Heavy Hitters

by Mike Lupica

“No way.”

  “Way,” Lily said. “You say that Mr. Goodman needs to know who Justin is. You know better than anybody now. So you tell him.”

  And he did.

  Mr. Brown agreed with Lily.

  Told Ben he didn’t just like the idea, that he loved it.

  “Tell Lily she’s a genius,” Mr. Brown said.

  And Ben laughed and said, “I’d rather not, if that’s okay with you.”

  Now it was the next afternoon and Mr. Brown was driving them both to Mr. Goodman’s law office in Darby. They’d decided that Mr. Brown should still sit in on the meeting, but that it would be Ben who did the talking about Justin Bard.

  “I’m always telling people that you and Sam know way more about sports than I do,” Mr. Brown said. “I should have figured you probably know more about lots of things.”

  “I still think I’m out of my league,” Ben said.

  “You just tell Ed Goodman what you told Lily and what you told me,” Sam’s dad said. “And maybe you can get Justin back in our league.”

  “Mr. Goodman would have to be a lawyer,” Ben said.

  “But he’s a dad, too. And you know he used to coach.”

  “What if I totally mess this up?”

  Mr. Brown said to him, “You’ve never thought that way going into a big game in your life. Don’t start now.”

  Ed Goodman was a big man who looked to Ben as if he would have made a better football coach than a baseball coach, wearing a white shirt and tie, sitting behind a desk that seemed to take up about half an office looking out over Main Street in Darby.

  When everybody was seated Mr. Goodman said to Ben, “I saw that shot you hit to spoil our kids’ unbeaten season in basketball. Still don’t know how you got it over the Braggs boy.”

  “Neither do I, sir.”

  “We’ve got a saying in Rockwell,” Mr. Brown said, “about how amazing it is that good teams seem to keep following Ben around.”

  Mr. Goodman smiled now, leaned forward, clasped his big hands together, and said, “I want you to know, son, I like being a lawyer a lot better than I like being a judge in a case like this. Or jury. But having said that, I very much want to hear what you have to say about young Mr. Bard.”

  Ben swallowed, but it didn’t help, his mouth felt as dry as the papers on the desk between him and Mr. Goodman. He thought about asking for some water, but he was ready to go right now, and didn’t want to lose his nerve. He kept telling himself that was the same as reading one of his essays in front of the class, what his English teacher called “declamations,” from memory.

  He’d spent all last night practicing what he wanted to say to Mr. Goodman the way he practiced those.

  He started by telling Mr. Goodman that he knew the rules about fighting, that they all did, Justin included, he wasn’t going to act as if Justin hadn’t done something wrong by trying to charge Pat Seeley. He knew nothing good could ever come out of a fight, even one that didn’t actually happen, he’d found out himself when Justin had landed on his wrist.

  “My dad has always told me that the only thing fighting proves is who’s the better fighter,” Ben said, “and that you usually know that beforehand.”

  “Smart man, your dad.”

  “We all know that Justin would’ve won a fight with Pat Seeley,” Ben said, “but that doesn’t matter now. What matters is that Justin has lost the rest of the season.”

  Mr. Goodman smiled again. “From what I know of the Seeley boy — and his father — I can see why you all would have enjoyed watching the whole thing play out. But we both know that would’ve been wrong. For everybody. Same as charging the mound is wrong. And believe me, Ben, no one feels worse about this than I do, and the other board members, all of whom are dads. We all know how valuable these seasons are.”

  Ben took a deep breath. “I’m not sure you do, sir. Not in Justin’s case.”

  “I’m aware of his family situation.”

  “But that’s the thing, Mr. Goodman. His family situation, like you call it, is just a part of this. I know he’ll have other seasons when he moves to Cameron. But he’s never going to have this season. He’s never going to know what would’ve happened if he’d been with us. The only season that matters is the one you’re playing.”

  Ben leaned forward. “My dad has another big thing about sports. He’s always telling me to appreciate these seasons because nobody ever knows how many they’re going to have. But what Justin knows now is that he’s never going to have another one with his friends here. And now it’s over. And I don’t think it should end the way it did.”

  Ben stopped, because he was out of breath, the only sounds in the room in that moment, other than the ticking of a big stand-up clock against the wall to his right, and the sound of his own breathing.

  Mr. Goodman said, “Your coach here says that you know something about Justin that nobody else on the team does. Something he did for you.”

  Ben told him then about getting hit by Robbie Burnett. And how it made him afraid of the ball. And about the day at Highland Park when Justin had gotten Ben turned around.

  “That’s who he is, Mr. Goodman. He’s way more than the hothead who lost his head because Pat Seeley was acting like a total loser. Or somebody who’s been mad at the world all season because of his mom and dad and moving away.” Swallowed again, kept going. “People always want to talk about my heart. But I don’t have any idea how I’d handle what he’s going through. And if I was going through what he is? I don’t know that I would have found the time to help somebody else through something.”

  In a quiet voice Mr. Brown said, “I do.”

  “You’re a good friend,” Mr. Goodman said to Ben.

  “So is Justin.”

  “You understand the position I’m in, Ben, because the law of the league is so clear.”

  “But is that the spirit of the law, Mr. Goodman?”

  “That come from your dad, too?”

  Ben nodded.

  “I wish my son listened to me the way you obviously listen to your father.”

  “Justin will never even think about fighting ever again,” Ben said. “He didn’t even fight the other night! It’s crazy when you think about it, losing this much over a fight he didn’t even have. I know I sound like I’m stuck on that. But it’s true.”

  “He has lost a lot,” Mr. Goodman said. His voice quiet now. “And is losing a lot. No one knows that better than I do, my parents got divorced when I was a couple of years younger than Justin is now.”

  “Justin’s mom told me one night that she’s moving out of Rockwell because there’s too many memories for her there,” Ben said. “I just don’t want Justin’s last memory with us in baseball to be what happened the other night.”

  Mr. Goodman stood up now, came around his desk. Ben and Mr. Brown stood up. Mr. Goodman shook Ben’s hand again, Ben making sure to look him in the eye the way he’d been taught, even if it meant craning his neck back to do it.

  “You’ve given me some things to think about,” Mr. Goodman said.

  “Thanks for listening to a kid,” Ben said.

  Ed Goodman looked over at Mr. Brown and said, “Some kid.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sam’s dad said.

  Then Ed Goodman looked down at Ben and said, “Now I understand how you made that shot.”

  “If you don’t take the shot,” Ben said, “you’ll never know whether it would have gone in or not.”

  “That one more thing from your dad?”

  Ben was the one smiling now as he said, “No, I came up with that one myself.”

  Ben’s mom answered the phone right before dinner and said that his coach wanted to talk to him.

  When she handed the receiver over to him Ben covered the mouthpiece and said, “Did he say anything?”

  Beth McBain said, “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “He said he wanted to talk to you.”

  “Funny, Mom.”

  “I know,” s
he said.

  “Hey, Mr. Brown,” he said into the phone.

  Mr. Brown said, “I didn’t even tell Sam yet, he’s not home from Coop’s even though he’s supposed to be. But what I wanted you to hear this first.”

  “Mr. Goodman said no, didn’t he?”

  “No,” Mr. Brown said. “He said yes.”

  “Yes!”

  “The deal is this,” Sam’s dad said, “Justin serves out the rest of his suspension with the Kingsland game tomorrow night. And he has to apologize to Pat Seeley. But he gets to play in the playoffs.”

  “He’s got to apologize to a guy who started out the game buzzing Justin and me and then hit me on purpose?” Ben said. “A guy Justin never touched?”

  “Part of the deal,” Mr. Brown said. “And just so you know? According to Ed Goodman, Pat Seeley’s dad screamed louder about this than he did when he was screaming for a forfeit the other night. If that makes you feel any better.”

  “It kind of does, actually.”

  “Thought it might.” There was a pause at the other end of the phone and then Sam’s dad said, “Why don’t you be the one to give Justin the good news.”

  “It’s your team, Mr. B.”

  “But this is your show, even though I bet you didn’t even tell him you spoke to Ed Goodman, did you?”

  “No,” Ben said. “I didn’t want him to get his hopes up. I felt like I was throwing that Hail Mary to Sam all over again.”

  “You going to tell him?”

  “Nah,” Ben said. “Maybe later?”

  “Or maybe never?”

  “Maybe,” Ben said. “I just figure that we’re even now. In a way, he did for me what I did for him: Helped give him his season back.”

  “But you’ll call him?”

  “Think I might go tell Justin in person, just to see the look on his face.”

  Ben hung up the phone, turned around, saw both of his parents standing there, his dad’s arm around his mom’s shoulders, both of them smiling at him.

  Beth McBain said, “I gather you have to be somewhere?”

  “You guys go ahead and eat,” Ben said.

  His dad said that now that he thought about it, he wasn’t all that hungry right now, and offered to drive Ben over to Justin’s house.

  Ben said he’d rather ride his bike, if that was okay with them.

  “Let the moment last a little bit?” his dad said.

  “Something like that,” Ben said.

  “What did you tell Ed Goodman?”

  Ben shrugged. “Just a bunch of stuff that you keep telling me.”

  * * *

  Ben asked the guard at the gate if it was all right if he surprised Justin Bard, he had some great news for him. Gave the man his name and said he and Justin played on the same baseball team.

  “Nice boy, that boy,” the guard said. “Gonna miss him.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You go on ahead.”

  Maybe it was because of the way the day had gone, the news Mr. Brown had just given him and he was about to give to Justin, but Ben started to imagine he’d get to the bottom of Justin’s driveway and the “For Sale” sign would be gone, that Justin’s mom had decided to stay in Rockwell, they weren’t moving after all.

  But the sign was right where it was the first time Ben had seen it.

  Only one happy ending today.

  He rode his bike up the driveway, set it down near the front porch, rang the doorbell, Mrs. Bard opened the door, took one look at him, and said, “You look like you’re about to pop, Ben McBain.”

  Ben lowered his voice to a whisper, not knowing if Justin was anywhere near them.

  “The league changed its mind, Mrs. Bard. Justin can play in the playoffs.”

  “You are kidding!” she said, and came out on the porch, closing the door behind her.

  “How?” she said. “Why?”

  “I guess they looked at all the facts and decided it was the right thing to do.”

  “He’s been so down,” she said. “Worse than he already was. This feels like a small miracle.”

  Ben said, “Like some crazy shot in basketball that went in.”

  She said Justin was in his room. Ben took the stairs two at a time, knocked on the closed door, didn’t wait for an answer, walked in, and saw Justin on his bed, headphones on, watching something on his laptop.

  “You can play!” Ben said.

  Justin took off his headphones and said, “What did you just say?”

  “I said you can play on Saturday!” Ben said.

  “Don’t mess me with me.”

  “Not messing with you,” Ben said. “Your suspension ends with the Kingsland game.”

  “Who says?”

  “Mr. Brown says. And Mr. Goodman, the chairman of the league.”

  Ben told him the rest of the deal then, about apologizing to Pat Seeley for rushing him the way he did. Ben was thinking Justin might explode when he heard that, but he just grinned.

  “You’re cool with that?” Ben said.

  “Totally.”

  “For real?”

  “Coop’s the one always saying he can fake sincerity when he has to, right?”

  “One of his favorite lines.”

  “Well, if he can do it I can do it.”

  “I won’t tell him you said it exactly like that,” Ben said. “He thinks it’s like a move he invented.”

  “So we all get to play at least one more game together?” Justin said.

  “Maybe more than that if we keep winning,” Ben said. “Maybe we keep playing all the way through the states.”

  “I’m good with that.”

  “Me, too,” Justin said.

  Then he closed his laptop, reached over, and placed his headphones on his nightstand, stood up on his bed.

  And then started jumping for joy.

  Pat Seeley didn’t even show up with the rest of the Kingsland team on Friday night, his dad informing Mr. Brown before the game that his son had a “tired” arm and that there was no reason to risk injury since the Knights had no chance of making the playoffs.

  “Tired arm?” Coop said. “More like he’s tired of us beating his butt.”

  “Sure hope he feels better by next season,” Sam said. “A good guy like that.”

  “That’s the only bad part of this,” Ben said. “That we don’t get to face him again until next season.”

  “And it’ll be a total shame not seeing those red shoes again,” Coop said. “They reminded me a little bit of Dorothy’s in The Wizard of Oz.”

  Because Pat Seeley wasn’t there, Justin came and apologized to Mr. Seeley instead, saying he was sorry for everything that had happened that night.

  Ben and the guys had walked over with Justin, just as a way of showing that they had his back, so they all heard Pat Seeley’s dad say, “I’m not going to lie to you, son, I think you got off easy.”

  Justin let that go. Mr. Brown didn’t. He said, “You ever wonder why your son acts the way he does, Coach?”

  Then turned and led the Rams back to their bench, where Coop said to him, “You see the look on his face? He looked like he’d swallowed a bug.”

  The Rams won, 8–4, locking up the second seed for the playoffs, setting up a home game against Darby on Saturday night at Highland Park, Sam against Chase Braggs, Sam pitching three no-hit innings to start, the Rams finally winning 4–1, Justin knocking in three of the runs with a double and a single, Ben pitching the top of the sixth, striking out Ryan Hurley, their best hitter, with two on to end it.

  In the other semifinal Parkerville, which had ended up with the fourth seed, upset Moreland, which meant that the Rams’ season would end the way it had begun, them against Robbie Burnett, at home, on Sunday night.

  Maybe the way it was supposed to end.

  Ben looking for the best possible ending, for him and the team and for Justin, maybe Justin most of all.

  One more night together for all of them at Highland Park.

  B
ut when the night came, Parkerville jumped out to a 10–0 lead. After just the third inning. At which point Coop would say, “It’s a good thing they don’t have the slaughter rule in a championship game or the season would be over already.”

  * * *

  The Parkerville coach had gambled, deciding to save Robbie for the championship game, gambling — it paid off — that they could find a way to beat Moreland with their other best starting pitcher, a kid named Jeff DiVeronica, who had still been recovering from an ankle he’d broken in soccer at the start of the season.

  Mr. Brown had gone with Sam against Darby in the semis because it was Sam’s turn to pitch, saying that he wasn’t going to change the way he’d been doing things all season, saying that he trusted Shawn — their number two starter — to beat Parkerville as much as he would have trusted him to beat Darby.

  Only Shawn had nothing on this night. Less than nothing, really, no control, no fastball. He walked the first two guys in the top of the first, gave up a solid hit after that, scored Parkerville’s first run, then gave up a homer to Robbie. By the time Shawn got the third out, a couple of guys still on, it was 5–0 and Parkerville had batted around.

  When they got to the bench Mr. Brown told them to gather around him, fast.

  “Listen, they hit, now we hit,” he said. “We can’t do anything about what just happened, and we don’t have to come all the way back the first time we bat. We just do what we do. We play. Which means forgetting the top of the first, because I have already.”

  “I haven’t,” Shawn said in a quiet voice.

  “Well, I’m telling you to,” Mr. Brown said. “We’ve got six innings to make up five runs. We’ve scored five runs in games plenty of times this season, and now we’re going to do it again. Okay?”

  He looked around, trying to go from face to face as quickly as he could.

  Ben finally spoke, saying, “Let’s go get a couple back right now,” then went to get his helmet and his bat, thinking to himself that there was a lot more going on right now than just facing Robbie Burnett again.

  Thinking that the most important thing in the world right now felt like getting on base any way he could, he didn’t care who was pitching, it could have been Lily Wyatt.