The Pitcher

by William Hazelgrove

  I don’t move while her head presses against the refrigerator. She stays that way for a long minute, then lifts her head and looks at me. She smiles and tries to put the mom-spin on it. “We’ll figure out something,” she says brightly, like we had been having this conversation. Mom just doesn’t like to show she’s worried. “C’mon, let’s go practice your pitching.”

  And then she wipes her eyes and walks onto the porch.

  So now Mom is crouched down in the street. Everything smells like oil because the street gets so hot during the day and the tar melts. Our neighbors, the Newtons, have this pit bull they keep tied up to their porch and he’s barking like he wants to kill somebody. It’s been like a week since Mom gave the Pitcher the hundred bucks. I figured he blew it on Good Times beer by now. I wait while Mom sets herself and brings her mitt up. She looks smaller in the chest protector and face mask with her hat on backward. It’s still hot at seven o’clock and I know she’s sweating in the shin guards and the black foam chest shield.

  “Alright. I want to see this one from the windup!”

  I hold the ball down and feel like I’m being watched.

  “Mom … can’t we go to a field?”

  “No. Pitch it here,” she calls, beating her mitt.

  I pull in and go into my set.

  “Don’t forget to breathe!”

  “Mom!” I shout, breaking my hands. “Don’t say anything when I’m pitching, alright?”

  She holds up the catcher’s glove.

  “C’mon … enough talk … pitch it here, Zambrano!”

  The Newton dog is going crazy. The dog’s bark is going right through my skull. Some guys can pitch through anything, but I got to find the quiet place. And there ain’t nothing quiet about the Newton’s pit bull. I set myself again, then kick back into my windup, coming over with a fastball. The ball soars over Mom’s head, skipping down the street. She goes clanking after it, running halfway back, then pulls off the mask.

  “Now what did you do wrong there?” she asks, breathing hard.

  “You’re the coach, you tell me,” I mutter.

  Mom’s eyes narrow and spark.

  “Hey! What’s with the attitude?”

  I hold out my hands because I know why we’re in the street. I know she’s trying to get the Pitcher to come out of his garage. But that dude is not coming out. No way. He got a hundred bucks for nothing.

  “This is stupid! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

  Mom snaps her finger at me.

  “Enough of that! We can figure this out together!” She holds the catcher’s mask beneath her arm. “I think you’re breathing wrong. What do you think?”

  “Oh really? What Internet site did you read that off of?”

  She jabs her finger at me.

  “Look, jerko, I’m doing this for you!”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to do it for me!”

  I don’t know why I say half the stuff I do, but sometimes I just get mad for no reason. I know the Pitcher will never coach me. I get that. So let’s just go to Roland Field where at least I won’t hit a car or something. But Mom can’t take no from anybody. So I walk up to her and lean forward, speaking low.

  “He’s not coming back out … this is stupid.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Ricky.” She pulls down her mask. “Now shut up and pitch!”

  “Shut up and pitch, shut up and pitch,” I mimic.

  “Keep it up and you’ll find yourself with no ESPN for a week.”

  “Big deal,” I grumble, walking back down the street.

  Mom hits her catcher’s mitt again. It’s then I feel this rage. It’s the same rage I felt when they put me with the fielders at the camp. I let fly an inside fastball that bounces up into Mom’s chest protector. She falls back like she’s dead.

  “Mom, Mom … are you alright?”

  She nods and pushes herself up slowly.

  “I like the speed. Let’s just put in my mitt next time.”

  I feel a great relief. “Let’s not do this, Mom. I don’t want to bean you again.”

  She frowns.

  “That’s why I have the gear. Now get back down the street!” But that’s when I see her wince. She’s been doing that a lot lately. Mom turns real white and I ask her if something’s wrong. I’ve noticed she’s tired, sleeping a lot on the couch and picking at her food. When I ask her about the calls from the doctor, she always says it’s nothing.

  “Mom, listen, maybe we should take a break.”

  Her eyes start doing this trapped butterfly thing, moving side-to-side. Then her chin starts bobbing. She can go real ethnic when she wants to.

  “Bullshit, cabrón.” She throws me the ball. “Get your butt down there and throw me a fastball.”

  So I walk back down the street, pacing off the feet. I turn and Mom is squatting again, pounding her mitt.

  “Bring it, Carlos.”

  10

  WE PLAY IN THE STREET all week. Mom brings out another diagram on how to throw a curve, a sinker, a change-up. Sometimes, the wind blows the paper while she tries to fi gure out the grip. Sometimes she gets it. Sometimes she screams and cusses.

  On the last night, it is getting dark with the bungalows shadowing the street. I throw some pitches that zing like guided missiles. I have just caught the ball from Mom when I hear the clanking of his garage door.

  The garage goes up slowly and the Pitcher appears in a lawn chair with a six-pack of Good Times beer. Shortstop is slumped next to him. It’s like a game show the way he is sitting there and smoking a cigarette. He pops a beer without saying a word. Mom looks at me and shrugs, then hunches down. I’m really nervous. I go into my windup and nothing feels right. I come over the top and release high and the ball soars over her head. Mom clanks down the street in her catcher gear like the Tin Man. The Pitcher just smokes and looks really bored.

  That’s the way it goes. I keep throwing wild and Mom keeps chasing the balls down the street. The Pitcher sits there with his dog and watches me pitch. When it is almost dark, the garage goes back down.

  Mom got some books from the library and lays them open on her bed. I watch while the ball falls from her hand as she tries to get the grip. I’m not sure pitching can be taught from a book. To me pitching is like something that comes out after dark, you know. Like when the land turns that funny grey color and everything is quiet and a few black birds dart across the horizon. That’s what pitching feels like when it’s right—a moment before all that darkness.

  Mom is trying to learn it from the outside, which is what you do if you’ve never pitched. You think it can just be taught from a book like math or science or history. But I think it’s more like English where Mrs. Gibbons says words stand for other things. Like a sunset is not just a sunset, but something about death. Or a sunrise is about birth. Same thing with pitching; a fastball isn’t just a fastball—it’s who you are. Some people get it, most don’t.

  But this change-up, I don’t know, man. Mom has left her bedroom, and we are back in the street. Mom is shouting all these instructions.

  “Just throw it slower,” she says, hunching down.

  “I think it’s more complicated than that,” I shout back.

  “Just do it and throw me a change-up!”

  I see her glance toward the Pitcher in his lawn chair a couple times. The dude watches us about every night and hasn’t tried to give Mom back her hundred bucks. That’s pretty crappy of him. I mean, now we are entertaining him and he still has our money! All he does is sit there and drink beers.

  Mom gets back into position and beats her mitt.

  “C’mon, bring it to me, Ricky!”

  I pitch what I think might be a change-up. Mom manages to snag the wild pitch before it disappears down the street and I feel my face getting hot. Here is this major league pitcher watching and I can’t get any control. Mom stands there and I can tell she doesn’t know what to say either.

  “So what did you do wrong?” she asks, walkin
g up out of breath.

  “I told you I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say in a low voice. “This is stupid! You don’t know how to pitch and I don’t—”

  Mom whips out the printout from her pocket. “I don’t think you are taking your breath properly. You have to take a deep breath before you pitch.”

  “I’m taking my fricking breath, Mom.”

  “Come here and let me see you do it,” she commands. “I want to see a really big breath. C’mon, right now.”

  I feel my face burning up.

  “This is stupid.”

  “Shut up and breathe in. This is probably why you can’t throw a change-up.”

  “Breathing has nothing to do with it, Mom!”

  “Shut up and breathe! We’ll do it together. Ready? One, two, three!”

  So I do. I mean once Mom sets her eye on something there is no getting away. And I see us. These two Mexicans in the street breathing like they are on oxygen or something. I just want to hide, man. My face is burning hot. I take a deep breath with Mom facing me. We are now right in front of the Pitcher.

  “Again!”

  We breathe in the street like two fish. Mom’s cheeks are full and her mouth forms an “o”. I see the Pitcher shaking his head slowly. He uncrosses his leg and stares at us like we have just crapped in the street.

  “OK,” Mom says loudly. “Now let it out and in again and let it out and in again.”

  “Mom, I’m not breathing anymore!” I shout.

  She whips out the printout and I hear the Pitcher’s chair scrape the pavement.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, standing up and I figure he’s going to leave the two Mexican nuts in the street. Mom glances at him and says real loud, “It says here, Ricky, before every pitch you have to breathe!”

  “I’m not breathing anymore.”

  “You will breathe!” Mom shouts.

  I hear the Pitcher walking then, his hard shoes on the street. He is striding toward Mom and she turns as he pulls the printout from her hand. She faces him with her mouth open, her cheeks red. The Pitcher tears the printout in two.

  “You expect me to listen to this shit for a hundred lousy bucks?”

  Mom looks at him.

  “No. I expect you to coach my son.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, throwing his cigarette in the street. The Pitcher looks at Mom and shakes his head. “Lady, you got a lot of brass.”

  Mom stares back with the catcher’s mask under her arm.

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  The Pitcher breathes heavily.

  “Alright …” he says wearily, gesturing down the street. “Go down and catch so I can watch your son pitch!”

  “What about breathing?”

  “Breathing don’t have a goddamn thing to do with pitching!”

  “That’s not what the printout says,” she murmurs.

  “Lady, I don’t give a good damn what the printout says,” he declares. “Now get on down there so your son can pitch to you!”

  Mom hesitates, then winks at me and walks down the street. She turns around under the low moon. The Pitcher stands in the half-light, his eyes picking me out of the dusk.

  “Now forget about the goddamn breathing and pick a spot,” he orders.

  I stare at him with the ripped printout blowing down the street.

  “Well …What the hell are you doing?”

  I shrug. “Pitching?”

  “Then pitch the goddamn ball!”

  I bring my arms in but my hands are shaking. My entire body is shaking or something, because here is the thing: I have never really had a pitching lesson. Everything I know about pitching I’ve seen on television. The rest is God-given, as Mom always says. So I just stand there, trembling in the warm Florida night, trying to get my grip straight.

  “Hold it …” the Pitcher raises his hand. “Do you have a spot?”

  “What?”

  He puts a cigarette in his mouth and cracks open a silver lighter.

  “A spot … you need a spot if you are going to pitch, rockhead.” He puts the lighter back in his pocket, pointing his cigarette toward Mom. “You have to find a spot to aim for or you’re going to throw it all over hell the way you been doing. I used to pick the batter’s wrist. Why don’t you concentrate on your Mom’s glove.”

  I set myself again. The trembling is still there, but my legs don’t feel like jelly anymore. The Pitcher stands to the side, smoking. He leans forward.

  “What the hell are you waiting for … the second coming? Pitch!”

  I take my breath and kick back, launching the ball clear over Mom’s head. I had released too high, but I was so jacked up. I wait while Mom turns to get the ball. The Pitcher pulls the cigarette from his mouth.

  “Hey … whaddaya doing?”

  “What?”

  He points down the street with his cigarette.

  “Don’t make your Mom get it … go get the goddamn ball!”

  I take off and sprint by Mom. I run back out of breath and turn around. The Pitcher sparks his cigarette again.

  “Alright, let’s see it from the stretch. Only this time aim for your mother’s mitt instead of the goddamn moon.”

  I tug on my hat and look down. I try to concentrate on Mom’s mitt, but the ball flies out of my hand all wrong. It flares under the streetlight and sails over her head. The Pitcher pulls out a can of Skoal.

  “Hurry up. I ain’t got all night while you pitch for the rooftops.”

  I grab the ball again and come huffing back. Every time I reach him I am relieved he is still there. The Pitcher purses his lips and nods to me. “Alright … that one just hit the trees. Let’s try it again. Bring it down this time,” he orders, pointing the star of his cigarette. “You’re releasing too goddamn early. You gotta follow through.” He spits tobacco juice into the street and looks at me. “Look, rockhead, you ever hit somebody?”

  “Well … yeah.”

  The Pitcher cocks back his arm and then comes forward. “Well think of hitting a man,” he explains, making a fist. “You gotta follow through like you’re punching somebody. You understand that? You gotta follow through with your pitch like you just slugged the hell out of somebody. You think you can do that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Alright. Try it from the windup and don’t aim for the moon … aim for her glove.”

  I set myself and keep my eye on Mom’s glove. I take a breath, kick back, and whip the ball over the top. I release too high again, but Mom manages to grab it. The Pitcher rifles the warm tar again with tobacco juice and waves his hand.

  “Alright, now let’s see your fastball.”

  I pull in to my set, but throw high again. When I come back he begins adjusting me: I wasn’t stepping off right. I didn’t have my shoulder square. I wasn’t pushing off my right foot. I throw three more really bad pitches. Nothing is working the way it should. So that’s why I ask him this: “Can I try one pitch my way now?”

  The Pitcher stares at me and frowns.

  “Your way ain’t working, rockhead.”

  “You haven’t let me do it my way.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Then do it your way.”

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I hear the wind and keep my eyes closed until everything is still. I set myself, then open my eyes on Mom’s mitt. I draw back with my arm and snap down like a mousetrap. The ball cracks into Mom’s mitt. It was still high, but it was my fastball.

  I turn and the Pitcher is staring at me.

  “Can you do that again?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Of course the next one flies over Mom’s head, but he sees it. Kind of like the way you see lightning sometimes and even though there is no rain, you know a storm is coming.

  Mom pulls off her mask and we meet under the streetlight. The Pitcher breathes out smoke and looks at me. I can hear the crickets and a distant train. He holds up a big finger.

  “Alright,” he begins slowly. “The first th
ing you gotta know is the whole world is a full count against you. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply. “I think so.”

  “Call me Jack. What I’m saying is no one will bail you out. You are all alone on the mound and it’s all stacked against you. You gotta prove yourself with every pitch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He taps his cigarette toward me like a baton.

  “After that, you gotta pick a spot. If you don’t pick a spot, then you can’t pitch. Like I said, I used to aim for the batter’s wrist. I figured if I broke their wrist, so much the better. Sometimes I’d see a hole or something in the back wall and I’d pick that. It don’t matter.” He pistols his finger. “ But you gotta have a spot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call me Jack.”

  “Yes, sir, sir … I mean yes, sir … I mean, Jack.”

  The Pitcher looks at Mom.

  “Does he always talk like this?”

  “Just when one of his dreams comes true,” Mom answers, her eyes getting wet.

  He drops his cigarette in the street.

  “You on a team now?”

  “Yeah, the Marauders.”

  “They have a game tomorrow on Pearson Field, six o’clock,” Mom says quickly.

  The Pitcher nods, then pulls the rolled twenties from his pocket.

  “That’s for his first lesson,” Mom says, backing away.

  The Pitcher looks at her in the darkness.

  “Lady, if I charged you for lessons, it’d be a hell of a lot more than a hundred bucks,” he says, putting the money in her hand.

  Then he picks up his can of beer and walks back to his lawn chair. We stand there as the garage clanks back down. Mom turns to me, her eyes glistening.

  “You might have a coach, Ricky,” she whispers.

  “Yeah,” I say, picking up the pieces of the printout from the street. I squint at the torn paper and read. “Hey, Mom, this is on that law in Arizona.” I frown, looking at her. “There’s nothing here about baseball, or breathing.”