Baseball Great

by Tim Green

  “I didn’t tell you this until now, but our scouting report says this team we’re about to play is going to be the best competition we’ll face,” Rocky said. “We got a bad draw, but if we can beat these guys, this tournament will be ours. Trust me, it’s a big step in getting to our goal of the Junior Olympics. So, all we do today is do it to it. That’s what we do, we do it to it and we’re on our way.”

  Rocky’s small, dark eyes glittered like black beetle wings.

  “So, I want every single one of you to dig deep,” Rocky said, gritting his teeth and letting his eyes come to rest on Josh. “We worked too hard to lose this thing, and we’re too good. But we can’t be soft. We can’t make excuses about why we didn’t play our best. You have to play your best. You have to be the best. If you can’t go out there in a game like this and perform, then you’ll never be great. And if you can’t be great, then you’re wasting your time, and mine. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  BEFORE HE KNEW IT, Josh found himself on the baseline with his hat over his heart listening to “The Star Spangled Banner” scratched out by a small cluster of speakers on a pole behind the backstop. The flag hung limp in the center of all four baseball fields, and after the anthem, an announcer welcomed everyone to the twenty-third Garden City U14 Baseball Tournament.

  Both teams put their hats back on. The Titans took the field first. Josh stood rigid at shortstop and threw off target during warm-ups, but no one—except his father, who stood in the back row of the bleachers clutching a Titans cap—seemed to notice him. Thankfully, Kyle Watson, their starting pitcher, put down the first three batters and Josh jogged with everyone else, cheering, into the dugout.

  Josh saw the lineup chart hanging on the fence. He batted sixth, one in front of Jones. While the Titans’ first man up struck out, the next two got on base. Then Tucker, their cleanup batter, struck out—swinging big to try to bring in some runs but struggling against the pitcher’s wicked curveball. Josh tugged on his left-hand batting glove, found a helmet and his favorite bat, and walked to the on-deck circle. Watson stepped up to the plate. Mostly, Josh wanted Watson to get a hit so they could score and win, but a small, cowardly part of him knew that if Watson struck out, then Josh wouldn’t have to bat.

  Josh swung his bat idly, trying to let his body absorb its weight, but he was distracted by the odd throwing motion of the Eagles’ left-handed pitcher and the sight of his father, who had moved from the bleachers to the backstop and hung on the chain-link fence with his fingers hooked through the steel mesh. With a 3–2 count, Watson swung at a curveball and hit it foul. Josh’s hand felt hot inside the glove, and his sweat made it sticky. On the next pitch, Watson swung at another curveball and dribbled it just outside the third-base line. He was still alive.

  Two more times Watson protected the plate before he let a high fastball go and the umpire called ball four. Watson dumped his bat at Josh’s feet on his way to first. The other batters advanced, loading up the bases with two outs.

  Rocky stepped out of the dugout and put a hand on Josh’s shoulder. One of the veins in Rocky’s neck throbbed, and Josh nearly choked on the heavy smell of the coach’s cologne mixed with the chewing tobacco on his breath.

  “You gonna bat lefty?” Rocky asked.

  Josh looked at the glove on his left hand and said, “You want me to, right?”

  “You don’t need to knock it out,” Rocky said, tightening his grip and drawing Josh’s eyes into his own. “Just get me a hit and an RBI. One run at a time. With their bats and the way we play defense, we could beat this team one–nothing, so don’t swing big. Just get me a run.”

  Josh nodded, and Rocky let go. As he approached the batter’s box, Josh heard his father’s urgent words coming to him through the backstop.

  “Swing big on the fastball, Josh,” his father said. “That’ll be his first pitch. He’s not gonna like seeing you on the left side of the plate. His magic curveball is nothing against a lefty. You can do it!”

  Josh’s legs seemed numb, and his arms felt heavier than they should have. He nodded at his father, acknowledging that he’d heard the words of advice, even though they contradicted his coach’s. The eggs and half of the Danish he’d eaten rolled around on the inside of his gut. Part of it made a dash for his throat, but he gulped it down and stepped up to the plate with a wary eye on the pitcher.

  The pitcher smiled at him and went into his jerky motion. Josh saw the ball and knew it was all heat, right down the pipe. He knew he should swing big—like his father said—and drive it out of the park, but Rocky’s words jumped into his mind. He swung down on the ball, but late, and missed. The Eagles infield erupted with cheers. Silence sat heavy in the Titans dugout. The second pitch, a changeup, dropped real low—a ball—which was a good thing since Josh stood frozen in place, too flustered to concentrate.

  “Swing big!” his father yelled.

  “Loosen up!” Moose shouted at him.

  Another changeup came at him. He saw it leave the pitcher’s hand with a forward spin. He swung down on it, trying for the hole between first and second, knowing that his father would want him to follow his coach’s direction before all else. He connected, but too soon, and the ball went foul way outside the third-base line.

  Josh stepped out of the box. With a 1–2 count, he knew what would come before he even heard his father’s voice.

  “Fastball. Fastball,” his father said.

  Josh could see the smirk on the pitcher’s horse-shaped face, and he knew his father was right. More than anything, he wanted to swing big. He looked out at the fence. It seemed a mile away. But with all his lifting and training, why couldn’t he reach it? His instincts told him to do it, and he remembered something his father had said to him about instincts and—

  “Let’s go,” the umpire said to Josh.

  Josh nodded and stepped up to the plate. He glanced at the loaded bases, then at the two outs up on the scoreboard. The pitcher reared back and jerked sideways. His arm whipped around and came Josh’s way. Most people would see it like they’d see a snake flick its tongue, but Josh saw more. The ball left the pitcher’s hand with a perfect spin, a fastball to the outside edge of the plate.

  Josh swung big, and connected with a crack.

  The ball took off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE TITANS DUGOUT ERUPTED, and Josh’s heart swelled on his way down the first-base line. He kept his eye on the ball, which was screaming with the perfect arc for the right-field fence. Instead of watching the ball go over his head, the right fielder sprinted all-out for the fence. Josh felt a pang of doubt as the ball began to fall.

  It had to make it. He’d hit it as hard as he’d ever hit anything.

  Still, the outfielder ran right at the fence as if it were made of pillows instead of chain-link steel. The ball kept dropping. Josh rounded first. The outfielder turned—five feet short of the fence—and snapped the ball from the air.

  “Crap!” Rocky shouted somewhere behind Josh.

  Josh motored down and turned toward the dugout with his head hung. As he passed Rocky, the coach’s words seethed from his mouth.

  “I said get me a hit,” Rocky said. “You think this is Little League and you’re some big star? You’re one player on this team, big shot. Now get out there.”

  Josh choked back his tears, and Rocky turned his back. Josh unloaded his batting helmet and picked up his mitt, going through the motions as if in a bad dream. Numb, he trotted out to his position at shortstop and tried hard to focus on warming up as Moose peppered balls around the infield. He watched with a knotted stomach as Rocky walked casually to the backstop and the place where his father gripped the fence. The two of them spoke, with Rocky gesturing his hands and Josh’s father nodding slightly, until his father turned and made his way back to the bleachers, where he stood with his mouth clamped shut.

  Through the innings to come, Josh recovered his wits and played well on defense, twice scooping up hot gro
unders and throwing runners out at first. Once he even backpedaled a good twenty feet to snag a pop fly. Through the noise, he could hear his father’s cries of joy, and it swelled Josh’s heart, reviving him completely. He kept his swing down the next time he got up and hit a line-drive single over second base but never scored. The third time up, he grounded out to second. In the fifth, the Eagles changed to a pitcher who threw more heat than their starter and put down the first three batters—two of them at the top of the Titans’ lineup—as if they were Little League washouts. At the bottom of the sixth and final inning, there was still no score. The Titans’ first batter struck out.

  Tucker got up and on a 2–2 count drove a fastball into the fence. The center fielder pulled it out of the bounce and made a sensational cutoff to the shortstop. Tucker held at second. Rocky conferred with Moose, then traded signals with the third-base coach, who in turn signaled Tucker. Tucker jammed his helmet down tight on his head and set his jaw. The Titans’ big catcher crouched, ready to run, the cords in his neck taut and his fists balled.

  Rocky whispered something to Watson, who strode to the plate. Josh pulled on his batting glove and helmet and waited in the on-deck circle, slowly swinging his bat and studying the motion of the new pitcher. The pitcher wound up, and Watson went into a bunting stance. The pitcher threw a curveball that Watson dribbled down the first-base line. Tucker took off from second.

  The catcher threw his mask in the air. Before the mask hit the dirt, he pounced on the ball and gunned it to the outstretched first baseman. Watson never had a chance, but Tucker now stood bouncing on third, clapping his hands and growling like a red-faced maniac. The dugout went wild. Josh took a deep breath.

  Rocky gripped both of Josh’s shoulders and brought his face so close, their noses almost touched.

  “Just a hit,” Rocky said, his dark, close-set eyes glinting under the eaves of a scowl. “No heroics. Swing down on it and hit a hole. You gotta get us a hit. Do it to it, Josh. Be great.”

  Josh breathed deep again and nodded. Rocky sent him off toward the plate, and Josh told himself over and over to swing down on the ball no matter what kind of pitch came at him. Up in the stands, Josh’s father gave him a tight nod. When Josh stepped up to the batter’s box on the left-hand side of the plate, he looked down the third-base line. Instead of sneering, Tucker pressed his lips together, nodding silently and giving Josh a thumbs-up. The muscles in Tucker’s giant forearm rippled. Josh bit his lower lip and looked out at the pitcher on the mound.

  The pitcher nodded and wound up. The first pitch—a fastball—nicked the outside of the plate. Josh let it go, and the umpire called it a strike. Rocky groaned and chattered at the umpire. Josh dug in.

  The second pitch came. All heat and a bit high, a pitch Josh could put out of the park. He raised up and tried to swing down on it, nicking the ball and sending it foul, up and over the backstop behind him. Josh stepped out of the box and took a deep breath, trying to push the 0–2 count into the back of his mind and think only about the next pitch.

  “You can do it, Josh!” Tucker screamed from third base, the cords in his thick neck bulging along with the muscles that ran from his shoulders up behind his ears. The Hempstead Eagles fans were on their feet in the small metal stands, stamping and cheering. His own team stood, ready to gush from the dugout or melt into a blob of depression.

  The pitcher reared back and raised his left foot as if to stomp the mound. His hand came out of his glove from behind his back, lashing past his ear and releasing the pitch.

  The ball came out of his hand dead center and hot, the perfect pitch to swing big on, to knock out of the park.

  Josh cranked back his coiled arms and hips ever so slightly, just a bit more torque for a bit more power.

  The ball zipped at him like the blink of a bullet.

  He swung.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE BAT CRACKED. THE pitcher jumped as if he’d stepped on a nail, and the ball hit the mound at his feet before shooting almost straight up. Josh took off for first, digging his cleats into the dirt. From the corner of his eye he was aware of Tucker, streaking like a big blur, nearly halfway home.

  The ball seemed to float a hundred feet above the mound, then dropped like a rock. Josh kept churning, knowing it would be an easy throw to first when the ball returned to earth and that the shortstop had moved into position to make the play.

  Josh ran. The ball hit the shortstop’s glove, and the throw came. Josh’s foot hit the bag, and the first baseman snapped up the throw from the shortstop with a pop. Josh ran through the bag and twisted around. The umpire crouched, still staring at the bag, processing what he saw and what he heard. Josh held his breath.

  “Safe!”

  The dugout exploded, and the Titans swarmed Josh. Tucker beat them all and hugged Josh and lifted him up over his head, dancing around and screaming madly. The rest of the players reached up, their fingers stretched toward him. Josh touched their hands, slapping fives and grasping fingers, Tucker whirling him around all the while.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE ALARM WENT OFF. Josh rolled out of bed and let the radio play while he dressed. They hadn’t returned from Long Island until after midnight, and Josh had to rub his eyes and search his memory to make sure the whole weekend hadn’t been some strange dream. Then he saw it.

  Standing tall on his dresser, the golden figure of a baseball player, his bat at the ready and nearly tickling the slanted ceiling, was perched atop a marble platform. That platform rested on four gold columns, stretching more than a foot to an even bigger marble base below. The nameplate read GARDEN CITY CHAMPIONS, and the whole trophy glowed like a beacon in the dim gray light of the tiny bedroom.

  Josh cradled the trophy in his arms and ran his fingers up and down the smooth grooves in the long columns. He let the golden figure lie along the side of his cheek as he remembered the hits and the grabs and the throws and the cheers and the smiles and the claps on his back. He remembered the long ride home singing “One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall” and the sight of his father’s silver Taurus darting in and out of traffic, sometimes alongside the bus, sometimes ahead or behind, but always there, the way a pilot fish will stay with a shark.

  Josh used the bathroom, flushing the toilet—which sent a shiver through the pipes, rattling them down into the walls of the kitchen below. He brushed his teeth, smelling his parents’ coffee and hearing the low murmur of their voices floating up the narrow stairs. After changing into jeans and the bright green T-shirt that came with the trophy, Josh skipped down the stairs and stopped just outside the kitchen at the sudden yells coming from within.

  “And I say you should have let the boy get his rest,” his father said. “That’s more important than school. I turned off his alarm for a reason.”

  “Really?” his mother said, her voice grating like nails on a chalkboard.

  “He can be great, Laura,” his father said.

  “You were great,” his mother said. “He needs school. He needs to go to college.”

  “You’re going to bring me into this?” his father shouted, banging the kitchen table so that the silverware and the sugar bowl rattled. “Thanks, Laura. Thanks for the reminder that I didn’t make it. Thanks for the reminder that I’m a vitamin salesman. Have a nice day.”

  Josh heard the scrape of a chair, heavy steps, and then the kitchen door swinging open before it slammed shut, causing Josh’s little sister to wail like a car alarm. Josh covered his ears and walked through the doorway to see his mother scoop Laurel out of her high chair. His mother held her close and stroked the back of her head.

  “Hurry up, Josh,” his mother said. “You’ll miss the bus. Look at the paper, though.”

  “Okay,” Josh said, taking a box of Cheerios from the cupboard and pouring some milk into a bowl.

  He sat down at the place where his father had been and the sports section lay.

  “Hey, wow,” Josh said, stopping to swallow. “That’s
me.”

  On the front page was a color picture of Josh in an openmouthed scream, being carried by his teammates after the big win over Hempstead. The headline read VALENTINE’S TITANS JUST THAT. The caption talked about Josh being only twelve and knocking in the winning run to upset the fifth-ranked U14 team in the country.

  “Your father took the picture and sent it in,” his mother said, jiggling Josh’s sister to calm her as she paced the kitchen floor.

  “You sound mad about it,” Josh said, shoveling in another mouthful of cereal.

  “I’m not mad,” his mother said, replacing his sister in her high chair and peeling a banana to give her. “I just want to make sure you’ve got your priorities straight. All this baseball is fine, but you need to do well in school. That’s what matters. Your father turned your alarm off, but I put it back on so you wouldn’t be late.”

  Josh shrugged, gulped down a glass of juice, and said, “Okay.”

  “Because that’s what matters,” she said as if he’d contradicted her. “Look at your father. He was a first-round draft pick. Now he’s working for Rocky Valentine.”

  “What’s wrong with Coach Valentine?” Josh asked.

  His mother cleared some dirty dishes off the table and began banging them around in the sink.

  “I didn’t say anythinig was,” his mother said, clattering a spoon into a bowl. “He’s fine. I’m sure he’s a good coach. Obviously. But he’s an operator and not the kind of person you want to have to work for.”

  “What do you mean, ‘an operator’?” Josh asked.

  “Are you done yet?” his mother asked, glancing up at the clock. “It’s time.”

  Josh jumped up from the table, put his things together, kissed his little sister and his mom, and dashed out the door. When he stepped onto the bus he saw Jaden sitting in the second seat. Josh always sat in the front row for several reasons. First, no one wanted the front seat, so he never had to argue about it. Second, he sometimes got carsick in the back. Third, the opportunity for trouble of any kind was reduced to zero if the person right beside you was Mrs. Wamp, the bus driver. He didn’t relish sitting right in front of Jaden, but he wasn’t going to give up the comfort of the front.