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Jasper, Rick, 1948–
The catch / by Rick Jasper.
p. cm. — (Travel team)
ISBN 978–0–7613–8320–8 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)
[1. Baseball—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J32Cat 2012
[Fic]—dc23 2011024899
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 – BP – 12/31/11
eISBN: 978-0-7613-8730-5 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-3054-9 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-3053-2 (mobi)
TO MY GRANDMOTHER,
ANNA REECE, WHO ACTUALLY SAW
BABE RUTH PLAY
“The way a team plays as a whole
determines its success.You may have the
greatest bunch of individual stars in the
world, but if they don’t play together, the
club won’t be worth a dime.”
—BABE RUTH
CHAPTER 1
It all began with The Catch. If you say that, “The Catch,” to anyone who was playing for the Las Vegas Roadrunners that day, they still know what you mean. And you can still watch it on YouTube and other websites. It will probably live online, somewhere, forever.
It happened a year ago in the quarter finals of the Palm Springs Invitational Tournament. For U17 traveling teams, the Palm is a big deal. It comes at the end of the season, and the best teams from west of the Rockies are there. Not to mention a ton of college and pro scouts and TV cameras.
The Runners were the designated home team in that game, and they were a run up on the Phoenix Desert Eagles in the bottom of the ninth. There was one out and an Eagle on first: Jimmy Toms, one of their speedsters. Unfortunately for Eagles fans, their number-nine hitter was at the plate. That was little Kenny Bailey. He was a terrific infielder, but he had already struck out three times in the game. The outfielders were playing shallow.
Maybe Kenny was frustrated, or desperate. With a 1–2 count, he should have known they were sending Jimmy to second and just tried to hit something sharp behind the runner. Instead, he practically left his feet swinging at a fastball.
There was a sharp clowp! as Kenny connected and sent a rising line drive lasering for the fence in deep right center. You can hear the commentary on YouTube:
“And there it goes! Toms is off, this will definitely tie the game! Hold it, look at the center fielder! Danny Manuel is flying after that drive. There’s no way he can catch up . . . but he’s gaining, he’s gaining . . . He dives flat out and . . . Oh. My. Gosh! He’s caught it. He throws from the ground to second, who throws to first and they’ve doubled up Toms. Game over! Do you believe that? Let’s watch it again.”
And they did. Again and again. In Vegas the TV news shows were actually leading with the clip—a sports story beating out the murders and car wrecks. When the video made ESPN, the analysts had a few more words:
“How did that kid catch up with that? He must be psychic!”
“I know, Boomer. It almost looked like he was after that ball before it left the bat.”
The video footage is amazing to watch. The pitcher winds up, the runner goes, Kenny swings for the fences and . . .The rest seems almost like slow motion, even when it isn’t.
The fielder is racing after the ball, and then at some point the ball is trying to outrun the fielder. And just when it seems a catch is impossible, Manuel goes airborne and horizontal. Like the dude should have been wearing a cape.
Suddenly Manuel has the ball. He lands on the ground in a heap, but he holds on and raises the ball to show he’s made the catch. Toms, the base runner, has just rounded third when he stops, looks back at the third-base coach yelling and waving his arms, and reverses his field. But he knows it’s hopeless. Manuel suddenly looks at Perez, who’s also yelling, and throws him the ball. Perez throws to first. The crowd goes nuts. Manuel trots in, and when he gets to the infield his teammates swarm over him, finally hoisting him on their shoulders and carrying him to the dugout.
Quite a catch. Quite a play. I can hardly believe it was me.
CHAPTER 2
In the dugout, everyone was hollering and slapping me on the back except the coaches. Coach Harris was writing something in his notebook. Coach Washington, his assistant, finally came over and put a hand on my shoulder. Then he took me to one side.
“Congratulations, Danny,” he said. “Great catch.” There was something else in his eyes, though. “You know,” he said next, “it was the wrong play.”
“What do ya mean, Wash?” I got defensive. “We won!”
“We did, Danny. But what do you think were the odds of you making that catch?”
“One in a million,” I grinned. “That’s why it was . . . ”
“That’s why it was the wrong play. If you miss, we lose. Bailey had the speed to take all four bases if it got by you. If you play the ball off the fence, we’re tied with Bailey on second. You’ve got a good arm—maybe we even have a shot at nailing him there.”
“But, Wash . . .”—Why couldn’t he see this?—“We won!”
“Yeah. We won the lottery.”
Whatever. I wasn’t about to let Wash bring me down with all that. I was enjoying the moment. Next thing I knew there was a hot girl in a T-shirt that said PEPPERDINE, the Malibu university, across the front, putting a microphone in my face.
“Danny,” she said, “that was incredible. What was going through your mind when that ball was hit?”
“Just, you know, get it,” I said.
“How did you have the presence of mind to start the double play?”
The truth is that credit belonged to Sammy. All I was thinking at the time was, I made the catch. But I didn’t tell her that. “Well, we’re always coached to keep the situation in mind,” I said, noticing Wash watching from the other end of the dugout.
“Have you thought yet about your baseball future?”
“Nah. I’m just thinking about tomorrow’s game.” Another lie. At the moment, I was thinking about PEPPERDINE and also about when I could see video of the catch. And about my dad. I hoped he’d seen the play, and I couldn’t wait to hear his reaction.
After we all dressed up the team went to dinner. The Palm is a first-class tournament. The team roomed at a spa, and they always had a huge spread waiting for us at mealtime. I should have felt great, but Wash had spoiled it. I kept chewing on what he had said.
I filled my plate and looked for Nellie.
Nelson “Nellie” Carville is our third baseman. He’s more than that, though. Some guys just have the “leader” thing going on, and Nellie’s the guy who has it on our team. That’s why he’s captain.
There was a space next to him at one of the ta
bles, so I sat down there.
“Hey Danny,” he said. “Mad catch!”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad you said that.” Then I told him about Wash.
Nellie listened till I was through, and then he thought a minute. “Don’t let it bring you down,” he said finally. “It was a beautiful thing to see. Now, Wash’s job is to teach us how to play better. Nobody can teach a catch like you made. But Coach was trying to teach you something, right?”
“Yeah, I guess he was saying, ‘Think about the situation.’”
“Yep. So next time . . . But tonight, enjoy the moment. The team sure is.”
I felt better. Nellie has that effect on people.
A minute later my phone buzzed. It was Dad’s number, but when I said, “Yo,” the voice I heard was Sal’s. Sal is my dad’s “associate.” That’s how my dad always introduces him. “This is Sal Ruberto, my associate.” He and my dad have been working together since I was little. I’ve never been sure exactly what they do, but as dad always says, it puts meat on the table.
“Hey Danny,” Sal said, “You’re famous! Your dad’s watching that catch on TV. Here, he wants to talk to you.”
CHAPTER 3
“Danny!” I could tell Dad was in a great mood, and I felt as good as I’d felt all day. “Wow, what a play! I must have watched it a dozen times, fast-mo, slow-mo. It’s a thing of beauty, son.”
I could hear a phone ringing in the background. “Thanks, Dad!”
Dad asked me to hold a second. He said something to Sal, and then he came back on. “Sorry, Danny, my phone’s been ringing ever since your video came on the news. Ringing with opportunities!”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“We’ll talk about all that when you get home, Dan. Right now you just need to focus on baseball. You’re in the semis tomorrow. Tough team?”
“Same team. We’re both one and one. But we’re facing their best pitcher. I hear he could be tournament MVP.”
“Well, you go get ’em. Hey, I need to ask a favor.”
“Sure.”
“There’ll be a guy at the game tomorrow. Name is Strauss, Jack Strauss. He’s a business friend, and he was real excited about your play. He wants to meet you.”
“No problem.”
“Great, great. Okay, you rest up tonight. I’ll talk to you after the game tomorrow.”
After the call, I wondered if this guy was some kind of scout, or maybe just a fan. Dad had called him a “business friend.” But that didn’t mean much because I had a pretty sketchy idea of what Dad’s business even was. My older sister, Melina—we call her Mel— would joke about it sometimes. Every time we tried to pin Dad down about what he did, we got a different story: “Oh, it’s not interesting, just business.” Or “Buying and selling. You know, investments.” Or the colorful version: “I guess you could say I’m a gambler.”
Our mom died from cancer when we were both in grade school, and we’d had what Dad called “governesses” ever since to take care of stuff at home. A lot of times, before we had licenses, Sal would drive us to school and practices, and sometimes his concern for our well-being was almost motherly. In fact, behind his back Mel called him Aunt Sally, which was especially funny if you saw him—six feet four inches, 250 pounds, and very hairy. So we weren’t on our own, and Dad was home a lot, unless he had a business trip; his main office was in our house. He worked hard. And while we never felt rich, we always had whatever we needed.
After supper, some of the guys who had family with them went out to movies or shopping. I went to my room, which I was sharing this trip with Shotaro Mori, one of our pitchers, usually in relief. As a roommate, Shotaro was low maintenance. He was—during the Palm— having a passionate affair with his Xbox. So he was gaming, and I was just chilling in the room when Mel called.
“Hey, little brother, you got me in trouble!”
“What do ya mean?”
“One of the girls here has a kid brother on the Eagles. And you definitely rained on her parade.” Then she laughed. Mel’s laugh is special. “So,” she went on, “where did you find that catch?”
“I don’t really know. I saw it was gonna be hit, and I just took off running.”
Mel is the best athlete in our family. Since girls don’t get to go very far in baseball, she got into softball when she was twelve. Today she’s playing shortstop for Arizona State University, which is one of the best women’s softball teams in the country. There’s talk of her being an All-American. Mel’s been on TV a lot more than me.
Then I told her what Wash had said. I just couldn’t seem to let that go.
She listened and then said, “Yeah, that’s what coaches are for, keeping your head small. Our coach is always telling us to think past the play. But you were spectacular.”
“Thanks, sis. Coming from you that means a lot. Well, we’ve got the Eagles again tomorrow. Hope I can get you in some more trouble with your friend. Whichever one of us wins goes to the finals.”
“Wish I could watch. They haven’t offered you a TV contract yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay. I’ll call tomorrow night if I can. Good luck, bro!”
That night as I went to sleep I was thinking about the Eagles, trying to remember anything that would help me the next day. What the next day would actually bring, though, I could never have imagined.
CHAPTER 4
The game was scheduled for 10:00 A.M. They tried not to have games in the heat and wind of the early afternoon in the desert, and they were saving the evening for the first game of the finals. With luck, we’d be playing twice that day.
On the bus to the field Coach Harris had a few words for us. I’d seen Coach look better, but he always seemed to wear the tension on his face before a big game. He’d probably been up all night trying to figure out ways for us to win.
“Okay, men,” he started. “You’ve seen this team before. Every guy is fast. They play small ball better than anyone else you’ll face. And they’re pitching Scott today.”
The team was quiet. He meant Troy Scott, a skinny, six-foot-five-inch kid who could bring a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball. Which set up his other pitch—a changeup. Not much of a curve, but he didn’t need one. Our hitters would be guessing between fast and slow.
“Wash and I were looking at film last night,” Harris went on. “What did we see, Wash?”
Wash stood up. “Sometimes,” he said, “not always, Troy tips his change. Watch his glove. Sometimes he’ll squeeze it around his pitching hand, like this, before he starts his windup.”
Harris resumed. “Infielders, be on your toes. These hitters know how to work the ball. Outfielders, play smart. You know they will. Pay attention to their base runners. Know the situation. Know the score.”
We got to the field at nine o’clock and started warming up. The Eagles arrived not long after us. And there were a lot of fans for a morning game. Usually we had a few team family members, but today there were quite a few people I didn’t recognize. The Catch had probably gotten some folks interested.
One guy sitting in the front row behind our dugout stood out. He was fat and red-faced, fifty or so years old. He wore a white suit, a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt, a red tie, and a white, broad-brimmed hat. Even though it was early, the day was hot—we were in the desert after all—and this guy’s suit was already a mass of wrinkles. He had a white handkerchief the size of a towel, and every so often he’d take off the hat and wipe the sweat from his shaved head. He looked uncomfortable in the midst of all the shorts and T-shirts in the stands.
There was one other person I noticed, sitting up a few rows behind the plate in an orange halter-top. When she saw me look up that way she waved. You guessed it: PEPPERDINE.
Phoenix was the home team today, and they played like it. We had Carson Jamison on the mound, and he’d been sharper. Carson may not be as great as he thinks he is—nobody’s that great—but on a good day, if he pays attention to our catcher, Nick Cosimo, he
’s effective. Carson throws strikes and mixes his pitches. Today, though, his control was suspect. He walked two in the first inning, two in the second, and the leadoff hitter in the third.
Walks are almost never good, but a team like Phoenix will eat you up if you give them base runners. Example: Bottom of the first. First batter walks and then steals second on what turns out to be the third strike on batter two. Nick throws to the base, but even with his powerful arm it isn’t close. Third batter drags a perfect bunt down the first baseline. He legs it out, and now there are runners on the corners with one out.
The next batter flies to left, deep enough that left fielder Darius McKay can’t keep the runner on third from tagging up and scoring. He throws to second to keep the other runner at first. But Carson walks the next guy, so there are runners on first and second. With two out, Carson hangs a curve that gets lined into right. The lead runner scores, the other one goes to third, and there are once again runners on the corners. When the next batter pops up to the infield, they’re done. But we’ve given up two runs that really boiled down to Carson’s lack of control.
Meanwhile, Troy Scott was rolling for Phoenix. Darius got a leadoff single in the first and stole second, but the next three batters struck out. In the second, with one out, I managed a single on a bloop fly. Then Zack Waddell struck out. Nick was up, and Scott blew two heaters by him for strikes. Nick took a time-out and then got back in the box. On the next pitch I spotted—and fortunately Nick did too—Scott squeezing his glove twice around his pitching hand before he started his stretch. Nick waited and parked the changeup in the left-field seats.
But we played catch-up all morning. After seven innings the Eagles were up 5–3, and Scott was still ringing our guys up, including yours truly in the fifth.
I led off the eighth, looking for the fastball. With the game near the end, some power pitchers get impatient and just start throwing as hard as they can to get it over with. I guessed right and lined the ball deep to the gap in right. It was a triple. Zack then flew out to center, and I tagged up easily to score. 5–4.
The Catch Page 1