Twelfth Angel

by Og Mandino

  IX

  I hadn’t felt so nervous since that memorable day, not very long ago, when I had stood to address the board of directors of Millennium Unlimited for the first time.

  All the pregame activities had been completed and the opening-day ceremonies were now drawing to a close as everyone in Boland Little League Park rose to the strains of our national anthem from the loudspeaker system affixed to the top of the tall wire backstop.

  It had been almost thirty years since I had played my last Little League game, but the routine prior to the game had not changed even a little in all that time. The first-, second-, and third-base canvas bags had already been anchored down at their proper spots on the diamond by the time Bill and I arrived at the park and unloaded our equipment. Since we were the designated home team for this opening game, our dugout was the one behind third base.

  Bill broke out our ball bag, and our lads started throwing on the sidelines. Sid Marx, the Yankee manager, waved in our direction and then came across the diamond, shook hands, and we wished each other good luck. Each team took infield practice, Yankees first. When it was our turn, I hit three easy grounders to Paul Taylor at third, Ben Rogers at shortstop, Tony Zullo at second and Justin Nurnberg at first. Although they were all obviously tense, our infield handled all my batted balls flawlessly. Behind our dugout Todd Stevenson had already started his warm-up throws to Tank, while behind the Yankee dugout a very smooth left-hander named Glenn Gerston, who had impressed me at the league tryouts almost as much as Todd, was throwing hard. This opening game was probably going to be a low-scoring pitchers’ battle.

  Two umpires finally made their entrance through the opening in the fence that separated the field from the parking lot. Both were wearing light-blue shirts, open at the neck, dark-blue pants and baseball caps. One was carrying a chest protector and mask. When they arrived at home plate, they beckoned to Sid and me to join them, and after more hand shaking all around the umpire with the chest protector said that there was only one special ground rule for our field. Any batted ball that landed in the outfield in fair territory and then bounced over the five-foot-high wooden fence that bordered the outfield, whether on the first bounce or the tenth, would be considered a double.

  George McCord, a popular Boston morning-radio personality on WBZ and WBZA Radio for more than thirty years, before retiring to Boland, had been the League’s public-address announcer for several years, the “best nonpaying gig I ever had,” he kept telling everyone. I had heard nothing but praise for the old boy’s ability to make every name in the lineup sound as if Ted Williams were coming to bat in the last half of the ninth with two out and the score tied.

  After our meeting with the umpires, George’s husky voice was heard, from his position at a bench and heavy oak table behind the home plate wire backstop, introducing Stewart Rand, who dramatically announced that the forty-fourth season of Boland Little League was about to commence. He instructed the Angel players, coach and manager to form a single file along the third-base foul line, from home plate, and the Yankees to do the same along the first-base line. Then he asked our Todd Stevenson if he would please walk out to the pitcher’s mound and lead both teams in the Little League Pledge.

  Todd turned to me in surprise, but when I patted him on the shoulder, he trotted out to mid-field, removed his cap with his left hand and placed his right hand over his heart. His voice quivered slightly as he began, but soon he was almost completely drowned out by twenty-three other eager and youthful voices.

  “I trust in God. I love my country and will respect its laws. I will play fair and strive to win, but win or lose, I will always do my best.”

  All our players immediately turned, as they had been instructed to do, and ran back to the dugout as soon as the pledge had been completed. When they were all seated, I sat on the top dugout step facing them and said, “Well, guys, we’ve been working hard for several weeks to get to today. Just keep your mind on the game and keep doing the things you’ve been doing in practice and I know you will do well. We’ve got a good team. Now, let’s go out there and start proving to everyone that we’re the best team in the league!”

  “We’ll never give up!” little Timothy suddenly blurted out.

  “Yeah,” responded Todd. “We’ll never give up!”

  “Never give up, never give up, never give up!” the entire team was shouting when the plate umpire nodded toward us and pointed to the field.

  “Okay, men,” Bill barked, “let’s go get them!”

  As soon as the Angels had all taken their positions, accompanied by applause, cheers and whistles from the stands, the national anthem commenced, and every player on both teams faced the flagpole in deep center field, standing at attention with his cap clutched tightly to his chest until the music stopped.

  Todd threw eight or nine final warm-up pitches to Tank before the home-plate umpire stepped in front of the plate and turned his back toward Todd as he leaned down to brush off the plate. Then he returned to his position behind Tank, put on his mask, adjusted his chest protector and yelled, “Play ball!”

  I had decided to say nothing to Todd before he went out to the mound. No motivational pep talk. He had thrown well in warm-up and he looked to me as if he had things under control. Anything I said to him might do more harm than good if it affected his concentration. I went down into the dugout and sat next to Bill and our three nonstarters, Chris Lang, Dick Andros and Timothy.

  “Bill,” I said, “I just can’t believe the size of this crowd. It’s only five o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, but this place is almost packed solid. Close to a thousand fans for a Little League game in a town of only five thousand or so people? Seems impossible.”

  “Not here in Boland, John. If you checked the stands, you’d find a lot of parents who care but also a large number of retired people who don’t want to or can’t afford to move to warmer climates. These games have become an important part of their lives. They will all select a favorite team as the season begins and cheer for that team all season. Gives a lot of them something to do, a place to visit and maybe a reason to wake up and get out of bed in the morning, something a lot of them need very much.”

  A reason to want to wake up and get out of bed in the morning? One never misses it until that desire isn’t there anymore. Oh, how I knew! I turned toward Bill, but he was staring out toward home plate, and his face showed no emotion. I patted him on the knee and said nothing.

  Timothy Noble had moved to the top dugout step. His shrill voice suddenly resounded above the crowd noise, “Come on, guys, you can do it! Never give up, never give up …!”

  Todd had a little trouble with the fresh sand around the pitching rubber and he walked the Yankee lead-off batter before settling down and retiring the next three batters in order on two grounders and a strikeout. As our team came in from the field, I called to Chris Lang, sitting on the bench, and asked if he would mind being our first-base coach. Without saying a word he jumped up and trotted across the diamond toward first. I would give the batters and base runners all the signals from my third-base coaching position, signals as to whether they should bunt, take the next pitch and also whether or not they should attempt a steal if they were on base. Bill West had agreed to monitor things from the dugout as well as keep our scorebook to be certain that every boy played the allotted number of innings.

  Tony Zullo walked to lead off our half of the inning, and I decided to test the Yankee catcher’s throwing arm immediately. The league rules declare that base runners shall not leave their bases until the ball has been delivered and has reached the batter, and when the first pitch to our second batter, Justin Nurnberg, was called a strike, I immediately touched my left elbow with my right hand, signaling that Tony was to break for second base as soon as the next pitch crossed the plate. Standing at the plate, Justin also picked up my sign and swung well above the next pitch in order to distract the catcher as Tony broke for second. Zap! The ball was waiting for him when he hook-slid int
o the bag, and we knew in a hurry that the Yankees had an excellent catcher as well as a smooth pitcher. Then, as so often happens when a runner is thrown out stealing, Justin stroked a clean single to right field, but Paul Taylor, batting third, struck out on three pitches, bringing up Todd. The big guy hit the first pitch high to left field, and the scrambling young man out there, with more luck than skill it seemed, made a sensational catch over his right shoulder just before he ran into the outfield fence. Fortunately he was only shaken up, but he did hang on to the baseball and the crowd gave him a well-deserved standing ovation as he ran across the field into the Yankee dugout.

  Both teams were scoreless in the second inning, although Bob Murphy stroked a beautiful double down the right field foul line before Jeff Gaston popped up to end our threat.

  “Never give up, never give up!” Timothy Noble had become our self-appointed cheerleader. Stationing himself at the far end of the dugout, he repeated his favorite words again and again as he jumped up and down, both fists clenched tightly, while his teammates urged him on, often asking for more as they joined in: “Never give up, never give up!”

  Both teams were scoreless after the third inning, and as our guys were preparing to take the field to start the fourth inning, I substituted with my other three Angels, as we had planned. Chris Lang took over for Tony Zullo at second base, Dick Andros for Bob Murphy in left field and Timothy Noble for Jeff Gaston in right. Our subs would play the fourth and fifth innings. That way we would have all our regulars back in the lineup for the final inning.

  Todd seemed to be getting stronger with every inning. He struck out all three Yankees who faced him in the fourth inning, and the Yankee ace, Gerston, almost matched him pitch for pitch, striking out two of our guys and allowing the third to hit a short pop fly to first base. Four innings of our six-inning game were now in the books. Still no blood. More and more it was beginning to look like one of those contests that is often decided by a single break.

  The first Yankee batter in the fifth hit a hard drive to third that Paul Taylor did a great job of knocking down, but before he could pick up the ball and throw it to first, the batter had crossed the bag safely. The next batter struck out on three pitches, but the boy who followed hit a hard smash to deep shortstop. Ben Rogers dove for the ball, speared it in his mitt, leaped to his feet and fired the ball to Justin at first. Sensational! The batter was out by inches, but the runner who had been on first slid safely into second without a challenge. Now the Yankees had a man in scoring position, with two out, and their pitcher, Gerston, who batted as he threw, left-handed, was coming to the plate.

  Bill leaned toward me and said softly, “If you know any prayers, John, now is the time to say them. I remember from last year that this kid pulls every ball he hits down the right-field line and he hits them hard!”

  I immediately jumped up, called “time” and walked toward the third-base foul line, waving Timothy farther back toward the fence and closer to the line in right field. Finally I held up both hands, palms facing outward, and he stopped moving. Bill nodded as I climbed back down into the dugout.

  Todd’s first pitch to his mound opponent was a sizzling fast ball. Gerston wasn’t waiting. He swung and smashed a high fly ball to deep right field.

  “Oh, God,” I heard Bill saying.

  Timothy ran back several steps, staring up at the evening sky. Finally he turned and raised both his hands high above his head as the ball reached the top of its long arc and started its fall.

  “He’s right under it,” yelled Bill as we both rose to our feet. “Come on, kid, grab that apple!”

  The ball’s descent was agonizingly slow. Timothy hesitated and then took another step backward, his glove held high, but the ball seemed to bounce off the tip of the glove’s frayed fingers and landed on the grass behind him, rolling all the way to the fence. By the time Tim had retrieved the ball, one run had scored and Gerston was standing on third base, waving both hands high in the air while the crowd continued their applause. Todd struck out the next batter, but the Yankees now had a one-run lead.

  As Timothy came down the dugout steps, I could see that his face was streaked with tears. I started to speak, but he just looked up at me, shook his head and hurried to the far end of the dugout. None of his teammates spoke to him or went near him, although there were a few angry glances. Sometimes kids can be so damn cruel. Bill rose and faced the bench after they had all taken their seats. He waved his scorebook and said, “Okay, men, our first three batters are Lang, Andros and Noble. We’ve got six more outs and we’re only down by one. This is anybody’s ball game, so let’s get them!”

  Chris Lang hit a feeble pop fly to the pitcher, Dick Andros went down swinging and then Timothy Noble approached the plate. His teammates, who had been shouting words of encouragement to both Chris and Dick, were suddenly silent. Standing in the batters’ box, Timothy tugged at his pants, which seemed at least a size too large for his tiny frame. He dug in with his sneakers, assumed a slight crouch and waited. Gerston’s first pitch was an inside fastball that almost hit Timothy, but he never backed away. He lunged at the next two curves and then stepped out of the batter’s box, taking a deep breath and rubbing his hands in the dirt. Then he took another deep breath and stepped to the plate, his bat cocked as we had practiced. Gerston took a long and deliberate windup before he reared back and fired his fastball. Timothy’s swing was smooth, but the ball made a loud sound as it plunked into the catcher’s mitt. He walked slowly back to the dugout, placed his bat carefully along the row of bats and returned to the far corner of the dugout, biting his lip.

  The Yankees were retired in order again, in the sixth and final inning, but the Angels couldn’t do much better. Tony Zullo did hit a line-drive single directly over second base, but Justin and Paul popped up to the infield, and Todd’s long fly ball was the game’s final out.

  Todd had pitched a masterpiece, allowing one scratch hit, and yet he had only a loss to show for his magnificent effort.

  “Okay, guys,” Bill yelled as our team gathered in front of the dugout. “Let’s get in a single file and congratulate the Yankees for a good game. Then will you all please come back here and have seats in the dugout for a couple of minutes. I know your folks are waiting, so we won’t be very long.”

  Following the compulsory shaking of hands and “nice game” exchange from players of both sides, the Angels retreated to our dugout. I had never seen them more quiet or subdued as I stood to remind them that there was another game on Thursday and we would do a lot better. However, before I said anything, Todd jumped up, zipped his warm-up jacket, turned and walked down the dugout to where Timothy was sitting, his head in his hands. The dugout was suddenly very still. Todd leaned forward, placing his hands on his tiny teammate’s shoulders and said loudly, “Hey, buddy, don’t blame yourself. Even big-league superstars make errors. This just wasn’t our day, okay? That doesn’t mean we gave up. We never give up. Right? Never! You too! Okay?”

  Timothy looked up at Todd, his eyes filled with tears. He nodded his head and replied softly, “Okay.”

  There wasn’t much that needed to be said by me after that. “Our next game is with the Cubs, Thursday evening at five, boys. I’d like you all here by four, please. Paul Taylor is our scheduled pitcher. See you all on Thursday.”

  Driving home I replayed the game in my mind, agonizing along with Timothy as the ball bounced off the fingers of his glove and rolled to the wall. And then, suddenly, I was reliving another game, one I had played during my second year of Little League when I was only ten. I had made two errors, playing second base, and both errors had allowed a run to score. Final score had been a loss for my Angels of old, 3 to 1, because of me. Long after everyone had left the park, I walked out to the grass behind second base, slumped to the ground and bawled my eyes out. I don’t remember how long I sat there, but I was too ashamed to go home and tell my dad what had happened. Finally, when it was almost dark, I saw the shadow of an old pickup driv
e into the parking lot, its headlights diffused by the wire fence. Soon I heard his familiar voice, filled with love and understanding, saying to me, “John, I think it’s time to come home.”

  When I was finally on my feet, I hugged him ferociously, sobbing and crying. All he said was, “It’s all right, it’s all right. Hell, we all have bad days now and then. Ain’t nobody perfect.”

  Suddenly I hit my brake pedal. I was almost home, but I pulled over to the side of the road, made a U-turn and headed back to the ballpark. Twilight was giving way to darkness when I parked, walked through the fence opening and headed toward home plate. I could hear children shouting and laughing in the neighboring playground, but our playing field was empty—almost empty. He was sitting in the shadows on the grass in deep right field, his legs folded under him, elbows on knees, head bent forward. I walked slowly toward him and paused when I was about ten feet away.

  “Timothy,” I called.

  His head jerked upward. “Yes?” he said, squinting in my direction.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t you think its about time you headed home?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why are you still here, Timothy?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I thought that if I just sat out here, where it happened, I’d be able to figure out how I messed up and lost us the game.”

  “And … have you come up with an answer?”

  He shook his head, and I heard a muffled sob. Suddenly I had an idea.

  “Could I please see your glove?”

  He frowned, then reached under his right knee and tossed me an object, the most shredded and nonserviceable baseball glove I had ever seen in my life, its old leather dry, hard and cracked in thousands of places with virtually no padding remaining in its palm or any of the fingers. Also, the webbing between thumb and forefinger was missing and someone had replaced it with strands of clothesline cord.