The Pitcher

by William Hazelgrove

  “What do you mean … I can’t try out?”

  The Pitcher breathes smoke into the living room.

  “This Payne woman, that kid’s mother, sent the commissioner something saying your mother is an illegal alien and you shouldn’t be in the school,” he says, looking at me. “So they ain’t going to let you try out.”

  I stare at him, feeling my stomach hollow. Wetback. That’s what the Pitcher just said to me. I saw Mrs. Payne’s glare and it said one thing to me, man: She hates us. She hates us for who we are and will do anything to make sure her son comes first. It all started to make sense—Grandma coming to live with us and why Mom had stared at that link Mrs. Payne had sent us.

  The Pitcher looks at me and frowns.

  “Is your mother here illegally?”

  I feel my face get hot. I think about how she lived in Arizona and then went to Chicago. Joey said a lot of Mexicans came in through Texas and a lot through Arizona. He said his uncle snuck across the border and got a phony Social Security card and started working like twenty years ago.

  “I don’t know,” I say, looking at him.

  The Pitcher smokes for a moment, his eyes dark.

  “Your mother is more of a goddamn American than anybody I know and this is complete bullshit.”

  He flicks his ash into his palm.

  “Eric will be the pitcher after all,” I mutter.

  “Don’t be a goddamn rockhead.”

  I stare at him. “If I can’t try out, then how am I going to pitch?”

  The Pitcher continues staring into space. A horrible thought occurs to me that makes me sick to my stomach. It is so bad I can’t even really think about it. But if I can’t even try out for the team, then everything Mom has worked for will have been in vain. She is in that hospital bed for nothing. I can’t think about that. The thought that the Mrs. Paynes of the world would win is just too much.

  “One thing is for sure,” he says, looking at me. “Your mother is not to know about this until I can fix it somehow.”

  He sat for a moment.

  “It would kill her.”

  47

  I SIT ON THE PORCH that evening and watch Shortstop walk by the slot a few times. Then I see the Pitcher pacing back and forth. He usually just settles in with his Good Times and his Skoal and cigarettes and watches game after game, but tonight he walks from one side of his garage to the other. He sits at the kitchen table a long time after the phone call. Then he turns on the news and watches the Mexicans demonstrating in Arizona.

  He keeps staring, ashing his cigarette.

  As I watch him, I think about his last years. He had stayed with Detroit for another seven years after the Series, but then he started to lose. In 1985 he lost eighteen games. It happens to pitchers. They start to slow and their delivery starts to fade. For some guys it is very sudden. They lose their fastball or they blow out their shoulder. But for the Pitcher it was a long, slow descent where he couldn’t get the outs anymore. Detroit traded him away to the Mets where he stayed for a year and only won eight games and lost thirteen. Then he retired for a couple years and ran a restaurant before coming back as a free agent.

  He signed with the Padres for a year, then retired for good in 1995.

  He never pitched again.

  I usually sack in as long as I can. So I’m not quite sure why I wake so early, then I know and feel really bad. The high school baseball tryouts begin today. I grab a bowl of cereal and go onto the porch and squint against the sun. The Pitcher is in his driveway with his garage up. He’s standing there smoking and staring at his television, his couch, his kitchen with the two boards across the slop sink, and the pictures on the walls. I leave the porch and walk across the street in my T-shirt and shorts. My flip flops clap loudly as I walk up his drive. He has a cigarette in his mouth, wearing some old blue shorts, his loafers, and a faded orange golf shirt.

  The Pitcher turns, his eyes bleeding red and his jaw peppered white.

  “A man living in a garage,” he says. “Pathetic, huh?”

  I stare at the garage that had so much mystery before. Like when Joey and I used to throw stuff under the door. A man who pitched in a World Series lived there. And it did have magic, you know. In a way, I wished I could go back to thinking the Pitcher was in there. It was a little like believing in Santa Claus. It’s like you know, but you don’t want to know. But now, in the morning light, it looks like just a crappy old garage.

  “I still think it’s kind of cool.”

  The Pitcher shakes his head.

  “No. Only a rockhead would live like this.”

  I don’t know what to say. Adults just seem to get stuck in situations they can’t get out of. Like Fernando leaving us and then coming back to steal money or the Pitcher ending up in his garage. Or Mom stuck with a deadbeat ex-husband and no job. I don’t know, maybe everybody gets stuck eventually.

  The Pitcher stares at the garage.

  “The hardest thing about pitching … is when it’s over.”

  He pauses.

  “Then whaddaya do?”

  I blink at him and look past to his La-Z-Boy and his television. Shortstop is sitting patiently, staring at the garage as if waiting for a signal.

  I roll my shoulders and look at him.

  “… a change-up … right?”

  The Pitcher doesn’t move, then turns slowly and stares at me. He drops his cigarette and starts walking.

  “C’mon,” he calls back, heading toward his car.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To those high school tryouts.”

  I frown and don’t move.

  “I thought they said I couldn’t tryout!”

  The Pitcher turns around.

  “Your mother didn’t go through all this shit for nothing.”

  48

  A SPITBALL IS ILLEGAL. IT’S amazing that a little bit of spit can throw a baseball off enough where a batter can’t hit it. The way a spitball works is the spit causes dirt to adhere to the ball and then it’s off balance and does really weird things. Like suddenly ducking the bat or gyrating into a corner. The ball just doesn’t act the way you think it will. And so they outlawed it, but a lot of guys still put grease on the ball from their glove. Anything to make a baseball do the unexpected.

  The reason I bring this up is I’m not sure what’s happening to the Pitcher. Something between Mom getting sick and me not trying out has produced that extra little bit of spit. Something has knocked him off balance and he is doing things nobody could predict. We don’t go straight to the high school. We make a detour to the hospital first.

  I ask the Pitcher if something has happened. I ask him again after we meet the dude in the parking lot with the collar. He doesn’t seem like a minister or a priest though. For one thing, he has long hair and a beard and wears tennis shoes and jeans.

  “Are you … are you a priest?” I ask him from the backseat.

  He smiles easily and laughs.

  “Minister. You can call me Mike,” he answers, shaking my hand.

  “He’s a coach,” the Pitcher adds.

  Mike nods and laughs again.

  “I’m a coach too,” he says. “I coach over at Trenton High School. Jack has been kind enough over the years to do some charity work for us, although I haven’t heard from him for the last few years … so this is a surprise,” he finishes, looking at the Pitcher.

  “Don’t worry. Everything is fine,” he mutters. “He’s here just in case.”

  “Just in case of what?” I ask, very alarmed.

  The Pitcher squints.

  “I throw a change-up.”

  Then we are in the hospital and it is a lot brighter during the day and it doesn’t seem like everyone there is going to die. Something about hospitals at night just creeps me out. We walk down the hallway quickly and I don’t even know if it is visiting hours. The Pitcher just bulls into Mom’s room and she looks up from her breakfast.

  There is color in Mom’s face and it seems
like she has less tubes. Her hair is pulled back and I see some makeup. Mom looks at the young minister, then at the Pitcher, then me, and then her face turns straight white.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Hello, Ms. Hernandez,” Rev. Mike says, clasping her hand.

  I mean Mom looks freaked. Wouldn’t you if a minister walked in your hospital room? Mom is staring at Rev. Mike like what the hell? The Pitcher is standing back and then Rev. Mike puts his hand on my arm like something is about to happen.

  “What is going on?” Mom demands, turning to the Pitcher.

  He walks forward just like he’s going to the mound and Rev. Mike squeezes my arm. Mom stares at the Pitcher like he might throw up on her. I mean, here is this big guy in his goofy shorts and his old loafers and looks like he hasn’t slept all night.

  Mom presses back against the bed.

  “What are you—?”

  And then the Pitcher goes down on his knee by her bed. I got to tell you, man, this shocks the hell out of me. This pretty Hispanic nurse steps back and everyone is staring. The room gets weirdly quiet as Mom shakes her head. But you don’t tell a Pitcher anything when he’s on the mound, man.

  “Don’t you—”

  “Maria,” the Pitcher says in a clear voice.

  Mom is shaking her head like crazy. She leans forward and motions to him, whispering intensely. He has both his hands up on her bed like he’s praying.

  “Get off your knees!”

  The Pitcher reaches out and takes her hand, the one with only two tubes in it. This big, worn leathery guy is holding this Mexican mother’s hand in a hospital bed. The Pitcher speaks in a low voice I have never heard before. I can feel my heart bumping away so I know Mom must be nervous.

  The Pitcher faces her and says:

  “I love you, Maria Hernandez … and I love your son, Ricky.”

  Mom’s eyes fill and the nurse starts crying. Rev. Mike is smiling. The Pitcher brings up his other hand and leans forward. It’s like I can’t believe what I’m seeing. He tilts his head back and speaks in this calm voice.

  “Will you marry me, Maria Hernandez? Will you marry me and make me the happiest man in the world?”

  It’s all so corny, but pretty cool too. I have seen this a hundred times in movies, but the real thing is a lot different. Mom is staring at the Pitcher with tears rolling down her face. She leans forward and shakes her head, asking him just above a whisper, “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Because, I love you, Maria,” he answers, and I know then why he was a great Pitcher—he doesn’t choke. “Because you put your son’s dream in front of yourself. Because you have the soul of an angel. Because I could only hope to be half as good a man as you are a woman.”

  And the nurse just starts bawling! Which I guess is like a movie and even Mike the reverend dude has tears in his eyes. Nobody speaks, because everyone is crying now, except the Pitcher. And in a way I’m shocked, but actions speak louder than words, as Mom always says. The Pitcher kicked Fernando’s ass, paid Mom’s doctor bills, and he coached me. I don’t know much about marriage, but that seems like some good reasons to me.

  So I’m like saying under my breath, Say yes, say yes, say yes!

  The Pitcher leans forward on the bed, still holding her hands.

  “Marry me, Maria,” he says again. “I ain’t a perfect man. You know that, but I will try and be a better man to you and your son.”

  Mom wipes her eyes again with mascara inking her cheeks. She stares at him. I see the trapped birds starting to fly and her chin starts bobbing. She is mad in her hospital bed and this makes me feel better. More like the old Mom.

  “You think I need this? You think you have to save me?”

  The Pitcher keeps his eyes on her.

  “No, I don’t. I know you don’t. But I want to be with you,” he says quietly. “I want to be with your son.”

  And Mom is staring at him, but the Pitcher doesn’t move. He just stays in there like a batter not giving an inch. And then those birds in her eyes slow down and her chin stops. She breathes heavily. They are like that for a long moment. Mom looks up at him, then puts one hand on top of his, and touches his cheek.

  She smiles.

  “OK.”

  Now that is like a movie!

  The nurse claps and Rev. Mike claps and I clap as Mom and the Pitcher kiss! And Mom, she starts crying all over again. Rev. Mike steps forward and the Pitcher stands up. I hug Mom and she’s crying all over my neck and I get tangled up in her tubes, but I don’t care, because she’s happy, man. The nurses are fluttering around and the Pitcher and I hug. And Rev. Mike hugs everyone. Even the nurse is hugging and another nurse comes in, because I guess we need two witnesses for the ceremony!

  After they say their “I do’s” and kiss again, Mom wipes her eyes and frowns suddenly.

  “Hey! Jack Langford!”

  The Pitcher turns, this great big smile on his face.

  “Yeah?”

  Mom squints, her chin jutting out, eyes snapping.

  “You didn’t marry the illegal alien to get Ricky to the tryouts?”

  The Pitcher and I look at each other as Mom holds up her iPhone.

  “I got the e-mail yesterday from that crazy bitch.”

  The Pitcher shakes his head slowly and I look at him. I mean, that’s not a bad play you know, but I don’t think he rolls that way. It’s like when I asked him in his garage the night before if he ever got lonely. I think the answer to Mom’s question is in the silence, man. Because he never answered my question, he just stared at the game. But I knew then why he always had that television on.

  “No,” he answers, meeting her eyes. “I just don’t want to live in a goddamn garage anymore.”

  Then he pauses and frowns, his face darkening.

  “You didn’t just say yes because you wanted your son to try out for the high school team?”

  Mom leans back against her pillow.

  “Hell yes!”

  49

  THE QUESTION IS, DID BABE Ruth call his home run against the Cubs? You either believe Babe Ruth called that home run or you believe he was gesturing. Check it out on YouTube. You see the Babe in the World Series, game three, standing there in Wrigley. New York is up by two games. They are tied with the Cubs four-to-four in the fourth. The Babe comes to bat and gets a couple strikes and let’s a couple go by a two-two count. And then he just does it. He points to the centerfield bleachers and nails it.

  Then he does that Babe Ruth jog around Wrigley Field.

  So it comes down to what you believe about baseball, right? I think the Babe knew that somehow things would work out. If you think about all that’s against you, then nobody will ever do anything. You just bet your dream will come true against all the odds. That’s why I know the Babe saw that home run before he hit it. He saw it the way I saw myself pitching on the mound for the high school team. And that is where I am the day the scouts from college stop in the stands next to Mom and the Pitcher.

  “He looks like a young Jack Langford,” the one scout says with a cigar in his mouth.

  The Pitcher shakes his head and spits in the dust.

  “Nah. He’s a lot better than that, rockhead.”

  And the scout stares at him and Mom says she isn’t sure if she recognizes the Pitcher. He looks younger, if you can believe that. I think being married to Mom has taken years off of him. Mom drives him to the meetings where dudes stand up and say their name. The Pitcher has to say his name and admit he is an alcoholic. Mom says a couple guys didn’t believe he is Jack Langford and he had to show them his driver’s license.

  The Pitcher set up the garage with a television and his La-Z-Boy chair after he sold his house. Shortstop now sleeps on our driveway. The Pitcher goes out there to watch his games and smoke, because Mom is not down with smoking since she quit. He even does some coaching with the high school and he occasionally uses a bucket of rocks. All the kids hate it of course. I have helped him a coup
le times and I had to show a kid more than once you can hit that knothole.

  Sometimes.

  The good news is Mom doesn’t have to work again. The Pitcher put all his money in Coca Cola stock way back. I guess he’s loaded. Mom never said that, but they went to Hawaii for a honeymoon. I went along. Pretty cool, bro. Palm trees and coconuts. I could dig living there. Mom only has one kidney now and has to keep her weight up. She has gained weight, because they do all those things married couples do ... like eating all the time.

  Fernando split back to Chicago and I get Christmas cards from him and some woman who I guess he married. Feliz Navidad from Fernando and Juanita they always say. Hey, whatever. And me, I’m still pitching, man. I won’t tell you where, but the Pitcher still coaches me and says I’m better than a lot of the rockheads they have pitching today.

  The way I look at it is this: A long time ago I threw a ball under a garage where a retired World Series pitcher lived. And what came out of it was a change-up. In his twenty-five-year career as an MLB Pitcher, Jack Langford used a sinker, a fastball, a curve, and a slider. The truth is he never needed a change-up … until he met my mom.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to Leticia Gomez, my agent, for persisting against all odds. Also to Joe Coccaro at Koehler Books for reading The Pitcher and seeing the vision, and for the very difficult task of editing. And thanks to John Koehler for publishing The Pitcher and bringing it to the world. And a special thanks to my son Clay for letting me hang around baseball fields and learn all about pitchers.