Golden Arm

by Carl Deuker

  Once Ian was gone, I slipped into the game room and called Antonio. The Seattle Times article Suja had sent me had been like a weight pressing down on my shoulders. I didn’t have any great plan of what I was going to say to Antonio. I just wanted to talk to him, to make sure he was okay. All I got was dead air.

  I took a couple of burritos from the refrigerator, microwaved them, and turned on a Spurs–Rockets game. Halfway through the second burrito, my cell phone started vibrating. When I opened it, I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyway

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Lazarus Weathers?”

  “Yeah. This is L-Laz.”

  “Laz, this is Mrs. Dunne from the WIAA.” She paused. “It’s all good news. You’re cleared to play. There are some irregularities regarding the off-season workouts that your coach will need to clean up, but nothing serious enough to force any forfeits.”

  I was so stunned I couldn’t speak.

  “Laz? Are you there? Did you hear me?”

  “I-I-I’m here. I heard you. And thank you. Thank you.”

  Thirty

  Monday, Coach Vereen called a team meeting during lunch. The guys had heard the news, but they still let out a cheer when he said we’d been cleared to participate in the playoffs.

  “Our quarterfinal game will be at noon on Saturday, Husky Ballpark,” he said when the cheering stopped. “After we win that game, we come back for the semifinals Saturday night. And after we take that, we play in the finals the next Friday at T-Mobile Park.”

  More cheers. Then Andrew Comette yelled, “Who do we play in the quarters?”

  The room hushed in anticipation.

  “Jesuit High.”

  There was a low murmur and lots of groans.

  “Hey,” Coach Vereen barked. “You want to be the best, you have to beat the best.”

  When the meeting ended, my eyes caught Coach Vereen’s, and he made the slightest nod. I knew what it meant—I was starting against Jesuit High.

  Jesuit checked all the boxes. Fergus Hart checked all the boxes. Undefeated. Number one ranking. Best hitting team in the state. Best pitcher in the state. Defending champions.

  Tommy Zeller was sure to be at the game. It had been so long since I’d been on the mound that he’d probably half forgotten me, but if I shut down Jesuit, if I beat Fergus Hart, he’d remember. And if I beat Fergus Hart, Coach Vereen would make me a dozen DVD’s to send to the Giants and the Mariners and whoever else I wanted.

  * * *

  In the morning, when I climbed upstairs to the Thurmans’ kitchen, the Seattle Times sports page was laid out on the counter, opened to page three. One look, and I knew why.

  The Times had made its all-city baseball selections. Ian was Seattle’s Player of the Year; a photo of him was at the top of the page. The words Five Tool Player were written to the side. I felt a stab of jealousy, and let it go. We weren’t friends and never would be, but he’d promised to put baseball first, and he’d delivered. That matters.

  My eyes scanned the rest of the list. More Laurelhurst names jumped out. Andrew, Jay, and Martin were first-team selections, and smaller photos of them were next to their names. I looked at the slot for first-team pitcher, and my stomach sank—they’d picked the stocky kid from Cleveland High. Then I saw a red circle around a listing at the bottom of the page.

  SECOND TEAM: Lazarus Weathers, Pitcher, Laurelhurst.

  That was a crazy day. Before school my mom sent me a text. Wow! Just wow! Call me tonight! Love Mom.

  In the halls at school, most of the buzz was about Ian being Seattle Player of the Year, with some minor buzz about the other guys who had made first team. Second team was no big deal at Laurelhurst, so I was left alone. But Suja found out and texted me, and she must have given out my number at North Central, because I got texts from a bunch of old classmates and teammates. North Central Rocks! . . . You’re the man! . . . Laz Rising! I even got a text from Mr. Leskov. You strike three them, Laz!

  You can go stale if you practice too hard. Coach Vereen knew that. And with all the excitement over guys making the all-city team, nobody was ready for a serious practice. So once we’d stretched, Vereen let us play Wiffle ball: seniors versus everyone else. After an hour, Martin’s mom showed up with Otter Pops and Oreos, and we stuffed our faces like a bunch of eight-year-olds at the end of a tee-ball game.

  I was feeling great as I walked off the field after practice, and then I spotted Garrett’s Subaru. The driver’s door opened and Antonio stepped out. He gave me a hug. “They cheated you. You deserved first team,” he said.

  “No c-complaints,” I answered.

  We stood facing each other for a long moment. His eyes didn’t have their normal shine; his voice didn’t have its normal ease.

  “Everything o-okay?” I asked.

  He broke into a forced smile. “Sure. Everything’s great. I just wanted to shake your hand and tell you I’m proud to be your brother.”

  “How about we d-do something right now? You and me? There’s a pizza p-place on S-Sand Point Way. We could t-talk. We haven’t really t-talked in—Antonio, I’m worried about y-you—”

  “That sounds great, Laz,” he said, interrupting. “It really does. Only I can’t right now. Soon, though. Really soon. That’s a promise.”

  PART

  FOUR

  One

  Playoff Saturday. In the car, Mr. Thurman talked about how we had to approach the quarterfinal game as if it were like any other. “Yeah, Dad,” Ian said, about twenty times.

  As we drove, a strange thought came to me. What if I couldn’t pitch? Just couldn’t get my arm to work? Stuff like that happens to players, even to major-leaguers. The Dodgers had a second basemen, Steve Sax, who one day couldn’t throw the ball to first.

  The fear lasted until I stepped onto the field. Then my heart slowed and the saliva came back to my mouth. I was pumped, but it was the right kind of pumped.

  The field at Husky Ballpark was better than any field I’d ever played on. The outfield grass was greener; the infield dirt was finer; the chalk lines were whiter; the pitcher’s mound was smoother. And it was beautiful. You could see Mount Rainier and Lake Washington and the 520 Bridge and Capitol Hill and the tops of downtown skyscrapers.

  I stretched, ran in the outfield, played long catch with Ian. Mom and Curtis settled into seats five rows above our bench. Mom waved, and I raised my new glove toward her. At first I didn’t see Antonio, which made my stomach tighten. I’d called him twice more and gotten nothing, not even voice mail. I was afraid he was out doing stuff for Garrett, but then I spotted him, two seats from Curtis, and I relaxed. Next to him was Suja.

  A few minutes before game time, Hadley and I walked down the first base line toward the bullpen. I looked over to where the Jesuit players were warming up. “Which one is Fergus Hart?”

  Hadley nodded toward the bullpen on the third-base side. “The tall sidearmer with the stringy hair. He’s got a whip for an arm. When you’re in the box, it feels like the ball is coming right at you. You jump out of the way, and then the pitch angles back over the plate. I’ve faced him six times and he’s struck me out six times. Ian and Jay and Martin haven’t done much better. We’ve managed a few hits, but we haven’t scored a run off him. I’m not sure we ever got a guy to third base.”

  As I loosened, I kept sneaking peeks at Fergus Hart. That’s how I noticed Tommy Zeller and Clay Pearson standing along the third-base line. Two other men who looked like they might be scouts chatted with them. All had their eyes fixed on Fergus Hart.

  Hart had pounded the catcher’s glove in warm-ups, but when the game started, his first pitch flew over the head of Andrew Comette and smacked against the backstop with a sickening thud—the same thud a baseball makes when it hits a batter in the skull. Andrew went gray. After that wild first pitch, Hart came back with a strike. Andrew took that pitch, and the next strike, before going down on a wild swing at a pitch in the dirt.

  Hart followe
d the same pattern with Jared Bronzan. He unleashed a fastball that sailed behind Bronzan, he threw a couple of strikes, and then he got Jared to lunge at a fastball outside and hit a little dribbler to the first baseman.

  Old-time pitchers like Don Drysdale threw at hitters on purpose. Was Hart’s wildness fake?

  I leaned forward as Ian took his stance in the batter’s box. A wild pitch, this time at Ian’s ankles, followed by two strikes, and then a ball that bounced ten feet in front of the plate. With the count two and two, Hart pulled his cap down, went into his wind-up, and fired a sidearm fastball that had Ian jumping back.

  “Strike three!” the ump shouted.

  As Hart walked back to his bench, he glanced over at our bench, a hint of a smile in his eyes.

  I took my normal warm-up tosses. After the last one, the ball went around the infield and came back to me. I turned and faced home plate, when it hit me. I was in the playoffs at Husky Ballpark, pitching against Jesuit High, the best team in the state.

  Me.

  Laz Weathers.

  The trailer kid from North Central.

  The home plate ump clapped his hands. “Play ball!” he shouted, and that was the end of the dreaming.

  I started Jesuit’s leadoff hitter—a lefty—with a fastball on the inside corner for a strike and then came back with another fastball, this one off the plate. He reached for it and bounced what should have been an easy two-hopper to Jay Massine at third. Jay treated the ball as if it were drenched in oil. When he finally got a decent grip, he threw wildly past first. The ball hit off one of the pipes on the cyclone fence and bounded down the line. The batter cruised into third standing up.

  Jay slapped his fist into his glove and kicked the dirt. “Forget it,” I called over to him. He nodded, his face frozen in a scowl.

  I looked around the infield. No chatter. Eyes down. The body language was loud and clear: This is what we expected. We’re going down. Again. Just like we always do.

  Vereen had the infield play back, so the next batter just needed to put the ball in play on the ground to drive in the run. I needed to strike him out, and I did, getting him to swing at a high fastball at the letters. That brought cheers from the stands and some chatter from the infielders.

  Jesuit’s three-hitter had a compact swing. He’d be tough to strike out, but if I could somehow strand that runner at third, I’d turn the momentum our way.

  Then Jesuit’s coach did the unexpected. On my first pitch, the batter pushed a bunt past me toward second—a suicide squeeze. Jared charged, fielded the ball, and made a good throw to first for the second out, but the runner on third scored standing up. The cleanup hitter hit a soft fly to left to end the inning.

  Jesuit 1–Laurelhurst 0.

  Nothing disastrous, but the bench stayed quiet. I wanted to yell at the guys, tell them that this was a new year and a new game and they had a new pitcher. But talk doesn’t work. So I kept my mouth shut, and as the innings rolled by, I kept the ball down and Jesuit off the scoreboard.

  Fergus Hart matched me, but our guys made him work, taking pitches, fouling off pitches. I pitched to contact, getting outs early in the count, needing only nine pitches in the second inning and just ten in the third.

  After Ian had struck out, Coach Vereen took him down the base line and demonstrated how to keep the left shoulder in. It must have been the millionth time Ian had seen that move and heard that pep talk, but he watched as if it were all new. In his second at bat, he had a decent swing on a fastball, pulling off it just a little and flying out to deep right. Hadley nudged me. “That’s the best at bat he’s had against Hart.” But a long out is still an out, and the score was still 1–0.

  I don’t remember much of what happened, that’s how deep in the zone I was, though it was a different sort of zone than I’d ever been in before. I wasn’t overpowering guys with my fastball; I was really and truly pitching, moving the ball in and out, up and down, changing speeds, using my head as much as my arm. And Tommy Zeller was behind home plate, watching.

  More innings rolled by—the fourth . . . fifth . . . sixth.

  We were taking better swings, hitting the ball harder. Twice we moved a runner to second base, but in the clutch, Fergus Hart came up with the pitch to shut us down.

  And then it was the top of the seventh.

  Three more outs and our season was over.

  Hart walked slowly to the mound. After every warm-up pitch he stretched out his shoulder. All those tough innings had taken their toll.

  Hadley led off, and he battled, fouling off two pitches and working the count to 3-2. Fergus threw a fastball near the outside part of the plate. Hadley took it. You could see the ump start to raise his arm, then flinch, then mutter, “Ball four.”

  The Jesuit bench roared in disbelief; the Jesuit fans booed loudly. It didn’t change a thing—Hadley was on first and Peterson stepped to the plate.

  Down one, final at bat.

  A bunt?

  Not something normally done, but facing Fergus Hart wasn’t normal.

  I looked to Vereen, and he flashed the signal. Jesuit’s fielders on first and third crept in a few steps. The pitch.

  Peterson squared, stuck his bat out, made contact. But instead of laying the ball down, he popped it up. “Back! Back! Back!” we all screamed as the third baseman caught the pop and fired a bullet to first, trying to double up Hadley.

  “Safe!” the umpire screamed, and more angry shouts cascaded down from the Jesuit side.

  Andrew Comette stepped in.

  Jared Bronzan moved on deck.

  Ian was in the hole.

  Comette worked the count full, then fouled off three pitches before getting the second walk of the inning on a ball that bounced in front of the plate, moving Hadley to second.

  Jared Bronzan took his spot in the batter’s box.

  Fergus was struggling to find the plate. The smart thing to do was to take a pitch, make him throw a strike. But Jared—and I’ll never know why—swung at Hart’s first offering, sending a two-hopper to the left of the third baseman, a tailor-made double-play ball. The third baseman fielded it and fired to second for the force. The second baseman made the pivot, but double-clutched before releasing his throw. Foot and ball arrived at first base at the same time. All eyes were on the ump. Both arms went wide. “Safe!” he shouted.

  The state championship game was a week away, but this was the matchup of the season.

  Game on the line.

  Fergus Hart versus Ian Thurman.

  Players, coaches, parents, and kids—everyone was standing. Ian took a couple of practice swings, pulling his left elbow in across his chest as a reminder to stay closed, and then stepped in. Hart went into his stretch, checked the runners, and delivered.

  Sidearm fastball, velocity pumped up by adrenaline.

  But the adrenaline was flowing for Ian, too. He didn’t open up. His head stayed on the ball, his swing stayed compact and powerful. The ball jumped off the bat—a line shot to left center. The center fielder raced after it, but the ball was by him, rolling and rolling, all the way to the fence. Hadley trotted home with the tying run. Bronzan, off at the crack of the bat, flew around third and scored standing up. Ian, careful not to make a base-running blunder, stopped at second. He had his hands above his head and was looking to the sky as the cheers from the Laurelhurst fans washed over him. Hart struck out Jay Massine on three pitches, but the damage had been done.

  Laurelhurst 2–Jesuit 1.

  It was up to me to hold the lead.

  I wasn’t exactly dizzy as I walked to the mound, but I wasn’t completely steady on my feet. A locomotive was rumbling in my head.

  I didn’t try to calm myself. No hope of that. I blocked everything out and focused on Hadley’s glove. I didn’t aim, I threw—free and easy, and pitch after pitch hit Hadley’s target. My arm felt like a separate animal, not part of me. The first hitter went down swinging; the second took a called strike three. I fired two more strikes and, wi
th everyone on both sides shouting, nailed the outside corner with a perfect pitch.

  “Ball one,” the umpire muttered, turning his head aside.

  Our fans booed, but it didn’t matter. I knew it; the batter knew it; the umpire knew it. I went into the wind-up, zeroed in on Hadley’s target, and threw another strike three. This time the ump’s fist punched the air. Seconds later, guys mobbed me on the mound, spinning me around and around. I felt like I was a rocket, the mound was a launch pad, and I was set to explode into outer space.

  Two

  When we lined up and high-fived the Jesuit High players, I was so excited that I didn’t see a single face, not even Fergus Hart’s. It was just “Good game . . .” “Good game . . .” “Good game . . .” When that ended, I turned to see my mom up against the fence. Antonio and Curtis flanked her, both waving their hands above their heads. Suja stood a few steps behind, clapping her hands and smiling.

  “Laz! Laz! Over here!” Mom called.

  I jogged over, fighting the impulse to sprint. “Let’s go,” Mom shouted. “Time to celebrate.”

  “Okay, okay. Great. Just let m-me check with Coach.”

  I looked around and saw Mr. Thurman heading toward us. He gave me a high-five and then turned to my mother. “We’re having pizza back at my house. The semifinal game is at seven tonight, so it’s nothing big, but we’d love to have you come.”

  “Thanks,” Mom said, “but we’ve got plans.”

  Mr. Thurman nodded. “Okay,” he said, though it didn’t sound as if he thought it was okay. He looked at me. “You need to be back on this field by six.”

  “Don’t worry,” Curtis said. “We’ll have him here.”

  Suja stepped forward. Our eyes met. “Got to go,” she mouthed. “You were great.”

  “Thanks,” I mouthed back.

  She gave me a wave and left.

  When we’d all squeezed into the Corolla, Curtis looked back over his shoulder at me, his face contorted. “Something smells a little game-y back there. How about we go to the apartment so you can shower up. Then we’ll get lunch.”