Twelfth Angel
Page 10
With that he turned and ran to the outfield, arms pumping furiously, straining to land on his toes with each step like the most graceful of runners.
Our game against the Pirates began as a real pitchers’ duel. For the first two innings neither team was able to get the ball out of the infield, and Paul Taylor was throwing harder than I had ever seen him throw. Then, as swiftly as the wind can change directions here in New England, the game turned into a wild slugfest after both Todd and Tank hit home runs, back to back, in the third inning and our guys followed by scoring seven more. Tony Piso and his boys came right back with six of their own when Paul lost his control in the fourth inning, although I did let him stay in the game and he finally got the side out.
In the fifth inning, as Timothy was walking to the plate, his teammates commenced their chanting, “Timothy, Timothy, never give up, never give up!” Then they began clapping their hands in rhythm, and soon the crowd directly behind our dugout started to clap until the entire grandstand had joined in. Everyone was rooting for the little guy to get his first hit. He tried. Oh, how he tried! Looked good at the plate, took smooth cuts at the ball, but … he struck out on three pitches as the crowd groaned their disappointment.
We did finally win the game, sloppy as it was, 14 to 9.
He was leaning against the trunk of an old Jaguar sedan, parked next to my car in the parking lot, and although he didn’t need to introduce himself because I recognized him, he did anyway.
“Mr. Harding,” he said, smiling and extending a large hand, “I’m Doc Messenger. When someone told me that I was parked next to your buggy, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to hang around long enough to tell you how much I admire you, your courage and the great way you handle your team. Kids always see right through phony adults, and it’s obvious that the Angels respect you and enjoy playing for you.”
“Thank you, sir. Much appreciated. I’m so glad to finally meet the legendary Doc Messenger after all I’ve heard about you. Timothy Noble talks about you often. He’s a lucky kid to have you keeping an eye on him.”
The old man folded his arms, smiled, and replied in a deep baritone voice, “Well, I don’t know about that. What I do know, for sure, is how fortunate he is to be playing for a man like you.”
“Doc, is Timothy okay? Sometimes he seems to lose his balance, and other times he looks as if he’s in pain when he runs, but he says he isn’t.”
He stroked his long white beard several times before replying, “He’s okay. Just a few childhood problems, but I’m keeping an eye on him. I’ve even come to all your games.”
“Day by day, in every way …”
He smiled. “The little fellow has really taken to those old self-motivators, hasn’t he? I only taught him two, but they seem to keep him positive and with a good outlook on life, even if they haven’t produced a hit as yet. Amazing and powerful tools, self-motivators. They could be a miracle treatment for so many if only we could get more people to believe in that mysterious power contained in simple words. All we have to do is program our subconscious mind with positive thoughts and words, and when we do, we can work wonders in our lives. So many of us, perhaps all of us, talk to ourselves throughout the day anyway, so why not feed ourselves positive words and ideas that are beneficial. ‘I can win, I can get the job done, I can make the sale’ are just as easy to say as ‘I can’t win, I can’t complete the job, I’ll never make the sale.’ Norman Vincent Peale, W. Clement Stone, Napoleon Hill, Maxwell Maltz and so many other great minds have tried to teach us this simple technique to change our lives for the better. Self-affirmations, employed by man or woman to improve production, behavior and even thinking have been used successfully for thousands of years. Did you know that Epictetus, the old Roman philosopher, even offered us special words to help us deal with the terrible loss of a loved one? He said, ‘Never say about anything, I have lost it, but only I have given it back. Is your child dead? He has been given back. Is your wife dead? She has been returned.’ ” He leaned over and patted my shoulder. “Keep up the good work, Mr. Harding. I’m so glad we had this chat.” Then he turned and unlocked the door of his car, and I turned toward mine, unable to say anything.
Thursday’s game against Sid Marx and his Yankees turned out to be another nail biter, with Todd Stevenson pitching against their best, Glenn Gerston. No one reached third base, on either side, until Justin Nurnberg cracked a double between left and center field that rolled all the way to the fence, and then he advanced on Paul Taylor’s infield grounder to second. However, we couldn’t bring our man home, so we had a scoreless tie on our hands as we began the fourth inning with the top of the Yankee batting order coming to the plate. Todd struck out the first two, but then he walked the next, and Sid’s cleanup batter followed with a line drive down the left-field line that kept rising and rising until it disappeared over the fence, and we were suddenly trailing by two. The next batter, after fouling several pitches, hit a high fly to right field, and Bill West, sitting next to me, buried his head in his hands and groaned until the crowd roared and nearly everyone rose to their feet as Timothy, after making a fine two-handed catch as I had taught him, came jogging into the bench while the crowd applauded. Then he glanced over toward me and shouted, “Nothing to it!”
At the plate things were not so productive for Timothy. After fouling off several pitches, he finally went down swinging. Actually none of our bats were very potent against Gerston, and we suffered our third defeat against only one victory for the year against the Yankees.
On the following Monday, with Chuck Barrio on the mound for us, we handled the Cubs easily, 17 to 5, and that win clinched second place in the league, which meant that a week from Saturday we would tangle once more with the Yankees, this time for the league championship. Ben Rogers and Bob Murphy both had three hits, and Tank poked another home run in our lopsided victory. I let Andros, Lang and Noble play the entire final four innings, and Timothy got to bat twice since all our guys were really pounding the ball. He struck out both times, but both times he came back to the bench with head still held high. What a special kid!
While our team was running out onto the field for the sixth inning, Bill West came over to where I was standing and asked softly, “Have you heard about Timothy?”
“No. What’s wrong?”
“Well, the kids were telling me that his bike is out of commission again. Apparently the new chain his mother bought snapped on the way here today, so I guess he just left the old thing by the side of the road and ran the last couple of miles to be here on time. How’s that for desire?”
After the game, as we were loading the equipment into the trunk of Bill’s car, I called to Timothy as he trotted by.
“Yes, sir?”
“How about a ride home?”
He sighed, and dragged his new shoes in the sand. “Someone told you about my stupid bike?”
“Yup.”
We had been riding for perhaps ten minutes before the little guy exclaimed, “This isn’t the way home.”
“It is for me.”
“We’re going to your house? Why?”
“Wait and see. We’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
I finally turned into my driveway, drove up the grade, pushed the button on my garage-door opener and waited until the door was all the way up and the lights had turned on.
“Timothy, jump out for a minute. There’s something I want to show you.”
He followed me uncertainly into the garage. I walked over to where Rick’s new red Huffy “Street Rocker” bicycle was hanging on one of the walls, suspended by two large metal brackets. Holding my breath, I reached up to feel both tires and was relieved when they felt hard. Then I grasped the frame in both hands and lifted Rick’s last birthday present from its place on the wall. I lowered it to the concrete floor, in front of Timothy, and said, “This is yours. It’s not giving enjoyment to anyone, just hanging there, and I’m sure Rick would want you to have it if he knew you.”
“Yes, just about.”
“Is it really mine, forever, or just until baseball is over?”
“It’s yours forever and ever.”
“Wow!” he exclaimed, “I’ll take good care of it, honest I will.”
“I know you will. Now it’s almost dark, so let’s put the bike in my trunk and I’ll drive you home. Then tomorrow you can start riding it, okay?”
He nodded eagerly. “It’s the first new bike I’ve ever owned, Mr. Harding!”
When we pulled up close to Timothy’s home, the outside light did not go on.
“I don’t think my mom is home from work yet. Her car isn’t here.”
I removed the bike from the trunk and leaned it against the side of the house where clapboards were missing.
“Will you be okay?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, my mom will be home soon. Do you know what she promised, Mr. Harding?”
“No, what?”
“She said that if we got to play in the championship game next Saturday, she would take the day off, even if her boss got mad at her, and come to see me play. Won’t that be neat?”
“It certainly will be.”
“She’s never seen me play. Did you know that? Maybe I’ll get a hit in that game, while she’s watching.”
“I sure do hope so, Timothy. Now, don’t forget Wednesday night’s game, the last one before the big one. We’re playing the Pirates, and we can all start getting ourselves ready, in that game, for the championship tussle. Okay? See you Wednesday.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Harding. Thank you.”
I guess our kids were already looking ahead to the championship game against the Yankees, a week from Saturday, because they were terrible in their final game against the Pirates. I pitched Todd for three innings and Paul Taylor for three so that my two aces would have some work in preparation for the big one, but the team as a whole played a sloppy game, and I think we managed to squeak out an 11-to-10 victory because the Pirates, certain to finish third in the league standings no matter what the outcome of our game, played as if they didn’t care.
Since we had clinched our spot in the championship game, I let Timothy play the entire six innings, hoping he would get that base hit he wanted so badly. He did hit a hard grounder to the pitcher in the second inning, but then he went down swinging the other two times he batted.
The ballpark and parking lot were nearly empty by the time Bill and I had gathered all the baseball gear and piled it into the trunk of his car. In the twilight I moved close to my old friend, extended my hand and said softly, “I’ll never be able to repay you for what you have done for me.”
Bill cocked his head and frowned. “What are you saying, John?”
“You came back into my life at just the right time. You gave me something to worry about, to think about, to live for—the Angels. You and those great kids actually returned my life to me when I didn’t want one anymore. God bless you.”
We embraced and said good night. However, when I was perhaps twenty feet away, walking toward my car, Bill called after me. I turned.
“Maybe we all contributed a little bit, John,” he called out, “but you had better not forget to thank our smallest Angel. He’s taught all of us how to deal with life, day by day.”
I don’t remember how long I sat in my car before I turned the key in the ignition.
XIII
During what seemed like an agonizingly long week leading up to the championship game on Saturday afternoon, we held two practice sessions for our Angels on Monday and Wednesday afternoons, while Sid Marx put his Yankees through their paces on Tuesday and Thursday. We concentrated on basics, especially batting, and although the kids were in great spirits, I couldn’t say the same for Bill and myself. Following the final game of the regular season we had learned from Paul Taylor’s mother that he would not be available for the championship game. Plans had been made and hotel rooms reserved by the Taylors almost a year ago to take Paul to Bermuda for two weeks of golf and scuba diving, and unfortunately their scheduled departure was just a day before the big game. As Paul’s mother said, “Who knew, ten months ago, that our son would be needed to help win a ball game—the championship game?” However, before Monday’s practice, Paul’s smiling dad came over to Bill and me with the joyful news that he had managed to postpone his vacation for a week as well as change the family’s reservation dates at the exclusive Sonesta Beach Hotel. A miracle! Neither Bill nor I could believe our good luck.
The big game was scheduled to begin at two P.M. on Saturday, but when I arrived, slightly before one P.M., the stands were almost filled to capacity and people had already started to open their folding chairs in both the left- and right-field foul territory, a custom that had apparently been initiated many years ago for the annual championship tussle. In the grandstands, to add to the special flavor and ambience of baseball on a warm summer afternoon, two vendors dressed in white were already busy selling ice-cream bars and boxes of popcorn. Behind home plate George McCord was doing his best to get the crowd into the spirit of the day by playing college marching songs over the loudspeakers, with the volume turned up a little bit louder than usual.
Bill saw me as soon as I came through the fence opening onto the field, and he immediately came jogging over. “Couple of things, John,” he said as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Over there, behind home plate,” he said without looking in that direction, “are some reporters—from the Concord Monitor and the Manchester Union Leader.”
“For a Little League game? This isn’t for the state championship, for God’s sake!”
“No. They said they were here to observe how a billion-dollar executive manages a bunch of kids under thirteen.”
“Great! Just what I need.”
“They’re nice guys. Not to worry.”
I glanced around the playing field. Four Angels had already arrived. Tony Zullo was playing catch with Timothy, and Paul Taylor was fielding grounders that Justin was rolling to him from his first-base position. “Bill, what else did you want to tell me?”
“Well, I thought you’d like to know that Timothy’s mother did come. She’s sitting in the first row of seats behind the third-base dugout, with Doc Messenger. Wearing a white T-shirt and a pink hat.”
“I see her. Thanks, Bill.”
I walked over to the stands, removed my Angel baseball cap and extended my right hand. “Mrs. Noble … Doc … I’m glad you are both here. I know this means a lot to Timothy.”
Mrs. Noble smiled and nodded. “Nothing could have kept me away today, Mr. Harding. Nothing. I hope you win.”
“Thank you. Doc, it’s good to see you again.”
The old man nodded as he shook my hand. “It’s mutual, sir. Mr. Harding, if you would, please refresh my fading memory for me. Am I correct that Timothy has yet to achieve his first hit of the season?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say it’s true.”
The old man removed his battered cowboy hat and stared at it. “This game, then, is his last opportunity.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, for this year anyway, and it won’t be easy. The Yankees are throwing their ace pitcher at us, and he’s very tough for anyone to hit.”
“Well,” he said softly, “I wish you the very best for your team, and I guess we’ll just have to pray extra hard when our young man comes to the plate.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning back toward the field as the familiar strains of the “Notre Dame Marching Song” echoed through the ballpark.
On a folding bridge table, behind home plate’s heavy wire backstop, Stewart Rand and Nancy McLaren had placed twenty-four trophies that sparkled in the bright sun, each a golden life-size baseball mounted on a square wooden base that held a small metal plaque already engraved with each player’s name, team, and the words BOLAND LITTLE LEAGUE
CHAMPIONSHIP GAME. There were no losers in our league.
Finally two umpires approached home plate and beckoned to Sid and me. The tall one, Jake Laughlin, would be umpiring at home, and the other blue shirt, on the bases, was Tim Spelling.
“Gentlemen,” Laughlin said hoarsely, “this is the only Little League game played here, all season, where the home team is not designated by the league schedule. Mr. Marx, I’m going to flip this quarter. While it’s in the air, will you kindly call heads or tails? In this toss there are no options. The winner of the toss will be considered the home team, bat last, and have the third-base dugout, understood?”
We both nodded, and while the coin was still above our heads, Sid yelled, “Tails!”
Another stroke of good luck. The familiar profile of George Washington stared up at us. My Angels would bat last. Fortunately our guys had already dropped most of their equipment and gloves in the third-base dugout as if they were unafraid to tempt fate, so they all cheered lustily when I told them they could stay and that we had last “ups” at bat. After they were all seated, except Todd, who was warming up behind our dugout, I walked slowly from one end of our bench to the other, my hands in my back pockets, leaning slightly so that I could look into the eyes of each boy. Finally I said, “Well, you made it to the big game, and each of you should be proud of the important part you played in the success of the Angels. Now, I have just one thing to say to all of you. Yes, this is the big one, but I want everyone to have fun today. That’s what this is all about. Being here today is your reward for your efforts all season, but rewards aren’t much good if you can’t laugh and smile and enjoy them. Remember, the sun will still rise tomorrow, whether you win or lose, and your best years are still ahead of you. Sure, it would be nice to win, but this is not life or death. It’s just a ball game, so stay loose, enjoy the day and remember what Timothy Noble has been telling us all season.” I pointed toward the little guy. “Remind them once more, Tim.”