The Youngest Hero

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Proud? I didn’t feel proud.

  “You’ve got that quitting look,” Coach Fred said. Tim yawned. “You’re not thinking about quitting this team, are you?”

  “Thinking about it, yeah.”

  “We don’t want you to,” Rollins said. “We’re the two you hit, and we’re saying stay, you’re good, we need you, we want you. Got it?”

  I nodded, but I still wasn’t sure I wouldn’t quit. I wanted to be a good ballplayer, even a powerful hitter, but I didn’t want to be a monster.

  My coaches seemed nervous. They talked a lot and were still talking on their way out. “So, don’t give it another thought, Elgin. You won’t have to worry about hitting anybody else.”

  “What about during games?”

  “That’s a different story,” Rollins said.

  I reached to tap fists with Tim as he followed the coaches out. “You sure live in a hole,” he whispered. That bothered me worse than what I’d done.

  When they were gone, my mother sat next to me on the couch. “You’re hittin uncatchable liners up the middle. Even I know enough to know that’s what hitters want to do.”

  “If it means hurting people, it’s not what I want to do.”

  “You hardly ever hear of big leaguers being hurt by line drives, do you?”

  I shook my head. “And those guys hit a lot harder than I do. I guess it’s just the difference in the distance between the mound and the plate.”

  My mother sighed. “Is it possible you’re already too good for this league?”

  “Could be. But who’s gonna let me play in an older league?”

  “Whoever sees what you can do.”

  “You know what I feel like doing?”

  She shook her head.

  “Like hitting where no one can get hurt but me.”

  “Go ahead. You didn’t hit last night, did you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do it, El. Your chance will come to play where people can compete with you. And you want to be ready.”

  Either because I had taken one night off or because my mother had encouraged me much more than my coaches, something was different in the basement. I felt more relaxed, more comfortable. In the batter’s box I let pitches come within an inch of me, even though I could hardly see them. I didn’t try to hit every pitch. I waited for ones that broke just so, spun just right, came into not just the strike zone but my strike zone.

  That night I hit six solid shots in one session and five in the next. If just standing in against the machine had made me a dangerous hitter, what would happen if I mastered it? Was it possible? I went upstairs to bed in a better mood.

  Several parents showed up at the next practice. They looked grim. From shortstop I studied the protective screen. The first eight batters seemed to be trying to hit the thing, despite Coach Rollins’s advice—from a chair behind the backstop where his leg was elevated—that they ignore it and hit as usual. Coach Fred was on the mound. It took him a while to get used to the screen. His first dozen pitches were high.

  I was embarrassed that the man on the mound had a purple blotch from just above his mouth to his eyebrow. The white of his eye was filled with blood. I had also, of course, been responsible for Coach Rollins’s injury. No wonder there was a crowd.

  I made a couple of good plays, but I knew people were there to see me hit. By the time it was my turn, I’d made a decision. I was not going to hold back. I found my favorite aluminum bat and felt everyone’s eyes on me. I hurried to the plate. People came to see a show; they would see a show.

  Fred started by whistling a fastball to the plate. It was better than the stuff he had been throwing the night he’d been hit. Interesting, I thought. Fred’s thinking about the audience too.

  I wanted to explode on that first pitch. Start with a homer. Set the pace.

  33

  I unleashed just as I realized that the coach had let the ball roll out of his palm and off his fingers. It floated before my eyes as my swing carried me in a circle and spun me to my seat. As I sat in the dirt I heard the laughter—first from Fred, then the catcher, then Rollins, then everybody.

  So that was how it was going to be? I would be fooled, even in batting practice? Well, maybe I had it coming. Either I was a good hitter or I wasn’t. Hitting against a thinking pitcher was even tougher than facing the machine, no matter how hard it threw the tiny balls.

  I was wondering now, thinking. Had Fred’s smile faded? As he rocked back, he actually waved his glove at the catcher—back of his hand first, the way pitchers signal a breaking ball during warm-ups. So this was it? He was going from busting me with a change-up to telling me what he was going to throw?

  If I was wrong, I’d be on the ground again. I wanted to catch up to this stuff and show Coach Fred who was better. So many things raced through my mind as that spinning, high-and-outside pitch came in: if it was just a spinner, I would never reach it. Fred couldn’t break off a curve of more than a few inches. At best this pitch would barely touch the corner of the plate. It might drop into the strike zone at the letters, but no one would criticize me if I let it go.

  But I didn’t want to. It was not as slow as the change-up but way slower than the golf balls. I watched for that tiny movement, that rotation that signaled me that the ball would move within reach.

  My eyes were locked on the ball, chin tucked almost to my chest. As I uncoiled, Fred was safe behind the new pitcher’s screen. I realized as I hit the ball that it had not dropped as far as I hoped. But I got all of it and drove it two hundred feet to left center, and before the fielders could react, it bounced all the way over the fence.

  I had no time to admire it. Fred was into his windup again, signaling curve again. This one broke on the inner half at the belt. I ripped it over the right center field fence. I hit a slider to the fence down the right field line. I smacked a fastball back up the middle, just over the protective barrier.

  “Trying for the other eye?” Fred said. Everyone laughed.

  Fred came back with a fastball inside, and I smashed a one-hopper to the first baseman in shallow right. Raleigh Lincoln Jr., a skinny black kid, stabbed it but was completely turned around by the force. He lobbed the ball in to Fred, then held his hand over his heart as everyone laughed.

  A gigantic black man came out from behind the backstop. “Can I pitch to this kid?” he rumbled.

  “Be my guest, Raleigh!” Fred said, tossing him his glove and pointing to the bucket of balls.

  “Know who that is?” Geoff, the catcher, said.

  “Must be Raleigh’s dad,” I said, staring.

  “Raleigh Lincoln Sr. threw the only no-hitter in an Olympic game. Almost made the big leagues with the Red Sox.”

  The catcher was taking off his gear.

  “Where you going?” I said.

  “Deep,” Geoff said. “I can’t catch him, and I’m not gonna try to stop your shots.”

  “Ho, hey, whoa, stay there,” Mr. Lincoln called. “At least warm me up. It’ll take me a while to get loose. If nobody can catch me, we’ll move the hitter back and I’ll pitch to the backstop.”

  Mr. Lincoln looked at least six-three and well over two hundred pounds. He was a friendly looking man with big eyes and high cheekbones, but he looked mean on the mound. He yanked down the pitching screen and set it aside. “One thing I don’t need is this!” He put Fred’s glove on his right hand and began throwing easily lefty. From the first pitch, I knew he was the type of pitcher I had seen only on television. His mechanics were perfect. He wore deck shoes and dressy clothes, but he looked at home on the mound.

  Mr. Rollins motioned me over. “This guy still pitches, you know.”

  “Looks like it. Where?”

  “City League. They say he can still throw in the eighties.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Well, hey, Elgin, I never saw anybody you couldn’t hit. Give it a try.”

  I couldn’t wait. I didn’t care if Mr. Lincoln made me look like a fool. At l
east I would know that I fell somewhere between the league I was in and a man who had been an almost–major leaguer.

  As he got loose his fastball began to pop into Geoff s glove. Everyone seemed mesmerized. The man began to sweat, dark circles appearing under his arms and in a line down his back. It looked like Mr. Lincoln was going to enjoy this as much as I was.

  Finally, Geoff had had enough, so Mr. Lincoln moved several feet in front of the mound and began throwing at the middle post of the backstop. He came close with every pitch, banging at least six out of ten off the post.

  “I’m ready!” he hollered. “Get in there and take your cuts.”

  Fred’s fastball was better than any of the kids’, but Raleigh Lincoln threw harder warming up. And I wasn’t going to be seeing any of those warm-up pitches once I stepped in. If there was anything readable in the man’s face, it was that he was not about to signal any pitches or make things easy on me.

  It was written all over him that he wanted to show there was one man in the crowd who wasn’t intimidated by some kid. There was little ceremony, no pretending to take a sign, no waiting between pitches. Mr. Lincoln held four balls in his glove and just kept throwing. It was like facing the machine. But this machine had a brain and a heart and pride and experience.

  This machine was one mean pitcher.

  34

  That evening I moseyed to Elgin and Chico’s old fastpitch street and watched others playing. I recognized a couple as old acquaintances of Elgin’s.

  A crazily spinning foul ball dropped to my right and skipped into my lap. I surprised myself and the boys by catching it and tossing it back. Several would whisper and one would look, then others would whisper and another would look. A big black kid looked defiantly at me, but I stared right back.

  Then I noticed it. An aluminum bat against the wall near where the kids hit. One said, “Ricky, c’mon, man, let me use the bat, huh?”

  “No way!”

  “Yeah!” someone else said. “You stole that a long time ago. That boy’s gonna come bust you for that.”

  “Uh-huh,” big Ricky said. “He send his momma already.”

  I felt a chill. So this was the boy who had stolen Elgin’s bat. He had stayed away until he heard that Elgin never came around anymore. I wanted that bat back. It was only right.

  Ricky looked about sixteen, hard and wiry as a grown man. When it was his turn to hit, he grabbed the bat, glared at me, and stepped in. He took the first pitch, then skied the next one for a home run near the top of the building across the street. As the ball caromed about the street, Ricky let the bat clang to the pavement and went into his home run trot. Coming around first brought him as close to me as he would get. He stopped dead when I whispered something.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said you ought to bring me that bat. It belongs to my son.”

  He squinted. “My bat belongs to your son?”

  “His name is scratched in the end of it.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Elgin.”

  “I’ll tell you what, lady. You want that bat, you can come and get it.”

  “I can?” I said.

  He laughed and continued his home run trot. “You can try.”

  My heart slammed off my ribs. I stood, but Ricky had his back to me as he headed toward third base. When he reached the plate, he saw me coming slowly. I looked right at him and headed toward the bat. He walked briskly to meet me. Was I risking my life for a hunk of metal?

  From a block and a half away I heard a slamming door and the rattle of a steel grate across a storefront. I wouldn’t hear the jangle of keys on a belt until it drew closer, but something deep inside me hoped an adult would walk my way.

  Ricky beat me to the bat.

  “That’s my son’s,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “His name is scratched into the end there.”

  Ricky turned the bat on its end and read aloud, “E-L-G-I-N. Hm.”

  “Hm, what? May I have it, please?”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  Now I heard the keys, louder as they came closer.

  “It’s worth what I paid for it originally.”

  “Which was what?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  Ricky’s eyes grew dark as the other boys giggled.

  “Ten bucks’ll buy it, honey.”

  “I don’t have ten dollars, and I wouldn’t pay for a bat twice anyway.”

  The keys stopped. “What’s the trouble here?” a bearded man asked.

  “Nothin that’s none of your business,” Ricky said.

  “Just give her the bat,” one of the boys said. “You know it’s hers.”

  “Maybe I’ll give her a beatin with it.”

  “You’d better be kidding,” the man said. “Because to hurt her you’re going to have to hurt me.”

  Ricky turned on the man. “What is your problem, dude? You’d best mind your business.”

  “Stealing in my neighborhood is my business. And threatening people is my business. Let me tell you something, son, you don’t want to tangle with me. Give the woman the bat, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “You’re together?”

  “We are now.”

  Ricky swore and handed me the bat. “C’mon, guys,” he said. “The air stinks here.” He started off, but no one followed. “Well, come on!” Still no one. He waved at them and swore again, disappearing around the corner.

  Embarrassed, the boys resumed their game. I turned to the stranger. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Glad I came by,” he said. “Walk you home?”

  “I’d appreciate it. I just live—”

  “I know where you live.”

  I shuddered and tried to keep my voice steady. “You do?”

  “Course. The hotel over here, right?”

  I nodded.

  “I know your son. Sold him some baseball equipment.”

  “Oh! You’re the one he calls—“ I stopped, not wanting to offend.

  “What? What does he call me?”

  “Biker,” I admitted.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Know what he told me once? That I had the same hair color as his mother. I saw you come over to watch him play once, and I thought, Hey, the kid’s right! Almost the same length too.”

  I stopped at my corner. “I’m grateful,” I said, taking a good look at him in the fading sun. His face was ruddy and freckled. He appeared in good shape, mid- to late thirties, a generous smile. I offered my hand. “Miriam Woodell.”

  “Lucas Harkness,” he said. “Friends call me Lucky or Luke. You can call me Mr. Harkness.”

  He was laughing, but I thought that was a good idea. “I will,” I said.

  “Do me a favor,” he said.

  Uh-oh, I thought. Already he wants to see me again. I’m so tired of this.

  “Tell Elgin I have more stuff he might want to see.”

  “Sure. What’ve you got?”

  “A wood bat for one thing.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re hard to come by. I couldn’t give him much of a deal on it, but you know wood bats are used only in the pros, so it’s the real thing. A light thirty-three-incher. Probably too big for Elgin, but he said he was looking for one.”

  “Sounds like a great surprise,” I said. “Maybe I could come see it and he wouldn’t have to know.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you. You should be safe now, especially with that bat.” Mr. Harkness smiled and walked away.

  I watched to see if he would sneak a glance back, but he didn’t.

  At home I looked in my cash stash to see if I could afford a no-occasion gift. I had less than twenty dollars. What could a big-league wood bat cost?

  I was watching television when Elgin came in. “Got something for you,” I said.

  “Good. Listen, Mom, I’ve got to tell you about practice.”

  “Let me show you what I got you fi
rst. Something you thought you’d never see again.”

  “Daddy?”

  I scowled. “You’ll see him again someday.”

  “So hurry, Momma. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  I reached behind the couch and brought out his aluminum bat.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Where in the world—? Did Chico bring it? He knew who stole it.”

  I shook my head. “I got it myself.”

  Elgin turned it on its end to be sure it was really his. ‘This I’ve got to hear.”

  35

  “Lucky, huh?” Elgin said. He sat shaking his head. “I can hardly believe it. I mean, I know you’re tough, but what if that Ricky guy had started beating you with the bat?”

  I shrugged. “I could see he was scared. He just wanted to play big.”

  Elgin told me about facing Raleigh Lincoln Sr. “He didn’t even use the pitching screen. He waves me into the batter’s box and tells me, ‘I’m gonna say only two things, kid. You don’t have to worry about me knockin you down or even brushin you back. I’m not lyin, so you can just stand in there. I’ve got better control than anybody you ever saw.’ And then he says, ‘Don’t feel bad if you can’t hit me. Nobody can, really.’ “

  “So did you?”

  “At first I didn’t know whether to believe him. His kid is a good guy, but you never know. So he throws the first three right past me, and all three of em bang right off that center post of the backstop about waist-high.”

  I smiled. “Bet you wished you’d been swingin.”

  Elgin nodded. “He says to me, ‘Trust me, boy. Swing the bat. Show me what you can do.’ So I ground the next one right back to him.”

  “Hard?”

  “Not really. He caught it behind his back. Both Fred and Mr. Rollins holler at him, telling him not to try that once I get my timing. Rollins points to his knee and Fred points to his eye and everybody laughs. ‘He ain’t gonna get no timing!’ Mr. Lincoln says, and he blows another one past me. He was throwing smoke. I say, ‘Give me another of those.’ He says, ‘Just like that one, same speed, same location?’ and I say, ‘You wouldn’t dare.’ Well, he thinks that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He’s laughing and jumping, and he keeps repeating it.