by Carl Deuker
It didn’t matter as long as Josh was getting everybody out, but in the fourth, Josh lost the plate. He walked the first guy on five pitches, then hit the number two batter. That brought up Number Forty again, this time with a chance to do some serious damage.
Selin called time and went out to the mound to go over strategy. I knew what I would have done, how I’d have pitched Forty. I’d have started him out with the slider to get him thinking. Then I would have busted a fastball in on his hands, wasted a curve outside, and polished him off with another slider. Change speeds; change locations; keep him off balance.
But that’s not what Selin did. He called for heat, heat, and more heat. Josh blew the first fastball right past Forty. And he got a strike on the second fastball, too. Only on that one, Forty got a piece of it and sent a foul ball straight back into the screen.
You can tell a lot from foul balls. If they’re hit down the right or left field lines, then the pitcher has got the hitter’s timing off, and he’s in control. But a foul ball straight back—that means trouble. The hitter has the pitch timed, and the pitcher had better do something different—and do it quick.
I stood, leaned against the fence. “The slider,” I whispered. “Call for the slider.” But Selin wanted another fastball, and Josh would never shake off the heater. Forty was right on it, and I thought he’d driven the ball all the way to Green Lake, but he was just under it. Still, the ball carried to the warning track in straightaway center before Andy Bayne hauled it in. Both runners tagged and moved up a base, but at least there was one out.
Wheatley held up four fingers, so Josh walked the cleanup hitter intentionally to load the bases. Everybody was up now—O’Dea fans and Crown Hill fans—cheering and screaming.
Josh peered in, shook off one sign, then another, and another. Finally Wheatley called time and trotted out to the mound.
Even from the bench you could tell that Josh and Selin were furious with one another. They wouldn’t look at each other, and Wheatley kept swiveling his head back and forth, first talking to one and then to the other. Finally he returned to the bench.
The next pitch was the first slider Josh had thrown all day, and it was a dandy. The batter waved at it as it broke, but the ball got by Selin and rolled all the way to the backstop. The runner on third scored easily, and the other two runners moved up. Wheatley kicked at the Cyclone fence, then looked down the bench toward me.
Josh’s next pitch was a fastball right down the pike. The O’Dea hitter sent a shot toward right field that looked like a clean base hit. But Jesse Van Tassel went way up to spear it. The ball stuck in the webbing of his glove like a scoop of vanilla ice cream on a cone. The runner on second had taken off for third, certain the ball was headed up the alley for extra bases. Van Tassel trotted over to the bag to double him up. They’d taken the lead, but we were out of the inning.
The score was still 1–0 heading to the bottom of the sixth. Carlos Hernandes worked a leadoff walk, but our next two guys went down easily—a lazy fly to center and a pop-up to the first baseman. With two down, Bethel Santos ripped the first pitch he saw right back up the middle for a single, moving Hernandes to third. “We had something going at last.”
Santos had decent speed, but the O’Dea pitcher acted like he was Rickey Henderson. He should have concentrated on Brandon Ruben, who was batting, but he kept throwing over to first, trying to keep Santos close. When he finally did come to the plate, he served up a fastball belt-high right over the heart of the plate. Ruben was a little late with his swing, but he caught the ball solid and sent a line drive down the right field line. It landed fair by about a foot and kicked into the corner.
Hernandes scored the tying run easily. As Santos flew around second, Wheatley, coaching at third, pinwheeled his arm sending him home. O’Dea should have had him, because the right fielder got the ball cleanly and made a good throw. But the relay from the second baseman was way up the line. Santos slid in safely, and we had the lead.
I’d hardly finished cheering when I heard Wheatley. “You’re done for today, Selin. Get your gear on, Ward. You’re catching the last inning.”
I stared at him, unsure if I’d heard right.
“Come on!” he hollered, clapping his hands. “Get moving!”
My eyes met Selin’s. For a second his flashed in anger. But just for a second. “Close them out,” he said, as he unbuckled his chest protector. “You can do it.”
I’d imagined taking the field as a varsity player for the first time. I pictured myself walking slowly out onto the grass and looking around, like a movie actor, savoring the moment. It didn’t work out that way. I still had only one shin guard on when Van Tassel popped up to end the inning. My hands were shaking so much I didn’t think I’d ever get the straps right. I waddled onto the field hooking up my chest protector and praying I wouldn’t fall flat on my face.
Josh was no help. I sort of smiled at him as I returned his first warm-up, but he looked through me like I wasn’t there. So I took a deep breath, crouched, and put on my own game face. Three outs, I told myself. That’s all we need. Three outs.
The number nine hitter led off, a break for us. Even better, he was first-pitch swinging. Josh busted a fastball in on the fists, and he went down on a weak pop to shortstop. It was a gift out, but there weren’t going to be any more gifts. The top of the order was up.
O’Dea’s leadoff guy was a classic number one. Quick, with a good eye. I figured Wheatley had put me in to catch the slider, so that was the pitch I called. But Josh shook me off and threw another inside fastball instead. The O’Dea hitter laid down a beautiful bunt. Curtis raced in, bare-handed the ball, but fired wildly to first. The ball caromed off the Cyclone fence, and the O’Dea guy didn’t stop running until he’d reached third base.
Talk about a tight spot—the tying runner was ninety feet from scoring with the two, three, and four hitters due up.
We had to pull the infield in. Doing that gives the fielders a good shot at cutting down the runner at home on grounders hit right to them. But when you’re in close you don’t have time to react to balls hit to your right or your left. Easy outs at normal depth become hits.
When the O’Dea hitter saw the infield in, he choked up on the bat. He was going to try to poke a grounder through.
I wanted to save the slider for the strikeout, so I had Josh start him off with an inside fastball. The guy had a good cut, but he was late and fouled it off down the first base line. Next I called for a curve that missed outside. Then I came back with another fastball, and he fouled it off again.
Now! I thought, putting down three fingers for the slider. Now!
Josh nodded, a little smile in his eyes. I knew he was going to break off a wicked one and, with the tying run bluffing down the line at third, I also knew I had to keep the ball from getting by me.
Josh wound and delivered. The guy swung at it like it was a fastball, but it broke late, dancing down and under his bat. I moved with the pitch smooth as could be, catching it off the dirt. “Strike three!”
Two down.
There was no time to relax because Number Forty was stepping up to the plate. He’d had two good at-bats against Josh—the screaming line drive out in the first and the long fly ball that had just missed being a home run. He took about eight vicious practice swings before stepping in.
Josh was tired. I could see it in his face, in the way he leaned forward, his right hand on his knee. There was no way he was going to blow this guy down. I was going to have to outthink him.
Number Forty had watched Josh throw first pitch inside fastballs to three straight hitters. I figured he’d figure he’d get the same thing. So I called for the slider away. I wanted him to see it, even if he didn’t swing. He was too comfortable up there, way too comfortable. I wanted him to worry.
And Josh threw a beauty. It was belt high down the middle, and then it was in the dirt. Forty swung and missed. I blocked it, keeping the ball in front of me and keeping the ru
nner from scoring.
Strike one.
Forty stepped out, pulled on his gloves. I almost smiled, because I knew that slider had hatched some butterflies in his belly. He’d be looking for it again, I decided, so I called for the fastball inside. He started to swing, then tried to check. Too late. “Strike two!” the umpire hollered.
If it had been the second inning, I’d have had Josh waste a pitch. A curveball a foot outside—something like that. But he was too tired to waste any energy. He pinwheeled his arm twice, peered in. I flashed the sign for the slider. He nodded. Looking into his eyes, I knew he was going to throw the best one he had because it was the last one he had. I got ready to move. I couldn’t let it get by me.
And there it was, fast and breaking down into the dirt. Forty swung over the top as I slid to my knees to block it. The ball hit against the heel of my mitt and then off my chest protector, rolling out in front of the plate.
Forty took off toward first as I scrambled to my feet and hustled after the ball. I thought my legs would never get there. Finally I picked it up and made a good crisp throw down to first for the game-ending out. The guys swarmed Josh, swarmed him like he’d just won the championship game, not the opening game. And why not? We’d beaten O’Dea! For the first time since who knows when, we’d beaten O’Dea!
Once the celebrating ended, Josh and I sat next to each other on the bench, packing away our stuff. Or rather he was packing up his stuff. I was so excited I just sat.
Coach Wheatley walked by and gave my arm a squeeze. “Nice job out there,” he said. “In my book you get the save.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling up at him. “Thanks.”
“He’s right, you know,” Josh said when he was gone. “Forty had my fastball timed. The slider was the only pitch I could get him with. Selin would have never called for it, not with a runner at third. You play your cards right and you’ll see a lot of action.”
“You really think so?” I said, trying not to hope for too much.
Josh zipped up his bag and stood. “I know so.”
I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. I felt like a tidal wave was welling up inside me. I wanted to sing out for joy, to holler—the way you holler at a rock concert.
Josh started off. “Hey,” I called out to him when he was about fifteen feet away. “You feel like doing something tonight. Pool? Or a movie?”
He shook his head. “Can’t. I’m taking Missy Radburn out.”
I knew Missy from Mrs. Beck’s class. She was always popping her gum and turning off the computer in the back of the room so she could use the screen to put on her lipstick. She wouldn’t have been my first choice for a date.
“Well, have fun,” I said, and right away I felt stupid. I hadn’t meant it like that.
But Josh only grinned. “I intend to. I intend to.”
8
That was a great day, and the next day was almost better. We’d had a big test in chemistry class that I’d studied long and hard for. I thought I’d done pretty well, but when I got it back with a huge “A+” written across the top in red, I was amazed. After class Mr. Woodruff walked down the hall with me. “What are your plans for next year?” he asked.
I told him about Shoreline Community College.
“That’s a good school. You can get a start there. But be sure to take hard classes, university-level. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean you could go a long way. Have you thought about a career in medicine?”
I laughed out loud. “Me? A doctor?”
“What’s funny about that? You’ve got real skill in the laboratory. Good hands, better hands than I’ve seen in a long time. And you’re strong enough at the academics when you really work at them. It would take work and dedication, but you’d make a good doctor or dentist or veterinarian.” He paused. “Anyway, it’s something for you to think about.”
It was the kind of thing my father and mother had said to me for as long as I can remember. I’d always just blown it off when they’d done it. But coming from Mr. Woodruff, the words sounded different. Or maybe I was different. You work hard at something you’re not sure you can do—as I’d worked at baseball—and when you succeed you start thinking that maybe there are other things that had seemed out of reach, but really aren’t.
“I’ll think about it, Mr. Woodruff,” I said, not laughing anymore.
He nodded. “Good.”
Toward the end of practice that same afternoon it was Coach Wheatley’s turn. I knew something was up when I saw him talking first to Selin and then to Curtis. Finally he called me over.
“I like your defense, Ryan. I like the way you keep the ball in front of you. In fact, I like your defense so much I’ve decided to move Curtis to third base permanently and make you my only backup at catcher. If we’ve got a lead late in a game, you’re going in. You understand?”
“Yes sir,” I said, even though I’d never called him “sir” before.
“Good. And one more thing. Chris Selin has a lot of pride, and it’s tough to be yanked out of a game. But he’s a team player and a class guy. He’ll do everything he can to help you. So you listen to him.”
That turned out to be true. For the rest of that practice, and during the other practices that week, Selin filled me in on Reule and Wilkerson and Smith, telling me what they liked to throw and when they liked to throw it. “They aren’t like Josh,” he said, “but they’re good pitchers. You handle them right and they’ll get you outs.”
Thursday afternoon we played Garfield. Through the early innings I sat on the bench next to Josh. He had a big bag of sunflower seeds on the ground in front of him, and he kept stuffing his mouth and then spitting out the shells. He was watching the game, but watching it the way a fan does. He wasn’t going to play and he knew it. For me it was different. I’d gotten a taste of playing. And once you get a taste, you want more.
We cruised to an early 5–0 lead. Ruben had two doubles; Selin knocked in three with a bases-loaded single and a sack fly. Our pitcher, David Reule, gave up some pretty solid hits along the way, but Garfield couldn’t put anything together, and our defense, especially Curtis at third, made some great plays. It looked like an easy victory.
Then, in the top of the sixth, Reule lost his shutout to a two-out three-run home run. Randy Wilkerson came in to get the final out, but that home run woke up everybody. The game wasn’t over.
As we batted in the bottom of the sixth, I kept looking over at Wheatley, hoping he’d tell me to get my gear on. Wilkerson didn’t have a slider or any trick pitches, but defense is defense, and that’s all that matters late in a game when you’ve got the lead. Finally our eyes met, and I was glad they did.
“Ward, get your gear on. You’re going in.”
Josh nudged me. “Good luck,” he said.
Catching Wilkerson was entirely different from catching Josh. He had two pitches—a fastball and a curve. He had no clue whether the ball was going inside or outside, high or low.
I wanted to get ahead in the count on the first batter, so I called for a fastball. But the batter was up there swinging, and he took a cut. He must have got the barest piece of the ball, because it almost stuck in my mitt. Almost.
But instead of sticking, it glanced off my mitt and caught the thumb of my flesh hand, tearing the nail clean off. In a flash I was hopping around, shaking my hand out. Blood was flying everywhere.
Coach Wheatley came out and so did the team manager. They sprayed something on it, then bandaged it up. “Can you stay in?” Wheatley asked.
There was no way I was coming out, not even if my thumb was lying on the ground. I answered quickly. “I can play.”
He smiled. “That’s the spirit.”
But my thumb was throbbing. What I wanted was a nice, easy one-two-three inning. I didn’t get it.
Wilkerson gave up a solid single to the leadoff hitter. The next Garfield guy popped out to short center. We were lucky o
n that one, because the pitch looked to me like a batting practice fastball right down the middle.
Wilkerson didn’t get lucky with the next pitch, though. It was another fat fastball, and the hitter creamed it into the alley in left center for a run-scoring triple. That cut our lead to 5–4, and put the tying run ninety feet away. It also brought Wheatley out. He took the ball from Wilkerson and motioned to the bullpen for our left-handed reliever, Darren Smith.
Smith was the only freshman on the team. In practice he was fast, but wild, and just looking in his eyes told me how nervous he was. His warm-up pitches were everywhere.
I trotted out. “Just look at my mitt,” I said. “Forget about the guy on third. Forget about the batter. Just look at my mitt. You can do it.”
I returned behind the plate, crouched, put down one ringer, and stuck my mitt belt high in the center of the strike zone. Smith needed a strike, and I was willing to risk that the Garfield guy couldn’t hit his fastball even if it was over the middle.
He stretched, checked the runner, came home. The hitter swung, sending a little bloop into short right. Santos started back, then charged. He caught the ball on the dead run.
I peeked toward third. The runner was tagging. They were going to send him.
Santos’s throw was a good one. It reached me on one bounce and was just a couple of feet up the first base line. I caught it, then spun back toward the plate. The Garfield guy didn’t slide. I dived at him as he lowered his shoulder and hit me the way a linebacker hits a quarterback. The force of the collision bowled me over. I felt my wrist jam into the ground, but somehow I held on to the ball.
“Out!” the umpire yelled, jerking his thumb emphatically toward his ear. “Out!”
9
I couldn’t practice Friday. My thumb was twice its normal size, my wrist was sore, and I was so stiff from the collision I could barely walk. “You take it easy,” Wheatley told me. “We need you for the game tomorrow.”
