Batting Ninth

by Kris Rutherford

  Jose ground his teeth.

  “Did I ever mention—?”

  “Yes. You did,” I said. “Let’s get to class.”

  Even though I was a little more excited about baseball than I had been on Thursday, Mark Wilcox was helping coach our team, and he was a cheat. I rocked in my chair the entire final class period, wondering if Mark would have the nerve to come to the game.

  There’s no way he’d show up, I tried to tell myself. Mark knew that I knew the truth. He probably thought Dad knew it, too.

  When I got home, Dad’s car was in the garage. I knew he would be upset that I didn’t play the night before. He would be even more upset to find out that Mom had let Mark coach me behind his back. But it didn’t matter anymore. Dad had been right about Mark, and he’d be happy to know that I didn’t want anything to do with him.

  “Well, I hear that someone is playing in the championship game,” Dad said as I set my books on the kitchen table. He ruffled my hair like he always did when he was proud of me.

  “Yeah, we’re playing the Red Sox. Zach Neal. They’re gonna be tough,” I said.

  “Ahh, the Rangers can do it. The Rangers can always do it.” Dad took a glass out of the cabinet and poured me some milk. “Are you feeling any better?”

  I stuck my hand to my mouth to keep from gagging on the milk.

  “Uhh … I guess so,” I said, looking at Mom. “I didn’t think I would make it all day at school, but I did.”

  “That’s good. Coach Ramsey says they got by without you last night, but he didn’t know if they could do it again.”

  Mom and Dad made eye contact and smiled.

  “I hear he has a pretty good hitter batting ninth,” Dad added.

  “I guess I’m doing a little better. I haven’t struck out in a while, and I’ve scored a few runs,” I said, cracking the tiniest smile.

  “Don’t forget that double play you and Jose made to end the game against the Marlins,” Dad said. “Baseball is just as much defense as it is offense, you know. It helps being coached by a major-leaguer.”

  My heart about stopped. Mom stood in the doorway holding a stack of towels. My eyes darted between her, Dad, and the floor.

  “Uh, I guess so,” I stammered.

  “Listen, sport,” Dad started. “I was wrong before. I should not have said that Mark was a dirty player. And I should not have told you to stay away from him. It wasn’t fair to you, and it wasn’t fair to Mark.”

  I started to tell Dad about the steroids, but Mom gave me a knowing nod that told me I didn’t need to say a word. We were thinking the same thing.

  *****

  I sat on my bed thumbing through a stack of baseball cards. My collection wasn’t anything like the one I had seen in the card shop near the stadium, but there were a few good cards. Old cards like Reggie Jackson, Nolan Ryan, and “Goose” Gossage and a bunch of current players like Derek Jeter, Johnny Damon, and David Ortiz. I also had two or three Mark Wilcox cards.

  I pulled out one of Mark’s cards and ran a finger across the worn but still glossy finish. Bright block letters in front of an action shot of Mark swinging for the fences read “White Sox, OF.” Mark had been playing long enough that his minor-league statistics were not on the back of the card. But his major-league stats were listed in tiny letters. A drawing of a baseball player with a whistle around his neck had a caption reading, “Mark Wilcox would like to coach when his career is over.”

  I thought of Mark standing in the locker room trying to hide the steroids syringe. My stomach started to churn but not the same way it had before. My disappointment had turned into anger, and I was even angrier now that Dad was giving Mark a break.

  “Chad, come on down here,” Mom yelled.

  As I headed to the living room, I stopped and glanced at Dad’s trophy case. I wondered what Mark’s trophy room looked like. I wondered how many trophies he had won by cheating. Dad’s collection might not have been as impressive, but at least he deserved them.

  At the bottom of the stairs, my heart jumped. Dad sat next to Mom on the fireplace hearth facing someone sitting on the couch. I could tell who it was from looking at the back of his head—Mark Wilcox.

  “Well, I don’t need to introduce you two,” Dad said, as Mark turned around. “Mark tells me he thinks you’re ready to come into your own as a hitter.”

  I kept my eyes fixed on the floor.

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “You left the stadium in such a hurry yesterday you forgot this,” Mark said, tossing me my backpack. “Run that fast tomorrow, and you’ll steal home.”

  I didn’t say anything and kept staring at the floor.

  “Have a seat,” Dad said, motioning me toward the cushion next to Mark. I started toward the couch but stopped and sat on the carpet.

  “We have some news,” Dad started.

  “Your father told his boss he would be leaving the company for a new job,” Mom said, cutting in quickly.

  Great. On top of everything, we were going to be moving. But what was Mark doing here? I looked at Dad.

  “What are you going to be doing?” I asked.

  All three of them smiled.

  “I’m going to get into coaching,” Dad said. “For the Brightsport Colts.”

  My mind raced to make sense of what was happening.

  “Seems the Colts have a need for a pitching coach,” Dad added.

  “And also a manager,” Mark said. “Lance Matlock resigned today. The White Sox asked me to take over.”

  I sat up on my knees.

  “If I’m going to manage a team, I need the best coaching staff I can find,” Mark said. “And who better to have for a pitching coach than the best catcher I’ve ever seen.”

  “But what about your comeback?” I asked, looking at Mark’s knee.

  “It’s about time I hung up the cleats,” Mark said. “I’ve been fighting a losing battle all season.”

  He leaned forward and looked me directly in the eyes. “And in trying to keep playing this year, I’ve done some things that I never thought I would do. I’ve hurt myself. Even worse, I’ve hurt the people I care about. I’m just glad someone pointed it out before it was too late.”

  As I sat there listening, my stomach started to calm for the first time in two days.

  “Plus, if your dad can’t play with a bum knee, it’s not fair for me to either,” Mark added.

  “It seems I’ve been a little hard on Mark all these years,” Dad said. “You know, I’ve never been able to bring myself to watch the video of the play when I got hurt.”

  “Today I forced it on him,” Mom said.

  “It turns out it wasn’t Mark’s fault at all,” Dad said. “He was trying to avoid the umpire. I just happened to get in the way.”

  My eyes darted around the room.

  “So, you’re going to be a Brightsport Colt?” I asked. Dad nodded.

  “And, you’re going to stay a Brightsport Colt,” I said, as Mark grinned and nodded.

  “In that case, does that make me the batboy?” I said, nearly ready to jump up in celebration.

  Dad pulled me to my feet, and Mark stepped in and squeezed my shoulder.

  “I guess it does,” Mark said.

  “But,” Dad said, “not until after tomorrow. The Rangers have a trophy to win.”

  “A championship trophy!” I added.

  “Maybe so,” Dad said, as he led Mark to the door. “But runner-up isn’t all that bad.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Game Day!

  All of Brightsport must have turned out for the championship game. Zach Neal had his own cheering section, with two little kids holding up signs telling Zach to “Mow ’em Down” and “Mangle the Rangers.” As the visiting team, the Red Sox took batting practice first. The crowd greeted every hit with a roar.

  The Rangers’ side of the field was a lot more reserved than the Red Sox’s, and I was glad. Danielle had already put enough pressure on us.

  Jose and
I tossed the ball back and forth along the left-field foul line while we waited our turn at batting practice. Jimmy Lee stood by the fence swinging a bat at dragonflies, and Danielle lay in the grass looking at the sky, popping bubble gum on her face. Game day was comfortable, almost cool. It was a refreshing change from the humidity of the last few days—a perfect day for baseball.

  “So, you really going to be the Colts’ batboy?” Jose asked.

  “Yep,” I said, “But just for the home games. I won’t go on the road unless we make it to the playoffs.”

  “We?” Jose mocked.

  “Okay, so maybe it’s not ‘we’ just yet, but after the first game, they’re going to see that they can’t win without me.”

  Jose fired a fastball straight at my chest, and it popped in my glove.

  “Okay, Rangers,” Coach Ramsey said as we made our way to the bench, “Six innings of baseball left in the season. Take it one inning at a time.”

  “Pitchers,” he added, glancing at Ryan and Danielle. “You just take it one batter at a time. Chad, you’re my captain today. Take the lineup card to the umpire.”

  Coach hadn’t chosen me to be captain all season. He must have been saving me for the championship all along, I thought.

  I grabbed the card and trotted toward home plate, where Zach Neal already stood kicking the dirt into a small cloud of dust.

  “You ready to go down, Griffin?” Zach asked. I rolled my eyes and handed the lineup card to the umpire.

  “First of all, I won’t be going down,” I said. “Win or lose, the Rangers do it as a team.”

  I glanced at the bench where the entire team sat quietly listening to Coach Ramsey and Mark give their last-minute instructions.

  “Can you say the same thing?” I asked, motioning to Zach’s side of the field where the Red Sox players stood in groups of two or three along the fence.

  “Well, all I can say is keep your head low,” Zach sneered. “I’m feeling a little wild today.” He turned his arm in a wide circle and rubbed his shoulder.

  “Let’s play ball, boys!” the umpire said. “I want a good game.” He looked straight at Zach. “And I want a clean game.”

  Zach reluctantly shook hands, and we headed back to our benches.

  Game time.

  Ryan Ramsey started at pitcher with a 4–1 record on the season. He didn’t strike out many batters, but he did force a lot of ground balls. I knew I’d be busy at shortstop.

  Ryan held to form to start the game, getting the first four batters to hit grounders, only one of which found a hole and got into the outfield.

  For the Red Sox, though, Zach was really on his game, and he sent us down in order. In the second inning, the Red Sox put two runners on base, but they still couldn’t score. We came to bat with the score still tied at zero.

  Winning the championship the last two seasons had spoiled the Red Sox. Their fans wanted them to put us away early. But Jimmy Lee quieted the crowd with a line drive into right field to start the bottom of the second. They groaned when the Red Sox right fielder bobbled the ball and allowed Jimmy to sprint into second base. Danielle came to bat with a chance to give us the lead.

  “Alright, you Bobble Heads,” she said, turning back to face the bench from the on-deck circle. “Let’s get some runs.”

  Danielle didn’t waste any time holding up her end of the bargain, drilling the first pitch straight back up the middle and into center field. Coach Ramsey waved Jimmy home, and we took an early 1–0 lead.

  “How do you like them apples?” Danielle shouted to Zach as he pounded his glove against his leg. He responded by striking out the next three batters in a row, stranding Danielle at first base as the inning ended.

  The top of the third went quickly. Ryan pitched better than he had all season and struck out two batters before getting the third kid to pop out to first base.

  I led off the bottom of the third. Every at bat was important at this point.

  “Get it started, Chad!” Jose shouted.

  Mark followed him up with a quick reminder.

  “Eye on the ball,” he shouted.

  I looked back at Mom and Dad in the bleachers. Dad nodded his encouragement.

  The first two pitches were inside, but not so close that I thought Zach had tried to hit me. Even Zach wouldn’t have done something that stupid in a championship game.

  I stared intently at the ball in Zach’s hand as he brought it over his head into his windup. I could tell it was his fastball from the way he held it. As the ball approached, I shifted my weight to my back leg and stepped forward into the pitch, swinging level and smooth.

  The “Ping!” I expected was more of a “Plink!” and the ball sailed skyward directly over home plate.

  “I got it! I got it!” Zach shouted, calling off his catcher, walking toward the plate.

  I dropped my bat and headed to first base, hoping that Zach would lose it in the sun. But, when I heard the cheers from the Red Sox dugout, I knew Zach had caught the ball. I trotted back to the bench, passing behind the pitcher’s mound.

  “Nice catch,” I said.

  The compliment must have rattled Zach, because he walked Jose on five pitches. But he recovered and struck out the next two batters. The game went to the fourth inning with the Rangers still clinging to a one-run lead.

  “Halfway there!” Coach Ramsey shouted as we took the field. “One inning at a time!”

  Ryan had been on target for the first three innings, but he started to get wild in the fourth, walking the first batter and sending him to second base with a wild pitch. Zach Neal followed up with a triple to right field, tying the score, 1–1.

  The Red Sox weren’t finished. A base hit and a home run later, they led, 4–1. Ryan finally struck out the last batter of the inning, but the Red Sox crowd roared its approval as its team prepared to take the field.

  It started to look like we might have to settle for second place after all.

  Chapter Twelve

  Squeeze Play

  “Keep your heads up!” Mark said as we took our seats on the bench. “This game lasts six innings. You’ve still got nine outs to work with.”

  Jimmy Lee and Danielle Baker got us started, sandwiching a groundout and a strikeout with two solo home runs, the first homers Zach had allowed all season. But, after an inning-ending strikeout, the game headed for the fifth, the Red Sox still holding a one-run lead.

  Ryan continued to struggle, giving up two quick runs before Coach Ramsey brought Danielle in to retire the side. As we turned the last out of the inning, Danielle threw a fist in the air and blew a bubble in the direction of Zach Neal, who only glared back. He returned the favor in the bottom of the fifth, striking out all three batters, including me. It was my first strikeout since Mark had come to the team.

  “You gotta relax in there,” Mark told me after I trudged back to the dugout. “You’re bearing down too hard. Keep your hands loose and wait for a good pitch.”

  It was the top of the sixth. Unless we held the Red Sox to zero and came up with three runs of our own, the Red Sox would win the championship for the third straight year. As Danielle took the mound, she reassured all of us in the infield.

  “Don’t worry, Bobble Heads,” she announced. “You aren’t going to have to make a play.”

  Danielle was right on, striking out all three Red Sox and carrying us to our final at bats.

  As Jose prepared to bat, I sat on the bench and did some quick math in my head. If I came to bat before the inning ended, there was a good chance we would have already tied the game. That was a big if, but Jose got us started by beating out a ground ball for a lead-off infield hit.

  Jake Musgrove, who had taken Danielle’s position at third base when she replaced Ryan at pitcher, batted next. He could only make soft contact, grounding out and sending Jose on to second base. With one out, Jimmy Lee followed up with a walk, bringing Danielle to the plate.

  The tying run was at bat, I thought. If Danielle could help us
pull even, I still had a chance to get my cuts.

  Danielle took the first three pitches, one for a ball and two for borderline strikes. As she waited for the fourth pitch, she waved the bat slightly over her head, her knees rocking back and forth. Even from the bench, I could see Danielle’s fierce eyes staring down Zach.

  When the ball ricocheted off the bat, I looked up to see Danielle running toward first base, with Jose and Jimmy Lee pausing midway between their bases. The Red Sox left fielder sprinted toward the fence as the ball sailed over his outstretched glove. The entire ballpark could hear the “clank!” as the ball hit the top of the fence and bounded over. All three Rangers rounded the bases and scored, Danielle hopping on home plate with both feet as the team poured from the bench.

  The Red Sox’s side of the field immediately started grumbling, and their coach dashed onto the field. The base umpire met him behind the pitcher’s mound and pointed his index finger into the air, twirling it around to signal home run. For the first time in the game, I heard Dad’s voice.

  “That’s a homer, Coach!” he yelled.

  The argument was short-lived, and the Red Sox coach trotted to the bench with the score tied, 6–6. Zach stomped around the pitcher’s mound, pounding the ball into his glove.

  Our rally continued when right fielder Tommy Broadway walked on four pitches. The Red Sox coach trotted back onto the field, this time to settle down his pitcher.

  “He’s gonna pull him,” Jose said. But we were both surprised to see him pat Zach on the back and jog to the bench.

  Whatever he said must have worked. Zach got the next batter to hit a ground ball, moving Tommy to second base.

  Two outs, one man on base. If we could just get a base hit, Tommy would probably score.

  Shawn Baxter, our power-hitting catcher, batted next, and I pulled my bat from the rack. Butterflies were about ready to take my stomach airborne. Shawn struck out a lot, but when he did connect, he was sure to get a base hit. If he did it now, we were going to win. The game seemed to rest on Shawn’s shoulders.