by Carl Deuker
I nodded, but because of my poor warm-up, I treated Mount Vernon’s first two hitters as if each were Babe Ruth, walking them both. That brought up their three-hitter, a guy who looked like a heavyweight wrestler. The cleanup hitter, loosening in the on-deck circle, was even bigger.
Hadley called time and jogged out to the mound. “Hey, Laz,” he said, “you’re forgetting something.”
“What?”
He filled his lungs with air and then exhaled. “Breathe. Remember how to do that?”
I forced myself to smile. “I remember.”
As he returned to his position behind home plate, I took a few deep breaths, and my heart stopped beating like a woodpecker hammering on a tree.
The hitter was crowding the plate—there was no way he could get the barrel of the bat on an inside fastball. I went into my stretch, looked back at the runner at second, and delivered—a two-seam fastball that moved in on his hands. He swung and caught the ball on the fists, lifting a wounded duck into no man’s land in short right. The ball hit the chalk and danced away from our right fielder, Martin Moran. By the time Martin got the ball back into the infield, two runs had scored and the Mount Vernon hitter was clapping his hands at second base, his eyes shining.
I peeked over at Coach Vereen. He had his cap off and was running his hands through his hair. I wanted to shout over at him not to worry. I’d made a good pitch—the hitter had been lucky.
It took only four pitches to strike out the cleanup hitter. The number-five batter hit a little dribbler to first for the second out, and I finished the inning with another strikeout, this one on three pitches.
On the bench, guys were laughing and loose. At first I didn’t get it. At North Central, trailing by two runs felt like trailing by twenty. But these guys—I still had trouble thinking of them as my guys—had scored eleven runs against Sumas, and they expected to do the same against Mount Vernon.
And they . . . we . . . did come back—chipping away at the lead by scoring a run in the second on an error, and then another in the third to tie it. I mowed down the hitters by keeping the ball low and pounding the strike zone.
In the top of the fifth, the Mount Vernon starter tired. After every pitch, he walked to the back of the mound to regroup. When he hit two guys in a row, their coach took him out. The reliever looked like a sixth-grader—chubby face, scared eyes.
Hadley ripped a screaming liner into right center field for a double, the first of five straight hits. When I took the mound in the bottom of the fifth, we were leading 9–2.
I set them down one-two-three by letting my fielders do the work. Hadley caught a foul pop for the first out; Comette gobbled up a grounder behind second and made a great throw for the second out; Ian settled under a lazy fly ball to end the inning.
When I returned to the bench, Coach Vereen patted me on the back. “That’s it for today, Laz. Nice job.”
I protested. “I’m not tired. I can finish.”
He waved that off. “Long season, and the twins need work.”
Marc Robosky gave up a run in the sixth, and his brother gave up two in the seventh, making the final 9–5.
After the Good game stuff ended, I heard a shout. “Laz! Over here!”
Antonio was up the third base line. I jogged over to him.
“Did you just g-get here?” I asked.
“You kidding? My only bro is pitching his first game for a hotshot team? I was here from the start.”
I gave him a look.
“Okay, maybe I missed a few innings. But I made it, right?” He paused and nodded toward the parking lot. “I got wheels. I’ll take you home.”
Vereen’s rule was that we had to go to games on the team bus, but the ride back was optional.
“Sure,” I said. “As long as we get something to eat.”
Three
Antonio had Garrett’s Subaru, not Mom’s Corolla or Curtis’s pickup. We drove south on I-5 toward Seattle, my stomach in a knot. “How about Riley’s?” he asked when we reached Seattle. “I haven’t had barbecue since the last time we were there.”
“Sure,” I said, glad to get out of that car.
Riley’s mainly serves takeout, but they have a few picnic tables that look out over Lake Washington. Across the lake the city lights of Kirkland gleamed. I tried to pay for my meal, but Antonio wouldn’t let me. “Stars never pay for their meals,” he joked. His wallet was thick with more money than he made working at Home Depot.
We sat eating barbecued beef sandwiches and sweet potato fries and drinking Mountain Dew. A gas heater on a post made it almost too warm.
After a few minutes he put his drink down, wiped his mouth, and leaned back. “Did you sign up for College Bound when you were in middle school?”
“I d-don’t think so. What is it?”
“Mrs. Elizabeth had my entire class sign up. She said that if your family has no money, you get good grades, and you don’t get arrested, the state will pay your tuition at college.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. Nobody believed her, but she wasn’t blowing smoke. A woman from Central Washington University found out about me making the honor roll. She called Mom and told her that if I keep my grades up, I can go there for free.”
“That’s g-great, Antonio. That’s fantastic.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Me getting a scholarship? Pretty wild. Mom is crazy excited. So is Curtis.”
“N-Nothing w-wild about it. You’re s-smart. You know you are.”
He looked out over the water. “I went on Google Maps. Central Washington University is over the mountains. You ever been over the mountains?”
I laughed. “How would I ever g-get over the m-mountains?”
“It’s supposed to be all wheat farms and apple trees over there.”
“So what? You’d b-be in classes, not p-picking apples.” I reached across and punched him on the shoulder. “It’s g-great.”
“It hasn’t happened yet.”
We stopped talking and concentrated on our food. He was finished and I was nearly done when his cell vibrated. He flipped it open, read the text, tapped a reply, and then looked down at my plate. I quickly finished the little that was left.
Back in the Subaru, Antonio cranked up the volume on the stereo as he drove—fast—toward Laurelhurst.
The text had been from Garrett. I knew it, and Antonio knew I knew it. Talking about going to college and then running errands for a drug dealer—it made no sense. I switched off the music.
“That was from G-Garrett, wasn’t it?”
He turned his head toward me. “What?”
“The t-text. It was from G-Garrett. Right?”
“Yeah. So?” I could hear a challenge in his voice.
“D-Don’t be stupid. The guy is using you.”
He snorted. “First you tell me I’m smart, and now you tell me I’m stupid. Which is it?”
“B-Both,” I said.
“Yeah? Well, I’m not both. Okay? I do the easy stuff. Only the easy stuff. No risk.”
“How d-do you know?”
“Because I know.”
The car filled with uneasy silence. Antonio reached forward and hit the play button. The music came back on, full volume until he pulled into the Thurmans’ driveway.
“Thanks f-for coming to m-my game,” I said in a cold voice as I got out of the Subaru.
“No problem,” he said, his voice distant.
I was about to walk away when he leaned toward me. “You got baseball, Laz. That’s where you can be you. I don’t have that. I can’t be me at school and I can’t be me at home. So I hang out at the back fence.”
Suja, or somebody like her, would have known what to say. And maybe what they said would have worked, would have kept all the bad things that happened from ever coming down the pike. But I’m not Suja, and nothing right came to me, nothing at all. I nodded, closed the door, and then tapped the window twice. Antonio gave me a smile and a thumbs-up before he dro
ve off, the taillights of Garrett’s Subaru slowly disappearing in the darkness.
Four
When I woke the next morning, I opened the laptop Mrs. Thurman had given me and navigated to the high school section of the Seattle Times, hoping there’d be something about me. The headline read Laurelhurst Throttles Mount Vernon. It was followed by a paragraph detailing Ian’s extra base hits and RBI. I skimmed all that, but I read the last sentence over and over: “After a shaky start, transfer Laz Weathers settled down and picked up the win.”
At school, I was a three-hour star. All morning I got high-fives. About halfway through lunch, my phone vibrated—a text from Suja. Rock star!
I must have smiled, because Hadley said, “Something good?”
“A girl from my old school. She read about my game.”
“She’s in love,” he said, batting his eyes at me. “And you are, too. How sweet.”
“Sh-shut up,” I said, smiling, and went back to eating.
“Text back, Romeo. You know she’s staring at her phone right now, heart aflutter.”
“Give me a b-break.”
He was about to razz me more, then stopped, which is why I liked him.
A bunch of times that afternoon I pulled out my phone and looked at Suja’s message. I wanted to write a great reply, but nothing came. At two o’clock I gave up, typed Thanks, and hit send.
When school ended, I headed to the baseball field for practice. Two TV trucks had pulled up onto the field, and a handful of cameramen and reporters milled around. I sidled over to where Hadley was standing. “What’s g-going on?”
“Ian is announcing his decision.”
“What decision?”
“His choice for college.”
“They send r-reporters out for that?”
“For Ian they do. He’s a five-star recruit. Local news will carry it, and it’ll be on 247Sports, Facebook, maybe even ESPN.”
Ian was standing at the front of the pitcher’s mound, Coach Vereen on one side and a young guy in a gray suit on the other. The cameraman was halfway between home and the mound. The smiling guy handed Ian a maroon and gold Arizona State sweatshirt and baseball cap. Ian pulled the sweatshirt over his head, stuck the cap on his head, and then everybody started shaking hands. Mr. Thurman and Mrs. Thurman stood behind the cameraman, arm in arm. Mr. Thurman looked like he was wiping away tears.
“He’ll get drafted in June by a major-league team, too,” Hadley said quietly. “If he gets picked in the first round, that’s millions of dollars in bonus money. The Thurmans are rich, but nobody turns down millions.”
Five
At the end of Monday’s practice, Coach Vereen named Kevin as the starter for Tuesday’s game. I expected it. We’d both given up a couple runs early, we’d both settled down, we’d both won, and I was the newcomer. As I left the field, Hadley trotted to catch up with me. “Be ready,” he said in a soft voice.
“Why? You heard Vereen.”
“Means nothing. We’re playing Eastside Catholic. They beat Kevin’s brains out last year. First sign of trouble, and Vereen will yank him.”
* * *
Before Tuesday’s game, Kevin and I warmed up side by side.
The ball was flowing out of my hand, but he was tight. You could see it in the jerky way he moved. When your muscles are tense, you can’t throw—Mr. Thurman had drilled that into me. Kevin’s fastball had nothing, and the more pitches he threw, the more nothing it got.
The umpire shouted, “Play ball!” Kevin looked over at me as if he’d just been called for the long walk to his execution. I gave him a pat on the back. “Go g-get ’em.”
He pursed his lips. “They’re toast.”
I found a place on the bench next to one of the parent volunteers who had the scorebook in his hands. “I could d-do that for you.”
He eyed me, unsure. “You know how to score?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Force out at second, second baseman to shortstop. Runner safe at first.”
“Fielder’s choice. F-Four-six.”
He handed me the scorebook. “It’s yours.”
Hadley had predicted that Kevin would struggle, and he was right. When the leadoff hitter smacked Kevin’s first pitch into center field for a single, my breathing grew more rapid. Ten feet from me, Coach Vereen clapped his hands. “Easy, Kevin. Don’t force it.”
The next hitter stepped in. Kevin pawed at the dirt, went into his stretch, delivered. From the bench I could tell that he was guiding the ball, afraid to let it fly. The bat zipped across the plate, sending a line shot over third base. By the time Evan Peterson tracked down the ball and fired it back to the infield, runners were at second and third. Coach Vereen strode toward me, snatched the scorebook from my hand. “Get out there and get ready. Now!”
As I hustled to the bullpen area by third base, Vereen walked slowly to the mound. He talked to Kevin for a while and then walked slowly back to the bench—buying time for me to get loose.
Whatever Vereen said didn’t help. Kevin’s first two pitches to Eastside’s three-hitter were way outside. The third pitch was a batting practice fastball, right down the middle. The hitter crushed it, sending a towering drive down the left field line. The ball landed far past where the chalk line ended, but the home plate umpire made his call loud and clear.
“Foul ball!”
The batter, who had already neared first, threw his head back and returned to home plate. Boos cascaded down from the Eastside Catholic fans.
Coach Vereen had seen enough. He held up four fingers to Kevin. The intentional walk loaded the bases with nobody out. Vereen looked out to me. I nodded to let him know I was ready.
A minute later Kevin handed me the ball. Coach Vereen put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s just the first inning. Don’t worry about a run or two scoring. Just keep the bleeding to a minimum. We’ll fight back.”
“Yes, s-sir,” I croaked, my throat as dry as dust.
It was the first time in my life that I’d been a relief pitcher, and it felt totally unfair. Eastside Catholic’s best hitter was stepping to the plate with runners on every base—and I hadn’t put a single one of them there. It was like having to take a test in a class you’d didn’t know you were in.
I took a deep breath and peered in. Hadley flashed the sign—fastball, low. The things Mr. Thurman had made me repeat and repeat and repeat? They all happened without me thinking about any of them.
Simple wind-up.
Shoulder and leg turn.
Drive toward home.
Release.
Then, when I needed her most, Lady Luck smiled on me. The batter swung, sending a one-hopper right to me. I fielded it cleanly and made a chest-high throw to home plate. Hadley stepped on the dish and then fired down to first for the double play.
The guys on our bench exploded, and so did the kids and parents up in the stands. The last voice I heard was Mr. Thurman’s. “Stay focused, Laz. One more batter.”
He was right: if you celebrate too early, you’ll wind up not celebrating at all. Against the five-hitter, I worked the ball in and out, up and down, finally fanning him on a fastball at the letters. As I walked off the field, more cheers rained down.
I sat on the bench with a towel draped over my head. I needed to stay in the zone. That’s why, as the rest of my team and all the parents and kids in the bleachers jumped to their feet when Ian drove a two-run double into right center, I remained seated, alone in my world.
Back on the mound, I didn’t worry about anything but the catcher’s glove. Hadley had me move the ball around, high and low, inside and out. I threw mainly straight fastballs, but sometimes I’d try a two-seamer. When I did, I lost some velocity, but the ball seemed to sink at the last minute. If the batter hit the pitch, it was on the ground.
Eastside Catholic’s pitcher, after his rocky first inning, matched me. Innings rolled by, but the score stayed the same. Laurelhurst 2, Eastside Catholic 0.
And then it was th
e seventh inning—Eastside’s last at bat. I saw one of the twins—I couldn’t tell which one—warming up along the sideline, but that was for show. Vereen wasn’t bringing him in.
This was my game.
No reason to hold back, I thought as the first hitter stepped up. But then I remembered that Mr. Thurman had told me that was the wrong way to think. I slowed everything down. The easier I threw, the faster my pitches would be.
The leadoff batter went down on three pitches, swinging late on each. I struck out the next hitter looking. With two out, everybody on the bench and in the stands rose and cheered. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I wanted to strike out the last guy, finish in style. The first pitch was a fastball inside. He tried to bunt, but instead hit a pop-up just behind home plate. Hadley was out of his crouch in a flash. I don’t know how he found the ball, but he did. At the last second he dived . . . and caught it.
It was such an unexpected end to the game that no one moved for a few seconds. Then the guys were on me, slapping me on the back, grinning as they danced me back to the dugout.
“Do you know what you just did?” Mr. Thurman said, coming over to the bench as I was packing up my gear. “Do you?”
Six
I’d pitched a perfect game.
Sort of.
Eastside Catholic had had three base runners in the first inning, but they weren’t my base runners, they were Kevin’s. I hadn’t given up anything.
Seven innings, no hits, no walks, no errors.
No nothing.
The Seattle Times ran an article in the prep section the next morning with the headline
Better than Perfect!
The writer, Clay Pearson, made a big deal that—because of the double play in the first inning—I’d gotten twenty-one outs while facing twenty batters. He wrote that it was the first time in Washington prep baseball history that it had happened.