The DH

by John Feinstein

  The rest of the team was stretching when Alex, glove now in hand, got back. He was already winded from running all the way to his school locker, back to the baseball lockers, and then, after changing into the gray sweats hanging in the locker with his name on it, back out to the baseball field. Coach Birdy could see that. The March weather was still cool, probably in the mid-fifties, but Alex was sweating pretty hard.

  “Just give me two,” he said softly.

  Alex set out along the foul line near the dugout and began running. At least he didn’t have to run steps the way he’d had to during football season.

  “Pick it up, Myers!” he heard someone yell from the middle of the infield, where all the players were stretching. Several others joined in the heckling before Coach Birdy cut them off by blowing his whistle. Alex was on the warning track in the outfield by then, but he could hear Coach Birdy clearly: “Anyone who thinks Myers needs coaching can join him.” That quieted things down quickly.

  Once he finished his two laps, Alex started stretching. When they were finished, Coach Birdy called everyone to the pitcher’s mound.

  “Okay, guys, as you can see, we’ve got four new players out here today,” he said. “I told you last week about Myers, Ellington, and Gormley. They’re all last string until we see what they can do.” He turned to Alex for a second. “Myers, I know you’re used to that.”

  Everyone laughed, remembering how Alex’s football career at Chester Heights had started as a last-string quarterback and tackling dummy the previous September.

  “We also have another addition today that none of us were expecting.” He looked at Matt Gordon, as did everyone else. “Rather than me trying to repeat what Matt explained to me this morning, I’m going to let him do it. Matt, the floor—the mound—is yours.”

  Matt Gordon was the coolest customer Alex had ever met. He hadn’t flinched at all when he stood in front of the entire school and admitted that he had taken steroids and that his father had switched his blood test with Alex’s. But now he actually seemed nervous. Or maybe Alex was imagining it?

  “Thanks, Coach,” Matt said. He paused and glanced around, as if trying to decide what to say next.

  “Look,” he finally said. “All you guys know what happened during football season. I confessed to taking steroids, and the state board suspended me from playing any varsity sport for a year.”

  Another pause. “That was unfair—at least, I thought it was unfair. An entire year? I wanted to play baseball this spring, no matter what my dad said. Plus, I wouldn’t have been able to play football next fall.”

  The confident Gordon grin returned for a moment. “And don’t worry—Goldie’s going to be our QB. I just want to block for him.”

  That got a laugh and seemed to loosen Matt up a little.

  “I decided to appeal the suspension. There’s a board you go before when you do that. A friend of my mom’s is a lawyer, so she helped me out. She made the point that I had never actually tested positive—that my punishment was based solely on my own confession—and the board should take that into account. Well, they did. As of this morning, I’m eligible again as long as I continue to submit to random drug tests. And for the record, I’ve had eleven of them since November and I’m clean.”

  He looked at Coach Birdy as if to say, Is that enough? Apparently it was.

  “Okay,” Coach Birdy said. “Let’s break up into positions and get loose. Like I said, new guys go last for now till we see what you can do.”

  Alex saw Bailey Warner, who he knew was the number one returning pitcher from last season, start jogging in the direction of the right field line.

  “Come on, Goldie,” Warner said with a grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Alex, Matt, Patton, and Johnny Ellis, who was the team’s relief specialist, waited their turn while Warner, Ethan Sattler, and Don Warren threw their twenty pitches. Rick Bloom, whom Alex had noticed jogging up to join the circle while Matt was talking, was their pitching coach. Mr. Bloom, who taught biology, had pitched in college, though Alex wasn’t sure where.

  “How’d I do, Goldie?” Matt asked quietly while they watched the first three pitchers loosen up.

  This time, Alex couldn’t resist saying, “Okay, really—who are you and what have you done with Matt Gordon?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Since when are you worried what other people think?”

  Matt smiled at him, then shrugged. “Since I knocked myself off that pedestal I used to live on.”

  Alex thought about that for a second. It made sense, even if it still felt strange to hear Matt sounding like a high school junior and not Peyton Manning or Tom Brady.

  “Okay, guys, you’re up,” Alex heard Coach Bloom say. “Myers, Gordon—no heroics. No need to throw your arms out the first day. Gormley, I’ll catch you so we don’t get too far behind.”

  They all nodded.

  Alex’s arm always felt loose, but he put very little into his first ten pitches. He felt good. He began to pick it up and, in his peripheral vision, could see that Matt—who was next to him—was doing the same thing.

  “Last one, guys,” said Coach Bloom. “If you feel up to it, you can let this one go a little.”

  Instinctively, Alex glanced over his shoulder at Matt—who had the famous Matt Gordon grin on his face. Alex turned back, went to his motion, kicked his leg, and threw his fastball at about 90 percent. He heard the mitt of Arnold Bogus, who was catching him, pop. A split second later, he heard another pop. That was Matt’s fastball smacking into Lucas Mann’s mitt.

  The two friends looked at each other.

  This time, Matt didn’t smile. “It’s on, Goldie,” he said. Then he turned away and went to the bucket, where bottles of water awaited.

  Alex stared after him. Who are you? he thought. And what have you done with Matt Gordon?

  Then the answer came to him: You’re the guy with something to prove.

  After everyone had gone through the various drills at their respective positions, Coach Birdy put the players through a couple of rounds of batting practice. He did the pitching himself, not wanting any of the pitchers to throw any more than they already had.

  The pitchers went last and, not surprisingly, all were pretty good hitters. At the high school level, pitchers were often the best athletes on a team, and it wasn’t uncommon for the starting pitcher to hit third or fourth in the batting order.

  Only one of the pitchers wasn’t a pretty good hitter: Matt Gordon. He was a great hitter. For one thing, he was a switch-hitter. When he stepped into the batter’s box, Coach Birdy stepped back for a moment, surprised.

  “You hit lefty, Gordon?” he asked.

  “Switch-hitter,” Matt answered. “You’re throwing righty, so I’m hitting lefty.”

  Coach Birdy nodded and threw a batting-practice fastball—straight and without a lot of steam on it—right down the middle. Matt swung and hit the ball about 900 feet over the right field fence. At least it seemed like 900 feet to Alex. The fence was 300 feet away, and the ball was still going in an upward arc when it cleared the fence.

  Most of the other players waiting their turn to hit were either loosening up with bats or playing catch along the sidelines. But everyone and everything stopped as the ball exploded off of Matt’s bat.

  “This one’s coming in a little bit faster,” Coach Birdy said.

  Matt nodded. The next pitch didn’t go over the right field fence—it went over the center field fence, which was 340 feet away.

  Each hitter was supposed to get eight swings and then lay down a bunt. Seven of Matt’s swings produced drives over the fence. The eighth was a screaming line drive that one-hopped the wall in right-center.

  “Think you can keep a bunt in the ballpark?” Coach Birdy joked before his ninth pitch.

  Matt smiled but said nothing—just laid the bunt down and sprinted to first base.

  Jonas was standing next to Alex, watching Matt’s hitting displa
y. “His father didn’t let him play baseball?” he said quietly. “What was he thinking?”

  Alex had been wondering the exact same thing. Matt Gordon was a very good football player. But it seemed like he was a great baseball player.

  Matt jogged over to join them while Patton Gormley stepped in to hit and fouled the first two pitches off.

  “Mr. Ruth, I presume?” Alex joked.

  Matt shrugged and grinned. “Well, Babe Ruth was a great pitcher who could hit, so that’s about right.”

  “Babe Ruth was a pitcher?” Jonas said.

  “He came up that way,” Matt said. “Pitched for the Red Sox when they won the World Series in 1918. He was a twenty-game winner twice in the major leagues. Had an ERA of something like two-point-three. The Yankees decided he was too good a hitter not to be in the lineup every day, and, well, you know the rest.”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “Seven hundred and fourteen home runs later, he retired.”

  “Yup,” Matt said. “There’s a reason people talk about ‘Ruthian feats.’ ”

  “That was pretty Ruthian right there,” Alex said.

  “Just batting practice,” Matt said.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t see anyone else hitting balls nine hundred feet,” Alex said.

  “Maybe four hundred,” Matt answered, grinning broadly now.

  “Myers!”

  It was Coach Birdy. He was pointing at the batter’s box. Alex was up.

  He stepped in and took a Ruthian swing at Coach Birdy’s first pitch, but he got on top of it and hit a meek ground ball toward second base.

  “Easy, Myers,” Birdy said. “Just meet the ball.”

  Alex took a deep breath, relaxed his grip, and focused. He hit the next pitch hard—a line drive into right field for what would be a solid single.

  Seven pitches later, he laid down his bunt and sprinted to first. He had hit the last six pitches solidly, with one going to the warning track. None had left the ballpark. There was only one Babe Ruth at Chester Heights.

  Coach Birdy had them all run three laps of the field after two rounds of batting practice, then sent them home after telling everyone there would be an intrasquad scrimmage the next afternoon.

  “When you get to the locker room tomorrow, I’ll have the teams posted,” he said. “We’ve only got twenty guys, so everyone will play throughout. Everyone hits each time through the lineup.

  “We open Friday, fellas, so we need to figure out who’s starting pretty quickly. Let’s get it in.”

  They circled Coach Birdy, and Jeff Cardillo, who was the team captain and shortstop, held his arm up and said, “Beat the Statesmen!”

  They all repeated after Cardillo and headed for the locker room.

  “Who’re the Statesmen?” Alex asked.

  “The team we’re playing Friday,” Matt said. “Wilmington South—the Statesmen.”

  Alex hadn’t even thought about which school the opener might be against.

  They all dressed and headed for home. Matt hadn’t been quite as prodigious at the plate during the second hitting rotation, but he’d been close. Alex had finally hit a ball out of the park, but he guessed the pitch had come in at about 70 miles an hour.

  Riding home on his bike, he wondered what it was going to be like to play with the “new” Matt Gordon. During football season, even while his insecurities about his play at quarterback were driving him to take steroids, Matt had never appeared to lack confidence, and he had been steadfastly supportive of Alex.

  That wasn’t the Matt he had seen today. This Matt wanted to show everyone he was better than they were every time he threw a pitch or took a swing. His presence would undoubtedly make the Lions a better team, but Alex wondered if it would be much fun being around him. Then again, maybe Matt would relax once he’d proved how good he was.

  Wheeling his bicycle into the driveway, Alex saw that there was company for dinner. Evan Archer’s car was parked in front of the garage. Archer was Chester Heights’ basketball coach. He was also—for lack of a better term—Alex’s mother’s boyfriend. Alex had trouble using the word “boyfriend” to describe someone who was dating his mom, but what else would you call him? Man friend? Nope. Friend? No, that didn’t get the job done, either. He usually avoided it or said, “Yes, my mom is still dating Coach Archer,” when the subject came up. He even had trouble with that: Moms weren’t supposed to date.

  On the other hand, dads weren’t supposed to be engaged when they weren’t yet divorced. Alex’s dad had announced to Alex and his twelve-year-old sister, Molly, that he was engaged when they visited him in Boston over Christmas. He had explained that there would be no wedding until he and their mom were legally divorced—if only to avoid jail, Alex figured. The worst part was that he and Molly had both hated their dad’s fiancée at first sight.

  At least he liked Coach Archer. They’d gotten off to a rocky start, but he’d proved to be a good guy—and a good coach. And it was pretty clear that his mom, unlike his father, wasn’t rushing into anything.

  Coach Archer was standing in the kitchen, glass of wine in hand, when Alex walked in through the garage door. “Your mom’s upstairs changing,” he said. “She spilled some wine on her pants.” He smiled. “Actually, I spilled the wine on her.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Clumsy, I guess,” he said. “How’d the first day of baseball go? Hope the coach didn’t give you a hard time for being a week late.”

  Alex laughed. “No, I gave myself a hard time,” he said. “I showed up without my glove, so I had to go back and get it. I was late in the first place for our meeting, then even later because of the glove.”

  “Good start,” Coach Archer said. “Two laps around or three?”

  “Two,” Alex said.

  “I’d have given you five,” Coach Archer said.

  “I know,” Alex answered.

  Alex’s mom walked into the kitchen. She was thirty-nine and, Alex knew, quite pretty. Molly looked more and more like her every day. Some of Alex’s friends had started to ask about Molly—which horrified him. They were in the ninth grade, and Molly was in the seventh. But she looked older because she was tall, about five foot seven, and his buddies had begun to notice.

  “How’d it go?” his mom asked.

  “He was late and got into trouble,” Evan Archer answered, grinning wickedly.

  Linda Myers glared at him for a second. “Well, if anyone should know about getting into trouble today, it’s you,” she said—but she was fighting a grin.

  She looked at Alex. “Chicken, rice, and asparagus for dinner,” she said. “That work?”

  “Absolutely,” Alex said.

  He filled her in on Glove-gate and then told them both about Matt Gordon.

  “Al told me this morning that he’d been cleared to play,” Coach Archer said. “He said he had no idea if he was any good. I guess that question got answered.”

  “I just hope he calms down a little once he settles in,” Alex said. “He wasn’t Matt today.”

  “Give him some time,” his mother said. “You didn’t like Evan at first, either—remember?”

  “That was different,” Coach Archer said. “I was being a jerk. Gordon’s a good kid who made a bad mistake. He’ll be fine.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Alex said. “I hope you’re right.”

  Alex’s mom picked up her wineglass and pointed at the bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen island.

  “Think you can pour me a glass without ruining another pair of pants?” she said to Coach Archer.

  “I’ll give it one hundred and ten percent effort,” Coach Archer said, picking up the bottle.

  As promised, Coach Birdy had posted lineups for the red and blue teams on the locker room wall by the time everyone began arriving for practice on Tuesday. Bailey Warner, Alex, and Johnny Ellis—the relief specialist—were listed as pitchers for the reds. Matt, Ethan Sattler, Don Warren, and Patton Gormley were on the blue team. Each was schedu
led to throw forty pitches.

  “I don’t want any of the pitchers throwing too much,” Coach Birdy explained when they gathered on the field. “It’s still March, and it’s cool. Plus, we’ve got a game on Friday, and I don’t want Bailey throwing more than eighty pitches in the first game. Which probably means we’ll need at least a couple of guys to come in behind him.”

  Bailey Warner was the number one returning pitcher, so he would start the opener. That made sense. Alex wondered who would start game two the following Tuesday.

  For the scrimmage, Coach Birdy had the pitchers batting last in the rotation. Alex knew that wouldn’t be the case when the real games began—especially when Matt was pitching. In the second inning, Warner was close to his allotted forty pitches when Matt came up with men on first and second and nobody out. None of Warner’s first three pitches came close to the plate.

  “Come on—give me something to hit!” Matt growled, stepping out of the batter’s box.

  Warner said nothing. He checked the runners and threw what looked to Alex like his best fastball, right down the middle. That was a mistake. Matt, batting righty because Warner was a lefty, turned on the pitch and hit a wicked line drive toward the left-center field gap. Alex figured it was going to drop in for a two-RBI double, but the ball kept rising.

  And rising. It cleared the wall by about a foot as everyone stood and stared.

  Jonas, who was playing center field for the reds, had raced into the gap as if he could make a play on the ball. He had no chance. Now he stood and watched as it sailed over the fence.

  Matt jogged around the bases. He didn’t showboat—just put his head down and circled the infield quickly. Warner watched him, hands on hips, saying nothing. Coach Birdy, who was umpiring behind the plate, turned to Alex as Matt touched home plate.

  “You’re in, Myers,” he said. “Warner, that was forty-one pitches. Come on out.”

  “You couldn’t have gotten me out at forty?” Bailey said as he walked in the direction of the dugout. Everyone laughed. At least, Alex thought, Bailey still had his sense of humor intact.