The DH

by John Feinstein

  “Were you surprised that Coach Birdy got so upset?” Garland asked. “He’s not exactly what you’d call a hothead.”

  Garland was right about that. “You should probably ask him what happened,” Alex said. “But yeah, I was a little surprised.” He paused for a second. “But Coach didn’t say anything except ‘Just admit you missed it.’ It was the ump who amped up the whole thing. He was the hothead.”

  “You didn’t recognize him?” Garland asked.

  “Recognize him?”

  Garland nodded. “Remember when the basketball team played at Mercer back in December? He was the ref who tossed Coach Archer.”

  Alex gasped. Garland was right. It hadn’t even occurred to him that a basketball ref would umpire baseball, but then again, why wouldn’t he?

  “Wow” was all he could think to say.

  “You think he had it in for you guys?”

  Alex thought that one over for a minute. He knew where Garland was going, and he also knew he should be careful here. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Anyone can miss a call. The guy does have a temper. But we didn’t lose because of him. We lost because we played lousy.”

  “Except for Gordon,” Garland said.

  Matt had been three-for-three, with two homers, a double, and a walk, and had driven in all seven Chester Heights runs.

  “Yeah,” Alex said, glancing to his right, where Christine and several other reporters were talking to Matt. “Except for Matt.”

  “Did you know he was this good a baseball player?” Garland asked.

  “I had no idea,” Alex said. “He told me during the winter that he was good, but I didn’t expect this.”

  “Coach Birdy says Matt’s pitching on Tuesday. Can he pitch like he hits?”

  Alex thought about that for a minute also. “He might be a better pitcher than he is a hitter.”

  Garland looked closely at him, as if deciding whether Alex was serious.

  “Really?” he said.

  “Really,” Alex answered.

  “If that’s the case,” Garland said, “you’re going to have a lot of pro scouts showing up pretty soon.”

  Alex looked again in the direction of Matt and the reporters. They were gone—except for Christine. She and Matt were still talking. And she had put her notebook away.

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “Am I? What were the two of you talking about when I walked over yesterday?”

  Christine Whitford frowned at Alex. “Nothing.”

  “Then why did you both get so quiet when you saw me coming?”

  Christine sat back in the booth. It was noon on Saturday, and they were having lunch at Stark’s, their favorite hamburger place. Alex hadn’t meant to sound accusatory when he asked Christine about her interview/conversation with Matt. But he suspected it was coming off that way.

  “We didn’t ‘get quiet,’ ” she said. “You’re paranoid.”

  “You sure? He didn’t ask you out?”

  She glared at him for a second—a look he’d seen before. It told him he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

  “No, he did not ask me out,” she said. “He knows you and I are going out, and he’s your friend. And wasn’t he the one who told you last fall to ask me out?”

  That was true. Alex had been nervous about asking Christine out, and Matt had pushed him in the right direction. What she probably didn’t know was how he had pushed: “If you don’t ask her to the dance, I will,” Matt had said.

  “Yes, he did,” he finally said. “But that was a different Matt.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Alex sat back. In truth, beyond wanting to see her, this was the reason he’d asked her to meet him for lunch. Normally, he might have included Jonas and Max Bellotti and perhaps even Matt.

  But he wanted to talk about Matt, so it was just the two of them.

  “He’s changed since the fall,” Alex said. “He even said to me that he feels different because the whole PED thing knocked him off his pedestal. He wants everyone to know that he’s the best baseball player in the history of Chester Heights.”

  She smiled—which made him happy, because it showed she wasn’t mad at him anymore, and because she had one of the world’s greatest smiles.

  “I don’t know much about Chester Heights’ history in baseball, but from the little I’ve seen, he might be close.”

  Alex grunted. “And you haven’t seen him pitch yet.”

  She took a long sip from the vanilla milk shake she had ordered. “So I’ve heard,” she said. “Okay, he wants everyone to understand he’s a great baseball player—that he might be better at baseball than football. What’s wrong with that? How does that mean he’s changed? He doesn’t seem different to me.”

  Alex thought for a moment. Everything she was saying made sense. It wasn’t as if Matt had turned into some kind of a jerk overnight. It was more subtle than that, something he felt in his gut but couldn’t articulate.

  “I’m sure he’s the same with you,” he said.

  “So…”

  “So…you’re not a better quarterback than he is.”

  He said it without thinking. She gave him a look that told him she thought he was out of his mind. But he wasn’t.

  And then, on Monday afternoon, the old Matt Gordon showed up for practice.

  He and Alex were waiting their turn to throw on the side when Matt said, “Goldie, you know how to throw anything but a fastball?”

  Alex thought another put-down was coming, so his answer was defensive. “I can throw a curve,” he said.

  Matt nodded. “I saw. You throw that kids’ curve, with your index finger up in the air. Dead giveaway, especially to good hitters at this level.”

  Alex’s dad had shown him how to throw a curve when he started Little League, admonishing him to use it only when he really needed it because throwing too many curves could put strain on a young arm.

  “How else do you throw it?” Alex asked.

  “Here, let me show you,” Matt said.

  He had the baseball he was going to throw when his turn came.

  “Instead of holding your index finger out like you’re pointing at something, just rest it next to your middle finger. You’re still going to use the middle finger to push the ball out of your hand—that’s what gives the pitch its break. But the batter won’t see the finger sticking up and won’t be looking curve. Just try a few when it’s your turn.”

  Which it was a minute later. Alex was throwing to Lucas Mann, the starting catcher. He started with some fastballs and then said, “I’m going to try a few curves.”

  “Try away,” Mann said.

  Alex carefully gripped the ball the way Matt had shown him. The first two that he threw came nowhere near home plate. Matt, throwing next to him, apparently noticed what was going on.

  “You’re gripping it too tight,” he said, pausing in between pitches. “Remember the old baseball saying ‘Try easier.’ ”

  Right, Alex thought. Try easier. He loosened his grip and snapped his arm ever so slightly as he released the next pitch. It arced across the plate, right where the batter’s knees would have been.

  “Great pitch!” Mann yelled. “Do it again.”

  Alex did. He threw a dozen in all, not wanting to push his arm too hard, and eight of the last ten were pretty close to perfect.

  When they were done, Mann took off his mask and pointed at Matt. “If the pitching thing doesn’t work out, Gordon, you can be the pitching coach,” he said.

  Everyone—including Coach Bloom, who was catching Matt—laughed.

  It felt like old times.

  Tuesday afternoon’s game was against Mercer, and as Alex warmed up with Jonas before the game, he noticed that the stands were a lot fuller than they had been the previous Friday. Mercer had brought several busloads of students from their campus in central Pennsylvania, so that was part of it. The basketball team had played at Mercer in December, and Alex vi
vidly remembered riding through the Mercer campus and thinking they had taken a wrong turn and arrived at a small, elite, big-money college.

  But that didn’t account for the whole crowd. Word had gotten around school about how good a player Matt Gordon was, and since he was pitching, the Chester Heights student turnout was high. And then there were the men in sports jackets and open-collared shirts sitting directly behind home plate.

  When Coach Birdy called them into the dugout, Alex pointed with his glove in the direction of the men and whispered to Jonas, “What do you think—college scouts?”

  Jonas turned and looked briefly. “Nah,” he said. “Matt’s just a junior. Why would they be here when he’s got another year of high school?”

  “Happens in basketball all the time,” Alex countered.

  “Too soon for people to know anything,” Jonas said. “He’s only played one game.”

  “Then who are they?”

  Before Jonas could answer, Coach Birdy was calling for their attention.

  “You’ve all seen the lineup,” he said. “Depending on how the game goes, I’ll try to sub more than I did on Friday. We’re giving some different guys a start today. That doesn’t mean the rest of you won’t be playing. So stay ready.”

  Alex was one of those different guys, starting in left field ahead of Billy Kellner. He was hitting fifth, right behind Matt. Patton Gormley would be the first man up in the bullpen if Matt got into trouble.

  If Alex had any doubts about the men being scouts, they went away when Matt threw his first pitch. Even from left field, Alex could see a half dozen radar guns pointing at Matt as he went into his pitching motion. A radar gun was a scout’s calling card. Alex knew this from watching games on TV and from baseball movies—most notably Trouble with the Curve. His dad called it a Clint Eastwood movie. To Alex, it was more of an Amy Adams movie. But that was beside the point.

  Matt’s first pitch whistled in so hard that Alex could hear Lucas Mann’s glove pop. The crowd oohed at the sound. Two pitches later, Mercer’s leadoff man slunk back to the bench, having not come close to making contact.

  The second guy went down in much the same fashion.

  Mercer’s third hitter, Dave Krenchek, was a friend of Alex’s—sort of. In the opening game of the football season, Alex had been sent in to kneel down and kill the clock in the final minute, with Chester Heights leading Mercer, 77–0. Krenchek had been unhappy—justifiably—with the way that Coach Gordon had run up the score, and he took it out on Alex, knocking him cold.

  Krenchek had apologized instantly and had called the next day to make sure Alex was okay. The two had struck up something of a long-distance friendship. Krenchek, it turned out, was a very good basketball player and had played a key role in Mercer’s early-season win over Chester Heights in hoops. Since he was batting third, Alex figured he was one of Mercer’s best hitters.

  And he did have the best at-bat of the inning—he managed to foul off two pitches before striking out. In all, it took Matt eleven pitches to get through the first inning. The Lions fans in the bleachers roared.

  Mike Albers, who was pitching for Mercer, was almost as good as Matt. He matched zeroes with him for five innings—not overpowering people the way Matt was, but keeping the Chester Heights hitters off balance with a variety of breaking pitches. Alex was as baffled as anyone and struck out twice.

  Matt walked one Mercer hitter—Krenchek, in the top of the fourth—but had not allowed a hit through six innings. Albers had given up two hits—a screaming line drive by Matt in the second that went for a double and a bunt single to Jeff Cardillo in the fourth. He had also walked Matt twice, not wanting to throw anything near the plate after his hit in the second inning.

  Alex led off in the bottom of the sixth. Coach Birdy had been telling everyone to take at least one pitch from Albers. “Almost all of his pitches break out of the strike zone,” he had said. “Make him throw you a strike before you swing.”

  Alex did as he was told, and sure enough, what looked like a slider broke low and away at the last possible second for ball one. Albers threw the same pitch again, and Alex took it for ball two. Alex stepped out of the box to look down at Coach Birdy, who was coaching at third base. Coach Birdy went through a series of motions, touching his uniform, his cap, and his face—all of which meant nothing until he pulled on his left ear. That meant the next movement he made was the sign Alex was to pay attention to.

  Alex was surprised when Coach Birdy tipped his cap. That was the “hit away” sign. He had expected to be told to take at least one more pitch.

  He nodded, then stepped back into the box, thinking, He’s expecting Albers to throw a fastball at 2–0. That’s why he’s telling me to swing away.

  And on cue, Albers threw a fastball on the outside edge of the plate. Alex was smart enough to not try to turn on it—Albers didn’t throw as hard as Matt, but he threw hard—so he took the ball to the opposite field. He didn’t hit the ball hard, but his soft line drive sliced over the first baseman’s head and landed a couple of feet fair as the right fielder scrambled to get to it.

  Alex was thinking double the moment he saw the flight of the ball and bolted from the batter’s box. His number one asset as an athlete was his golden arm. But his number two asset was his speed. He was around first base before the right fielder got to the ball and easily beat the throw into second.

  The Chester Heights fans, who had done most of their cheering when Matt was striking people out, were on their feet. They suspected—as did Alex—that one run would be enough.

  Alex looked at Coach Birdy to see what sign he was sending to Brendan Chu and to him. Not surprisingly, he wanted a bunt to get Alex to third. Mercer, naturally, was expecting the same thing, and the third and first basemen began creeping in as Albers came to the set position. Albers’s first pitch was high and inside—a pitch that was almost impossible to bunt. Chu hit the dirt, but as he went down, the ball hit his bat and dribbled in front of the plate.

  It was, unintentionally, a perfect bunt. Alex took off for third. By the time Albers realized what had happened, all he could do was pick the ball up and toss it to Krenchek at first to retire Chu—who was still lying on his back.

  “Great bunt, Brendan!” Alex yelled, standing on third. “That’ll teach ’em not to brush you back!”

  Albers was standing on the mound, hands on hips. He turned and looked at Alex. “You get a bloop hit and you think you’re the next David Ortiz?” he said.

  “I think I’m on third base,” Alex answered.

  Before Albers could respond, his coach jogged to the mound—no doubt to calm him down. Coach Birdy grabbed Alex by the elbow while time was out. “No more talk,” he said. “Be ready to take off on a ground ball or to tag up on a fly ball.”

  Lucas Mann, the catcher, was up. He had looked helpless in both of his previous at-bats. This one was no different. Albers didn’t even bother with a breaking pitch, blowing Mann away with three straight fastballs. That left it up to Jonas.

  “Be ready,” Coach Birdy said quietly.

  He turned and began sending a signal to Jonas. Alex understood what he had been saying. He wanted Jonas to take the first pitch, then bunt. Given Jonas’s speed, if he got the ball down at all, he would be a tough out at first base. He had tried a bunt in the third but had put too much on the ball, sending it right back to Albers. Even then, he’d only been out by a step.

  Albers seemed to want to throw fastballs now. His first pitch was down the middle for strike one. Alex wondered if that would change the strategy. Jonas, wondering too, stepped out and looked at Coach Birdy, who simply stared back at him. No change.

  Alex figured Albers would throw a breaking pitch, since he was ahead in the count. He did, a vicious slider that broke down and away. But Jonas had anticipated it and was leaning down and across the plate with his bat. He was able to push the ball down the first base line, between Krenchek and Albers.

  Alex raced for home plate.

&
nbsp; Krenchek had to come in to field the ball, which left first base uncovered. Alex knew Krenchek’s only play was to try to get him out at home.

  Krenchek’s throw and Alex arrived at the same moment. The catcher’s left leg was pulled back to keep Alex from hooking a toe onto the back of the plate, but Alex spied a gap—between the catcher’s legs. He slid and felt the catcher’s glove, with the ball in it, hit his leg at the exact moment his foot touched the plate.

  “Safe!” the umpire yelled.

  “What?” the catcher screamed. He jumped up and began yelling at the umpire as Albers and the coach charged at him too. Alex was starting to get up when Albers pushed him out of the way.

  “Hey!” he yelled at Albers. The two began pushing and shoving each other while both dugouts emptied—either to separate Alex and Albers or to look for a dance partner of their own.

  Alex and Albers were so tangled up neither could even think to throw a punch.

  “Hey, man, nothing personal. I was trying to get to the ump,” Albers said, relaxing his hold.

  Alex backed off too. “Gotcha. No sweat,” he said.

  He meant it. The score was 1–0, Chester Heights. That was all that mattered.

  Remarkably, no one from either team was ejected after the skirmish, and the umpire didn’t toss anyone from Mercer for arguing the play at the plate. Apparently he had a lot less ego than the guy who had worked the Wilmington South game.

  Alex kind of wished someone had gotten tossed, because Albers regained his cool and got the last out to end the inning.

  Matt went out for the seventh to try to finish off the win—and nail down his no-hitter.

  Krenchek led off and, after working the count full, managed to hit a looping fly ball to shallow left. Alex had been playing deep, thinking that if Krenchek did connect with one of Matt’s fastballs, his size and strength, combined with the heat on the pitch, would drive the ball a long way.

  But Krenchek’s bat hadn’t hit the ball cleanly, and after looking as if it might really take off, the ball began to die. Alex froze for a split second, not sure whether to break back or in. When he realized the ball wasn’t going very far, he sprinted in and dove, his body horizontal to the ground, glove extended as far as he could reach. For a moment, he thought he was going to catch it, but the ball hit the tip of his glove and rolled away. He knew at that instant that Matt’s no-hitter was gone, and he wanted to pound the ground in frustration. Instead, he scrambled to his feet, picked the ball up, and got it back to the infield quickly enough to force Krenchek to put on the brakes and retreat to first base.