by Mike Lupica
“Somebody get an ice pack out of the kit,” Mr. Cullen said, and Cody went running toward the bench like he was trying to go from first to third.
Brett said, “Hutch, I am so sorry, but you know we’re supposed to go pedal-to-the-metal in Extreme Infield—”
Hutch put a hand up to stop him, wincing a little, unable to help it, as he raised his arm.
“You did what I would have done if I were coming into second,” he said. “No worries.” And bumped him some fist.
“You always get out of the way, every single time,” Brett said.
“Well,” Hutch said, “there’s a first time for everything.”
Cody came back with the ice. Hutch put the pack right on top of his shoulder, where it hurt the most, thinking Mr. Cullen was right: As hard as the infield was, he was lucky he hadn’t broken something.
He stood up now, feeling somebody pulling him by his left arm.
Darryl.
“Sorry, Captain,” he said. “Couldn’t get the dang ball out of my glove.”
“I noticed,” Hutch said.
Darryl said, “Didn’t mean to cause no accidents.”
“No worries,” Hutch said again.
“That,” Mr. Cullen said, “is about as extreme as Extreme Infield should get.” Then he told Hutch to go take a seat on the bench and keep that ice on his shoulder, and anybody who wanted to take some extra batting practice could. He’d give each guy three swings until pickup time.
Cody walked with Hutch to the bench. When he was sure nobody could hear them, he said, “How bad is it, really?”
“I’m fine,” Hutch said.
“You sure?” Cody said. “Because the way you landed, not breaking your fall—”
“I said I’m fine!” Hutch said, the words coming out with more teeth on them, sharper, than he intended.
“Okay then,” Cody said.
“Okay,” Hutch said.
They walked the rest of the way to the bench in silence.
Hutch didn’t say much on the ride home, the ice pack still on his shoulder.
When they got to the Hesters’, they ate burgers that Mr. Hester had cooked on the tiny grill in their tiny backyard. After dinner Hutch and Cody went to Cody’s bedroom in the back of the house and watched a couple of old episodes of 24 on Cody’s computer.
When it was time for Hutch to go home, Cody walked him outside.
It felt like the temperature had dropped about ten degrees since dinner, which in Florida, especially in the summer, probably meant another thunderstorm was about to blow through. And right then, as if on cue, they saw a flash of lightning in the distance, heard the distant rumble of thunder.
It was then that Hutch put a voice to the question that had been running through his mind. Or at least part of the question.
“Why do you think Darryl was messing with me today?”
“You mean calling you ‘Captain’ over and over again?”
“Yeah,” Hutch said.
“I told you last night I thought he was torked off, compai,” Cody said. “I think this was just his way of saying it.”
Hutch hadn’t felt much like smiling since Brett had sent him flying. But anytime he heard Cody using Spanish expressions, even one word, Hutch couldn’t help himself.
“So what do I do about it?”
“Nothing,” Cody said. “Darryl’s Darryl. And he ain’t changin’, dude.”
“What’s his problem?” Hutch said.
There was more lightning, getting closer. Hutch knew he’d better get a move on if he didn’t want to get real wet, real quick.
Now Hutch saw Cody’s smile in the light from the sky.
“You really want to know?” Cody said.
“Yeah, I do.”
“You’re too good.”
“But he’s better,” Hutch said.
“Maybe not by enough.”
Hutch almost said something else, something he’d been wanting to say since practice, but he didn’t. Instead he bumped fists with Cody and headed home.
He got there about a minute before the storm hit. His dad was in the living room, and before Hutch saw what was on the television he knew, because he could see the can of beer on the small table at the end of the couch.
Hutch gave a little knock on the wall, like he was asking permission to enter, saw that it was the Marlins-Cubs game his dad was watching.
Saw that the force field was up.
“Hey,” his dad said, shooting him a quick look, taking a sip of his beer.
“Hey.”
“I’m only watching an inning or two before Law and Order.”
“Cool.”
His dad wasn’t Spanish, liked to say that his nationality was Florida redneck. But all the time he had spent in the sun his whole life had made him almost as dark as Hutch, almost as dark as Consuela Valentin Hutchinson.
“What’s the score?” Hutch said.
“Five–four in the third.”
Hutch lingered in the doorway, wanting this night to be different from all the others, wanting to be invited in.
Wanting to talk about baseball with his dad tonight as much as he ever had.
His dad turned back around, as if realizing that Hutch was still standing there.
“Something on your mind?”
Go ahead, you loser.
Tell him.
“Nah,” Hutch said.
“’Night then,” his dad said.
“’Night.”
Hutch went to his bedroom, closed the door, reached under his bed and found the brochure for The Hun School of Princeton, up in New Jersey, the brochure he’d sent away for without telling anybody, not even his mom. The Hun School of Princeton: With white buildings that looked like they belonged in the nicest parts of Palm Beach, and happy-looking students, and streams, and trees, like something out of another world.
The famous boarding school that was supposed to have one of the best baseball programs in the whole country, as good as anything in Florida or California, even though it was in the Northeast.
Hutch heard people talk all the time about how cold it could get up north in the winter, even watched the Weather Channel sometimes so he could see the pictures when one of those big storms they called Nor’easters hit.
Maybe so.
Hutch didn’t care.
It couldn’t be colder than what he’d felt tonight at practice, what he was still feeling now, even on a hot Florida night. Hutch hadn’t said this to Cody. He’d thought about saying it to his dad just now in the living room, before he lost his nerve.
But how could anything be colder than what Darryl Williams had done tonight?
Holding that ball on purpose.
Hutch knew he couldn’t prove it.
He just knew.
Darryl had wanted him to get run over.
10
WHEN HUTCH CAME DOWN FOR BREAKFAST, IT WAS JUST HIS MOM in the kitchen, almost ready to leave for the clothing store she worked at, called Blue, at the Crystal Tree Plaza in North Palm.
“How’s my boy today?” she said.
Connie Hutchinson was in a good mood this morning. It seemed no matter what went on with their family, his mom had the best attitude of anybody Hutch knew.
It was why Hutch tried to never let on when he was in a bad mood. Or having a bad day. Because she never seemed to have one, never let the sadness win.
“I’m good,” he said. “My shoulder feels a lot better than I thought it was going to this morning.”
He had poked his head inside her room before going to bed, and told her what had happened. She had said that if his shoulder hurt any worse when he woke up, she wanted to have the doctor take a look at it.
“Really it does,” Hutch added, pouring himself some cereal.
She looked at him. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I’m just sayin’.”
Then he put his head down like he was watching a ball into his glove and made himself extremely busy eating Fros
ted Mini-Wheats.
“Of course with you,” his mom said, “it’s usually what you’re not saying.”
“You sound like Cody,” he said. “Or maybe it’s him that sounds like you. I can’t decide sometimes.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Okay, that doesn’t sound anything like Cody.”
She sat down at the table, even though Hutch could see by the clock that she should be heading out the door. Never good. She was staring at him, the way she did sometimes, as if trying to read his mind.
Which she sometimes could, at the weirdest possible times.
“You okay?” she said, smiling at him.
“I told you my shoulder’s fine.”
“Wasn’t talking about your shoulder.”
Even with her psychic powers, Hutch told himself there was no way she could know what was really bothering him.
But her radar had picked something up, Hutch could tell. Now she wanted Hutch to open up. She was a mom, after all, which meant she thought you were breaking some sort of law if you didn’t open up.
“Anything else you want to talk about this morning?” she said. “Anything at all with your old mom?”
“You’re not old,” Hutch said.
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I didn’t know there was a subject, Mom.”
“You have that look.”
“The one where I just got up and I’m eating my breakfast?” Hutch said. “That look?”
She’s the opposite of Dad, he thought. He never wants to talk and she always does.
“The look where something’s bothering you.”
“Nope.”
“If there is…”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Right,” she said, smiling again.
She stood up, kissed him on the forehead, said she’d pick him and Cody up after practice. She had her hand on the doorknob when Hutch said, “Mom?”
Thinking as he said it that he couldn’t help himself sometimes—it was like she wore him down just by knowing him as well as she did.
“You ever wonder why Dad and I hardly ever talk about baseball?”
“I don’t wonder,” she said. “Maybe because I think I understand.”
“Understand what?” Hutch said.
“Understand that he worries that it will break your heart someday the way it broke his.”
Hutch said, “But I love baseball.”
His mom said, “So did he.”
Past tense.
The thing about being a second baseman now—temporarily, Hutch kept telling himself—was that you hardly ever had to make a big throw, the kind shortstops seemed to make all the time.
Maybe once a game, if you were lucky, you had to backhand a ball behind second and gun a throw to first from there.
Or make the kind of relay throw from the outfield he’d made at practice yesterday.
Most of the time, on routine grounders, you felt like you could make your throw to first base underhanded and still get the guy. Or run the ball over there yourself. So even after landing on his shoulder the way he did, Hutch knew he wasn’t going to miss the next game. There was about as much of a chance of him missing a game, especially a tournament game, as there was of Cal Ripken Jr. missing a game when he had his streak going.
He just didn’t want to have to worry about his shoulder every time he made a throw or swung the bat. The only thing he wanted to worry about was beating their next opponent, the Sarasota Dodgers, down in Fort Lauderdale.
No worries, as it turned out. The shoulder was a little stiff for the next couple of days, but not sore. He could throw and he could hit. By the time Hutch and the rest of the guys got on the bus for the trip down 95 to Fort Lauderdale, Hutch pronounced himself good to go.
“Thank you for that bulletin,” Cody said, “because the rest of the guys and me were very concerned that you might not be ready to play tonight.”
The bus ride took about an hour. They got off at Commercial Boulevard and as they did, Hutch pointed out a huge billboard for the Joe DiMaggio Children’s Hospital.
“He used to have a charity softball game every year at Fort Lauderdale Stadium, which is right next to where we’re playing tonight,” Hutch said.
“I know you think I should know this, but I’m going to ask you anyway, and don’t hurt me,” Cody said. “Who’s Joe DiMaggio?”
Hutch reached over and cuffed him lightly on the back of his head, something he had to do a lot. “He’s one of the greatest baseball players of all time, a center fielder, known as the Yankee Clipper,” Hutch said. “And that didn’t hurt.”
“‘Yankee Clipper’ makes him sound like the team barber,” Cody said.
Hutch ignored him, saying, “When he was still alive, they used to introduce him as the greatest living ballplayer, even though my dad says it was Willie Mays.”
Now Cody brightened. “That must be the guy they named Willie Mays Hayes after in Major League.”
Hutch closed his eyes, shook his head. “Anyway,” he said, “here’s the coolest stat of all on Joe DiMaggio: He played in ten World Series and the Yankees won nine of them.”
“If one of us has to be up on stuff like that,” Cody said,
“I’m glad it’s you.”
Hutch said, “He also had almost the same number of career home runs as he did strikeouts.”
“Awesome,” Cody said, but in a way that let Hutch know that Cody’s brain had already moved off Joe DiMaggio and on to something else. “Hey,” he said, frowning, “how come we’re not on the big field here?”
“Because you gotta make the finals to make the big field,” Hutch said. “Which is the way it oughta be.”
They got off at 12th Avenue and passed Fort Lauderdale Stadium. Hank Harding, sitting behind them, said that he had come to an Orioles-Marlins game here in March, and caught a foul ball.
“Just make sure you catch all balls tonight,” Cody said.
“You ever think about using your mouth to catch them?” Hank said. “’Cause I’m pretty sure it’s bigger than your glove.”
The trash-talking among the Cardinals really began after that, and suddenly the inside of their old bus was as loud as recess and everybody was joining in.
Everybody except Darryl, D-Will himself.
He was in the last row, head resting against the window, sunglasses on.
Fast asleep.
11
THIS TIME IT WAS THE CARDINALS JUMPING OFF TO THE QUICK lead, 3–0 in the top of the first.
Alex walked, Brett singled to left, and Hutch tripled them both home. At least the man working the public address system called it a triple. Hutch thought it was a double and an error because of the way the center fielder misplayed the ball after it bounced off the wall in left center.
Standing on third, Hutch thought they might be looking at a really big inning, but then Darryl just missed a home run the way he’d just missed one against Naples, the ball falling a few feet from the fence in left.
Problem was, Darryl was sure it was a home run when it left his bat. Which is why he went into his home-run pose at home plate, tossing his bat away, stopping a few feet out of the batter’s box, hands on hips, watching the flight of the ball.
The way guys did on SportsCenter, every single night.
He was still standing a few feet away from the plate, hadn’t even started running yet, when the ball ended up in the left fielder’s glove and all he had to show for his swing was a long, really long, sacrifice fly.
Hutch thought the ball was going out, too, but tagged up anyway, ran hard for the plate even though the kid had no shot of ever throwing him out.
He ran so hard right through home plate that he nearly ran into Darryl, who had backed up a few feet but was still staring toward the outfield, as if what happened there was some kind of optical illusion.
“Almost,” Hutch said, putting the brakes on.
“There’s no almost in
baseball,” Darryl said. “This isn’t a game of dang horseshoes. So don’t give me any of your almost.”
“Hey,” Hutch said, picking up Darryl’s bat for him. “At least we got another run out of it.”
Darryl grabbed the bat away from him and said, “Go captain somebody else,” and walked away from him.
In the third inning, the Cardinals were still ahead by a score of 4–2. And they were threatening again, bases loaded, two outs, a chance to blow the roof right off the semis.
Darryl at the plate.
All Hutch had to do was take one look at him from first to see how much he wanted to hit a grand slam.
He laid off the first pitch, thinking it was high, turned and gave the ump a quick look when he called it strike one.
Then he swung through a hard fastball to get into an 0-2 hole. Some pitchers would waste one here, seeing if they could get the hitter to strike himself out.
Not this pitcher. He was big, and had an arm to match.
He went into his windup and came with the exact opposite of a waste pitch, threw one as hard as he could, one of those fastballs that dared you to catch up with it.
Darryl didn’t.
He was the one who got wasted, swinging so hard trying to hit his grand slam that he spun himself around and stumbled and nearly ended up in the lap of the Sarasota catcher, his bat falling out of his hands.
From where he stood, a few feet off first, Hutch thought he heard somebody in the infield, either the shortstop or the third baseman, laugh right before the Sarasota guys ran off the field.
Hutch couldn’t see who’d done it because he was still watching Darryl.
Who must have heard the laugh, too, because as soon as he had his feet under him again, he glared over toward the Sarasota bench.
“Somebody think this is funny?” he said.
Nobody said anything back.
Then suddenly Darryl was picking up his bat in his right hand, pulling it back like he was going to fling it. Not at the Sarasota bench. Just somewhere.
Like he was about to throw it as hard as he’d just swung it.
“Darryl!” Hutch yelled.
Hutch knew he had to stop him somehow, knew that as soon as the bat left Darryl’s hand, he was going to be ejected from the game. American Legion rules were clear about that. And about this: If you got ejected from a game, you were automatically suspended from the next game.