Best of the Best

by Tim Green

Benji put a hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Exactly.”

  After the Lyncourt team cleared the field, they had the chance to watch their opponents warm up. Josh sat on the end of the bench, as far from Zamboni as he could get. Benji sat next to him, and Vito next to Benji.

  “Where are these guys from?” Benji asked Vito.

  Vito cleared his throat and spit into the dirt. “I think Gloversville.”

  “They look like glovers,” Benji said. “Little guys. Little glovers.”

  “Don’t get too cute,” Josh said, narrowing his eyes at the pitcher. “That kid on the mound is throwing the cover off the ball.”

  “They come in fast, I send ’em out far,” Benji said.

  Vito nodded.

  “And he’s got a changeup, too,” Josh said. “You better pay attention. He gives it away, watch.”

  “Watch what?” Benji said.

  “That was a fastball,” Josh said. “Watch to see if he throws another changeup. Watch his head. See that?”

  The pitcher threw a changeup, the same windup to deliver a lob ball with no heat.

  “See what?” Benji said, kicking the dirt.

  “That little twitch,” Josh said. “He does it at the back of his windup. You see it, Vito?”

  “I don’t see nothing,” Vito said.

  “My man has eagle eyes,” Benji said, patting Josh on the back. “Part of his skill set.”

  “You better watch,” Josh said.

  “I got this guy in my sights.” Benji aimed his finger like a pistol. “These guys are just a warm-up, a snack.”

  Coach Q called out to stand for the National Anthem.

  “Okay,” Josh said, leaving the dugout. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  The first three Lyncourt batters went up and down. The undersized Gloversville pitcher only had to throw thirteen pitches to do it. Josh watched the last guy go down from the on-deck circle, then swapped his batting glove and helmet for his mitt before finding his spot at shortstop.

  Josh’s team had a good pitcher, too. Niko Fedchenko was a lefty with a wicked curveball as well as a knuckleball that gave Gloversville fits. He walked one batter and the infield gave up another runner when the third baseman committed an error, but two batters popped out and Fedchenko sent a third down swinging. Josh clapped his hands as he headed for the dugout, getting geared up to hit. His head felt light and his heart thumped against the inside of his chest like a marching band’s bass drum. This was what he loved. Baseball. Sunshine. The mild sour stench of his sweat-stained batting glove. Matching his eye and bat against a good pitcher.

  Josh stepped up to the plate.

  The pitcher went into his windup.

  Josh narrowed his eyes and reared back, ready.

  He couldn’t believe what he saw.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JOSH KNEW EVEN BEFORE the ball left the pitcher’s hand that it would be impossible to hit. He knew it just by the angle of the pitcher’s arm as it whiplashed forward from behind his right ear. The catcher jumped away from the plate and the ball hit his glove with a smack. Josh couldn’t help stepping out of the box to take a curious glance at the Gloversville coach in his dugout.

  The coach clapped his hands and nodded his head at the pitcher.

  “That’s it,” the coach said.

  “That’s it?” Josh said under his breath. Stepping into the box, he studied the pitcher, who offered up an awkward smile.

  The next pitch came the same way, so far outside the plate that the catcher could barely get it. Josh grit his teeth and shook his head, offering a look of frustration to Coach Q. The coach nodded, like having Josh intentionally walked was all okay. Well, it wasn’t okay with Josh.

  He staggered his stance and crouched just a bit lower. When the pitch came, Josh sprang across the plate and swung, clipping the ball and sending it screaming off his bat, a foul line drive that nearly mashed Coach Q’s front teeth.

  “Josh!” the coach cried when he had recovered himself and straightened his cap. “If he’s going to give you the base, take it!”

  Josh opened his mouth to shout right back. Everyone stared. Coach Q obviously didn’t know the game like Josh’s father, but thinking of his own father also reminded Josh of the discipline he had learned. He knew better than to back talk a coach, even an inadequate one. Josh stepped up to the plate. The catcher went even wider from the plate, and the pitcher threw the next two well out of Josh’s reach. Josh jogged down the baseline to first with the inside of his lip firmly clenched between his teeth to keep from saying something he’d regret.

  This wasn’t baseball. This was a joke.

  Josh then begged the first-base coach to let him steal.

  “Coach,” he said, “I can make it to third in two pitches, and then, just one bad pitch and I’ll get us a run.”

  But when the coach signaled the dugout, asking for the go-ahead to send Josh, Coach Q called him off.

  The next three batters went down swinging, including Benji. Josh returned to the dugout and had to do everything he could not to throw his helmet and yell at Coach Q, who stood checking his BlackBerry while he chewed on a wad of gum.

  Josh sidled up to Benji and said into his ear, “Does this guy want to win or what?”

  Benji shrugged.

  “I mean, he wouldn’t let me hunt those pitches. I was begging to steal, and they wouldn’t let me do that either.”

  “Maybe they just don’t know what you can do,” Benji said. “That first foul almost killed the guy.”

  “Well, you gotta swing to hit it, right?” Josh said.

  “That’s what I was doing,” Benji said, thumbing his own chest. “But dude, you were right, he’s slick as a watermelon seed.”

  “Just watch his eyes in the middle of his windup. If he twitches, it’s that changeup. If he doesn’t do it, it’s all heat. That’s your pitch, right?”

  “Oh yeah,” Benji said. “I just gotta see that twitch. I will.”

  “Good,” Josh said, “because if they keep intentionally walking me, someone has to get something or we’re done.”

  “Well.” Benji shrugged. “We’ll just go back to the Titans, right?”

  “Benji,” Josh said, “we didn’t do this for a free bus ride to Albany. We want to make it to Williamsport. Can you imagine? Players from all over the world. The best of the best. They won’t be intentionally walking me there.”

  “So, what do we do?” Benji asked.

  Josh punched his glove. “First thing we do is play defense. If they can’t score, they can’t win. Come on.”

  Defense they played.

  Josh dove and hustled and threw, accounting for at least one out in every inning. Gloversville didn’t have any great bats, but as Fedchenko wore down, they began to knick away at Lyncourt with a single here, a double there, and a handful of walks. When Coach Q pulled Fedchenko, Josh knew they had to score and score fast. The relief pitcher Coach Q put in was Callan Fries. Josh remembered Callan and his brother Camren from some of the Little League games. Josh recalled how Callan killed them for an inning and a half but then faded fast. He was a classic relief pitcher who wouldn’t do them any good if he had to throw extra innings. And, Josh knew, if they won, they’d need Camren fresh for tomorrow. Even though they had six players who could pitch, after Fedchenko and the Fries brothers the rest of the pitching wasn’t as strong.

  As his team approached the dugout in the top of the sixth, Josh shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said to Benji, “we don’t score now, I don’t think we win. I wish that guy would go at me, just once. Man, would I smack that thing out of this park.”

  “Hey.” Benji snapped his fingers. “I got an idea.”

  “Nothing crazy, right?”

  “No, not crazy for you,” Benji said. “Me, on the other hand? Well, I’m glad my mom’s not here, that’s all I can say. What I’m about to do could get ugly.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JOSH PULLED ON HIS batti
ng glove and helmet. He warmed up his shoulders and arms in the batting circle, preparing himself even though he doubted a single pitch would come his way that he could swing at. Benji turned his cap backward and sauntered out to the first-base line.

  “Hey!” Benji shouted at the pitcher, who pretended not to notice Benji as he warmed up. “Yeah, you. Half-pint.”

  The pitcher’s head snapped around and he glared.

  “Oh, you don’t like being a little man?” Benji said, tilting his head in a clownish manner. “It’s okay, little fella, that’s our shortstop. It’s sad, dude. You’re actually a pretty decent pitcher. But I guess a tiny tot like you just has to be afraid of someone as tall as my man.”

  Benji jerked his thumb toward Josh.

  Josh’s stomach twisted.

  “Benji,” Josh said under his breath. “Cut that out.”

  “What?” Benji called out, raising his eyebrows and spreading his fingers across his chest. “Oh, I get it, Josh. You don’t want to scare the little fella any more than he already is. I know. We don’t want to see a big yellow pee stain on those white pants he’s wearing. It’s okay, little guy, you don’t have to pitch to the big boys. We understand. Don’t cry.”

  “Benji!” Coach Q shouted from the dugout. “Stop jabbering to the other team and sit down.”

  Benji turned toward the dugout.

  “Don’t be afraid to lay it on a little yourself,” Benji said, winking at Josh as he went past.

  Josh stepped into the batter’s box, wiggled his feet into the dirt, took a couple swings, and reared back, ready in case. The pitcher went into his windup and threw a ball six feet outside the plate. The Gloversville coach clapped his hands.

  Benji hooted and hollered from the dugout like a mad clown. “Ha ha ha! Look how scared he is! Watch his pants! Yellow stain! Yellow stain!”

  Josh felt his own face blush, and he was relieved to hear Coach Q bark at Benji to be quiet or he’d toss him out of the park.

  “Okay, Coach,” Benji said, as cheerful as if the coach had asked him if he’d like a stick of gum.

  The next pitch came, this time not so far outside.

  Benji howled with laughter.

  “Benji!” Coach Q shouted.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Benji said, “but I can’t help laughing, Coach. It’s too funny.”

  The pitcher now gritted his teeth so tight that the cords stood out in his neck. He shook his head at the catcher and gave a silent signal.

  “Uh-uh,” the catcher said.

  “Yes,” the pitcher said through his teeth.

  Without any more debate, the pitcher wound up and threw one right down the pipe, all heat.

  Josh was caught off guard, and in the instant it took the ball to reach the plate, Saturday’s scene in the batting cage with his father replayed itself in his head, filling him with doubt.

  Uncertain and unprepared—but knowing it might be the only pitch he got—Josh swung with everything he had.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE CRACK OF THE bat was like the split of a campfire stone.

  Even Josh gasped.

  The ball took off, flying so far beyond the fence that the center fielder moved nothing but his head as he watched it go.

  The Lyncourt dugout burst into cheers. As Josh rounded the bases with a silly grin on his face, Gloversville’s red-faced coach blasted his pitcher for throwing to Josh. After being mobbed by his teammates, Josh plunked himself down next to Benji, thrilled with the run but not completely comfortable with what they had to do to get it.

  Benji held a hand out for Josh to slap him five. Josh just looked at it.

  “Come on, you Boy Scout. We each have our own special talents,” Benji said. “I did my part, and you did yours.”

  “I like scoring, but jawing at the guy like that? I don’t know.”

  “Jawing is part of the game,” Benji said, “and you’ll like it if we win this thing, won’t you? Coming all this way to watch some chump intentionally walk you? Come on. That kid deserves it for being a sissy.”

  “You’re right,” Josh said. “That’s garbage. Play the game, right? Although I guess he was doing what his coach told him to do.”

  Benji swatted at the air dismissively. “Maybe it’ll teach him that you can’t always listen to your coach.”

  “Just don’t say that around my dad,” Josh said.

  “Hey, if you’d listened to that Coach Valentine? You would have been taking steroids.”

  Josh sighed and said, “When you’re right, you’re right.”

  “It’s not easy being right all the time,” Benji said, punching Josh’s shoulder. “But I’m used to it.”

  The Gloversville pitcher put the next three Lyncourt batters down with nine straight, burning strikes. With each out, he glared over at Josh and Benji.

  “Hey!” Benji shouted to his teammates as they took the field. “Don’t get distracted, boys. Josh got us our run, but we gotta close these guys out. Defense. Defense. Defense!”

  Josh bumped fists with his friend and took up his spot at shortstop. Callan started out the inning hot. He threw a curve that the first batter swung at and missed. The Lyncourt chatter—led by Benji out in right field—began to grow stronger. Callan threw a fastball that the batter sent foul outside the first-base line. The next pitch went wild, but the fourth—another fastball—left the first batter kicking the dirt. The chatter picked up even more.

  Callan put the next batter down and Benji went wild, hooting and shrieking praises from right field like a madman. The third batter got up and swung at a curveball, missing.

  “World Series. World Series. World Series,” Benji began to chant.

  Benji was on a roll.

  Callan seemed nervous, and he threw three balls to prove it—wild pitches all over the map. The chatter faded. Callan looked over at Josh, who offered a thumbs-up and a nod of encouragement.

  “You can do this, Cal!” Josh shouted.

  Callan nodded and let a fastball fly. The batter swung and missed, making it a 3–2 count.

  “You got it now, Callan!” Benji screamed from right field. “This one is in the bag. He can’t hit it! He can’t hit it! This thing is over! This thing is ours!”

  That’s when things fell apart.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JOSH GLANCED BACK AT Benji—wanting to signal to his friend not to jinx them by saying this thing was over—when he heard the crack of the bat. He hadn’t even seen Callan throw the pitch. By the time Josh swung his head around, a worm-burner had already ripped through the infield between him and the third baseman. Josh scrambled for it but wasn’t even close. He chased the ball into left field, veering out of the way as Zamboni scooped it up and made a wild throw to second, where the batter was already headed. The throw sailed over the second baseman. Benji lurched toward the overthrow, late to the backup.

  Josh saw what was happening. He knew the limits of Benji’s arm and that the pitcher wasn’t moving into position for the cutoff to home plate. Josh took off. Benji heaved the ball toward home plate and it sailed like a lame duck. Josh ran under it, though, snatching it from the air, even as he realized the runner had rounded third and was on his way home.

  Josh rotated his hips and fired for home plate. The ball snapped into Vito’s mitt at the plate, but he dropped it. The runner reversed his direction anyway. Vito recovered as Josh sprinted toward him, holding up both hands and shouting at him to hold the ball.

  “Just hold it!” Josh said, afraid of another overthrow and knowing the chances of getting the runner out were slim to none.

  Flustered, Vito handed the ball to Josh, nodding his head. Josh checked the runner, who huffed and puffed atop third. Josh then tossed it underhand to Callan Fries.

  “It’s okay,” Josh said, speaking in a low, confident tone to the pitcher as he returned to his spot at shortstop. “You can do this, Callan. One more out.”

  Callan Fries nodded, but Josh could see the tremble in his hand. H
e was shaken, and proved it by walking the next batter, throwing only a single strike when the batter took a swing at a mile-high pitch. It had happened. The relief pitcher had spent everything he had.

  Josh looked at Coach Q, waiting for him to come to the mound and make a switch. Callan had done his part; now they might as well use up Camren. What sense was there saving one of his top pitchers? If they lost, there’d be no other game. Coach Q looked out over the field, chomping on his gum, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses as he cheered Callan on. Josh opened his mouth but realized there was nothing he could do.

  Callan nodded at Vito, the catcher, wound up, and threw a pitch that Vito had to dive for. Josh grit his teeth and clenched his hands, willing Coach Q to see what he saw. Callan walked the batter, loading up the bases.

  “You can do it,” Coach Q shouted.

  Josh moved toward the mound.

  “Cal,” Josh said. “Callan! Listen to me. Don’t worry about striking him out. Just lob it in, buddy. Let us do the rest. Let him hit it. We got a good D. We can get him. Just relax and throw it in nice and easy.”

  Callan looked doubtfully over at Josh.

  “You got it?” Josh asked.

  Callan nodded.

  “Okay.” Josh moved back into his position.

  Callan wound up and lobbed one in, nice and easy, but a strike. The batter reared back and swung for the fence. The bat cracked, and Josh winced as the ball took off. There was nothing he could do but watch it sail for the right field fence. Part of him felt relief that the whole thing would be over and he’d be back home where he just might somehow help his parents stay together. The other part of him knew that the rift between his parents had grown too wide for him to fix, and he felt bitter disappointment that he’d never get to Williamsport and play against the best of the best.

  Either way, it was out of Josh’s hands. Benji backpedaled like his life was on the line.

  The ball floated high, then began to drop.

  Benji stumbled.

  One arm spun like a pinwheel as Benji crashed to the ground with an outstretched glove.