The Pitcher

by William Hazelgrove

“I can’t do it. I can’t pitch.”

  I hear the Pitcher spit again.

  “Look at me, son.”

  I look up and his eyes have changed. They are softer ... softer than I have ever seen.

  “It’s your mom’s dream … for you to play on the high school team. It’s her wish for you to have your dream. So you and I gotta make sure that happens.” He pauses again, his eyes blood red, his face leathered from time. “You got more guts than any kid I ever knew. More goddamn guts than I ever did, and I want you to know something: Your Mom loves you and always will.”

  And then, his eyes get kind of wet. Like water on old parchment or something. He wipes his eyes and pulls this dusty paper out of his pocket.

  “Look, your mom told me to give it to you if you got in trouble,” he mutters, handing me the paper. “I figure you need it now.”

  I open the paper slowly and there’s Mom’s perfect handwriting with the little swirls and curlicues. I have seen these notes a thousand times. She put one in my lunch every day telling me to always believe in myself. I smell the paper and catch her perfume. Then I begin to read.

  Ricky,

  I know you are having trouble. Just remember that you can do anything you want if you put your mind to it. Don’t worry about me. I will always be there for you. I will always be with you. Just take your breath and listen to what Mr. Langford tells you. Remember I will always love you and that will never change. You are becoming a fine young man and a great baseball player. I couldn’t be prouder of you. Now take your breath, find your quiet space, and use the gift God gave you.

  I love you.

  Love you forever,

  Mom

  P.S. Take your breath!

  The tears rush my eyes again because Mom is telling me: Just do it again, Ricky. You can do this. And I just keep swinging and swinging and she is buying me a mitt and a ball and a bat and we are selling candy at the Jewel for the team and she’s there every time in the dugout when I come off the field. We are working on my homework again and she’s sending me to school with my backpack and telling me to have a great day.

  And then I just see it. I know why I have to finish.

  Mom has always been there for me and I have to be here for her now.

  “We’re out of time, bud,” the Pitcher says.

  I look up and see the umpire waiting and Eric glaring with the bat on his shoulder. I see Mrs. Payne behind the backstop staring at me. I put the note inside my jersey and nod.

  “Yeah … I’m ready.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Remember what you did that first day? Remember you asked me to pitch your way? Well do it now. Pitch your way. What I have taught you is part of you now. Don’t worry about it. Reach down inside yourself and pitch the way you know how.”

  He pauses.

  “Use your gift.”

  I look down and breathe deeply.

  “OK,” I say. “Let’s play ball.”

  43

  YOU HAVE TO WONDER WHAT the Pitcher is thinking in that final game of the Series. The series is tied and they are in game seven with Detroit up by one. It’s a full count and the Cardinals have a man on third. Two outs. The game is in the Pitcher’s hands and he knows it. He knows in that smoke-filled stadium he’s on top of the mountain. He has to deliver the pitch that will make him a hero or a bum for the rest of his life. As he said that first day, the whole world is a full count against you.

  And then he winds up and comes in with a sinker. The batter swings and the ball pops straight up and his catcher flings his mask as I reach out and grab the ball thirty-three years later. You can’t blame me for grabbing it. Everybody wants to grab the ball at some time in their life, right? Like the Fan.

  You just go for it.

  I’m standing in the middle of Wildcat Stadium, gripping the ball and looking down the batter just like the Pitcher. And I know this will define me. Nothing that comes before or after will matter more than this moment. I’m staring at Eric and thinking about Jack Langford’s first pitch. He called it his get-the-hell-back pitch. He always threw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball by the batter’s chin. He said it let the batter know who was boss and gave him room to pinch the corners.

  When he went against Bob Mariano he gave him two curves and figured Mariano would expect a fastball on a two-and-one count. So he threw another curve and got him to swing for a two-two count. He then threw another curve and let it go to a full count. He then went with the slider. “Break it down at the last minute while he tastes the home run.” That’s how he put it. “So I threw it in there under him. He had to swing … that’s how mad he was about that home run I got off of him. That’s how much I got in his head.”

  And now Eric is moving his bat like he’s going to kill the ball. The Tri City and Marauder teams are in the front of their dugouts. Parents shout from both sides. A slight haze rolls under the lights in the early darkness.

  Eric and I stare down the seventy feet separating us. I find my spot. I find it in his toothy grin and his eyes that taunt me like blue lasers. I hear his mother yell.

  “HE’S NOTHING, ERIC. YOU GOT HIM!”

  I hear Eric:

  “Don’t hit me, beano. I will kick your ass if you do!”

  I breathe in my glove and see something flicker through his eyes. I close my eyes, then deliver my get-the-hell-back pitch. Eric dives for the ground. And then he jumps up and charges the mound. Just like I knew he would. I duck his first swing and Gino has him before he takes a second. He shouts as the umpire comes between us.

  “YOU DID IT ON PURPOSE! YOU DID IT ON PURPOSE!”

  I brush myself off while Gino walks him back. Eric shakes off Gino and swears as he grabs his bat from the ground. He swings outside the batter’s box like a wild man, then points the bat at me and mouths, You’re dead, beano.

  I look over at the Pitcher. He just nods.

  Full count.

  I can’t hear myself think, because everyone is going crazy. Eric is glaring as I take the ball from Ronnie. He’s swinging his bat like an executioner and daring me to put anything in the zone. His face is red. He steps in with his bat moving like an angry creature. I set myself and breathe deeply and close my eyes. I can hear the crowd, feel the breeze, smell the infield dirt. I know who this pitch is for, first and last. I see Mom in her bed, breathing lightly, waiting for me to finish.

  Go ahead. It’s your moment to shine, Ricky.

  I position the ball in the back of my hand, then bring my hands to my set. I adjust my grip and tuck in my arm.

  Breathe, Ricky.

  I breathe again. There is only silence. Eric is gritting his teeth, moving his bat. The wind blows sand around us. The umpire is waiting. I stand on the mound completely alone. I close my eyes and kick up my leg, then explode forward and lasso my arm down and scrape the blackboard with my fingers.

  Eric sees what he wants to see. He sees that fastball coming in straight and level and expects it to get to him. He expects the only pitch I ever had and gets out in front of it. He swings hard, he swings mad, he swings at that fifty-mile-an-hour pitch like it’s going seventy-five. And I watch his shoulders bring the bat around as the umpire jams his fist out to the side.

  “Steeeerike!

  And then Eric just stares at me. He stares at me in that terrific silence that is baseball. He stares like I just cheated him out of his life. Then like someone turning up a stereo all the way, the stadium goes crazy. We just beat Tri City. We just beat the championship team. And now I’m running and I know where I’m going. I knew it when I saw that picture in the Pitcher’s garage, because Ronnie, our catcher, has thrown his mask and is running toward me.

  We meet halfway out from the plate and I jump up and he catches me. We both scream to the heavens. And someone snaps a picture.

  44

  HOSPITALS CREEP ME OUT, LIKE I said. This one is new and looks like some kind of space station with a helicopter port and this circular dome that patients walk
around in. The Pitcher pulls up near the emergency room and we walk in quickly. I feel like Mom might die any minute. Now I’m walking down a white hallway clutching the game ball with my cleats clicking on the floor. People stare at the Mexican kid in the dirty baseball uniform and the big guy with the too small hat, the craggy face, faded sweats, and ancient cleats.

  We walk right past the nurse’s station into Mom’s room and a different world. She is under all these tubes and wires and monitors with the jumping green spike. I stand in my cleats and uniform, not able to move. We are too late. She is as white as her sheets and not moving as the electronics beep and hum and whir. I breathe in the rubbing alcohol Mom uses when I get splinters. I start to cry when she opens her eyes.

  “Ricky,” she murmurs.

  I come by her bed and Mom holds up her hands. I hug her thin body with the tubes going over her shoulders. I don’t want to hug too hard because she feels like a doll that might break. I can smell the faint lemony perfume that’s her. Her skin has faded to a light brown as if someone had pulled away the color. I can’t keep my eyes from fuzzing up, but I try. Ain’t no time to fall apart, you know.

  “We won, Mom!” I say, holding up the game ball. “I brought you the ball. All the guys signed it. I got a home run and then I pitched and threw a change-up and won the game for us!”

  I’m rushing. I’m rushing because I feel like she might leave. I have been rushing ever since the Pitcher drove like a maniac through Jacksonville. Mom holds the grass-stained ball, inky from all the signatures. A slight glow rises to her cheeks and I stare down at the white sheets, because I’m having trouble keeping it together.

  “A change-up,” she says softly. “I always knew that’s all you needed.”

  “Yeah, it worked beautifully,” I say, wiping my eyes quickly.

  Mom smiles with tears on her eyelashes.

  “You did it, Ricky,” she murmurs again, looking at me. “You will be on the high school team now. Those high school coaches saw you play and win the game.”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding, but I feel no joy.

  All I want now is for Mom to leave and we will go to McDonald’s and talk about the game. Then we will go home and she will tell me to get my bat bag out of the car and yell about wearing cleats in the house. Then we will buy a new mitt or go online and look at bats. Maybe we will go to the batting cages or talk about the high school team and the coaches and the players and laugh around the kitchen table. I just want her to leave this person sitting under all these tubes and wires.

  Mom smiles again, a faint fire in her eyes.

  “I told you, Ricky … you could be whoever you wanted and do whatever you want.” She closes her eyes. “And you did it … you learned how to pitch and became … the pitcher.”

  I lean down and put my head on her pillow. I can’t help it.

  Mom pats my head like she has a thousand times before.

  “I love you, Ricky,” she whispers.

  I go downstairs to get something to drink and when I come back, Grandma is there. The Pitcher is next to the bed and holds Mom’s hand. He’s really big in the room. He has his hat off and his hair is puffed up. He looks caged to me. His big hands cover Mom’s and his weathered cheeks are like a rough sculpture against the smooth white room.

  Mom wakes up and he leans close.

  “How are you, tough lady?” he asks gently.

  “Not so tough anymore,” she murmurs, keeping her eyes half-closed.

  I look at the flowers by her bed. Mom speaks in Spanish and Grandma nods.

  “Hi, Grandma,” I say.

  Mom lets the Pitcher’s hand go and I can tell even that tires her out. She had waited too long. That’s what the doctor said. She had waited too long. And again I asked, too long for what? I knew, but I didn’t want to know, if that makes any sense. My feeling was that if she could get away from these tubes and from this hospital, then she would be fine. I knew it wasn’t true, but that’s what I thought.

  “You did it, Maria,” the Pitcher tells her. “Everyone saw Ricky pitch and win the game. The coaches were in the booth. The freshman coach congratulated him personally,” he continues like an announcer.

  Mom wipes her eyes and smiles again. I know the Pitcher’s play is to let Mom know everything is going to be fine. I am down with that. Let her know her work is over. We are a team on this. The Pitcher said in the parking lot the best thing we could do is let Mom know everything is fine. That way she can concentrate on getting well.

  “It was a beautiful change-up,” the Pitcher continues, shaking his head. “He struck out that Eric kid like a pro.”

  “I figured Eric would never expect that,” I add quickly, nodding.

  Mom stares at the Pitcher and frowns.

  “You taught him a change-up? I thought you didn’t believe in them.”

  “I don’t,” he replies, rolling his shoulders. “But for some people … a change-up is right.”

  Mom tries to sit up and then she grimaces.

  “Are you alright, Mom?”

  “I’m fine,” she answers faintly as Dr. Aziz comes back in.

  Her doctor says she has to do an examination. She sees the game ball and glares as if that was the reason Mom got sick. You could blame it on baseball. I wanted to, but then you wouldn’t understand Mom. Baseball and Mom have become all mixed up somewhere.

  She holds her hand out again to the Pitcher. Her eyes glass up.

  “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

  I watch the Pitcher try to speak, amazed as his lower lip trembles. He keeps his eyes down and doesn’t move. I have never seen such a big man cry before. I mean, you just don’t think really big dudes ever cry. But they do, man. They do.

  45

  I STAY IN THE GARAGE with the Pitcher that night. Grandma stays at the hospital. He flips on a game—Cardinals and Mets. He gives me a Coke and cracks a beer and pulls up another armchair. Shortstop sleeps on his back with the night crickets outside and it seems like the world of hospitals is a million miles away. I slump down in my uniform while the Pitcher smokes cigarettes and drinks his beer.

  “Hey.”

  “Yeah.”

  I turn to him and squint.

  “How come you never had kids?”

  The Pitcher taps his cigarette in a beer can.

  “Maybe I was too wrapped up with my career.” He tilts his head, the television flickering over his face. “Betty wanted them, but I told her I was too much of a kid. She would have been a great mother.”

  I stare at the game for a moment.

  “What was she like?”

  “Great,” he pauses. “She was great.”

  “She sounds great.”

  He put his cigarette in his beer.

  “I was a rockhead. We should have had kids. I shouldn’t have always put baseball over everything.”

  “Maybe that’s what she loved about you,” I say sleepily.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Is that why you drink?”

  “I drink because of a lot of things.” He leans back and shuts his eyes halfway. “I moved into this lousy garage because every time I turned around she was there. This was the only place where things were still good.”

  I stare at the old pictures on the wall.

  “Like when you pitched?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Like when I pitched.”

  46

  DR. AZIZ SAID THE NEXT week would be critical. The Pitcher stays in his garage and helps out where he can. None of us knows what to do, because all we can do is wait. We see Mom and then we realize this uses up her strength. Joey and I go back to throwing in the street and messing around. It is hot and I can’t concentrate on anything. Throwing a ball just isn’t the same. The Pitcher sits in his garage and watches television.

  A lot of times I sit with him and we watch baseball. Four days after our big game he is making dinner for us. His dinners are the same: burgers, hotdogs, burgers, Italian beef, burgers, steak. We have
meat and meat and meat.

  The phone rings and he picks up.

  “Hello,” he says, and then after a pause adds, “No, I’m a personal family friend.”

  I look up from the Cubs versus the Sox. The Pitcher holds the phone to his ear and has this strange look on his face. I feel my heart and freeze right there on the couch. I have seen this moment a hundred times already. Grandma looks up from her knitting and turns white. The Pitcher has the worst expression I have ever seen on anybody.

  He hangs up and stares at the phone. Finally he walks into the living room and looks at me.

  “I don’t see how they can do that,” he says slowly.

  I stare at him, feeling my eyes fill with hot tears. She’s gone. The world has just left down a long dark tunnel and I want to go after Mom. I can’t stay in the world with her gone. The Pitcher shakes his head slowly

  “What!” I cry out, staggering up from the couch. “Just say it, man!”

  He frowns.

  “How did you know?”

  “I can tell,” I wailed with the tears blinding me.

  It’s what I suspected all along. She had gone under from all those tubes and wires in that funky space station hospital. How could anyone live in a place like that? It’s where people go to die.

  “How did it happen,” I sniffle, wiping my eyes

  The Pitcher shakes his head.

  “I’m not sure. I just don’t see how they can keep you from trying out.”

  I stop crying and stare at him.

  “You mean … you mean that wasn’t the hospital?”

  The Pitcher lights a cigarette.

  “Nah. That was the coach for the high school team.”

  “You mean ...” I breathe again. “You mean Mom is alright then?”

  He raises his eyebrows, staring at me like I have lost my mind.

  “Last I heard.” He shrugs. “I talked to her about an hour ago. She wasn’t doing great, but she’s hanging in there.”

  Hanging in there. What beautiful words, man. Grandma claps and I dance like a fool. Mom is still alive. I sit on the couch and stare at the Pitcher. I feel myself come back to earth and then things get real heavy.