The Pitcher

by William Hazelgrove

  37

  THE PITCHER TELLS ME TO get my mitt. The game isn’t until four and we are out on the field behind Roland School in the dawn light. The field looks like glass drops from the dew with the infield the color of dark mustard. I had figured we’d rest up for the game, but the Pitcher just shook his head and said, “Got a pitch I want to show you.” So now we are on the mound with the wind whipping across, tufting the Pitcher’s normally greased hair. He throws away his cigarette with the morning light creasing his craggy cheek.

  “Alright. You need this now. I never had one, but you might need this now,” he says, holding the ball like a present.

  “What? You mean a—”

  “You know what I mean. Just shut up and listen, alright?”

  So I do.

  “Alright …” He pauses, his eyes locking me in place. “The change-up is all about doing what’s not expected,” he begins. “The batter figures he’s got you, because he knows your fastball. So you give him the same look and he thinks that fastball is coming again, but the ball comes in ten miles slower, curving, dropping or doing just about anything you can come up with.”

  The Pitcher nods the ball at me.

  “By the time the batter figures out your pitch he’s already out in front of it. That’s what you want … you following me?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Satchel Paige probably had the best change-up in history until they outlawed it. He called it the hesitation pitch.” The Pitcher raises his arm. “His arm would pause over the top and then come down. They said everybody had to have a continuous motion after that. But the concept is the same. You want the guy to think you are giving him a straight fastball. That’s why it’s all in the delivery.” The Pitcher holds the ball up. “The batter expects one thing and you do another.”

  “So you fake him out?”

  “Yeah, something like that. Alright now, you gotta use that noggin of yours on this one, because I’m going to give you some technique here. You hold the ball against your palm with your index, middle, and ring finger spread across the seams at the widest point,” he explains, gripping the ball. “These fingers are on top of the ball … see, right here … while the pinky and thumb are placed underneath. You keep your wrist stiff and exert pressure on the ball with all five fingers.”

  The Pitcher stretches back and holds the ball over his head. “Go into your windup and remember to pivot and shift your body weight from the back foot forward toward home plate,” he continues, bringing the ball over his head. “As you release the pitch, bring the ball down like you are scratching a blackboard. You see. It should look just like your fastball.” He stands up and nods. “If you do it right, the ball should start out fast and hit the brakes about fifteen yards out as it drops down on the hitter.”

  “Yeah, OK,” I say.

  The Pitcher goes through the motion several times and looks over.

  “Follow through. Your feet should parallel each other at the end of the pitch, and your throwing arm should come across the front of your body. You got it, rockhead?”

  “Yeah … I think so.”

  His eyes grow serious, beating the ball against his palm. “You gotta hit the mark with this pitch, because if you don’t … they’ll knock it over the goddamn fence.”

  The Pitcher hands me the ball and walks to the plate.

  “Alright,” he calls out. “Let’s see your change-up.”

  I nod and position the ball in my hand. I get the grip straight in my glove and set myself. I pull in, take my breath, then come over the top. The Pitcher stares at me as the ball lollipops into his glove.

  “What the hell was that piece of crap?”

  “A change-up!”

  “That ain’t no change-up!” He throws the ball back. “A chimp could throw a better change-up than that! Get your grip straight and make sure you follow through. Remember to scratch the blackboard at the end of your motion. You throw another blooper like that and the batter will knock your socks off.”

  I take the ball and reset myself. I get my grip and put the ball toward the back of my hand. I breathe, then come over the top, but my release is too high. The Pitcher catches it and stares at me. He shakes his head.

  “Listen, if that’s your change-up then you are in trouble,” he says, whipping it back. “Remember to put it far back in your hand and scratch the shit out of the blackboard in your delivery. It should look and feel like your fastball.”

  “Yeah, OK,” I mutter, tugging on my hat.

  Now I’m beginning to have doubts. Maybe he is right. Maybe a change-up isn’t such a good idea. The potential for disaster is really high if I don’t throw it right. I throw in pitch after pitch, but they either float like a blooper or just go wild. None of the pitches behave and I have to throw some straight fastballs just to set myself. The Pitcher finally stands up.

  “Look, kid. This may not be the pitch for you. With a change-up, it is all or none. You can’t go back once you make the change. They see it coming, then you are dead in the water. Remember, it’s about what’s not expected. They gotta to believe you are giving them a fastball.”

  I nod and my arm is beginning to ache, which isn’t good on game day.

  “Let me try it one more time,” I plead, holding up my mitt.

  The Pitcher shrugs and throws the ball back. I set myself on the mound again. He squats down and turns his cap backward.

  “See the pitch, Ricky,” he says. “See it and remember what I told you. Put the ball far back in your hand and make sure your fingers scratch the blackboard.”

  I pull in the ball and position it toward the back of my hand. I close my eyes and take my breath, feeling the silence. I open up and come over the top with my fingers scratching the blackboard at the end. The ball comes out like my fastball, but right away I can tell it is different. It moves without rotation like a knuckle ball, then drops straight down. The Pitcher catches it and doesn’t move.

  He just holds the ball in his mitt, framing it for the world.

  38

  YOU ARE ALWAYS NERVOUS ON game day. And if you are pitching then it’s even worse. Some guys throw up before every game. I would if I tried to put anything in my stomach the hour before the game. It’s like my stomach gets tight as a drum and food or drink are out of the question. That drove Mom nuts because she always tried to get me to drink or eat something before games. So it was amazing the Pitcher got me to eat an egg and some bacon, but now my stomach is doubly tight.

  We load his station wagon with the catcher equipment, balls, extra bats, clipboards, batting helmets, sunflower seeds, extra socks, gloves, hats, shirts, pants. We both work silently trying not to think about Mom in the hospital. She should be with us and I feel like we are more soldiers than ballplayers. I throw in a folding chair. The Pitcher said his knees gave him hell sometimes from standing.

  Then I give him Mom’s hat.

  “That’s your Mom’s, kiddo,” he says, frowning.

  I shrug. “She would want you to wear it.”

  The Pitcher holds the hat, then adjusts the band and snugs it on.

  “How’s it look?”

  The hat rides high and I grin.

  “Good!”

  He gives me a look.

  “Yeah, right.”

  The Pitcher drives like he pitches: fast and furious, dodging in and out between lanes like he is taunting a batter. I like his station wagon with the windows open and the air-conditioning on. I like that it is full of cigarettes, newspapers, baseballs, Skoal cans, Good Times cans, a bat, magazines, fast-food wrappers. The Pitcher passes cars and cusses and yells at people who don’t get out of his way. We reach the high school like it is yesterday.

  We unload in the parking lot. The day is clear and bright like you can see a million miles. We start across the field under a perfect blue sky and I see Eric coming across the infield. He has two bats sticking up on his back like he’s going to get in his Maserati and drive away from pitching his first major league game. The P
itcher goes into the dugout as Eric turns with his sunglasses reflecting the world.

  “Hey, beano! You still playing?”

  I ignore him and take out my batting gloves. He stops in front of me with these absurdly white teeth and his uniform starched and perfect. He gnashes his gum, spitting an eraser-colored wad at my feet.

  “So, you aren’t pitching … are you?”

  “I am,” I say, taking out my mitt.

  Eric snorts and shoves more gum in his mouth.

  “Dude, first of all we are going to wipe the field with you guys,” he says, holding up his hands. “I don’t know how you guys even got in the championship!”

  “Yeah, we’ll see,” I say, pulling on my gloves.

  He laughs and pops a bubble in my face and leans in close.

  “Listen. I told you, your only hope is to catch. Both high school coaches are watching this game, dude, and you don’t want to show them you can’t even get it over the plate, right? I mean you really suck at pitching, beano.”

  I stare at him and for the first time I see his fear.

  “Says the guy who doesn’t have a fastball.”

  A smile quivers on his mouth.

  “Look, dude, I heard your Mom is sick. I don’t think you should be out here playing baseball when your Mom is in the hospital.”

  I feel my heart rise up. I have no idea how Eric would know this.

  “I heard she could die, man, and I sure wouldn’t want my last time spent on a baseball field when—”

  “Shut up!”

  The stupid little smile disappears.

  “Hey, it’s not my fault your mom is so desperate she digs up some loser old pitcher to coach you who I hear is a drunk. Maybe she’s getting what she deserved.”

  I move toward him and Eric drops his bat bag. He holds up his fists and steps back like we are in a ring. I’m seeing blood now.

  “Go ahead, beano. Throw a punch,” he taunts, his blue eyes goading me. I think about it. Just throw a punch and forget about the game. He smiles again.

  “You going to pull out a knife, beano?”

  I stare at him and know this is his play.

  “You aren’t worth it,” I mutter, picking up my bat bag.

  Eric stares at me, then grins and picks up his bag. The bat antennas go back up and he shakes his head. “You just don’t have it, beano. You never did, because you suck at pitching.” He pauses, his eyes growing small. “Just don’t hit me, beano. You hit me and I’m going to have to kick your ass.”

  Then he walks away with his two bats and joins the Tri City Team warming up. I feel like someone has just taken away all my strength.

  Speeches before games are usually pretty corny. Mom would always tell us to try our hardest and have fun out there. On Tri City they had a team prayer led by Gino before each game. This was after the parents signed contracts that said they couldn’t talk to the coach during games. The contract also said that the coach was law and if a player talked back or was late for practice he would be benched for the game. Then they prayed to kill the other team before every game.

  I wonder how the Pitcher will handle the pregame speech. He doesn’t seem like a dude who likes to talk much. Everyone sits on the bench in the dugout and I know they are wondering where Mom is. The Pitcher smokes a couple cigarettes and runs the hitting drills with me catching. He runs them just like Mom with a pop-up and then a grounder and then a run into home. Everybody just goes along, but he has to say something. So we all gather around by the dugout.

  The Pitcher scratches his cheek, then spits in the dust with Mom’s hat on the back of his head.

  “I’m Coach Jack and I’ll be taking Maria’s place for the game,” he says, looking everyone in the eye. “I think you boys should know that your coach is in the hospital.”

  I stare at the ground and feel everyone staring at me.

  “I think you boys know that Coach Maria loves baseball and loves you boys and would be here if there was any possible way.” The Pitcher pauses again and rubs his neck. “So I think we should win this one for her.”

  Everybody nods.

  “Now we are playing Tri City. I know a lot of you have heard they are pretty good. You have to put that out of your head.” The Pitcher hocks a big glob of tobacco. “They are just like you and put their pants on one leg at a time too. So let’s win this one for Coach Maria and …” He pauses and his voice falls, just for a moment. “And … let’s all say a prayer for her.”

  The Pitcher tilts his head down and the team waits. I squeeze my eyes shut and ask God for the hundredth time to spare Mom. That’s how I see it. I know he has to spare her and let her stay with me. I squeeze my eyes hard, trying to throw my thoughts up into space. I figure God has to be up there somewhere.

  39

  HEAT TAKES OVER GAMES LIKE an extra player. Kids get slow, some pass out, some lose it and they just want to sit on the bench. Today, kids are already drinking Gatorade and water and taking ice cubes and putting them inside their hats. Florida has dropped a hundred-degree day on the field and everyone is struggling against the heat rising out of the infield. The umpire looks really hot after the first inning and drinks from a big orange thermos just behind the fence. Only the Pitcher seems unaffected by the heat, smoking and spitting. He leans against the dugout like a picture of an old-time ballplayer.

  The game starts and Coach Gino’s strategy is out in front. Find a team’s Achilles heel, you know, the one thing that will make them fall apart. He starts right away questioning calls and asking for clarifications on rules. He wants to draw in our coach and get him to lose his game. The first few innings start out with us holding Tri City to one run. Their cleanup man blasts one between second and third and brings in another run when our shortstop misses the ball. Artie pitches and Gino watches while our catcher throws down to second.

  “You’re up, you’re up!” he shouts.

  The Tri City runner doesn’t even have to slide.

  “Get off that bag. Let’s go!” Gino shouts.

  The next four innings run back and forth. Then Eric knocks three down with a breaking fastball and a curve. I take out the first batter with three straight fastballs. The second batter I bring down with a couple sinkers and finish him with a fastball. I’m in the zone and that’s why I know Gino will start something.

  “BLUE, THAT WAS A BALK.”

  I had just thrown a beautiful inside pitch that smacked like a starter pistol. Tri City is quiet. A pitch just under eighty miles an hour shuts up just about everybody. The balk thing is all Gino needs. I start into my windup again.

  “BALK, BLUE!”

  The Tri City crowd picks up on the balk chant. Balk! Balk! Balk! I had a one-and-one count and I knew the last pitch was in the zone. I bring my hands together and shift the ball in my glove. Even my mitt is burning hot from the sun.

  “BALK, BLUE!”

  Gino screams so loud it makes me jump.

  “Balk! Take a base,” the umpire shouts.

  That’s when the Pitcher walks on the field and Gino trots out.

  “That ain’t no balk,” the Pitcher declares loudly.

  It’s kind of funny because the Pitcher is really big and Gino is this little skinny Puerto Rican guy. The umpire takes off his mask and stands between them. I see Gino shrugging like he has nothing to do with it. He spreads his arms wide.

  “I saw the balk where I was standing!”

  The Pitcher spits tobacco juice at Gino’s feet.

  “Bull!”

  Now the umpire is staring at the Pitcher.

  “It’s not my fault your Pitcher doesn’t know the rules of the game,” Gino continues, laying it on.

  The Pitcher spits again.

  “That’s what I think of your balk, rockhead.”

  Gino laughs. His white teeth are moving under his Oakleys. He is playing his game, man. You draw them in and then you piss them off—the coach first and then the team. You get teams so mad they don’t know what they’re doing. He’
s all into the psychological play.

  “Oh and you know all about balks?” Gino continues.

  “Yeah, I do, rockhead,” the Pitcher replies. “They tried to change the rule on me and they couldn’t do it in the series.”

  I know about Gino, man. I know he tried for a slot and played Single A ball for a while. I know how much he respected the game. And that’s why I know Gino doesn’t know who he is dealing with. He cracks this big smile and says real loud, “What series was that? The 1902 series?”

  “Seventy-eight, rockhead.”

  Gino stares at him and blinks twice. I mean Gino knows baseball. He knows all the great games and the Series in ’78 had several great games. He knows all about Mariano and Langford and their historic duel. He stares at the big dude with the bump of tobacco in his lip. Even from the mound I can see his mouth hanging open.

  “Oh, right. Seventy-eight. Sure, sure.” He laughs again uneasily and claps his hands. “So you’re Jack Langford and I’m Bob Mariano, right?”

  “You ain’t no Bob Mariano,” the Pitcher says.

  Gino tilts his head as the umpire whips out his phone. He looks at the Pitcher, then his phone. I know he is Googling him right there. He looks up with the phone in his palm.

  “I’ll be damned. Are you Jack Langford?”

  The Pitcher nods.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be damned,” the umpire cries out. “I can’t believe it,” he says, shaking the Pitcher’s hand. “I just can’t fricking believe it! Jack Langford is coaching in my game! I saw that Series! You got a home run off of Bob Mariano and then struck him out!”

  Gino is staring at the Pitcher, then the umpire.

  “How did you ever come to coach a league team?”

  “I’m filling in for a friend.”

  Gino hovers around the ump like a pesky bug.

  “Blue, what about the call?”

  The umpire looks at Gino like he forgot all about the game. He turns back to the Pitcher and you can see he regrets the call. I think he just wanted to ask the Pitcher about the World Series, but Gino is raising a big stink now.