by David Aretha
“I mean, he feels really bad,” Galarraga said. “He talked to me and he said, ‘I don’t know what to say to you. I’m really sorry.’ You know, he feels really bad. I said, ‘I’ll give you a couple of hugs.’ And I said, ‘Nobody’s perfect.’”
The next day, Galarraga handed the lineup card to Joyce before the game. The ump, who gave the pitcher a pat on the shoulder, had tears in his eyes. So did my dad, who told me he was sorry for his angry outburst.
“Well,” Mom said, “I think we learned a little lesson about baseball. It’s not always about being perfect and beating the heck out of the other team. It’s about good sportsmanship and always doing the right thing.”
Those were lessons that Coach Quinn had taught us well. In more ways than one, it had been the best regular season in Morey’s history.
Now it was time for the playoffs.
Chapter Eight
“Storming” Through the Playoffs
“There’s baseball,” Coach Quinn told us in his pregame pep talk, “and there’s playoff baseball. They are not the same thing.”
It was an hour before our first playoff game, and the team sat attentively on the bench at Hickory Park. On this Saturday afternoon, we were focused and ready for battle against Dr. Aiken Family Dentistry. We had earned the home field advantage over Dr. Aiken due to a better record (7–5 versus 6–6). But if you recall, Dr. Aiken had taken us to extra innings during the regular season.
“We can’t wait for Marty to get the big hit again,” Coach said, cracking a smile. “We need to be aggressive early. When you’re at bat, focus hard on every pitch. When you’re in the field, think about the situation. How many outs are there? What base should you throw to if the ball is hit to you?”
“Use your head,” Coach continued, tapping his temple. “And play with heart.”
The school year had ended the day before, so we could concentrate exclusively on this game. The only distraction would be the wind, which howled across the diamond. I could just picture Jackson chasing his cap around center field while the batter ripped a hit up the middle.
“All right, guys,” Coach said. “Let’s warm up.”
Everyone jumped up and ran to the field except Jeffrey. He sat glumly on the bench twirling a baseball in his hand.
“Jeffrey,” Coach said, but received no response. “Jeffrey!”
Jeffrey jumped up in a huff, threw the ball into the dirt, and stormed out of the dugout.
“Is he all right?” I heard Dad ask as I played catch with Rupa.
Coach didn’t know how to answer. “He’s been having a lot of trouble with the divorce,” he finally said.
“Ahh,” Dad said. “He has seemed kind of quiet this year.”
Coach nodded. “And now his mother is taking the kids to her family’s place in Kansas for the summer. So after the playoffs, I won’t see them until August.”
I glanced at Coach Quinn. His normally cheery expression had drained out of him. He looked sad, and older, as he watched Jeffrey play catch in the infield. Then he snapped out of it.
“Okay, let’s go!” Coach said as he grabbed a bat and trotted toward the plate. “Ya gotta believe, right guys?”
In this game, all I believed in was the power of Mother Nature. The wind blew harder and harder as the innings progressed. Pitches fluttered around like knuckleballs, leading to a game of walks and strikeouts. By the fourth inning, I had walked twice in two trips. Hats were flying off everyone’s head—not just Jackson’s. Evan’s little brother served as the cap retriever, running onto the field to retrieve errant headwear.
“Hey Blue,” Tashia said to the umpire. “Can you call a game on account of the wind?”
The ump, an older guy with a bushy mustache, took off his mask. “You can call it ’cause of rain, you can call it ’cause of snow,” he said. “You can call it ’cause of darkness and lightin’. But you can’t call it ’cause of wind … unless there’s a tornado.”
Riley and I scanned the skies for a twister, to no avail.
“The good news,” Gary shouted amidst the bellowing wind, “is that it’s blowing toward center field. If someone could hit a fly ball, it’ll sail to Kalamazoo.”
By the bottom of the fifth, dark storm clouds gathered on the horizon. The score remained tied at 6–6, and we had two outs and nobody on. Gus swung and missed on a flutterball, going to 0–2 in the count. A few drops of rain began to fall, and my dad turned his back to the field to address the team on the bench.
“I hope you guys score next inning,” he yelled, “because I don’t think the rain will hold out any longer than …”
Before he could finish his sentence, we jumped off the bench to what sounded like gunfire. With a mighty swing, Gus crushed the ball high and deep to center field.
“That’s outta here!” Tashia screamed.
“Bu-bye!” Gary cried.
Caught in the wind stream, the ball flew and flew and flew—well beyond the outfield fence.
“Whoa! Yeah!” we screamed. It was the longest blast since Reggie Jackson rocketed a pitch into the Tiger Stadium light tower in the 1971 All-Star Game. (Or so it seemed!) We rushed toward home plate to greet the big fella, who cracked a rare smile.
As the rain picked up, we hurried to complete the top of the sixth. With three quick outs, we could go home with a victory.
“I don’t need any stinkin’ warm-ups,” Gary said as he took the mound. “Let’s go.”
Firing one strike after the other, Gary made quick work of Dr. Aiken. He fanned the first man, got the next batter to ground out to Evan at second, and got the third to pop one up.
“I got it!” Riley said at third base. But the ball kept carrying and carrying—all the way to left field, where Marty made a hard play look easy.
“Can o’corn,” he said as he trotted in after the game-ending catch.
We had no time to celebrate. For as soon as we high-fived with the other team, rain gushed from the heavens. We all made a mad dash to the parking lot. When Mom, Dad, and I got home, we were drenched.
“It was raining cats and dogs, Chewy!” I said.
“Schnauzers or weimaraners?” Chewy asked. “I bet there were lots of poodles in the puddles.”
I had little time to let my first playoff victory soak in. The next afternoon, we arrived at a soggy Hickory Park for the league semifinal game.
Our opponent? the Yuppy Puppy. They had finished just 5–7, but they had beaten us on the day of my horrid pitching performance. Moreover, they had pulled off a playoff shocker against the Hickory Oak Proctologists, who had gone 9–3 during the season. Since we had a better record than the Yuppy Puppy, we got to play at home.
“If we win this game,” Riley said as we arrived at the park, “we’ll get the chance to lose to United Bank & Trust.”
“Maybe they’ll lose their semifinal game,” Evan said, naively.
“They never lose,” Marty deadpanned.
Getting to the title game wouldn’t be easy due to Yuppy Puppy’s starting pitcher. A tall kid with long, blond hair, he pumped bullet after bullet over the plate. Gary was just as nasty, striking out six in three innings.
The tension mounted in the later innings. Like soldiers on the front lines, we were on high alert with each pitch. Gus pitched well in the fourth inning. But in the fifth, he allowed the game’s first run on a two-out wild pitch. Now we trailed, 1–0. As Yogi Berra said, it was getting late early.
“I’ll get us even,” Gary said as he led off the bottom of the fifth. Sure enough, Gas came through again. He lined a single to left, stole second, and stole third. “Nobody out,” he shouted from third. “Bring me home, guys!”
Boy, that kid loved the big games. He was like Reggie Jackson, who hit three home runs in Game 6 of the 1977 World Series. Reggie was so good in the postseason that they called him Mr. October. “We’re gonna have to call Gary Mr. June,” I told my dad.
Gary did score, but no thanks to us. Their fifth-inning pitcher, a small
boy with a ponytail and a worried look on his face, crumbled under the pressure. He walked Tashia and Jeffrey to load the bases. Gus grounded out to first, scoring Gary to make it 1–1. With runners on second and third and one out, I had the chance to be a hero. But I walked too, loading the bases.
Their coach tried another pitcher, but he was just as nervous. He walked Evan, forcing in the go-ahead run. Three more walks pushed us up to five runs, the maximum allowed in a Little League inning. The 5–1 lead made me feel at ease, but I didn’t feel like we were earning our spot in the championship game. It felt like they were giving it to us.
“This is too much pressure to put on the shoulders of ten-year-olds,” Dad told Coach Quinn. “Especially pitchers.”
Even with a four-run cushion, Gus had a hard time closing it out. He walked two and struck out two before facing the ponytailed boy.
Gus blew away the poor kid on three pitches. Yuppy Puppy was dead. Morey’s Funeral Home was off to the championship game.
While our parents gave us a standing ovation, we were strangely subdued as we gathered in the dugout. We eagerly packed the equipment, perhaps knowing it was the last easy thing we would have to do that season.
“Maybe the Bankees lost,” said Evan, still dreaming.
“I just heard,” Riley’s dad said. “They won, 14–1. Slaughter rule.”
Coach Quinn didn’t say much during his postgame speech. “I just want you all to know,” he said, “that whatever happens on Friday, I’m very proud of you guys. You were willing to learn, you worked hard, and you got better every week. I’ll see you all at practice on Tuesday. ‘Morey’s’ on three.”
We put our hands together. “One, two, three—Morey’s,” we said.
Jackson tapped me and whispered, “Why didn’t we say, ‘Ya gotta believe’?”
I shrugged, although I sensed that Coach didn’t believe we could beat UB&T. I didn’t either. In fact, those words whatever happens on Friday gave me a cold chill. Fourteen to one. Slaughter rule. We were in for it.
Coach called Dad and me aside.
“Say listen,” he said, addressing mostly me. “Because of the playoff rules, Gary and Gus can’t pitch more than one inning on Friday. So Jacob, I’d like you to start the game and give us an inning or two. What do you say?”
My whole body went numb. Start in the championship game … against the Bankees? Was hell booked for the weekend?
“Maybe … their coach won’t know that Gary and Gus pitched three innings,” I said.
“No,” Coach said with a laugh. “Believe me: He’ll know. Come on, I need you. You pitched great those two games.”
“Yeah, but that was mop-up duty in a couple of blowouts,” I said.
“Jake … I need you, buddy. I don’t have anyone else. Just one inning.”
I nodded. I didn’t know what else to do.
That afternoon, the Tigers got trounced by the Kansas City Royals, 7–2. I couldn’t have cared less. I had to start against United Bank & Trust. And I had five days to fret about it.
Chapter Nine
The Mad Dash
It was 4:00 P.M. on Friday, and I sat alone on the living room couch. The grandfather clock ticked and tocked like a time bomb. My countdown was to eight o’clock, when I would take the mound against United Bank & Trust.
The week had felt like an eternity, and this day was absolute torture. Who would schedule a championship game five days after the semifinal game—and then not start it until eight o’clock? I was convinced that Coach Reynolds had concocted the whole plot. Let ’em worry themselves sick the whole week, he undoubtedly schemed. By Friday night, they’ll be putty in my hands. Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
“Jacob,” my mom called from the kitchen. “Your food is ready.”
I lumbered to the kitchen for my last meal. My mom had made all my favorites: a bowl of Cream of Wheat (which she called porridge); a glass of cranberry juice; sliced strawberries topped with sugar; and two slices of cinnamon toast, one with jelly and the other with peanut butter.
“Thank you,” I said as I slumped into the chair. “But I don’t think I can eat all this.”
“Just eat what you can, honey,” she said. “And when you’re done, I want you to have this.”
She plopped a bottle of Pepto-Bismol on the table. She knew I was a wreck.
At 6:45, I sat in the Escort’s backseat with my uniform on, feeling like I was six years old. Dad was waiting outside Rupa’s townhouse door, waiting for him to come out.
“He’s saying he doesn’t want to go,” his mom said. “I think he’s nervous.”
“I think the whole team has a case of Bankee-itis,” Dad said.
Both went inside the townhouse. About ten minutes later, after some serious convincing, they emerged with a uniformed Rupa. We rode in the back together, barely saying a word.
We arrived at Pleasant Park, where the Hickory Oak travel teams played their games. The ball field dominated the little park, which was surrounded by nice homes. I had never played on a diamond this beautiful. The infield was perfectly groomed, and an electric scoreboard stood behind the center-field fence. We would play under the lights, something Morey’s had never done.
“I’d better warm you up, Jake,” Dad said.
As players from both teams started to arrive, Dad and I ran to the diamond. I pitched to him from the mound, trying to get in as many throws as possible.
“I know you can throw harder than that,” Dad said. “Rear back and fire it.”
I tried, but I couldn’t generate any velocity. My arm felt like a wet noodle. Did you ever have a nightmare in which you tried to run but you kept going in slow motion? It was like that, only with my arm.
Coach Reynolds looked at me and snapped his fingers three times. “We got the field now,” he demanded.
I went back to the bench on the third base side. Because we had won a coin toss earlier in the week, we were the home team. While some of our guys nervously unpacked the equipment, Marty watched the Bankees take infield practice.
“We’re doomed,” he said
“Shut up, Marty!” Jeffrey retorted. “I’m sick of that schtick.”
The tension was unbearable—for all of us. Out on the field, we saw Coach Quinn talking with Coach Reynolds. Our coach was clearly upset about something. We understood why when he pointed to a tall, broad-shouldered player on the Bankees—a kid we had never seen before. The name on his uniform said Hulse.
“He’s eleven years old,” Coach explained when he returned to the bench. “But since he didn’t turn eleven until after June 1, he’s eligible to play in our league.”
“What?” Tashia said.
“He’s eligible,” Coach said, “and they signed him … so. …”
“That’s bogus,” Gary said.
We all thought it was bogus. As if they didn’t have enough star players, they had to sign the Incredible Hulse, as Riley called him.
Being the championship game, the league went all out. They had two umpires instead of one, and they played the national anthem on a boom box. A crowd of at least sixty people—including grandparents, aunts, and uncles—stood with us. Our team mostly hummed the national anthem, but Gary knew all the words.
“All right, Morey’s,” Coach Quinn said. “Let’s play our best.”
I ran to the mound and warmed up with Gus. I forced myself to throw harder, but my pitches were all over the place. I noticed that the skinny teenage ump was behind the plate. Coach Reynolds probably picked him, I was certain, because he knew he could intimidate him.
“Play ball!” the ump cried.
I looked up to see the Incredible Hulse step into the box. Why were they doing this to me, I said to myself.
My first pitch sailed over the umpire’s head. I grooved the next pitch, and the kid unloaded. The ball shot like a missile over my head and kept on going. Jackson, the center fielder, turned around and saw the ball bang off the top railing of the metal fence. It hit so hard, I thought the w
hole structure was going to collapse. Hulse cruised around second and slid in with a triple.
At that moment, I felt short of breath. I hunched over and put my hands on my knees. My head was spinning.
“Are you okay?” I heard people ask.
Soon I felt a large hand on my shoulder. “I’m okay, Coach,” I mustered.
“It’s Dad.”
My dad had never taken the field during a game, until now.
“Just take some deep breaths,” he said, rubbing my back slowly. “If you need to come out, we’ll take you out.”
I stood up straight and took some deep breaths. I saw my mom standing on the bleachers, looking concerned. “Just take your time,” Dad said.
“We need to move it along, Coach,” Mr. Reynolds barked from the dugout. “If you’re gonna take him out, then take him out.”
Boy, that coach got on my nerves. Suddenly, I felt a surge of determination rush through my body.
“I’m staying in,” I said.
“All right!” Dad said, with a final pat. “Go get ’em, Jake.”
“Yeah!” cried Gary, as the parents applauded. “Just let ’em hit it, buddy. We got you covered—right, guys?”
“Let ’em hit it, Jake,” Riley said, pounding his glove from third.
“We got ya, Jacob,” Tashia said.
Behind the plate, Gus nodded and pumped his fist in the air.
“Ya gotta believe,” Jackson shouted from center field.
The ump allowed me a couple extra warm-up tosses, and I fired my best fastballs over the plate. The next batter cracked a hard one-hopper to Gary’s left, but he snared the ball and nailed the runner at first. Although a run scored, we cheered Gary’s big-league play.
“I told you we got ya,” Gary told me.
I got the next guy, the infamous Sludge, to pop out to Jeffrey at first. With the count 1–2 on the next hitter, Gus set up high. I fired an eye-level heater, and he swung and missed.
