The first pitch to the dangerous Danvers missed low and away. He stepped out briefly, banged his cleats, and smiled inside. Once back in the box, he steadied himself for the next offering. Up and in. The moon was now high and bright in the middle of the sky, and it bathed Danvers in a brilliant silver pool.
“Let’s go now, Wood Man!” Murph shouted from the bench. “Hitter’s count now. Get yours.”
Danvers stood at the plate, wind-milling his bat with a determination and desire that stretched beyond all imaginable limits of both body and mind. He lived for these situations. The pitcher, now crippled by the count and the mounting trouble on the base paths, had no choice but to groove a fat fastball down the middle. Danvers didn’t miss it. The bat caught the ball square, sending the little white sphere soaring toward the diamond-dotted sky like a missile threatening to disrupt the beauty of nature’s sparkling symmetry before disappearing into the night.
With the upstart Brew Crew leading 3–0, Mickey took the field for inning number two. He was just as sharp in the second frame, fanning all three hitters with little protest.
The crowd stood up and saluted their hero. Mickey, who a year later was still thinking about how odd it was for people to fuss so feverishly over something that came to him so naturally, trotted off the field in a maze-like incomprehension.
From that point forward, the game moved along at a rigorous clip. Both teams traded zeroes for the next several innings. Mickey remained sharp, but the Brewers’ offense sputtered. After posting three runs in the first inning, the home team managed only two base runners over the next six frames, neither of which made it past first base. It was frustrating to watch, and would have been cause for real alarm had Mickey not been so indomitable.
The top of the ninth arrived quickly and without event. Mickey plunged zealously into all the hollering and fanfare that attenuated what looked like a sure victory, disposing of the Giants’ leadoff hitter in routine fashion. Through the deepening darkness, punctuated now by intermittent flashbulbs, the Baby Bazooka reared back and attacked the next batter. The pitch was exactly like so many others that night, hard and true, and his delivery equally adroit. His accuracy, however, betrayed him momentarily—a blip in the typically flawless choreography. The offering missed its mark by a healthy margin, speeding off the plate and plunking the hitter square between the shoulder blades. The thud was deafening. The stunned batter fell to his knees in a heartbeat, as if he had just taken a bullet. The crowd fell silent, yielding now to its captured curiosity, as the fallen player remained on all fours for several minutes, wincing and gasping for air before finally staggering to his feet with the help of his manager and the umpire. Then slowly, and with discernible difficulty, he made his way down the first base line, his deliberate gait prolonging the tension attached to the moment.
“Hey, what kind of horse crap is that?” one the Giants screamed from the dugout. “Friggin’ hayseed. Could’ve killed him. Just wait till we get a crack at your ass, freak show.”
Mickey heard the invectives and was all at once uncomfortable under his uniform. He stood on the mound, inert and broken, while Murph and the others returned the verbal fire from their side of the field.
“The ball just got away, you idiots,” Murph screamed. “Please. He’s gonna throw at him? On purpose? When you guys can’t even touch him?” He huffed loudly and shook his head. “Assholes.”
Previews of retaliation filtered through the mind of the Giants’ manager, setting the frustrated skipper ablaze with roiling anger.
“Just wait,” he yelled to Murph, pointing his finger in the direction of the Brewers’ bench. “Just you wait. There’s still plenty of baseball to play this season. And I got a pretty good memory.”
Mickey looked on with great concern. The vision of the moment adjusted itself, and he struggled with the residue of conflict. Despite support from his teammates and legions of adoring fans exhorting their hero to finish off the enemy, he could not reclaim his composure. Fearful and spellbound, he walked the next three batters, forcing in a run while moving the tying tally to second base. The game was slipping away.
“Time,” Murph barked before making his way onto the field.
His steps were heavy and purposeful, and it seemed to those watching to take an eternity for him to join the meeting on the pitcher’s mound.
“What’s going on, Mick?” he asked, folding his arms tightly against his chest. “You okay?”
Mickey nodded inanimately. His eyes squinted hard against the glare from the distant lights visible just above Murph’s shoulder.
“Don’t go getting rabbit ears on me now, boy, ya hear? Ignore what those guys are saying. They’re just trying to get under your skin. All part of the game. Hit batsman? Also part of the game. Okay? Can’t be afraid to throw the ball now. Trust yourself, Mick. Come on. Give it your best here.”
Mickey looked like he could shatter with a blink of his eye. He stood inertly, listening to Murph’s gentle admonition while struggling with the shifting tide of tension.
“Murph’s right, Mick,” Lester said, patting the fretful pitcher on his back. “Relax, man. Nice and easy. Just hit the glove.”
The stars seemed to move across the deep sky in desultory fashion, a bizarre display under which the young hurler labored. He watched, almost hypnotically, as the meeting dissolved, with each participant returning to his previous position. Mickey’s lips, engaged now in the tragic monologue to which they had all grown accustomed, moved ever so slightly, and continued to do so for several seconds before the call of “play ball” shattered the stupor, leaving him to face the situation at hand.
With the bases full of Giants, and no margin for error, Petey Stewart, one of the Giants’ best RBI guys, strode to the plate. Stewart was tall and lean, but had tremendous pop in his bat. He had finished in the American Association’s top ten in extra base hits in each of the last three seasons. He could hit for average as well, hovering consistently around the .320 in each campaign. Mickey had bested him thus far, fanning him on a 2–2 curveball the first time up and retiring him the next two times on weak ground balls to Arky Fries at second. Now, with a chance to do some real damage, Stewart looked stone-like. His face was still, a battle mask chiseled so artfully that he appeared almost sinister in the artificial shadows. Mickey winced a bit as his eyes caught the deep lines framing Stewart’s jaw. It was awful. It was familiar. Standing there, he couldn’t help but think of the ghastly scarecrow that Clarence would set up each season in the corn field just to the right of the barn. That face. That awful, menacing face. A stained burlap countenance featuring searing red eyes, bulging cheeks, and a twisted mouth stenciled so craftily that it appeared the makeshift sentinel was always just about to speak. Clarence knew how much it bothered Mickey, and on more than one occasion, the twisted farmer used the straw-stuffed demon as punishment when Mickey transgressed against his wishes.
“Come on now, boy,” he would say with a perverse note of joy in his voice. “Time to pay a visit to old Mr. Bojangels. You may not listen to me, but he’ll learn you proper.”
As Stewart wind-milled his bat unmercifully, setting himself for Mickey’s first delivery, the boy closed his eyes, trying desperately to clear the lens of his memory. Encouraged by Lester’s continued prodding from behind the plate, Mickey managed to quiet, if only for the moment, the demons he had been fighting in torturous silence. His first pitch to the Giants’ slugger was a seed that shaved the outer half of the plate for a called strike one. The next pitch was equally adroit, another fastball that tickled the inner half of the dish, tying a frustrated Stewart in knots.
“Atta boy, Mick,” Lester yelled jubilantly from underneath his mask. “That’s the old pepper. Keep chucking boy!”
Mickey peered in to Lester. The boy looked as though he was okay, like he was back in the zone. But Mr. Bojangels was still on his mind. So was Clarence.
The thoughts polluted his head. And when the Giants started talking crap again from
the dugout, lambasting the young hurler for plunking their leadoff man, he lost his grip entirely. Mickey felt, as he watched Lester place two fingers down in between his legs, that it was all wrong. That these men had falsely accused him of something for which he was truly sorry. The paradox haunted him. How can I be sorry for something I did not do? he wondered silently. He shuddered. It reminded him of the time Clarence exploded after discovering that the gate to the pig pen had been left open, resulting in the loss of one of farmer’s prized porkers.
“What kind of numb skull are you anyway?” he thundered. “Why in tarnation didn’t you close the damned gate, boy?”
Mickey fought the accusation feverishly in the mid morning heat.
“Mickey did close the gate. I did.”
Clarence sighed loudly and shook his head. The two just stood for a moment, defined to each other now more than ever, by the searing sun and the burgeoning discomfort of the moment.
“Don’t you hand me none of yer shit, boy!” the irascible farmer ranted. “You tell the truth now or so help me God you’ll feel me.”
Mickey cowered a bit and listened in horror as his Clarence kicked the dirt while continuing his harangue about the lost pig.
“I’m sorry, Pa. Mickey is sorry. Really. I miss Jasper too. But I, I didn’t—”
“Damn right yer sorry. A sorry excuse for a boy is what you are. Don’t know why I even bother with ya.”
A soft starlight now fell like a gentle mist on the dozing face of the field. Red and white streamers festooned in the crisp air, and the smell of hot pretzels and nervous waiting permeated the tiny ballpark like a flurry of tiny flies. The crowd was growing restless, as was Stewart, who had been waiting on Mickey’s next pitch for what seemed like an eternity.
“Come on, Mick,” Lester called, pounding his glove, mindful of the boy’s escalating paralysis. “0–2 now. Way ahead. Just like before. Nice and easy now. Just hit the glove.”
Mickey steadied himself on the rubber, but the apparent calm belied the tumult of his mind. He thought about just stopping what he was doing and apologizing. Just hopping off the mound and explaining to all of them that the pitch just got away. Maybe that would make things right again. Surely they had to know that he would never hurt anyone intentionally. The word “sorry” always disarmed Clarence. Perhaps it would work with the Giants as well.
His mind, however, was cluttered, and his stomach was sick. The words would never come. Pitch the ball instead, he told himself. Pitch the ball. So he did. But much to Mickey’s dismay, the delivery broke off the plate for a ball. He missed with his next offering as well, and appeared now to be floundering once again. He stood on the rubber, rocking back and forth in the cool night air, as a feeling of profound defeat tore through his body. He felt sick and thought for a moment that he’d much prefer to be sitting. His tongue was burning and his knees wobbled against each other. He probably would have just flopped to the ground and curled up right there had it not been for Lester’s keen eye and timely words.
“Come on now, Mick,” he called. “Hey, look at me. Remember what we always say. Let ’em hit it. Split the plate—right down the middle. That’s all, baby. Right down the middle.”
Mickey stood now, perfectly still, his mouth slightly contorted as he measured the words of his batterymate. He looked at Lester softly, and recognized the freedom that lay behind the catcher’s gesture as he pounded his glove, imploring Mickey to throw the ball right over the plate. Mickey smiled a little, absorbed in the feeling that Lester had somehow made everything okay, then rocked back, kicked his leg in the air and fired.
The ball’s trajectory was just as planned. It’s flight was straight and true, a white blur that rocketed toward the batter who, in recognizing the desperation of the situation, was sitting dead red all the way.
The crack of the bat was significant, a thunderous blow that resonated throughout the entire park. All eyes watched dutifully as the little white sphere arched skyward and toward the centerfield wall, sending Jimmy Llamas into a full sprint. The quirky centerfielder ran with grave determination, his eyes dancing between the flight of the ball and the grim reality of the six-foot barricade that lay waiting for him should his jaunt take him one step too far.
Llamas, despite one or two ill-advised turns, kept his direction by the ball, like a night traveler following a Northern Star. His movements were for the most part awkward and spastic, and he almost fell once or twice in his fevered pursuit. But somehow, despite the improbability of such a feat, he snagged the prodigious blast with a remarkable over-the-shoulder catch.
The crowd, which had written the game off as yet another devastating loss once the ball had left the bat, roared its approval. Suddenly, they were back in business—snatched from the jaws of defeat by a sparkling defensive gem. What could have been a bases clearing extra base hit had been rehabilitated into a relatively harmless sacrifice fly, yielding just one run scored instead of the potential three. With the score now 3–2 in favor of the Brew Crew, Mickey readied himself for the final out. The sinister trumpets of fear were much quieter now, quelled by Llama’s catch and the comforting fact that he was just one out away from escaping the jam.
“Right over the plate, Mick,” Lester repeated.
Mickey, free now completely from the tremulous self pity, nodded dutifully. Standing there on the hill, with 14,000 people on their feet calling his name, Mickey could, in this moment, forget the previous agony and make it right.
The Giants sent to the plate a pinch hitter—Nate Buckley—a left-handed line drive hitter who had been sidelined for a week with a bruised right thumb. Buckley had been itching to grab a piece of the action all game, certain that despite his ailing hand, he could make a difference. The Giants skipper did not want to use him, but with his bench already depleted, he had no choice but to send the eager Buckley to the dish with a final chance to put the visitors ahead.
Mickey wasted no time with Buckley, burning a fastball right down the pipe for a called strike one. The second pitch, a slow curveball that grazed the outer half of the plate, was called a strike as well. Buckley shook his head in disgust and stepped out of the box. He banged his cleats hard with his bat and mumbled under his breath something about glasses and distinguishing asses from elbows.
Mickey received the ball back from Lester and got right back on the rubber.
With just one strike needed to secure a most uplifting victory, the crowd, in its frenzied anticipation, rose to its feet and roared. Mickey was ready. One pitch. One pitch and it was all over.
With the pandemonium building toward fevered crescendo, Mickey rolled his arms, kicked his leg, reared back and fired. The ball came out of his hand like a torpedo. It swam deftly through the tense air and sped inexorably toward the intended target. It was the perfect pitch. Buckley, who had been prematurely anesthetized by the crowd’s frenzy, suddenly felt something inside of him stir, something like a current being turned on somewhere beneath his skin. The energy was hot and prickly, and flowed to his brain where it lit his imagination with rapturous thoughts before traveling to his arms and legs and fingers and toes, setting his entire body ablaze with unbridled determination.
For all those watching, everything at that moment seemed to creep all at once to a series of slow motion frames. The ball, which appeared to be spinning in slow motion, was true—a knee-high seed destined for Lester’s yawning glove, which sat patiently behind Buckley on the inner half of the plate. It was the perfect pitch. Everyone knew it was the perfect pitch. A thin man with a mustache and eye glasses threw up his hands in premature exultation. A young blonde woman in a pretty blue dress laughed giddily and a row of impish children jumped up and down, screaming wildly about the power of their hometown hero.
The entire ballpark was rocking, was in full celebration mode when Buckley, despite the artful placement of the pitch, opened his hips and lashed the bat head through the hitting zone. The crack of the bat was mystifying, and fell across the bristling leg
ions like a hollow darkness. Gone was the spark of buoyancy and the promise of merriment.
Just like that. Gone. It was surreal. It was dreadful.
The ball, upon being struck, leaped off the bat and sped past Mickey’s glove with such force that the stunned hurler never had a chance to touch it. He could only turn helplessly and watch over his shoulder as the tiny white missile sped toward the middle of the diamond.
With the runners now in motion, and a desperate Jimmy Llamas charging in from centerfield, the unforeseen opportunity for the Giants to pull ahead overwhelmed the crowd, made them breathless. There were no more shouts of glory, no more visions of victory and all that followed. No. All of that was gone, replaced by an ominous momentary silence, an uncomfortable waiting for the proverbial axe to fall. They had all but hung their heads in abject disappointment, and some had already begun their familiar lamentations, when the ball, still in flight, struck the second base bag, diverting the intended course right to a stunned Arky Fries, who picked up the fortuitous carom and fired it to Finster. Game over. The tiny ballpark, awakened suddenly from its tomb, erupted in thunderous shouts and applause, creating a milieu of unbridled energy that did not subside for a good ten minutes after the final out was recorded.
The post-game euphoria in the locker room was equally enthralling. There were high fives, slaps on the backs and clinking of beer bottles. Players hugged and laughed and marveled out loud over the good fortune that had befallen them. Even the management was left scratching their heads.
“Holy crap, Farley,” Murph said, unable to suppress his boy-like smile as he sat and talked about the game with his assistant. “That was huge! Unreal. Simply unreal. Have you ever seen anything like that before?”
Matheson laughed loudly. He shook his head, as though he were having some sort of seizure, then and stood up with profound vigor and purpose.
“Nope, can’t say that I have, Murph. But it’s good. Damn good. I seen this sort of thing before. You know, baseball miracles? And it’s always the same. I’m telling ya, it’s good. When the baseball Gods are smiling on you, ain’t no mistakin’ it.”
Sophomore Campaign Page 21