Heavy Hitters

by Mike Lupica

  “Are you saying that you’re better at baseball than basketball?” Ben said.

  Chase reached out so they could all pound him some fist before he walked away.

  “You guys decide after I shut you down and shut you out tonight,” he said, then turned and jogged across the infield to the Darby bench on the third-base side of Highland Park.

  Sam said, “You’re sure we like that guy now?”

  “We like him better,” Ben said.

  “Maybe we should just say that we don’t hate him,” Coop said, “and leave it at that.”

  “C’mon,” Ben said, “you know he’s just trying to be funny.”

  Coop’s face was blank as he said, “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

  Ben said, “Think of him as what my mom likes to call a work in progress.”

  “Lot of work,” Shawn said.

  “Whole lot,” Sam said.

  Then he turned to Ben and said, “Are we going to let him shut us down tonight?”

  Ben smiled and shook his head slowly from side to side, wanting to feel as confident as he knew Sam was, even though he didn’t know what to expect the first time he had to face Chase Braggs, face real pitching for the first time since the Parkerville game.

  “Didn’t think so,” Sam Brown said.

  Sam was pitching the first three innings against Darby tonight, Shawn was pitching the next two, Mr. Brown had told Ben he wanted him to be his closer tonight in the sixth.

  Before the Rams took infield, Mr. Brown had said, “The arm’s ready, right?”

  “Both of them,” Ben had said.

  * * *

  Sam struck out the side in the top of the first, finally blowing a fastball of his own right past Chase to end the inning. From shortstop it looked to Ben as if the pitch was coming in at the knees but then just seemed to explode when it got to home plate and ended up being what the announcers like to call “belt-high cheese,” Chase having no chance against it, like Sam had slam-dunked on him.

  When they got to the bench Ben said, “You think Chase wants to revise his fastball rankings for the Butler County League?”

  “Let’s see what he’s got,” Sam said. “If he can pitch as well as he chirps.”

  Their word for trash talk.

  “You really love his chirp, don’t you?” Ben said.

  “Yeah,” Sam said, “like I love eating vegetables.”

  Ben walked to the plate then, telling himself the same thing he’d been telling himself all day: That he loved to hit, that he’d always been a good hitter, that one pitch wasn’t going to change that, come on.

  And telling himself something else: That no matter how Chase had been bragging on his fastball, it was hard to believe that anybody he was going to face this summer could throw a fastball harder than Robbie Burnett.

  Which meant: That the worst thing that was going to happen to him this season had already happened.

  He walked around behind the ump, said hello to Ryan Hurley, the Darby catcher, somebody they’d played against in football and basketball. Dug in with his back foot. Like always. Put out his right hand to the ump as he did. Like Jeter. Then set his hands, high.

  Whole new ball game, in all ways.

  Took a ball, high. Willing to keep his front foot locked in place.

  Chase decided to mess with him with his next pitch, maybe because he couldn’t help himself, maybe because he was always going to be looking for an edge with Ben. So he dropped down low and threw sidearm, came with this sweeping arm motion like he was trying to reach out and touch the Darby bench.

  And came inside on Ben.

  Way inside.

  Ben fell back to get out of the way, didn’t fall down, just avoided the pitch like he was dodging a ball in a recess game of dodge ball. Heard the ump say it was ball two. Stood where he was, just for a beat longer than he needed to, so he could give Chase a long look. Sam would tell him when he got back to the bench that Chase was smiling after he threw the ball, like he enjoyed the sight of Ben bailing out.

  But all Chase did now was hold up a hand and say, “Sorry, dude. Haven’t mastered that pitch yet.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said.

  “Slipped.”

  “Yeah.”

  Saying that to the guy who’d just told him he had practically the best control on the planet.

  “Let’s play,” the ump said.

  Ben got back in there, wanting in the worst way to line one right up the middle and right through Chase Braggs. But he was way too far ahead of a fastball, taking a wild, off-balance hack at it, missing by a lot. Letting everybody see how much he wanted a hit, his whole body flinching this time.

  Finally he worked the count full, then was too overanxious again on the 3-2 pitch, hitting a slow roller to the second baseman on a ball he knew — knew — he would normally have jumped all over and pulled. But once again he opened up way too soon, all he could do was push the ball to the right side.

  He busted it out of the box, nearly beat the play, trying to steal an infield single, out by a step.

  When he got back to the bench Coop said, “Trying to go the other way?”

  Ben took off his helmet, banged it on the bench, steamed.

  “Yeah,” he said, “with one of the ugliest swings of all time.”

  “You okay?” Coop said, staring at him. “It’s only the bottom of the first.”

  “I’m never okay when I make an out,” Ben said. “Okay?”

  “I think this anger is something we can use,” Coop said, and Ben couldn’t help himself, he laughed.

  “You really are an idiot,” Ben said.

  Coop said, “But much, much funnier than Chase Braggs.”

  Sam only gave up one hit and one walk in his three innings, struck out six guys. Chase gave up a double to Sam in the first, then pretty much shut the Rams down from there, walking two guys, one of them Ben in the third, Ben barely checking his swing on a 3-2 pitch in the dirt.

  The game was still scoreless in the bottom of the fourth when Justin Bard got tossed from the game.

  Sam had just tripled to lead off the bottom of the fourth against Chase’s replacement, a ball between the center fielder and left fielder that should have only been a double, would have been a double for just about anybody in the game except Sam Brown even though it didn’t roll all the way to the wall.

  Ben had always thought his friend didn’t just run like the wind, he was faster than that. So he wasn’t surprised when Sam busted it out of the box the way he did, the action in front of him all the way, somehow running as if he knew the whole time that he could make third, cutting the bag at second perfectly, the bag almost propelling him toward third, beating the cut-off throw from the shortstop standing up. Not even breathing hard. Smiling over at Ben, maybe just because of the pure fun of being able to run the bases like that.

  Or just being Sam, knowing he had that extra gear in him whenever he needed it.

  “Anything better than watching Sam leg out a triple?” Coop said on the bench.

  “How about a knock from Justin to score him?” Ben said.

  “Doesn’t have to be a knock,” Coop said. “I’ll take an RBI even if we have to give up an out. Bet he will, too.”

  Justin had had what Coop called a “glorious” oh-fer to start the season against Parkerville. Then he’d taken a called third strike against Chase to start tonight’s game. This after missing yesterday’s practice, one of the guys saying he had something he had to do with his parents.

  Ben had been watching him closely during batting practice, saw that Justin didn’t even hit one ball hard then.

  He’s hitting worse than me right now, Ben thought, and he didn’t even get hit.

  Ben didn’t know the kid pitching for Darby, just could see that he wasn’t as big as Chase, didn’t have nearly as much velocity. He was a strike thrower, though, always a good thing in baseball. Mr. Brown was always telling his pitchers, “There may be better things for a pitcher than strike one and strike two, but no
body’s discovered them in about a hundred and fifty years.”

  He threw strike one to Justin now, inside corner. Justin turned and gave the ump a quick look. Ump just nodded at him. Ben knew the ump was right. Maybe not the most hittable pitch ever thrown. But a strike. Mostly because that’s the way it had just been called.

  Lot of chatter from the Rockwell bench now. And from Sam at third. All the usual baseball chatter that always made Sam smile, just because it was something else that probably hadn’t changed in about a hundred and fifty years in baseball. Just takes one. Be a batter. Wait for your pitch. You got this guy.

  Justin Bard had heard it all before because they all had, from the time they first started playing T-ball.

  The kids on the Darby bench and the Darby infielders were chattering away themselves. Go after this guy. Throw strikes. You got this.

  Like they’d all made selections from the same baseball iTunes list.

  Justin swung right through strike two, taking a huge rip, nearly losing his helmet, almost as if he were trying to make up for the bad swings he’d made in the first two games with just one good one.

  0-and-2.

  Ben stared at Justin, wondering what was in his head right now, wondering what thoughts were getting in his way. Wondering why somebody this good was pressing this much so early in the season. Squeezing the bat this hard. A few at bats to start the season, that was all it was. A few at bats to start the summer. He was doing what they were all doing, playing summer ball with his boys and Ben was trying to understand — he was always trying to understand sports, like sports was his favorite subject in school — why Justin Bard, who had the best swing on their team, was this messed up.

  The pitcher had to know he had him now, had to be seeing what they were all seeing, that Justin was ready to get himself out again, and wasn’t going to need a whole lot of help.

  The pitcher decided to make him chase, threw a ball that bounced nearly a foot in front of home plate. Didn’t matter. Justin took another wild swing. Ryan Hurley, the Darby catcher, had to make a nice play boxing the ball, keeping it in front of him, keeping Sam at third, jumping up and tagging Justin out, Justin not even running even though the ball had been in the dirt.

  As soon as Ryan did tag him, and started running the ball back to the pitcher, that was when Justin flung his bat down the first-base line in disgust. Or anger. Or embarrassment.

  Maybe all of the above.

  Nobody saw it coming, Ben couldn’t remember him ever having done that before. Nothing anybody could have done to stop it. It just happened. That fast. Maybe not everybody else on the bench knew what that meant, but Ben McBain did, he knew the rules as well as the coaches did, knew exactly what was going to happen next.

  The umpire stepped out from behind the plate, made the motion that meant he was calling time, took off his mask, pointed at Justin, and then pointed in the direction of the Rams’ bench. He could have been pointing to the parking lot, or downtown Rockwell, because Justin Bard had just been ejected.

  “Son,” the ump said, “you’re out of the game.”

  Justin put his head down, started walking toward the bench. Ben was already halfway to the field, going to get Justin’s bat for him. But the ump said to Ben, “Leave it where it is.” To Justin he said, “You go get your own bat. Then take a seat for the rest of the night.”

  Justin made a slight left turn, having to know that everybody in Highland Park, both teams, the fans, everybody, were looking at him in that moment. Just not the way he ever would have wanted.

  He stopped just long enough to turn back to the ump and say, “It was an accident.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I’ve never thrown a bat before!” Justin said, probably louder than he intended, sounding a little bit like you did when your parents caught you doing something you knew you shouldn’t have been doing.

  “And I expect you won’t ever do it again,” the ump said in a quiet voice. “Now please go collect that bat so we can resume the game.”

  A game that would go on without Justin now. The way the next game the Rams played would go on without him, Ben not sure that Justin had even processed that yet. Another rule of the Butler County League, for any sport they played: If you got tossed from a game, no matter what the reason, you were automatically suspended from the next game, too.

  Justin leaned down, picked up his bat, took what must have felt like the longest walk he’d ever taken on a ball field, placed his bat with the rest at the end of the Rams’ bench, took a seat at the end closest to right field, plenty of space between him and Darrelle. It was where he was sitting, not even watching the game, when Shawn ripped a clean single to right, scoring Sam with the first run of the game.

  Ben waited until Coop was up — Coop about to double-home Shawn — before he went and sat down next to Justin. But before he could say anything Justin looked up at him with red eyes and said, “Please don’t talk to me.”

  Ben said, his voice not much more than a whisper, “I just wanted to tell you I know what it’s like, I’m scuffling, too, right now.”

  “No,” Justin said.

  “I am.”

  “No,” Justin said, “you don’t know what it’s like.”

  “But …”

  Justin got up and walked now to the other end of the bench, saying, “You’re still talking.”

  When he was gone, Sam came over from getting a drink of water, sat down next to Ben. “Sometimes being a good teammate,” he said, “means letting guys figure stuff out for themselves.” Grinned at Ben as he said, “Hard as that is for you to understand sometimes.”

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “Help him tonight by leaving him alone.”

  Max Kalfus, the Rams’ right fielder, singled home Coop with two outs to make it 3–0. When Coop got back to the bench, everybody got up except Justin.

  When the inning was over, Mr. Brown stopped Ben before he ran back out on the field.

  “You’re still a shortstop right now,” Mr. Brown said. “But you’re going to be a closer in a couple of innings. You good with that?”

  Ben grinned. “What do you think, Coach?”

  It was 3–2 by the time Ben got the ball in the bottom of the sixth. He’d come to the plate one more time, walking in the bottom of the fifth, stealing second, ending up on third when Sam hit a rocket to deep center that Jeb Arcelus caught for Darby one step in front of the wall.

  Ben walked Jeb to start the sixth — dumbest thing in the world for anybody trying to get the last three outs of a one-run game — and then Jeb stole second when Darrelle, who’d moved over to short replacing Ben, couldn’t come up with Coop’s throw.

  But two outs later Jeb was still on third base, it was still a one-run game when Chase Braggs came walking to the plate. Ben thinking that maybe he’d found the best way in the world not to worry about hitting. His or Justin’s.

  Be a pitcher.

  Ryan Hurley, in the on-deck circle, called out to Chase.

  “Take him to the hoop,” he said, and Ben knew it was for his benefit as much as Chase’s, because of everything that had happened between them in basketball.

  Ben stepped off the mound now, rubbing up the baseball, looked out to Sam in center field. Sam nodded. Ben got back up on the mound, looked in at Coop, who pointed at Ben with his mitt. Then Coop set up inside and didn’t even have to move the mitt as Ben poured in strike one, Chase taking all the way.

  Or maybe wanting to see what Ben had.

  There was way less chatter now with the game on the line. Now Coop set up outside. In and out. Chase was swinging now, but was lucky to get a piece, fouling the ball back to the screen, putting himself in a great big oh-two hole.

  Coop set up way outside, but Ben shook him off. He didn’t want to waste a pitch, didn’t want Chase to get himself out. Ben wanted to get him out, Ben wanted to show him something he couldn’t possibly know: That Chase didn’t have the best fastball in the league because Be
n did.

  Little guy, big arm.

  If you didn’t know that about Ben you didn’t know anything.

  He’d shown Chase two fastballs so far.

  Just not his best one.

  He threw it now, threw a fastball that Chase maybe couldn’t hit because he couldn’t see it, maybe only heard it hit the middle of Cooper Manley’s catcher’s mitt as loudly as the crack of a bat.

  Strike three.

  Rams 3, Bears 2.

  Ball game.

  Chase didn’t toss his bat, even though he seemed to think about it. Didn’t look out at Ben, either. Just took his own long walk back to the Darby bench.

  Ben walked down toward Coop. No fist-pumping from him, no chest-beating, no noise. Not after just their first win of the season. Coop put the ball in Ben’s glove like he was spiking it and leaned close to Ben, so only he could hear, as he said, “Should we go ask Chase if he thinks you’re better in baseball than you are in basketball?”

  Sam was there now, having run in from center at top speed, and he said to Ben, “That didn’t stink.”

  Shawn had moved to first after Justin had been thrown out. He said, “That absolutely did not stink.”

  “No,” Ben said, “it did not.”

  The four of them walked toward the bench together. Ben found himself looking for Justin, hoping that a win like this over Darby — and Chase Braggs — might take some of the sting out of what had happened to him.

  But he was already gone.

  Mr. Brown had announced at the start of the season that they were never going to practice more than twice a week, probably only once in the weeks when they had three games.

  “I want this to be summer ball,” he said, “not a summer job.”

  So there was only one practice this weekend, Sunday afternoon at five o’clock, Highland Park. Until then, the Core Four Plus One had no real plan other than having some pool time at Shawn’s on Saturday afternoon and then going to see a movie. Or maybe there’d be no movie, they’d just hang out with each other, which sometimes seemed like all the plan they really needed.

  Before that, though, Ben had a plan for himself.

  He wanted to go over to Highland Park and spend some time in the batting cage there, the one tucked into a corner of the park closest to the woods. Wanted to dial the pitching machine up to a speed as fast as Robbie Burnett or Chase Braggs — or Ben himself — and get his swing back.