The Youngest Hero

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Depends,” Mr. Thatcher answered, rising. “Who may I say is calling?”

  The men looked at him, then at me, then back at him. He began distributing his cards.

  “Thatcher’s the name. I represent the Woodells. You may reach me by phone, fax, snail mail, or e-mail, or you may reach me for the next few days at the Hyatt Regency downtown. For now—”

  “Well, I’d like to speak with you right now, if possi—”

  “For now,” Mr. Thatcher repeated, “I am engaged in a private conversation and do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Can you tell us when you might be available?”

  “During the game when Chicago is in the field. But not in the first inning.”

  The scouts began to take seats near Billy Ray and me.

  “Gentlemen, please,” Billy Ray said, “give us some space. I will talk with each of you, I promise.”

  The scouts moved down a few rows. “I’m sorry, Miriam. You were saying?”

  “That Lucas will be here later. He wants me to start preparing Elgin for the news about us.”

  “That you are to be married?”

  “Oh, my, no! But the other day, we uh, held hands for the first time and—”

  Billy Ray grinned. “Perhaps you need me to break that news to your son.”

  “Don’t mock me. Lucas and I have talked for hours about how seriously we take each other, and we said long ago that we would just be friends.”

  “I don’t need to tell you, that doesn’t work for long, Miriam.”

  “Well, we thought it might. He told me I would know if he ever changed his mind. He said he wouldn’t even hold my hand unless he was in love with me.”

  Mr. Thatcher looked away again, clearly embarrassed. I quit talking.

  He turned back to me. “Don’t misunderstand my discomfort, Miriam,” he said. “I miss my wife.”

  “Don’t tell me something’s happened to Miz Thatcher!”

  “No, no. I was with her just this morning. But Miriam, when you have a long, happy marriage, you miss one another whenever you’re apart.”

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “Maybe. Your story got to me. You see, Shirley and I felt the same way when we courted. We weren’t pretending to be just friends. Anyway, she felt the same way Mr. Harkness feels. I’ll be pleased to meet him.”

  Lucas and I had taken a walk one night while Elgin was in the cellar. We had laughed a lot, talked a lot, been quiet even more. We stood closer to each other, brushed shoulders as we sat and laughed. I had held his gaze a little longer than normal, just enough to increase my pulse and wonder if my face had flushed.

  On the way back to my flat, he held my elbow as we crossed the street. That implied nothing, but when we were safely across he let his hand slide down to mine. He’d silently declared himself, unless he a bad memory.

  I had so longed for his touch that my hand in his was every bit as meaningful and warm and loving and sensual as an embrace. I gripped his palm firmly, trying to convey all I wanted to say.

  Though we didn’t touch each other again when he was saying good-bye, we might as well have. We held each other’s eyes long enough to communicate.

  Elgin had forgotten to take his spikes the last time he worked at Lucky’s, so I’d agreed to take them there for repair. When I walked in Luke looked up and smiled. I set the shoes on the counter then thrust out my hand as if to shake his. He looked puzzled, but shook my hand. When he did, I covered his also with my other hand.

  “I’m Miriam Woodell,” I said. “You must be Lucky.”

  “I am today,” he said, also covering my hands with his. And there we stood, four hands entwined, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. When another customer entered he went back to business, but I was encouraged.

  I wanted to confirm that he was coming to Elgin’s next game, so I waited as he tagged Elgin’s shoes and waited on the next customer. The man made a small purchase and thanked Luke, who said, “Now, if you want a real deal, you can have that glass bowl over there for two dollars.”

  The man looked at it. “You’ll never sell that monstrosity,” he said.

  Luke laughed heartily. “Yeah, I’ll probably have to pay someone to take it off my hands. Would you believe I paid nine dollars for that and had it priced at twenty for a while?”

  “No!”

  Luke held up a hand. “Honest. Proved I was human, didn’t I?”

  “Proved you were an idiot,” the man said, smiling.

  “We’ve all got those ugly glass bowls in our lives, don’t we? Sure you don’t want it? I’m willing to take a seven-dollar loss on it.”

  They both laughed as the man left.

  I approached again. Luke was still smiling. “Maybe it looked pretty in the dim light of the estate sale.”

  I looked at the piece and shook my head. “It’s so ugly it’s cute.”

  “You like it,” he said.

  “I kinda do,” I admitted.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “No, but sort of. I mean I wouldn’t use it for anything but a conversation starter.”

  “It would serve that well,” he said. “I’d be willing to sell it to a beautiful woman like you for what I paid for it. Nine bucks.”

  “You are a rascal,” I said.

  “Hey, if you were a friend or something I could cut you a deal, but if I remember correctly, we just met.”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “Buy that piece before someone else snaps it up at full price, and we can shake hands again.”

  “A rascal,” I repeated, winking at him as I left.

  52

  “I don’t want to bother you before the game, Champ,” Jim Koenig said, “but not all of those guys were scouts.”

  “Agents?”

  “No, they’ll come later. Good thing you’ve got your friend representing you, because agents will descend like vultures. I’m not saying there aren’t some good ones, but how would you know?”

  “So who were those guys?”

  “Well, one was a local guy who works for Sports Illustrated. He was supposed to do a ‘Faces in the Crowd’ thing on you. Now he says they’re asking him to do some full-blown deal. You’d better have your friend, uh—”

  “Mr. Thatcher.”

  “Yeah, you’d better have Thatcher talk to him, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “You just concentrate on getting some hits tonight.”

  In the top of the first I covered first on a bunt up the line and was run over by the Arlington Heights leadoff man. I helped the runner up.

  “That was bush league,” I said, smiling and patting him on the rear. “Maybe next time you’d like a mouthful of cleats.”

  He turned and stared at me. “Lookin for trouble, Pee-wee?”

  “I’m just looking to stay on my side of the baseline. Veteran like you ought to know how to do that by now.”

  The kid made a move toward me and the benches cleared. No way I needed to be held back. I had plotted my escape.

  “You’d better stay outa my face, little man,” the runner said.

  “It’s tough when Pee-wee helps nail you by two steps on a Little League bunt, isn’t it?” I said.

  My teammates roared, and the Arlington guy struggled to break free. The umpires broke it up, and the plate ump approached the visitors’ bench.

  “The runner was inside the line and was out regardless. That’s the end of it. Any more and somebody’s walkin!”

  With one out and no score in the bottom of the first, I had to skip out of the way of a pitch behind my ear. The ump came charging out from behind the plate.

  “Oh, don’t call that!” I said. “That easy of a pitch had to be an accident!”

  The umpire pointed at the pitcher.

  “Slipped,” the pitcher said.

  “Don’t let it slip again,” the ump said.

  The next pitch was in the dirt, a foot in front of my feet. I danced to elude it and here came t
he ump again.

  “That’s a warning, Arlington! You’re a better pitcher than that!”

  I laced the next pitch about two feet above the pitcher’s head. The center fielder took a step in, but the ball was still rising and flew over his head. The ball hit near the bottom of the center field fence as I rounded first. It skipped to the right and I never slowed. I’d never had an inside-the-park homer before, but I could smell this one. And with all the right people in the stands.

  Concentrate, I told myself. No mistakes. Shortest distance. All speed. I hit second with my inside foot and pivoted, shifting my attention from the ball to my third-base coach. Then the lights went out. My breath escaped in a huge grunt and I could not inhale. I was not on solid ground, could see nothing, and felt the cool night air on my head as my helmet flew away.

  Where was I? What was happening? Was I dreaming? I hit on my heels first, somersaulting backward and winding up on my back with pain in my sternum and still no breath.

  I opened my eyes and panicked. I needed to breathe! Was I going to die right here in front of my mother and Mr. Thatcher and all the scouts? Was this it? Was it over? I had hardly begun!

  Jim Koenig bent over me, screaming at everyone else to back off and threatening the Arlington shortstop’s life. So that was it. Their leadoff man was the shortstop. I had thought he might try something if I tried to steal second or break up a double play, but I forgot all about him with an inside-the-parker on the line.

  Koenig loosened my belt, but still I thrashed, desperate for air.

  “You’ll breathe, buddy. Give me a second. This happens all the time.”

  The coach reached under my lower back and lifted my rear off the ground. I felt a stretch in my chest, a building of pressure. It seemed an eternity since I’d had air in my lungs.

  Koenig worked quickly, letting me back down. “Relax!” he commanded, grabbing my ankles and pressing them toward my seat, forcing my knees to my chest. When he straightened my legs again, my lungs expanded and I sucked in cool, sweet air. My head cleared, the pain got worse, and I was mad. It all came to me. That shortstop had driven an elbow into my ribs when I rounded second on the dead run, knocking the wind from me and blowing me into left field.

  My eyes darted among the Arlington players while I was still on my back in the grass.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Koenig said. “He’s already been ejected.”

  “Do I get third?”

  “I’m arguing for home. They hadn’t even touched the ball yet.”

  I stood and buckled my belt. Worse than the pain, worse than the shortness of breath, worse than the disappointment of not legging out the homer, I was scared. Not having been able to breathe had shaken me. But I had held my own against this kid in the top of the inning. And I had stood up to the pitcher who tried to hit me. I would have taken on the shortstop again if he’d still been on the field.

  I rubbed my chest, took deep breaths, and bent, hands on my knees. The umpire awarded me the plate, which threw the Arlington coach into a tizzy.

  “Protest all you want,” the ump said. “This kid touches third and home on his own, he stays in the game.”

  “Don’t feel obligated,” Coach Koenig said. “You can sit the rest of this one out.”

  “No way. I’m all right.”

  I didn’t want to just walk around third. I broke into a trot, which brought a long ovation, even from some of the Arlington guys. Both teams were on the field again, glaring, posturing.

  “Let’s go, guys!” I shouted, my breastbone smarting with every step. “Let’s get back to winning this thing!”

  I got a chance to sit while Arlington brought in a new second baseman and moved their original one to short.

  At the end of the dugout stood a solitary figure with a large paper sack under his arm. He wore a leather jacket and sported a bushy red beard. “Anything had happened to you, El, I would’ve been out there swinging.”

  “Hey, Lucky. I’m all right. Thanks for coming.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss a game if I didn’t have to.”

  “Get out. You just came to be with Mom.”

  “You noticed?”

  “No. I’m blind.”

  Luke smiled and looked away. I was startled. I had been just teasing. I liked how my mother was when Lucky was around. But now what was he trying to tell me? I looked to see how serious he was. Maybe he was putting me on.

  “Woodell! You in or out?”

  I stood. Time to take the field again? No. What was Koenig hollering about?

  “Stay in the game, buddy!” he said. “No extra points for owies, you know.”

  I smiled and sneaked a peek back at Lucky. He had already headed into the stands.

  53

  Lucas was awkward and quiet when I introduced him to Billy Ray.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Harkness,” Mr. Thatcher said.

  “Yes, sir, same here. Thank you.”

  It was the top of the second, and like we expected, the scouts began burrowing their way back up to Billy Ray.

  “Is this Mr. Woodell?” one asked.

  Lucas laughed. “No, sir!” he said, bolder with an audience. “Lucky Harkness of Lucky’s Secondhand. Come on over and I’ll make ya a deal.”

  They were clearly not interested in anyone not related to or representing Elgin.

  “Excuse me, Luke, Miriam,” Mr. Thatcher said, and he led the scouts to the end of the bleachers like a pied piper.

  “Brought something for you,” Luke said when we were alone.

  He thrust out a brown paper sack, and I knew from the shape and weight what it was. I was about to open it when Luke said, “Grounder to Elgin.”

  My eyes darted to my son, who raced to his left and backhanded a three-hopper near second. He fired to first to nip the runner by a half step. The crowd cheered loudly, but I knew it had been a routine play. I couldn’t count the times Elgin had told me, “Teams that win make the routine plays. The tough ones won’t make you or break you if you make the rest.”

  I felt the cool night air on the back of my neck as I pulled the hideous glass bowl from the bag.

  “I’ll cherish it forever,” I said, laughing.

  “I knew you’d love it,” Luke said. “It’s not so ugly in the dark, is it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, turning it toward the lights. “It even feels ugly.”

  “Like me,” he said, still smiling. “Ugly even in the dark.”

  “You don’t believe that,” I said, suddenly serious. “With your hair shorter and your beard trimmed, you look younger and very attractive.”

  “Younger than what?” he said, eyes dancing.

  “Younger than, um, you looked when I met you.”

  “I didn’t mean to get into this, Miriam.”

  I loved the way he said my name, almost as if he revered it.

  “I just hope you’re not embarrassed to be seen hangin around with a broken-down old veteran your kid thinks looks like a biker.”

  “When I first saw you, I could see what he meant. Your hair was as long as your beard.”

  “You let me walk you home.”

  “You had just saved my life. I felt safe with you.”

  “You are,” he said.

  I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow and turned to face the field. He pressed his arm close to his side, and I loved him.

  “No more talk about looks,” I said. “I’m proud to be seen with you.”

  “But you’re so pretty. Heads turn everywhere you—”

  “Stop,” I said. “That’s always bothered me. One of the things I liked about you was that you didn’t leer at me.”

  Luke looked away and laughed.

  “What?” I said, turning to face him. “You didn’t leer at me, did you?”

  He laughed again. “Apparently not when you were looking.”

  I shook my head and slid closer. “Thanks for the bowl,” I said. “It’ll be hard to
top that.”

  I sat on the bench next to the only other player on the Legion team who seemed to care as much as I did about statistics. A local college sophomore, he was a reserve outfielder who hardly ever saw action, but he knew everyone’s averages.

  “So, what am I hitting now, Doyle?” I said.

  “Under seven hundred, but two more hits and you’ll be back up there. You’re forty-seven for sixty-eight. You have to have forty-nine hits by your seventieth at bat to hit seven hundred right on the head.”

  I cocked my head. “Not a bad goal.”

  Doyle snorted. “Nobody else in the state is over five hundred anymore.”

  I nodded. “I can’t start worrying about numbers now. I just think about one pitch at a time.”

  “You think about the count.”

  “Course. The count, the score, the outs, who’s on, what pitch I can expect, and where to put it.”

  “Wish it was that easy for the rest of us.”

  “You think it’s easy for me?” I said.

  Doyle shook his head. “If it isn’t, you’re a good actor. I see your wheels turning from the bench to the box. It’s like you decide what you need to do with a pitch, and you just do it.”

  “It’s kind of like that, yeah,” I said.

  “Want to know what it’s like for us humans?”

  “Sure,” I said, smiling. “What’s it like for you humans?”

  “It’s like hoping not to get killed, hoping to do anything but strike out so you can fling your bat in disgust as if you can’t believe you didn’t hit one out.”

  I laughed. “Is that why you do that, Doyle?”

  “We all act like we can’t believe we’re not batting a thousand. Then you come along and make us look sick.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We don’t mind winning. I wouldn’t mind playing more, though.”

  “You will. I see you starting in the outfield when Andy and Toby are gone next year.”

  Doyle was quiet all of a sudden and went to rearrange the bat rack.

  “You’re in the hole, Woodell,” he said when he came back. It was clear he was upset.

  “What’sa matter, Doyle?”

  He sat heavily. “Let me tell you something because I like you, Woodell. That last thing you said was a little obnoxious, okay?”