Cody grimaced. “Just my luck.”
Alston stood at the plate, taking a few vicious practice cuts. He looks focused, Cody noted. If anybody can get a hit off Madman, it’s gotta be TA.
Three pitches later Cody shook his head sadly. Or maybe not, he thought. I gotta give Madman credit. I can’t even remember the last time I saw Alston whiff on three straight pitches!
As Pork Chop settled into his stance, Cody saw Coach Lathrop signaling something to Gage, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Madison’s first pitch was a low curveball, and Gage was off and running, right on cue.
He never had a chance. Owens popped up from his crouch and rocketed a perfect throw to third. Cody seized the opportunity and stole second, but the Lancers had erased the lead runner and accomplished out number two. At best, they’d view Cody’s steal as minor collateral damage—if Madman could get Pork Chop out.
Madison tried too hard on his next pitch, rocketing it into the dirt to Owens’ left. Owens managed to trap the ball under his chubby catcher’s mitt, but Cody easily took third base on the play.
As Cody stood on third, catching his breath, he saw Pork Chop step out of the batter’s box and look toward their coach. He couldn’t believe the signal Coach Lathrop had offered.
Cody felt a sense of dread descend on him like a fog. I can’t believe he’s callin’ for a suicide squeeze, he thought. Chop isn’t that good a bunter. He’s too impatient. And besides, he likes to swing away. On the other hand, if I manage to steal home, we can beat these guys, and Brett will have a no-hitter. But if something goes wrong, I know I’m gonna get blamed, somehow. And here I thought I escaped my chance to be the goat. Man, who was I kidding? Madison hasn’t lost a game all year. What made me think today would be any different?
Cody watched the Lincoln pitcher with grudging admiration. He was giving Chop his best sneer as he went into his stretch.
Cody laughed to himself. If you think you can intimidate Chop with that prune face, dude, you really are mad.
Chop squared his body on the next pitch, but somehow he missed the ball. “Stee-rike!” the umpire bellowed.
Cody resisted the urge to kick third base in disgust. Now Madison was on to the Rockies’ strategy. He was sure to avoid giving Chop a pitch he could bunt.
As Cody predicted, pitch number four was a chesthigh screamer that Chop backed away from as if it had fangs. The umpire called the pitch a strike, bringing groans of disbelief from the Rockies fans.
The groans turned to cheers on the next pitch, which Madison seemed to locate in the exact spot as the previous effort. Only this time the call from behind the plate was, “Ball!”
With the count at three and two, Owens called time-out and jogged to the mound to discuss strategy with his pitcher.
While the two Lancers powwowed, Chop turned to Cody, cocking his head slightly.
Cody nodded in return. I know exactly what you’re wondering, dude. Madison has to get this pitch in the strike zone, or he puts the fastest big man in the free world on base. So you just get a bunt in play, and yeah, I’ll sprint home for all I’m worth, ribs or no ribs.
Cody studied Madison’s face and saw something he’d never seen there before—concern.
Madison growled as he fired a low, hard fastball. It might have been called a ball, but Chop took no chances. He squared his body and executed a textbook bunt that crawled through the grass toward the pitcher’s mound. Cody, his heart jackhammering, dashed for home. Each stride brought a crushing pain down his side, but he didn’t care. I’ll cry tomorrow, he thought as he ran.
Owens was a good catcher. He tore off his mask and hustled for the ball. He secured it before it got halfway to the mound, then pivoted and raced Cody to home plate.
Cody tried not to think about how much more pain he was about to invite into his left side and dove headfirst, stretching his arms toward the plate. He heard himself cry out as he slid under Owens’ attempted tag. He looked up to see the umpire signal him safe before he closed his eyes, trying to shut out the agony. Amid all the din coming from the stands and the dugouts and the field, Pork Chop’s voice rang the loudest. “That’s my dawg!” he was shouting. “That is my dawg!”
As if assisting a person made of eggshells, Mr. McClintock helped Cody to his feet. “You okay?”
“My ribs,” Cody gasped. “Not good.”
As Cody lowered himself carefully onto the dugout bench, he felt Coach Lathrop hovering above him. He was smiling, for the first time in weeks. “That’s the way to do it, Martin,” he said, too loudly. “That’s the way to play ball for me.”
Cody looked up and offered a weak smile. I didn’t do it for you, he thought. I did it for Brett. For Murph. For my mom. Maybe even for me. But that wasn’t about you.
Meanwhile, Pork Chop had made it to first on the squeeze play, but he would go no farther. Madison struck out the next Rocky, and Cody found himself shaking his head in admiration. “The guy doesn’t lose his focus,” he whispered. “You gotta give him credit for that.”
As the Rockies prepared to take the field, Coach Lathrop was screaming, “No letdowns! No mistakes! Don’t you dare let this one get away. I want this so bad, I can taste it!”
Amid the rant, Cody saw Chop approach Brett and put his arm around him. “Just keep
throwing strikes, my brother. We got your back. We are gonna be a wall behind you.”
Coach Lathrop took Cody out of the game, shifting Alston to center and putting Terrance Dylan, who recently joined the team after recovering from a broken ankle, in right. “I don’t want you to risk injuring yourself,” the coach said to Cody. “We need to protect you, understand?”
Cody nodded. Yeah, now that you got what you wanted outta me, you’re all of a sudden concerned. Whatever.
He stood and moved to the front of the dugout to watch Brett battle for his first no-hitter. He knew he would have to talk to Blake about the proper attitude a fourteen-year-old is supposed to take when an adult is lying to him.
I don’t want to have a disrespectful attitude, he prayed as he watched Brett strike out batter number one, but I don’t respect liars, Lord, and I know you don’t, either. Does Coach really think I believe he cares about protecting me? I mean, how short does he think my memory is?
Nelson was up now, and Brett quickly got ahead of him, one ball and two strikes. Nelson popped up the next pitch in foul territory near third. Bart Evans waved everyone away frantically, screaming, “Mine! All mine!”
He secured the ball in his mitt, squeezing it so tightly that Cody thought it might disintegrate. Then Bart nodded at his brother and held up his forefinger and pinkie, signaling that the Rockies were one out away from the shutout.
Locke represented Lincoln’s last chance. He wasn’t a power hitter, but he almost always made contact. Cody stared into the outfield. Alston was playing him a bit shallow.
I think I’d play him a little deeper than that, he reasoned. But then again, I don’t have wheels like Alston.
Locke smacked Brett’s first offering toward left. Cody felt his fists clench. If that’s a fair ball, it’s extra bases, he thought to himself.
Cody saw Coach Lathrop spin 180 degrees and sit for a moment on the ground in front of the dugout when the third base umpire called the ball foul.
“Oh, man,” the coach moaned. “That was close. Too close. Brett’s getting tired.”
Cody wondered if he might consider a relief pitcher. He could move Bart over to pitcher without risking a mutiny from the Evans family. Maybe. But then he saw Brett throw his hardest fastball of the game. Locke couldn’t do anything but admire it as it whizzed by.
Cody chuckled to himself. Who am I kidding? I bet we couldn’t push Brett off that mound with a bulldozer.
On the next pitch, Brett tried to get Locke to bite on a fastball out of the strike zone, but he kept his bat still, shaking his head at Brett as the umpire called, “Ball!”
Now would be a good time for your curve, Cody urged silently. You haven’t thrown a hook since early in the game. Come on, Brett, cross him up. He’ll be sitting on your fastball.
Ten seconds later Cody’s intuition was proven correct.
Brett groaned as he brought the gas one more time. The pitch was belt-high as it crossed the outside of the plate, and Locke gave it a ride deep to center field.
For a moment silence engulfed the field. Then, as if someone had flicked on the world’s biggest TV, the place was buzzing with screams and shouts of expectation—or dread.
Alston half-turned and tracked the ball as it sailed toward the fence in straightaway center. Cody saw him stay focused on the ball’s arc, even as his feet hit the warning track. Then, as the ball headed down, Alston leaped so high that Cody thought he might rocket right out of his cleats.
“Man,” he heard himself say, “Alston’s going to be dunking in basketball next year, for sure!”
But for today, Alston was merely jumping at just the right angle to lean his body over the fence and snag Locke’s fly ball in the end of his webbing, robbing the Lancers of a sure home run.
Cody thought Alston might spike the ball or toss it into the air in celebration. After all, he was the biggest showboater in the state of Colorado. But instead he grabbed the ball from his mitt and, holding it out in front of him, sprinted directly toward Brett, who was embracing his brother on the pitcher’s mound, the two of them bouncing up and down as if they were on pogo sticks.
Alston got to the mound and offered the ball to Brett, patting the pitcher on the back, and Brett took the memento in both hands.
“Terry Alston,” Cody said to no one in particular, “there’s hope for you yet.”
Cody joined the postgame celebration on the pitcher’s mound, cringing every time a teammate clapped him on the back. It’s worth it, he kept telling himself. It’s so worth it.
After the jubilee he headed for the stands. His dad and Beth had shown up late in the second inning, but at least they made it. He couldn’t see them now, but he did spot Pork Chop’s two most significant others.
“Where’s my dad?” Cody asked Mr. Porter and Doug as he carefully made his way up the aluminum bleachers toward them.
Chop’s father chuckled and nudged his elder son, who started chuckling, too. “Last time I saw him,” Mr. Porter said, “he and Beth were behind the backstop, reading your coach the riot act.”
Cody tilted his head and frowned. “You gotta be kiddin’.”
“It’s true,” Doug affirmed. “They were gettin’ medieval on ol’ Coach Lathrop.”
“But…I don’t get it—”
“You might not be getting it,” Mr. Porter said, “but your coach sure is!”
Cody ran down the bleachers, taking them two rows at a time and “oofing” in pain with each step.
His dad and Beth flanked Coach Lathrop. Luke Martin had his arms folded over his chest, which Cody was sure he was puffing out to make it bigger than it really was. Beth was brandishing her index finger like a sword, right under the coach’s nose.
“Don’t you dare try to deny it, sir,” she was scolding him. “We have the word of several of Cody’s teammates. You were aware of his injury and you told him to lean into a fastball from maybe the hardest-throwing pitcher in the state. That is just wrong!”
“Look,” Coach Lathrop fired back, “don’t you tell me how to do my job. Who are you, anyway? You’re not the boy’s mom.”
Beth pulled her hand away from his face. For a moment Cody thought she was going to slap him. She seemed to be thinking about it. Finally she put her hands on her hips and said, “No, I’m not his mother, may God rest her soul. But I’m someone who cares about him, which is more than I can say for you.”
Before Coach Lathrop could retort, Cody’s dad chimed in. “Mr. Lathrop, this conversation is now over. We’ve shared our concerns with you—and we will also share them with the organizers of the league. Meanwhile, there is still a tournament to be completed. We will speak with Cody about whether or not he should continue playing. But if he is cleared to play, you will not put him in harm’s way again. Do you understand me on that?”
Coach Lathrop’s face flushed. He appeared on the verge of a tirade, but after several suspense-filled seconds, he simply nodded and walked briskly away.
A few of the other parents who had gathered to watch the confrontation nodded their approval and patted Luke Martin on the back.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Goddard’s father noted.
“Son,” Cody’s dad commanded when he saw him, “please get in the car. We’re taking you to the emergency room right away to have your ribs X-rayed. And next time, you must tell me when you’ve been injured. I shouldn’t have to hear it from Deke Porter after you’ve played a tournament game in such a condition.”
“Chop,” Cody muttered angrily to himself.
“You should thank him, not criticize him,” Beth said. “He was really worried about you. He’s a good friend. Besides, he didn’t want to tell us at first when we asked him why you were running like you were hurt, but we bribed him with a milk shake. Every man has his price, you know.”
“A milk shake, huh?” Cody said, smiling. “That sounds good.”
Cody’s dad offered him a grudging smile. “After the X-rays.”
Cody utte
red a deep sigh of relief when he heard the doctor’s verdict—“Just a bruised rib—nothing broken.”
Still, his dad held him out of the Saturday afternoon game, which the Rockies lost to the Plainsmen.
“Guess we just couldn’t win without the dawg out there,” Pork Chop said to Cody’s dad after the game. “But it’s all good. We beat Lincoln with Madison pitching. Brett got a no-hitter, for the first time in his life. I can almost die happy.”
That night, just before he surrendered to sleep, Cody heard a pack of dogs barking underneath his bedroom window. He tried to shake the drowsiness from his head as he swung his legs over his bed. He walked silently to the window and opened the blinds.
A yawn turned to a smile as he looked down and saw Pork Chop, the Evans twins, and Doug Porter—heads tilted toward him—howling and barking at full volume.
“Good game, dawg!” Pork Chop shouted. “Way to put yourself out there for the team! You’re crazier than I am! I’ve never, never seen anybody steal home before. That was fierce!”
“Thanks for the no-hitter,” Brett added. “I never coulda done it without you!” With that, the foursome turned and sprinted to Doug’s Camry. Doug left rubber in the Martin driveway before roaring away.
Cody slid carefully into his bed. He woke the next morning with a smile on his face. He wondered if it had been there all night.
He also woke up with a plan. He talked his dad into letting him play the final game of the tournament, which the Rockies entered without their head coach. Mr. McClintock had taken over, explaining to the team that Coach Lathrop decided it was “in the best interest of everyone involved” if he stepped aside.
The Rockies faced the Braves, who won a hardfought 8–5 victory. Cody went two-for-four from the plate, with two bunt singles down the third base line. Pork Chop homered in his last at bat, sending a Guzman fastball at least thirty feet beyond the center-field fence, where it almost hit a white poodle.
The loss eliminated Grant from the tournament, but no one seemed to mind. The Brett Evans no-hitter was the talk of the tournament.
