The DH

by John Feinstein

  It was 5–4. And Chester Heights still needed four more outs.

  Coach Birdy was back on the mound, waving Ethan Sattler in. The lefty-lefty move hadn’t exactly worked out. Alex felt his heart thumping in his chest. This wasn’t good, he thought. They’d given Haverford Station life. He could see that everyone in the home dugout was on the top step, leaning over the railing.

  Sattler managed to get the final out on a routine ground ball to Cardillo. Alex breathed a sigh of relief as they all ran in, with the lead now only 5–4.

  Everyone was chattering about getting a couple of insurance runs.

  “We’re fine, fellas,” Coach Birdy said. “Three outs to go, and we’re still in front.”

  He turned to Alex. “You’ve got the ball in the bottom of the inning, Myers. Just get three outs and let’s get out of here.”

  Alex felt his heart pumping almost through his chest again.

  “You’ve got this, Goldie,” Matt said, just like he had said to him during football season. “Go be the hero. It’s what you do.”

  The Lions went down one, two, three in the top of the seventh. It looked to Alex as if each guy who came up was trying to hit a six-hundred-foot homer. Instead, they got nothing but air.

  Before he left the dugout, Coach Birdy put his arm around Alex. “You’ve been through this before in football and in basketball,” he said. “No need to do anything special. You’re plenty good enough to get these guys out.”

  Alex nodded. He was still trying to control his breathing and his heart rate. For some reason, this felt different from the way football and basketball had felt. There, once he was on the field or the court, all his nerves went away. He had simply focused on what he needed to do and, for the most part, had done it.

  He felt fine warming up and got lucky when the Hornets’ first hitter, overeager, jumped at a fastball that was low and outside and hit a one-hopper right back to him. Easy out. Two to go. Alex could feel himself relaxing just a little.

  The next hitter was a lot more patient. He worked a 2–2 count, fouled off several pitches, and then hit a long fly ball to center field. Jonas took a few steps back and made an easy catch.

  One out to go. Now Alex was in his own world. He didn’t hear the crowd, and he didn’t hear his teammates yelling encouragement to him.

  The batter was Kenworthy. This, Alex thought, is the way to end it. Alex saw Coach Birdy signaling Brendan Chu, the third baseman, to play in a couple of steps in case Kenworthy decided to bunt again. Alex was pretty sure Kenworthy wouldn’t try it with one out left in the season, but he thought moving Chu in was a good move.

  Alex was dimly aware of the crowd screaming at Kenworthy to keep the game alive. He threw a fastball that he thought was on the corner. Kenworthy took the pitch. Ball one.

  No matter, Alex thought. He threw the same pitch. Strike one. Kenworthy backed out and said something to the umpire, who simply pointed at the batter’s box, as if to say, Get in there and hit.

  Alex had gone outside twice; now he aimed for the inside corner. Kenworthy swung viciously and fouled the pitch back. It was 1–2. One strike away. Alex had thrown three fastballs. It was time to throw a breaking pitch—to try to fool Kenworthy into a bad swing.

  It worked, almost. As the pitch dipped away, Kenworthy started to swing, then held up. Alex thought he saw the umpire’s arm start to come up to signal strike three. It didn’t.

  From the dugout, Alex heard Coach Birdy yell, “That wasn’t a swing?” His teammates were shouting too.

  The umpire took his mask off and glared into the dugout. Everyone quieted down quickly.

  The count was 2–2. Lucas Mann wanted a fastball. No, Alex thought, Kenworthy will be looking fastball. He shook him off. Mann signaled for the slider—the same pitch as the last one. Alex liked the idea. This time, though, Kenworthy wasn’t fooled. He could see the pitch breaking out of the strike zone, and he let it go by. It was 3–2.

  Now Alex agreed with Mann’s fastball signal. He reminded himself not to overthrow the pitch, to just go through his motion and put the pitch where he had put the first two—just above the knees, toward the outside corner. He reminded himself to avoid too fine so as not to throw ball four.

  He wound up, kicked, and threw. The pitch was perfect—so perfect that it froze Kenworthy, who simply watched it go by. Alex was about to throw his arms into the air when he noticed the umpire had not put his right arm up to indicate strike three.

  Even Kenworthy looked surprised.

  “What’s the call, Ump?” Alex asked, coming down off the mound, shouting to be heard.

  “Did I move my arm, son?” the umpire answered.

  “Where was the pitch?” Alex asked.

  “Below the knees,” the ump answered.

  “No way!” Alex said, more stunned than anything.

  Kenworthy, still looking surprised, dropped his bat and jogged to first base. Alex turned his back from the plate. He knew he couldn’t afford to get ejected.

  He took one more deep breath and turned back to face the plate. Billy Twardzik was walking into the batter’s box.

  Alex had been so focused on Kenworthy that he’d completely forgotten that Twardzik was on deck. Now, as Twardzik stepped in, Alex was suddenly out of the bubble he’d been in. The noise was almost deafening.

  He looked into the dugout to see if Coach Birdy might be coming out to talk to him. He was standing with one foot on the top step, hand on his chin.

  Alex was on his own, which made sense. What could Coach Birdy say at this moment?

  Twardzik stood close to the plate, clearly not concerned about getting hit again by an inside pitch.

  Alex was confident Twardzik would take a pitch. So he threw a fastball just off the middle of the plate. He had guessed right. Twardzik never moved a muscle. Strike one.

  With an 0–1 count, Alex decided to see if Twardzik might go fishing for a pitch off the plate. He threw another fastball, but this one was low and outside. Again, Twardzik didn’t move. He was going to wait for a pitch that he liked. Now it was 1–1.

  Time for a breaking pitch. Alex had thrown sliders to Kenworthy, so he decided to throw a curve to Twardzik, even though he knew that if he hung it, Twardzik might hit it into outer space.

  It broke perfectly, dropping through the strike zone to Twardzik’s knees as he flailed at it. One strike away…again.

  Twardzik backed out and picked some dirt up and rubbed it on his hands. “Good pitch,” he said, mouthing the words carefully so Alex could understand him over the din.

  Mann had liked that curve so much, he called for another one. This time, though, Alex missed outside. It was 2–2.

  Now Alex backed off the mound to gather himself. He glanced at the on-deck circle. Johnny Strachan, the cleanup hitter whom Warner had walked to restart the game, was swinging a bat. Alex wanted no part of facing him, especially with the tying run in scoring position.

  He walked back onto the mound and looked in for the sign. Mann wanted another curve. No, Alex thought, I can’t chance hanging one. He shook him off.

  Mann called for a slider. Okay, Alex thought. Let’s try it.

  It was the worst pitch he had thrown—in the dirt. Mann did a great job blocking it to keep Kenworthy at first base.

  Now it was 3–2. Again. Why, Alex thought, does each of these at-bats have to stretch to the bitter end? He pawed at the dirt with his foot. He knew that if this were a movie, Twardzik would hit a home run on the next pitch to end the game and the season. From surgery on his brain to a season-ending home run to ruin the chances of the team whose pitcher had put him in the hospital.

  For a split second, almost comically, Alex thought of a Peanuts cartoon his dad had shown him when he was a kid. Linus had been telling Charlie Brown about a ninety-nine-yard run on the last play of a football game for the winning touchdown. “You should have seen it, Charlie Brown!” he said. “The whole team and all their fans were celebrating!”

  To which Charlie Br
own had said, “How did the other team feel?”

  Alex didn’t want to be the other team.

  Mann was signaling for a fastball. Alex had thrown three straight breaking pitches and knew he had to throw a strike. He nodded.

  He checked Kenworthy at first, kicked his leg, and fired, putting everything he had into the pitch. Twardzik was sitting on a fastball. He swung, and the ball took off like a rocket, heading for the center field fence. Alex turned, convinced the Lions had just become the other team.

  Jonas, playing deep to try to cut off a game-tying extra-base hit in the gap, took off, angling into the gap and back toward the fence. He was in a full sprint as he reached the warning track. One step onto the track, he leaped and stretched his body as far as it could go, his glove reaching across his body and above his head.

  Alex could see that his glove was above the top of the fence as the ball finally came down. At the last possible second, just before he began to descend, Jonas twisted his glove back over the fence and reached for the ball. He came down to the ground, and everyone in the park held their breath.

  Jonas looked inside his glove and smiled. Then he pulled the ball out and held it over his head. Somehow, he had pulled the ball back into the field of play and held on to it. The second base umpire, who had run into the outfield to make a call, put his right arm up, signaling the out.

  Alex threw his arms into the air and was starting to sprint in Jonas’s direction along with the rest of the team when he saw Billy Twardzik, who had been between first and second bases when Jonas finally caught the ball. He was bent over, hands on knees, staring at the ground.

  Alex stopped running. He walked over to Twardzik and put an arm around his back. “You crushed that ball,” Alex said. “You couldn’t have hit it harder.”

  Twardzik looked up, saw Alex, and smiled. “I needed to hit it one inch harder,” he said. Then he stood up and put out his hand. “You guys won, fair and square.”

  Alex shook his hand, and then they hugged. Matt, who had come out of the stands, was standing right behind him.

  He didn’t say anything. Neither did Twardzik. Instead, they just hugged one another. There was really nothing left to say.

  When they finished celebrating and came off the field, Alex found a welcoming party waiting to greet him.

  Christine was there, and so were his mom and Coach Archer. Standing a few feet away was his dad.

  “Dad! When did you get here?” Alex asked.

  “Just as the game restarted,” his dad said. “I had a gut feeling you were going to end up on the mound. But I never figured the game would end that way. I’m proud of you. But if Jonas hadn’t made the catch, I’d have been proud of you anyway.”

  “Amen to that,” his mom said.

  A few yards away, Jonas was surrounded by cameras and notebooks, which was as it should be. There were some other media members talking to Billy Twardzik and Matt, who were being interviewed together. Twardzik had his arm around Matt. That, Alex thought, was pretty cool.

  “Don’t you have work to do?” Alex asked Christine.

  “Not yet,” Christine said. “I asked to do the Myers sidebar.” She smiled. “But I think I can get him to talk to me later.”

  Alex smiled. As usual, she was right.

  JOHN FEINSTEIN is the author of many bestselling books, including A Season on the Brink, A Good Walk Spoiled, and Where Nobody Knows Your Name. His books for young readers include the other Triple Threat books: The Walk On and The Sixth Man; the Sports Beat mysteries: Last Shot, Vanishing Act, Cover-Up, Change-Up, The Rivalry, and Rush for the Gold; and Foul Trouble. All of his books offer a winning combination of sports, action, and intrigue, with Last Shot receiving the Edgar Allan Poe Award for best young adult mystery.

  He began his career at the Washington Post, where he worked as both a political and sports reporter. He has also written for Sports Illustrated and the National Sports Daily, and is currently a contributor to the Washington Post, Golf World, the Gold Channel, and Comcast SportsNet.

  John Feinstein lives in Potomac, Maryland. Visit him online at JohnFeinsteinBooks.com.