by Carl Deuker
It was simple when Josh was on the pitcher’s mound firing the ball to me, overwhelming batter after batter. On the diamond, the rules are all laid out, and there is a rule for everything. I wished it were that simple everywhere.
I went home. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to sleep, but I dropped off right away. I was so tired my body just gave out.
10
Thursday. Game day.
I got up late, which made everything a rush. As I picked at my breakfast, my mother complained about the travel arrangements for the game. “I don’t see why you can’t just get in the car with us and go to the game.”
“I’ve told you, Mother. Coach Wheatley wants the team all together.”
“And I want our family all together,” she snapped.
“There’s nothing I can do about it,” I said, heading for the door.
“Oh, I know,” she answered, her voice gentler. Then she gave me a kiss on the forehead. “I’m just nervous. I’m glad you were able to sleep last night. I didn’t.”
The kids at Crown Hill were nervous too. The halls buzzed with baseball talk. Guys patted me on the back and wished me luck. “Go get ’em!” they said.
“You bet,” I answered.
The school was on a half-day schedule so people could make it to Tacoma for the game. I thought even the half day would drag, but there was so much tension that the first three classes flew by. I had no time to plan; no time to think.
Then came Ms. Hurley’s class. I still wasn’t used to Monica’s not being there. And that day, with the game just hours away, her empty chair seemed even more empty.
The other teachers had gone easy, figuring that nobody was up for studying. But Ms. Hurley tried to run a normal class. We were supposed to discuss a story I hadn’t read. Actually, it seemed as though nobody had read it. As the minutes ticked by, I could feel Ms. Hurley’s growing frustration. I wanted to help her out, but there was nothing I could do. When the bell finally rang it was like being released from prison.
Only I wasn’t released. “Could you stay a minute, Ryan?” she asked, and from the way she said it I knew it had to do with Monica. Josh knew it too. He looked over at me as he left, a question in his eyes.
Once we were alone, Ms. Hurley took a deep breath and then began. “I’ve been wanting to tell you how much I appreciate what you did for Monica. I’m sure you know she’s special to me.”
I nodded.
She went on. “There’s something else I’ve been wanting to ask. Something a little harder.” She fiddled with a pencil in her hand. “You don’t think Josh was involved, do you? Because if he was I’d feel—”
“It wasn’t Josh,” I said, cutting her off.
“How can you be so sure?” she asked, surprised by my certainty. “I thought they were wearing masks.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “I’m absolutely positive it wasn’t him.”
She sighed. “Well, that’s a load off my mind. I kept thinking that maybe something had happened in class that . . .”
“It wasn’t Josh,” I repeated, interrupting again.
“Good,” she said. “Good.”
I looked up at the clock. “Ms. Hurley, I’m supposed to be . . .”
“I’m sorry, Ryan. You go.” I headed for the door. “And good luck!”
I hurried down the hall and away from that classroom. I was just starting to breathe normally again when I pushed open the door that led out of the building to the gym. There, in the doorway, was Josh.
“What was that all about?” he demanded.
“What was it about?” I said, my frustration boiling over at last. “I’ll tell you what it was about. It was about me covering for you, that’s what it was about. That’s what everything is about these days, isn’t it? And you know what else, Josh? You know what else? I shouldn’t be doing it. And you shouldn’t be making me do it.”
He stepped back, stunned. Right then Brandon Ruben called out to us. “Coach sent me looking for you two. We’ve got a game today, in case you forgot. You guys coming, or you got something better to do?”
“We’re coming,” Josh managed. “We’re coming.”
In the parking lot the bus started up, a big cloud of black smoke coming out of its exhaust pipe. I walked down the steps and headed toward it. Josh followed behind.
11
Cheney Stadium is the home of the Tacoma Rainiers, the Mariners’ Triple-A club. Before that the Oakland Athletics ran the team, and before them the San Francisco Giants. Mark McGwire and José Canseco started at Cheney, and so did Juan Marichal and Willie McCovey. And besides them there must have been hundreds of guys who didn’t make it, guys you’ve never heard of, who weren’t quite good enough to take that final step into the major leagues.
I felt that history as I dressed, felt it in the air around me. The adrenaline started flowing through me, pumping me up. I tried to block out everything negative. Baseball, I told myself, just think about baseball. Nothing but baseball. There’ll be time after the game to sort out the other things.
Before we took the field, Coach Cliff gave a little speech, and when he finished the guys let out a roar, a roar of pure desire. They wanted it. And I wanted it too.
I was swept along with them up the runway and onto the field. Once I was on the diamond, I fell into my normal pre-game routine—a little running, a little batting practice, some infield.
There were probably a thousand people at the game, way more than what we had for any regular season game. My father, mother, and grandfather came right down to the backstop. They called to me, huge smiles on their faces, and I waved. “Go get ’em!” my father shouted.
When it was Chehalis’s turn to take batting practice, I warmed Josh up along the sideline. We were totally out of sync off the field, but on the field we fell right into our regular rhythm. It was throw and catch, throw and catch, throw and catch. I knew his pitches like I knew myself.
Finally it was game time. We were the home team, and our fans rose and cheered as we took the field. I settled in behind home plate and looked out at Josh and the other guys. The outfield grass was lush and green, the dirt infield immaculately raked. It was by far the best field I’ve ever played on.
The ump yelled, “Play ball!” Josh took his final warm-up toss. I fired the ball down to second. It went around the horn and came back to him.
12
Playing the game was a relief. There was no time to think. I had a job to do, and I did it.
Josh came out pumped—too pumped. His pitches had velocity and movement—they exploded into my mitt. But they were nowhere near the plate. I kept holding my mitt down, trying to settle him, but he walked the first two hitters on ten pitches.
I called time and went out to the mound. I don’t remember what I said. I’m sure he paid no attention anyway. I just wanted to slow him down. Back behind the plate I called for a changeup. He shook me off, wanting to stay with that live fastball. I kept flashing changeup until he gave in.
It was the right pitch, too. The Chehalis hitter lunged at the ball, sending a pop fly to short right field for what should have been an easy out. But Josh wasn’t the only guy on our team who was tight. Santos took two steps back, then sprinted in, overrunning the ball. At the last second he reached back for it. He almost caught it, too, but the ball hit off the heel of his glove and trickled toward short center. By the time he ran it down, one run had scored and Chehalis had guys at second and third.
In some baseball games the key moment comes in the first inning. This was one of those games. Our fans were way back in their seats, hunched in fear. The Chehalis fans were up cheering, hoping for a clutch hit that would open the flood gates. Their cleanup batter, a big burly guy with a long swing and a thick mustache, stepped in.
The minute I saw that long swing, I knew that if Josh could get himself under control, we could strike the guy out. I called for a fastball and put my mitt over the inside half of the plate. Josh nodded, and the instant I saw his eyes I k
new the nervousness was gone, that he was focused. He stretched, and then hit my target with a blazing fastball. “Strike one!” the umpire called. I called for another fastball, this time down and away. Again Josh hit the target exactly. “Strike two!” the umpire called.
The Chehalis fans booed. The mustached guy glared at the umpire. But we had him. I called for the slider. The guy swung over the top, and we had our first out.
The number five hitter was another big guy who looked like a free swinger. I figured he’d be looking for a fastball, so I started him off with a change that he fouled to right. Then came more off-speed stuff, a curve that nipped the inside corner for the second strike. Josh wasted another curve a foot outside, then came in with the heater on the fists. The guy swung, but his timing was so far off, the ball was in my glove before he got around.
Two down.
The next batter was different. He was medium-sized; he choked way up on the bat; and his swing was compact. I moved the outfielders in a few steps.
Josh came with a fastball, and the guy bounced a two-hopper to Curtis at third. Easy as pie. Or it should have been.
Curtis fielded the ball okay, but his throw short-hopped Combs and bounded down the right field line. The lead runner scored easily, but Santos charged the ball quickly and fired toward home. I peeked up the third base line and saw the runner thundering toward me. It was going to be a close play, and I was going to take a hit.
I blocked home with my left leg, willing the ball to come faster, faster. I felt the runner on me as I caught the ball. I spun to make the tag, but I didn’t get all the way around. The next thing I knew I was flat on my back. The ball was on the ground next to me; the ump was yelling, “Safe!” and my right hand felt strangely warm. I’d been spiked. The flesh was torn from my wrist to my ring finger.
Time was called and some doctor cleaned out the cut and bandaged it. I hustled back out to a round of applause from everybody in the stands. Josh got the next batter on a comebacker and the inning was finally over. But we were down 3–0.
Falling behind right away is about the worst thing that can happen to a team in a big game. It doubles the pressure you already feel, and it eases the pressure on your opponent. The Chehalis pitcher, a rangy left-hander with long stringy blond hair, came out throwing strikes, and the Chehalis fielders made the plays behind him. We went down one-two-three.
In the second our butterflies were gone, and we played like the team we really were. Josh was around the plate with every pitch, and I stole a couple of strikes for him by framing his pitches just right. Ruben made a nice play on the one ball that was hit, a grounder up the middle that he cut off before it slithered into center, and it was Chehalis that went in order.
After that the game raced along. Their lefty was tough. He had a herky-jerky motion that made it hard to pick up the ball. I struck out in the third—my hand ached on every swing—and it wasn’t until the fourth—when Chang blooped a double down the right field line—that we got our first hit.
All along I’d assumed we’d win, that Josh was invincible, unbeatable. That’s how he’d been all year; that’s how he’d always seemed to me. But somewhere in the middle of that game I realized we could lose, and when I did, I felt a sudden panic.
I popped up to lead off the sixth. But Brandon Ruben stroked a triple down the line in left and scored on a single by Van Tassel, cutting the Chehalis lead to 3–1. My heart started pumping, feeling a rally coming, but Curtis struck out, and Chang hit a comebacker to the mound. That one run was all we got.
Josh was tired, and he was losing, but he didn’t let down. There was nothing second-rate about him on the baseball diamond. His fastball was gone, so he mixed speeds—curves and sliders and changeups. The Chehalis guys were no match for him. Two little ground outs and a strikeout. The top of the seventh was over. We were down to our final three outs.
Back on the bench I took off my shin guards and my chest protector. As I did, it struck me that I might never wear them again. I’d been a catcher for only one year, but it seemed like that’s what I was somehow, a catcher, and laying my gear in a pile by the bench felt a little bit like burying myself.
I was scheduled to bat fifth in the inning. I grabbed my bat and sat holding it, listening to the thin cheers of the guys around me. “We can do it!”. . .“Let’s get this guy!” There was more noise than hope.
Dillon Combs led off. He took the first two pitches for balls, and then got a good swing on a fastball, lifting a towering fly ball to deep center. The guys jumped up and cheered their heads off. If we’d been at Woodland Park, the ball would have been gone. But at Cheney the Chehalis outfielder had all day to settle under it for the first out.
Andy Bayne was next. He was first-pitch swinging, and he hit a grounder to second and was thrown out easily.
As Carlos Hernandes stepped in, the Chehalis fans rose, clapping their hands rhythmically, anticipating that final out. I couldn’t watch, but I couldn’t keep from watching. My eyes went up and down between the cement floor of the dugout and the field.
The lefty went into his wind-up, and delivered. It was a fastball, and in his excitement he overthrew it. The ball sailed up and in, catching Hernandes in the back. Carlos went down in pain, but on our bench we cheered. We had a little life, and my pulse quickened. If Santos got on, it would be up to me.
Bethel stepped to the plate as I stepped to the on-deck circle. The lefty stretched, checked Hernandes at first, and delivered a fastball that was two feet outside. The catcher tossed the ball back. The lefty caught it, stretched his arm out, leaned forward with his hands on his knees.
He was done. Just like that, he was on empty. You could see it in his face, in his every motion. Santos sensed it too, and dug in. The next pitch was nothing. I don’t know if it was supposed to be a fastball or a curve or a changeup. Bethel was all over it though, ripping a line drive into right center field. Hernandes raced to third and Santos pulled into second standing up. It was my turn. It was all coming to me.
I wasn’t going to face the lefty, though. The Chehalis coach came slowly walking out of the dugout, his eyes on the ground. I knew he had a hook with him, so my eyes went down to the bullpen where a big right-hander was warming up furiously.
The coach talked for a while, then motioned down to the right-hander. The fans applauded the lefty as he made his way off the diamond, and I stepped aside and took some practice swings as the right-hander came to the mound and took his warm-up tosses.
I didn’t make it obvious, but I watched those warm-up throws. He was good. His fastball had pop and it had some movement too. It was going to be a tough at-bat.
Just before I stepped in, the crowd, Chehalis fans and Crown Hill fans alike, rose to their feet and cheered. They were cheering for their team, but even if they didn’t realize it they were cheering for the game of baseball too, for the greatness of moments like this one. Chills ran up and down my spine and out over my whole body.
The right-hander completed his warm-ups. I looked down to Wheatley. No signs at all. “Get a good pitch to hit,” he called to me. My heart was thumping so loud it felt like somebody was playing the drums inside me. I picked up some dirt and rubbed it in my gloves. Then I took a deep breath and stepped in.
I don’t think I could have swung at the first pitch even if the guy had lobbed it up to me. I was that nervous. As it was, he missed with a fastball outside. I was ready for the second pitch, but it was another fastball way outside. I stepped out and took a couple of deep breaths. Okay, I told myself, if its up in the strike zone and out over the plate, take it right back up the middle. Otherwise, let it go.
The right-hander stretched and delivered. A fastball in on my hands. I almost hacked at it, but I didn’t pull the trigger. “Strike one!” the ump yelled.
But that was okay. I was still ahead in the count.
Again he stretched and delivered. And there it was—a fastball out over the plate, right where I was looking for it. I reached out and got
it, a smooth stroke on top of the ball. I watched it slither right back up the center of the diamond and into center field for a base hit. Santos scored, Curtis scored—and we were tied.
I don’t know why Wheatley didn’t pull me for a pinch runner. I was the slowest guy on the team and I was the potential winning run. The only thing I can figure is that he was so excited he forgot.
I led a few steps off as Brandon Ruben stepped to the plate. Ruben took a ball, then a strike. That’s when I felt something crawling on my skin. I looked at my hand and saw that blood was pouring from my cut. I almost called time, but I’m glad I didn’t, because Brandon ripped the next pitch into right center field. With two outs I was off on contact, and as I hit second base I looked for Wheatley. His arm was going like a windmill in a storm. He was going to try to score me. I kept under control—short steps, but lots of them. I hit the corner of third base in stride and headed for home.
I felt like I was running forever, like my feet were in sand, in mud. But however long it took me, the throw from the outfield took one tenth of one second more. I slid in under the catcher’s tag. The umpire’s arms went out.
Safe!
We’d won 4–3!
The guys mobbed me; they lifted me up and carried me off the field. Riding high like that, way up on their shoulders, I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt.
Finally they put me down, and still grinning, I headed to the locker room. Josh came up next to me. “You think this is good,” he said, “just imagine what winning the title will be like. It’ll make everything else go away. You wait and see.”
Right then, right when I was on top of the world, I finally knew what I had to do. Not because I thought he was wrong, but because I was afraid he was right.
13
I called as soon as I got home. My hand was shaking so much it was hard to punch in the number. I was using the upstairs phone, and I kept thinking somebody would hear me. They’d have to know sometime, but I didn’t want them to know just yet.
