The DH

by John Feinstein

  “But who can help him?” Christine said. “We’re all teenagers too. Doesn’t this need an adult?”

  “Adults, yes—more than one,” Stevie answered. “I know his dad’s not around and his mom doesn’t know much about sports.”

  “And, like you said, Christine, if we involve Coach Birdy, Matt can brush him off, saying he just wants him back to pitch next season,” Alex said.

  Stevie nodded. “Right. You need someone who is an expert on gifted athletes and what they deal with and has no agenda.”

  “Any ideas?” Christine asked.

  “Yup,” Stevie said. “Bryce Harper.”

  “Bryce Harper?” they both said together.

  Then Christine, speaking for Alex, added, “How are you going to get Bryce Harper to come and talk to Matt?”

  “I’m not,” Stevie said. “I’m going to take Matt to talk to Bryce. The Nationals are coming to town next week to play the Phillies. We’ll do it then.”

  “Before I even ask how you plan to pull that off, tell me why Bryce Harper,” Christine said.

  “He was such a phenom that he graduated from high school two years early. Went to junior college for a year because he wasn’t draft-eligible yet. Then he was the number one pick in the draft, and five years later, he was one of the best players in baseball—the National League MVP.

  “The difference is, his father’s been involved every step of the way. They dodged most—if not all—of the pitfalls of being a phenom. I can’t think of anyone better to tell someone like Matt that he needs to be careful who he gets involved with.”

  “Okay, that’s a great why,” Alex said. “But how?”

  “Getting Matt and Bryce together?” Stevie said. “Not that hard. I’ve dealt with Bryce a couple times. He’s actually a very good guy. When the Nats come here, I’ll arrange to get credentials for Matt, and I can take him to the clubhouse a few hours before a game so he can talk to Bryce.”

  Alex couldn’t resist. “Can we go too?” he asked.

  “Alex!” Christine said. “This isn’t about us.”

  Stevie smiled. “I’m sure I can arrange for another student reporter and one of Matt’s teammates to come too. You guys will have to follow my lead when we get there. You can’t start asking for autographs or stuff like that.”

  That was a little disappointing for Alex. He would have loved to have gotten an autograph from Daniel Murphy or Wilson Ramos or Ryan Zimmerman—even though he was a Red Sox fan. But Christine was right. This wasn’t about them.

  Stevie Thomas’s presence at lunch meant that Alex and Christine never really got a chance to talk. She mentioned while they were eating that her dad was picking her up and she was spending the rest of the weekend with him. That eliminated any possibility of a movie or any discussion about whether their “break” was over. Alex figured he shouldn’t try to force anything.

  “Give her space” was his new mantra.

  On Monday, Christine told him she’d gotten an update from Stevie. The Phillies were playing an afternoon game on Saturday against the Nationals. Stevie had made arrangements for Matt, Christine, and Alex to get press passes so they could go see Harper in the clubhouse at Citizens Bank Park at ten in the morning.

  “Stevie said Saturday is good because it’s a day game after a night game, so the Nationals won’t be taking batting practice,” she said. “Bryce should have time before the game to talk.”

  “So what do we tell Matt?” Alex asked.

  “Basically, I’m going to tell him the truth: Stevie knows Bryce and thought he’d want to talk to him since he left high school early.”

  “You think Matt will buy that?”

  “What’s to buy?” she said. “It’s the truth. Besides—who wouldn’t jump at the chance to talk to a major leaguer?”

  Alex decided there was no point debating with her since he was fairly certain she’d be able to talk Matt into going. But he suspected Matt might have a more complicated reaction than she expected.

  The conference home opener against Bryn Mawr Tech brought out masses of people—fans and the media—especially since Matt was scheduled to pitch.

  He didn’t disappoint. He gave up two hits all afternoon—a bunt single in the first inning and a long home run in the fourth by Bryn Mawr’s cleanup hitter, Malcolm Folley, whom Alex remembered as a linebacker from football season. Folley timed a fastball perfectly and hit it way over the left field fence. Alex started back when the ball came off the bat but quickly realized he would need a jetpack to get anywhere close to it.

  But Chester Heights scored three runs in the first inning—two on a long double by Matt that drove in Cardillo and Alex, both of whom had walked. And then in the fifth, Matt—as if to prove he could match anything that anyone else did on the field—hit a home run of his own that also went way over the left field fence.

  Matt was still pitching in the seventh, and he ended the game by striking Folley out on three pitches. The first two were fastballs—one a called strike, the other a foul ball straight back. The third pitch was a classic “twelve-to-six” curveball—a pitch that started as if it was going to hit the batter in the head, then broke down and away, crossing the strike zone at about knee height. Folley almost broke his back flailing at it.

  The final score was 4–1, Chester Heights. Alex knew that Bryn Mawr had finished third in the conference the previous season behind Chester and Haverford Station, so this was a good win to start the conference season.

  Alex noticed that Matt’s postgame session was now divided into not one, not two, but three different groups. First came TV and radio—one of the cameras said ESPN. Apparently Matt was going national.

  Jonas, who never missed anything, nudged Alex. “ESPN. What do you think about that?”

  “Better ESPN than CNN,” Alex said, thinking back to the fall. “As long as the story is just about Matt’s pitching and hitting, it’s fine.”

  After TV and radio finished, the print guys would close in—no doubt wanting more detailed answers than Matt had given on camera.

  And, finally, the acolytes—scouts and agents—would get their turn with the new prince of Philadelphia baseball.

  Alex and Jonas were walking past the dugout on their way back to the locker room when Alex noticed Bailey Warner standing on the top step. Alex hadn’t seen Warner at all—not even in the hallways—since Coach Birdy had first told them about his shoulder problems. Warner’s arm was in a sling.

  “Bailey, what’s with the sling?” Jonas said. “Where have you been hiding?”

  Warner smiled wanly. “I’ve been around,” he said. “I’ve gotten a couple cortisone shots in the shoulder. The doctor wants me to wear the sling so I’m not tempted to use it and hurt myself. He’s hoping that if I rest it completely for about a week, then rehab it, I won’t need surgery.”

  “What kind of surgery?” Alex asked.

  “Rotator cuff,” Warner said. “They did four different MRIs and still aren’t sure why it’s hurting me. The doctor finally said that a couple of my rotator cuff bands are probably just worn down from throwing.”

  “Rotator cuff bands?” Jonas asked.

  “Yeah, you’ve got four in each shoulder that make up the cuff,” Warner said. “Sometimes they just wear down, and sometimes they pop. When they pop, you have no choice but to have surgery.”

  “So does that mean you can’t pitch again?”

  Warner shook his head. “Means I have to rest. The doctor said give it two, three weeks and then see how it feels after rehab. Meanwhile”—he nodded in Matt’s direction—“it doesn’t look like you guys need me much anyway.”

  Alex laughed. “Oh no, we need you. We’ll especially need you as the season goes along.”

  Warner rubbed his left arm against the sling for a moment.

  “I thought this was going to be my year to be the number one starter,” he said. “Even if I can get healthy, I’ll probably be no better than number three. Matt’s a star, and from what I’ve hear
d, Alex, you aren’t that far behind.”

  “I’m way behind,” Alex said, not being modest. “And I’m behind you too when you’re healthy.” On that, he was being modest. He thought he might be a better pitcher than Warner based on what little he’d seen. Then again, Warner had probably been pitching with a sore shoulder all spring.

  “Thanks for that, Alex. But right now, I just want to pitch,” Warner said. “Give me an inning out of the bullpen and I’ll be happy.”

  Someone up in the stands was calling Warner’s name.

  “Gotta go,” he said. “I can’t drive with the sling, so my mom’s waiting.” He paused like he wanted to say more but just said, “Keep it going, guys. Keep winning.” Then he turned and walked away.

  Alex and Jonas were both quiet. “It’s not fair, you know,” Jonas said.

  “You mean about him being hurt?”

  “Yeah, that’s part of it,” Jonas said. “But it’s also not fair that he’s been completely forgotten because he’s hurt and Matt’s now everybody’s hero again.”

  “Bothers you?” Alex said.

  Jonas paused. “Yeah—a little bit, at least. Matt cheated. I know why he cheated, and he showed guts admitting it—even though he was gonna get caught anyway. I’m not saying he’s a bad guy, but…”

  “But a cheater shouldn’t be a hero?”

  “Do you think he should?”

  Alex looked back at Matt. The print media had started moving away, and he could see the guys in the business suits and sweat suits—the agents and the scouts—moving in.

  “You know, he’s been through a lot too,” Alex said. “His father’s out of his life, and even though he might be a jerk at times, it’s tough losing your father.”

  “You can relate, huh?” Jonas said.

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “I can relate.”

  It seemed to Alex that there were two Matt Gordons in his life.

  There was Matt the Old—the same guy who had been his friend all fall; who had stood in front of the whole school and taken responsibility for his screwup with PEDs; who had taken the time to teach him how to properly grip a curveball.

  Then there was Matt the New—who couldn’t seem to get enough attention; who seemed worried only about himself; who thought he was better than everyone, at least in part because he was better than everyone.

  On Thursday, the day before the game at King of Prussia, Matt the Old made another appearance at practice.

  “Your curve’s coming along, Goldie,” he said as they threw lightly on the side while the position players took batting practice. “But you’re gonna need a third pitch. You need a slider. Never been a great pitcher who hasn’t thrown one.”

  Alex was a long way from being a great pitcher, but he knew that in the majors the slider was often the “out” pitch—the one that pitchers used when they most needed an out. The most notable exception, at least as far as Alex knew, was his fellow Billerican Tom Glavine, who had been famous for throwing one of baseball’s wickedest changeups.

  “How do you throw it?” Alex asked.

  “I’ll show you,” Matt said, taking the ball from Alex. “Here, hold the ball as if you’re going to throw your fastball.”

  As he had done with the curveball, he showed Alex the grip—which wasn’t all that different from the way Alex gripped his fastball. He knew it was called a “two-seam” fastball because you gripped the two seams with your fingers side by side. Older pitchers also threw a “four-seamer,” which simply meant your fingers went across the seams so each touched the seams twice—for a total of four seams.

  “All you do is move your index finger so it’s between the seams rather than on the left seam. Gives the ball a different spin. Then you cock your wrist a little more toward where the thumb is on the other side of the ball. The extra pressure on the thumb makes the ball break and dart, and it comes in almost as fast as the fastball. That’s why it’s so hard to hit.”

  Alex did as he was told. Since they weren’t actually doing any throwing the day before a game, Matt ran down to catch him. “Just throw a few,” he said.

  The first three slipped completely out of Alex’s hand because he was unable to control the ball with his thumb the way he did with his index and middle fingers. The fourth pitch was better—reaching Matt’s glove.

  “Right!” Matt shouted. “Just ease up a little. Remember what I said about the curve—try easier.”

  Alex did so, and each pitch got a little better. Matt stopped him after ten pitches.

  “Don’t want to overdo it,” he said. “You need your arm for tomorrow. For now, only use it on three-and-oh when no one’s on base and if you miss with it and it’s a walk, it’s no big deal. Or on oh-and-two when if you throw a strike, the batter’s got no chance, or if you throw a ball, it’s still one-and-two. You’ll need to practice it some more before you start throwing it often.”

  “Thanks, Matt,” Alex said. “Where did you learn all this?”

  “From a book,” Matt said. “That’s where I got the grips. Throwing the pitches was practice. Remember: Try easier.”

  They heard Coach Birdy’s whistle and jogged, with the other pitchers, to the middle of the infield.

  Once again, Alex wondered who the real Matt Gordon was. He liked this one a lot.

  Alex never got to try his slider in Friday’s game against King of Prussia. They’d finished mid-conference last year, so Alex hoped he could cruise through to a win. But when he walked into the dugout after warming up, Matt pulled him aside.

  “They’ve got three transfers,” he said. “Two of them are twin brothers, and they hit third and fourth.”

  “How do you know?” Alex asked.

  “Because the kid you’re pitching against is their starting quarterback,” Matt said. “He told me a few minutes ago.”

  The twins, Jake and Joey Herman, were huge. Alex found out later they’d just moved from California with their mom.

  In the first inning, Alex struck out the leadoff hitter but then gave up an infield single to the second batter. The kid hit what Alex figured was a routine grounder to third base. Jeff Cardillo fielded it cleanly and threw smoothly to first. There was one problem: The KOP kid was so fast that he beat the throw.

  Then Jake Herman stepped in. Alex had never pitched to anyone so big. He had to be six foot five and weigh at least 230 pounds. But could he hit?

  Alex got the answer quickly. After he’d thrown a fastball outside, he came back with another fastball, meant to get inside and on Herman’s hands. Clearly, it wasn’t far enough inside because Herman turned on it and hit a line drive that Alex thought might go through the right field fence. It hit halfway up, and Brendan Chu and Jonas chased it down in right-center. The kid with the rockets in his legs scored easily from first, and Herman lumbered into second.

  That was the hardest Alex had ever seen anyone hit a ball—until two pitches later. He got a called strike on Joey Herman, then decided to try to fool him with a curveball off the plate. The pitch caught too much of the plate and didn’t fool Herman even a little bit. He swung and hit the ball five miles into the air. It didn’t go straight up, though—it kept carrying to center field. Jonas raced back a few steps, then stopped and turned to watch it soar way over the fence. Alex figured it would come down somewhere near the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

  Alex had faced only four batters and already trailed 3–0.

  Coach Birdy came out to talk to him.

  “You okay?” he said. “Those two guys are both eighteen-year-old seniors. Don’t worry about them. Get the rest of these guys out, and we’ll even up the score.”

  Alex, still a little bit in shock, nodded.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, Coach.”

  He was lying. He walked the next two batters and then gave up a two-run double. It was 5–0 by the time he got to the dugout.

  The KOP fans were roaring, and the Lions were shaken. But they got a couple men on in the second, which stea
died them, even though they didn’t come around to score.

  Alex regrouped and pitched better after that. He got the first two hitters in the second inning, then unintentionally/intentionally walked both Hermans. The number five hitter singled to drive in Jake, but Alex struck out the next hitter to get out of the inning.

  Then he retired the side in order in the third.

  As he came to the dugout, though, Coach Birdy said, “Good job, Alex. We’re going to put you out in left next inning.”

  “Coach, I just got ’em one, two, three,” Alex said in protest.

  “I know you did,” Coach Birdy said. “But you’ve thrown seventy-eight pitches. I couldn’t let you pitch more than one more inning anyway because I wouldn’t want to risk your arm. Let’s give the bullpen some work and make sure your arm lives to pitch another day.”

  Alex hoped the Lions’ bats would get hot in a hurry. But no.

  And the bullpen got shelled even worse than Alex had. Each Herman brother hit a massive home run, and the rest of the lineup chipped in too. By the time the carnage was over, King of Prussia had fourteen runs. Chester Heights managed to score twice—in the top of the seventh—making the final score 14–2.

  “Too bad they don’t have a mercy rule in this league,” Jonas said after the last out.

  “You aren’t supposed to lose this badly in high school, I guess,” Alex replied. The mercy rule was in effect in Little League games. If a team fell behind by ten runs, the game ended in order to avoid truly embarrassing scores…like 14–2.

  Once they’d shaken hands and gathered in the dugout before the bus trip home, Coach Birdy spoke quietly but firmly.

  “It was a bad day,” he said. “They happen in baseball. We play them back at our place next month; the score might be reversed.”

  “Only if I pitch,” Matt said, loud enough to be heard.