Strike Three, You're Dead

by Josh Berk

  “Is that a promise?” Arnie asked.

  “I don’t make no promises,” RJ said. “Other than to do my best. Oh, and congrats on winning the contest, kid. Here, take this.” He tossed me a ball. And I caught it! It was covered in scribbles. “Everyone on the team signed it,” he said.

  “Even Famosa?” I asked in disbelief.

  Everyone laughed again. I guess it was unexpected that Famosa, the error-prone backup catcher, was my favorite player.

  “Sure thing, kid,” RJ said, waving good-bye.

  I didn’t even get a chance to say thanks. Dad jumped in. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “Let’s get something to eat before game time, Lenny,” he said, looking at his watch. I wanted to keep hanging out with the crew. And I couldn’t think about eating. The mere idea of ballpark nachos was about as appetizing to me as a plate of vomit.

  But Dad insisted, so I picked at a slice of pizza. The butterflies in my stomach were fierce. I paced around the maroon-carpeted hallway outside the booth, anxious for the game to begin. This was worse than filming the Blaze O’Farrell thing—at least for that I had lines to memorize. I was going to have to be quick and funny on the fly. Could I do it? Would I freak out and accidentally go back to using the 1940s lingo, like I did for the video? Hi-de-ho I hoped not.

  I couldn’t believe that I had to wait until the sixth before I could take the mike. My mind was going crazy imagining the ways I’d fail. I also couldn’t help thinking about PhilzFan1, for some reason. I looked out over the swirling crowd. Was he there in the stands somewhere? Would he really take drastic action someday? Were fans really that crazy? Was gambling involved? I’d read a book about the 1919 World Series, when gamblers bribed players to throw the games. Unbelievable.

  Then I thought about the Mikes. I wished they were here. They’d thought about trying to get tickets, but I told them to stay at home. What would be the point of being in the ballpark? They couldn’t hear my announcing. It would be better if they had the TV on. It made me smile like crazy to picture them out on the lawn couch, tuning in to hear not Buck Foltz but Lenny Norbeck announce the game. Plus, yeah, maybe I didn’t want them there in case I got nervous and peed myself.

  The rest was a jittery blur. It all ran together: national anthem, starting lineups, cheer, boo, cheer. Finally, the game started. I was really happy to have something to concentrate on. I watched from the press section, where I sat next to newspaper reporters scribbling notes. It looked like a perfect life, but none of them appeared to realize that they had the greatest job in the world. They all looked a little grumpy and seemed to resent my being there. I tried to stay out of the way and ended up sitting in the back. I couldn’t really see the field through the window, so I just watched it on one of the many TV screens.

  The crowd gave a great roaring ovation for R. J. Weathers when he walked onto the field in the top of the first. Camera flashes exploded in the stands. If he ended up being the next Steve Carlton or Roy Halladay, people wanted proof that they were there on day one. So much hope in this young arm. He really was an impressive figure out there. His hair was hanging out of the back of his red cap and his apelike arms seemed to scrape the ground as he walked. He kissed his lucky necklace before tucking it into his uniform jersey. He took the mound.

  And he was terrible. He threw everything but strikes. Walks, wild pitches, singles, and doubles. He hit a guy in the foot. He hit a guy in the shoulder. He hit a guy in the front row. He threw a pitch that landed closer to me in the announcer’s booth than to the catcher. He hit a guy on the Giants (we were not playing the Giants—they were in California, about three thousand miles away). Okay, slight exaggeration, but his pitches were just absolutely awful. The umpire didn’t even bother to say “Ball” on a few of them. He just laughed. Loudly.

  Philadelphia crowds can turn tough quickly, and they were booing Weathers before he got a single out. Someone held up a sign: TONIGHT’S FORECAST: BAD WEATHERS. I’d say so. It was mean, but a little funny. Pretty good pun. It was also impressive that they guessed he’d have a bad game. Or did they bring markers and create it on the spot? Some fans are crazy, but you sort of do have to admire their dedication and abilities at arts and crafts.

  I felt bad for RJ. He was such a nice guy. But even great players have bad games, and surely his next one would be better. Maybe he was just nervous, like I was.

  Pretty soon, home plate was turning into the finish line at the New York City Marathon. Runner after runner crossed home. There was a bases-clearing home run. It was 8–0 before RJ finally got one out on a pop-up that Famosa snagged (just barely) by the Phillies dugout. Then another walk.

  The Phillies manager went out to the mound. The trainer came out too. I didn’t think there was anything physically wrong with Weathers, was there? Maybe he was injured. Maybe that explained it all. Or maybe they were just pretending he was hurt, as an excuse to save face. They brought him a water bottle and tried to settle him down. They rubbed his arm. They tugged on his elbow. Eventually, the umpire came out to break up the conference. The manager and trainer headed back toward the dugout. It seemed like they were going to leave Weathers in the game, let him try to get a few more outs.

  But as soon as the trainer made it to the dugout, he had to sprint right back onto the field. R. J. Weathers had collapsed behind the mound. He just toppled over, like an invisible hand had punched him in the face and knocked him out cold. Like he was shot.

  There was no blood, at least not that I could see. I craned my neck but couldn’t get a better look. All the press guys were standing up—I could mostly just see their sweaty backs. I peeked through and saw that the trainer had been joined by paramedics and the team doctor and a whole crowd of people.

  It was chaos in the press booth. The tired men with their pens looked suddenly alive. They were scribbling as fast as they could. They were taking pictures. Papers were flying, flashes were flaring. Word came quickly to the booth: R. J. Weathers was dead.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The PA announcer’s voice came over the speakers: “Tonight’s game is officially canceled. Your tickets will be honored at a later date.” That normally cheery booming voice that announces the starting lineups and pitching changes sounded so strange. The words sounded like they were getting stuck in his throat. He was choked up with emotion.

  As we made our way out, I noticed lots of people who looked like they were going to cry. It was like a birthday party that had suddenly turned into a funeral. No one knew how to act. It was still early—not even eight. The sun had just set, turning the sky from blue to red. There were streaks of particularly dark red shooting over the park. I started having crazy thoughts, thinking these scarlet streaks were trails left behind every time a Phillie ascended to heaven. I felt my own eyes begin to flood with tears. I tried to wipe them on my shoulder without Dad seeing.

  “At least we’ll beat most of the traffic,” Dad said. This was probably the dumbest thing anyone had ever said.

  “Sure,” I said. “That’s just great.” I know I sounded mad.

  “I’m sorry, Lenny,” Dad said. “I know you really wanted to do the inning. But I bet they’ll invite you back. They have to.”

  They didn’t have to. No one bothered to explain to me what to expect, and I didn’t bother to ask because I felt like an idiot and didn’t know who to ask, anyway. The guy who had led us into the booth was nowhere to be seen, and I couldn’t exactly ask Mick or Foltz. Everyone had other things on their mind. My big chance was ruined. The boy with the golden voice would never take over the baseball world now. Didn’t Dad see? I bit my lip as we pulled out of the parking lot. Then I felt bad. It could have been worse. I could have been R. J. Weathers.

  Weathers was only a few years older than me, really. A kid. That’s what they kept calling him. “A kid” with a bright future. “A kid” with an amazing arm. “A kid” who was now dead.

  What had caused the sudden death of this rising star? How could someone so young die so unex
pectedly? All I could think about was PhilzFan1, his typed words now so menacing. Drastic action. Murder? I laughed off the thought.

  Dad must have been thinking something along the same lines—not about PhilzFan1 but about how Weathers was so young. “I can’t fathom how his parents must feel,” he said.

  We sat in traffic, which really was quite bad. I told you what Dad said was dumb. The freeway was like a parking lot. We called Mom to check in.

  “Are you okay, Lenny?” she asked me. “I was watching the game. So terrible.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “It’s not like I was the one on the mound.”

  “No,” she said. “But I know you’ve been looking forward to this so much.”

  A few tears came to my eyes—for my lost opportunity, sure, but more for RJ. “Thanks, Mom,” I said. “Yeah.”

  I didn’t say anything else. I couldn’t say anything else. I didn’t want to start bawling. “Thanks, Mom,” I said again. “Do you want to talk to Dad?” I asked.

  “No, that’s fine, dear,” she said. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

  Then it got quiet. Just the soft hum of Dad’s car and the honks of impatient drivers. I wanted to text the Mikes, to see what they had to say about this amazing turn of events. But of course I didn’t have my phone.

  “Can I use your phone to send a text, Dad?” I asked.

  “This is my phone for work,” he said. “You can’t use it to text the Mikes a million times.”

  “Can you at least put on sports radio?” I said. “I want to hear WPP, see what they’re saying about the game.”

  “All right,” Dad said. “But if that loudmouth hillbilly is on, I’m turning it off.”

  You might think it’s mean that Dad called the sports talk DJ a hillbilly, but that’s actually what the DJ called himself. His full name was Billy Zabrowski or something, but he called himself “the Philly Hillbilly.” That’s what everyone else called him too. He was loud and tended to be pretty angry about sports, even when the Philly teams were winning. He was known for his tirades against coaches and players, and sometimes you could hear him smashing stuff in the studio.

  Dad pressed the button to switch on the AM station. It was, in fact, Billy who was on, but he wasn’t angry. He didn’t sound like himself. He sounded really shaken up. He talked quieter than usual and in a serious voice.

  “This is a tragedy tonight, folks. A young man cut down in the summer of his youth. A brilliant young arm with a future as bright as the sun. Dead. At nineteen. I’ll take your calls tonight, but I’ll warn you, if you make jokes out of this, if you have a laugh at the passing of this young lion, R. J. Weathers, I will not only hang up on you, I will come to your house and shove the phone—”

  Dad pressed the Off button.

  “Dad!” I yelled.

  “Son,” he said, “I do not want you listening to this kind of junk. The manners on that guy!”

  “I thought what he said was nice,” I said. “He felt bad about Weathers’s death.”

  “Well, he certainly expressed it in a crude way.”

  “Just turn it back on, please?”

  Dad relented. A caller was talking, his voice cracking over the airwaves. He was trying to sound all medical, but you could tell he didn’t really know what he was talking about. “You know that the docs are gonna cover it up and say heart attack, but I’ve been reading scouting reports on this kid since he was in diapers. Nothing about a heart condition nowhere. You don’t just croak at his age with no previous heart condition.”

  Dad turned up the radio. He wanted to hear more about the medical part. He was a heart specialist, after all. Sometimes, when I was feeling really sorry for myself, I’d think about how messed up it was that my dad was an expert on the heart, since I wasn’t sure he even had one. Poor Lenny. Wah-wah.

  “It really is quite rare for a young healthy man to suffer a heart attack like that,” Dad said, talking over the radio. “I’d love to see the autopsy reports.” He got carried away talking about things like EKGs and autopsies and aortic valve displacements. He didn’t even seem to be talking to me—just near me. This is what it was always like with me and my dad. I found myself wishing Mike’s dad was here. He’d let me use his phone. He’d be cooler about everything. Plus, he’d have some good snacks.

  Then a classic loudmouth on the radio called in and started yelling about how there was only one explanation for what happened: drugs.

  “I can’t see anything except for drugs making his heart stop outta nowhere, know what I mean? Din’t you see how he was pitching? Couldn’t find the plate if it was the side of a freaking barn.”

  Billy didn’t make good on his threat. He let the guy talk. Great. They were talking about how RJ’s control was bad, not focusing on the fact that he was dead! It occurred to me that maybe these sports fans had a problem with priorities. It hurts me to say this, but there are things more important in life than throwing balls and strikes.

  “What do you think, Dad?” I asked. “Could someone’s heart just stop beating like that?”

  “Well, stranger things have happened,” he said. “But first, I’d like to take a look at the tox report. See if they find something fishy in his blood. You know: drugs.”

  It didn’t seem right to me. “I only met him for a minute, but he seemed like such a good dude. I can’t imagine he was on drugs.”

  “Well, it could have been any number of substances.”

  “You mean like steroids?” I had read all about how baseball players sometimes took drugs to make themselves stronger, but RJ definitely didn’t have the look of the giant-head muscle-bound freaks from the Barry Bonds days. He was tall and lanky. And so kind.

  “Could be, could be,” Dad said. “It would be interesting to see the report. And then, of course, there will be an autopsy to take a look at his heart.”

  “Is an autopsy what I think it is?” I’m really not cut out to be a doctor because the thought of R. J. Weathers—anyone, really—getting sliced open so doctors can look at their heart makes me want to barf.

  “Yes, well, they will want to look at his heart and other organs.”

  “I’m just going to pretend you mean with X-rays.”

  “The human body is really quite fascinating, Lenny. Nothing to be disturbed by.”

  “If you say so, Dr. Norbeck,” I said. We were quiet for a second. Then I had a thought. “Hey, you don’t think they’ll do the autopsy at your hospital, do you? Will you get to see the report or whatever?”

  “No, probably not. There’s a hospital in Center City—much closer to the ballpark than mine. I’m pretty sure that’s where they’ll take him.”

  “Do you think you still could get a copy of the report?”

  “Maybe. I know some docs over there. Why?”

  “I just … I just want to know how he died.”

  I had a spooky feeling I couldn’t explain. Maybe it was the shock of coming so close to death. Maybe it was superstition and nerves. Maybe it was just fear. Or maybe something sinister happened on that field. Was PhilzFan1 a harmless blowhard on the Internet? Or did he have something to do with it? Nah, he couldn’t have gotten into the dugout and poisoned RJ. It was crazy. But something felt so … off. Then I thought about RJ giving me the ball with the team’s signatures, and I felt incredibly sad.

  “I just want to know,” I said. Dad seemed proud. Maybe he thought I was coming around on the whole “the human body is an amazing spectacle” attitude or whatever. Really, I just wanted to know if there was any chance it was murder.

  “It is a strange case,” Dad said. “I’ll give you that.”

  Traffic had finally broken. I could see the spire of the Schwenkfelder Church. We were close to home.

  “Can you drop me off at Mike’s?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Leonard,” Dad said. “I realize it’s been a rough night and you’d like to talk to your friend, but it’s getting late.”

  “It’s not that late,” I said
. “And it’s not like it’s a school night.”

  “School night or not, it’s too late for you to be out,” he said. “You’ll talk to the Mikes in the morning.”

  “I’ll talk to the Mikes tonight,” I muttered under my breath. “Whether you like it or not.”

  Dad swung the car into the garage and we headed in to see Mom. She was sitting in front of the TV.

  “Oh, Lenny,” she said. “I’m so sorry about what happened.” Was she upset about me not getting to do my inning or about Weathers? I really didn’t care about the inning anymore, and I’m not just saying that. Sure, it was my dream or whatever, but now bigger stuff was happening! More important stuff. Plus, it felt so out of the ordinary that she cared all of a sudden. Is that what it takes? I had to witness a murder before she remembered I was alive?

  “I’ve been watching the news,” Mom said. “It’s on all the channels. Come join me.” She patted the spot next to her on the couch. “Did you eat? I can make you something.” I was pretty hungry.

  I plopped down on the couch and watched the TV footage showing RJ dropping to the ground. The reporter was very serious and very sad. He used the word tragedy a whole bunch of times, as did everyone he talked to. If I had to sum up the coverage, it would be that people thought it was an enormous tragedy that this tragedy had tragedied the tragedy of this great tragedy city. Tragedy.

  Then the reporter said that no foul play was suspected. I snorted and it must have been a loud snort. Because Mom, who was returning to the living room with what appeared to be a pretty sweet-looking PB&J, heard me. It was the heart-healthy kind of peanut butter, of course, which kind of tastes a little like paste, but I was too distracted to complain.

  “What are you snorting for?” Mom asked, pointing to the somber-looking newscaster. “You don’t believe what the reporter said?”

  Why didn’t I believe him? Maybe it’s just because I felt like Tom Thomas or whatever dumb fake name the reporter made up for himself didn’t know the whole story. He didn’t know about the rabid maniacs like PhilzFan1. I knew that if I wanted to get the true story on what had happened, I’d have to go to the Internet. It sucked so bad to be banned from the computer! It was password-protected and basically under lock and key. They did let me keep my phone, but only during the day. It was the worst grounding ever. I thought they might give in if I played up the “poor Lenny” angle tonight.