Super-sized Slugger

by Cal Ripken Jr.

  Steve Parker nodded in agreement. “You gotta be careful, buddy. These are serious allegations you’re making, and you’re already in hot water with Dante, for whatever reason. If he knew you were sharing your suspicions with a cop…well, it wouldn’t exactly win you any points with him.”

  Cody’s mother patted his hand. “Promise me you’ll drop this?”

  “Mom’s right,” said his dad. “You need to stay out of it and let the police get to the bottom of what’s going on.”

  Cody had to admit that what his parents had said that night made sense. What did he think he was, some kind of ace detective like his dad?

  Yet the scene in the parking lot continued to gnaw at him. And even if Dante wasn’t there, Cody couldn’t shake the feeling that his sullen teammate was connected to the rash of thefts at York Middle.

  There was something else worrying him too. Had the Rottweiler Twins or any of those other older guys seen him when he tore off into the woods? Vincent and Nick had been to a few of Dante’s games—they certainly knew who Cody was. If he had been spotted, Cody knew it was only a matter of time before a nasty beat down came his way.

  On the other hand, Dante had acted no differently toward him yesterday in school. And he hadn’t acted any differently today as the Orioles prepared to face the Twins in their second play-off game. If Dante and the Rottweiler Twins were operating some nefarious stolen-property ring, and the brothers had recognized Cody that day, wouldn’t he have at least gotten a clue from Dante’s body language?

  Cody shook his head, trying to push those thoughts aside. With Kyrie on the mound, firing fastballs that looked like missiles as they crossed the plate, he needed all the concentration he could muster.

  Despite Coach’s pep talk—and the Orioles all agreed it was one of his better ones, somehow combining a famous general from World War II, the story of “The Little Engine That Could,” and the guy who was trapped in that canyon and cut off his own arm to escape—they got off to an ominous start.

  Leading off, Willie swung at three straight chest-high heaters. Three straight times he hit nothing but air. As he trudged back to the dugout with his head down, Jordy whispered, “That might have been the quickest at bat in the history of baseball.”

  As Willie took off his batting helmet and slammed his bat into the bat rack, Marty said, “I don’t know, Kyrie doesn’t look that fast to me.”

  Willie made a sound—ONNNKKK!—like a game-show buzzer. “WRONG!” he said. “He’s even faster than you think. If you wanna catch up to that fastball, my advice is to start swinging now.”

  Robbie followed with another three-pitch strikeout. Jordy, batting third, at least ran the count to 2–2 before striking out on a big curveball to end the inning.

  As Kyrie strutted off the mound, Marty said, “Is it me, or does it look like he’s getting tired?”

  The rest of the Orioles stared at him and shook their heads. As they grabbed their gloves and took the field, Willie muttered the thought that seemed to be in everyone’s mind: “Gonna be a long game if our boy Kyrie keeps throwing like that.”

  The Twins nicked Robbie for a run in the second inning on two singles and an uncharacteristic error at first by Jordy, who dropped a windblown pop-up down the right-field line. But Kyrie set the Orioles down in order as Connor grounded back to the pitcher, Cody managed a weak line drive to the first baseman, and Dante struck out.

  It was still 1–0 Twins in the top of the fourth inning when Coach called them together in the dugout.

  “I have a question for all of you,” he said somberly. “And I really want you to think about it before answering. Are you ready?”

  The Orioles nodded dutifully.

  “Okay,” Coach said. “My question is this: Have any of you wet your pants yet?”

  Now, there were a few nervous chuckles, but they quickly trailed off because Coach seemed dead serious. Usually there was a twinkle in his eyes when he joked with them. But there was none now.

  “Men, I know Kyrie throws hard,” he continued. “I know he’s intimidating. But I also know you’re not even giving yourselves a chance. You’re all just going up there doing this—”

  He pulled the brim of his cap to the side, closed his eyes, and pantomimed a wild, cartoonish home-run swing. It drew a few more jittery chuckles.

  “You,” he said, stabbing a finger at Willie. “You’re the fastest kid in the league. But you’re up there swinging out of your shoes like you’re A-Rod or Big Papi Ortiz. How about we get someone on base first?

  “And you,” he said, pointing at Connor. “You might be the best hitter in the league. But you’re swinging at everything instead of waiting for strikes. How about working the count for once?”

  Willie and Connor hung their heads. Cody braced himself. He sensed what was coming next.

  “And you,” Coach said, his finger dancing inches from Cody’s nose. “I don’t know where your head’s at today. But it’s a million miles away. You’re probably the strongest kid in the league. The way Kyrie’s throwing, all you have to do is meet the ball and it’ll end up twenty feet over the fence. What happened to that sweet, compact swing? You couldn’t hit a beach ball with that long, looping swing you’re taking now.”

  Cody grimaced and looked down at his shoes. Now the umpire was motioning impatiently for an Orioles’ batter to step up to the plate, so Coach wrapped it up.

  “Look, I believe in you guys,” he said, his voice low. “If Kyrie beats you, that’s one thing. But don’t beat yourselves. Not now. Not with this great season you’re having.”

  With that, he turned on his heels and walked briskly to the third-base coaching box.

  End of discussion.

  The Orioles were stunned. No one said anything for maybe ten seconds. They had never seen Coach so upset.

  “Wake-up call,” Jordy said finally.

  The rest of the Orioles nodded. Willie pounded the top of his batting helmet with his fist, grabbed his bat, and muttered, “Let’s do this.”

  Suddenly, Marty jumped off the bench.

  “Wait!” he said. “Let’s try something. It’s gonna sound a little crazy.…”

  Jordy grinned. “A crazy idea?” he said. “From you? Who could imagine that?”

  Marty shot a quick look at Cody and continued. “Everyone ask your bat for a little help. I’m serious. Talk to your bat. Right now.”

  “Ohhhh-kay,” Jordy said, taking a couple of steps backward. “Marty, seriously now, what planet are you from?”

  Cody could feel his face redden. He stared at Marty and tried to communicate via furious thought waves: Mention my name and you’re a dead man. But his nerdy little friend kept Cody’s secret safe. Not only that, but Marty quickly convinced his teammates that talking to their bats was no stranger than wearing inside-out rally caps for good luck.

  Within seconds, every Oriole—even Dante—had grabbed his bat and was pleading with it for a big base hit.

  Digging in against Kyrie, Willie crouched so low that the top of his bat seemed even with the catcher’s mask. It was such a comical-looking stance, the Orioles had to stifle a few giggles. Kyrie peered at Willie with a puzzled expression. It reminded Cody of the famous story his dad had told about Eddie Gaedel, a dwarf who had once been sent up to bat by a major league team just so he could draw a base on balls with his tiny strike zone.

  Willie’s strike zone now appeared to be the size of a party napkin. Kyrie’s first two pitches sailed over his head. The next two skipped in the dirt. Tossing his bat aside, Willie trotted happily to first base. Kyrie kicked at the dirt in frustration. But in the Orioles’ dugout, there was suddenly new life.

  “Hey, what’s it called when someone actually reaches that white bag out there?” Gabe said. “Oh, yeah, a base runner. It’s been so long, I almost forgot.”

  With a left-hander on the mound, Willie couldn’t get much of a lead. The Orioles knew there would be no base-stealing exhibition from their leadoff hitter today. Still, just
to have someone on base against Kyrie seemed like a major accomplishment. And when the next batter, Robbie, worked the count to 3–0, the Orioles were up and cheering on the top step of the dugout.

  Robbie stepped out of the batter’s box while Coach flashed the signs.

  “He’s letting him swing away!” Marty cried.

  Joey took off his cap and smacked him. “Hey, genius, why don’t you say it a little louder so their whole team can hear?” he whispered. “Better yet, why don’t you just text them?”

  As Coach had anticipated, Kyrie took something off his fastball on the next pitch to make sure it was a strike. Actually, he took a lot off. And Robbie turned on it perfectly, stroking a clean single to right field as Willie flew past second base.

  Almost as one, the Orioles whooped and pointed at Coach as if to say, “Great call, big man.” Coach smiled and pumped his fist. They were back in the game. Runners on first and third. No outs. And the heart of their order due up.

  Now Kyrie was pacing the mound, muttering to himself. And as soon as Jordy stepped in against him, the Orioles knew they were looking at a different pitcher.

  Suddenly Kyrie’s fastball looked very ordinary. Cody had seen it so many times: a pitcher throwing free and easy—and hard—until he got in trouble. Then he’d often tighten up, lose confidence in himself. It could happen even to a terrific pitcher like Kyrie. And pretty soon the kid was a basket case, either overthrowing and sending rockets over the batters’ heads and into the backstop, or aiming his pitches like you’d aim a dart at a dartboard.

  Kyrie was definitely aiming now.

  “Stick a fork in him,” Gabe said as the rest of the Orioles nodded. “He’s done.”

  The next batter, Jordy, hit a shot up the middle to tie the score at 1–1. Connor followed with a run-scoring double to right. Frantic to turn things around, Kyrie sailed two wild fastballs over Cody’s head, then grooved another turtle-speed pitch that Cody ripped down the left-field line for an RBI single and a 3–1 Orioles lead.

  With Dante at the plate, Kyrie was staring with pleading eyes into the Twins’ dugout after every pitch, practically begging the coach to take him out of the game. And when Dante singled to put runners on first and third, Kyrie finally got his wish. Even before the Twins’ coach reached the mound, Kyrie was sprinting to the dugout like a kid who needed to find a bathroom really fast.

  As the Twins’ relief pitcher warmed up, Coach called the Orioles together in the dugout.

  “It’s a shame what happened to Kyrie,” he said. “But you pitchers, try to learn from this. You have to trust your stuff. Can’t panic and start lobbing the ball the first time something goes wrong.”

  Compared to Kyrie’s heat at the beginning of the game, the new Twins pitcher seemed to be lobbing it in too. The Orioles pushed across four more runs on five hits before Mike Cutko came on in relief of Robbie and threw two scoreless innings to seal the win.

  Final score: Orioles 7, Twins 1. As they met on the mound to smack gloves with Mike and exchange fist bumps, the Orioles felt good about themselves. Somehow, they had found a way to beat the best pitcher in the league. Yes, he hadn’t been at his best late in the game. But their patience and resourcefulness had something to do with that too. Whatever the case, the Orioles weren’t about to give this one back.

  “Now it’s on to the championship game, men!” Coach boomed. “The mighty Orioles against the mighty White Sox! Two thirteen-and-oh teams going at it for the trophy and an undefeated season! This is the way baseball’s meant to be!”

  The Orioles were glad to see Coach in a good mood again. They were even happier moments later when he pulled out his wallet and announced that the ice creams at the Snack Shack were on him.

  By the time the Orioles were through celebrating and Cody walked up to the parking lot to meet his mom, the sun was setting and the sky was streaked with shades of pink and orange.

  Off to his left, he heard the revving of a car engine. Then a familiar-looking green Jeep backed up and drove slowly past him. It was the Rottweiler Twins. Cody spotted Dante in the backseat, leaning forward and talking excitedly with his brothers. Good to see Dante as excited about the big win as everyone else, Cody thought.

  But then all three seemed to be pointing in Cody’s direction and nodding.

  He shivered slightly and quickened his pace. Seconds later, the Jeep roared off, its tires squealing. Cody looked around to see if the Rizzos could possibly have been pointing at someone else. But, with a sinking feeling, he realized the parking lot was all but deserted. Only his mom’s car remained, its taillights winking up ahead.

  Well, Cody thought, that answers that question.

  That day at the strip mall when he thought he might have melted back into the woods like some kind of hotshot Army Ranger and no one had seen him?

  It looked like he was wrong.

  The class was in its usual funk. Ms. Eleanor Wratched’s fifth-period science students were less than inspired by the question she had just posed in her familiar nasal monotone: “Who can tell us how igneous rocks are formed?”

  It was a hot day and the air conditioner in the corner groaned listlessly, emitting a thin stream of dusty air that did little to cool the room. Cody looked around at his classmates. Each one displayed virtually the same body language: torso slouched low, elbow on desk with chin cupped in one hand, the other hand close by in case a yawn needed to be stifled.

  Boring teacher, boring subject, hot stuffy room—to Cody, Ms. Wratched’s class was the educational equivalent of anesthesia. Who cared about stupid igneous rocks, anyway?

  Apparently, no one. Not a single hand was raised. Even Marty had failed to raise his hand. And Marty, the smartest kid in the class, usually raised his hand for everything, even if Ms. Wratched wondered aloud if the cafeteria was serving tacos.

  Gazing at the vast sea of disinterested faces before her, Ms. Wratched sighed and rose from her desk. A stout woman a tad just under five feet tall, she began strolling the aisles, apparently operating on the theory that proximity to her students would jog their memories and thus facilitate the lesson plan.

  “Igneous rocks?” she said again. “C’mon, anyone?”

  No, no one raised a hand. Cody shot a look at Marty, wondering if he would take one for the class and answer the question. But Marty was examining a paper clip, holding it inches from his face as if he’d never seen anything so fascinating in his life.

  “Okay, then,” Ms. Wratched said. “Perhaps I have to call on someone.”

  If this was designed to make the class snap to attention, it failed miserably. If anything, the eyes of all twenty-three students were even more glazed-over than before.

  Ms. Wratched stopped abruptly at Dante’s desk and pointed a small, chubby finger. “Mr. Rizzo,” she said with a thin smile. “Surely you know. Igneous rocks? How they’re formed?”

  The rest of the class assumed she was being sarcastic. Not once since the beginning of the school year had Dante ever raised his hand to volunteer an answer. And when called upon by the teacher when he didn’t raise his hand, not once had he given a correct answer.

  “Um…” Dante said, head down, doodling a picture of Batman in his notebook. Then, looking up, “What kind of rocks did you say?”

  “Igneous, Mr. Rizzo,” Ms. Wratched said in the same monotone. “That was the homework assignment, wasn’t it? Igneous rocks?”

  “Guess so,” Dante mumbled, still scribbling. After another long pause, “Um, I dunno how they’re formed.”

  Ms. Wratched stared at Dante for a moment. Then she shrugged and walked slowly back to her desk.

  “Well,” she said sadly, opening the textbook, “I guess this will be more of a lecture than the spirited give-and-take discussion I had hoped for.”

  As his teacher droned on and on about rocks and magma and the upper reaches of the Earth’s mantle, Cody gazed out the window at the bright sunshine and found his thoughts drifting.

  He was still preoccupied by th
e slow drive-by Dante and the Rottweiler Twins had done in the parking lot. Obviously they had spotted him snooping at their open-air merchandise booth at the strip mall. The question now was, What were they going to do about it? And would it ultimately involve him bleeding in any way?

  At the Orioles’ practice two days earlier, Cody had been on full alert from the moment his mom dropped him off until she picked him up that evening. Same thing at school: as soon as he got off the bus, his head would start swiveling in all directions, doing what his dad always referred to as a “threat assessment.”

  Yet nothing had happened. Today, though, Cody had noticed that Dante seemed fidgety, his legs jiggling up and down from the time he sat in his seat. Seeing Dante like this was actually making Cody nervous, and the more he thought about the whole situation, the more he—

  Suddenly he was aware of an awful silence in the room. Ms. Wratched’s droning had stopped. He thought he heard his name. Snapping his head around, he saw the rest of the kids staring at him.

  “Mr. Parker?” Ms. Wratched repeated. “We were going over the depth at which magma is produced. But perhaps you’d care to tell us what you find so fascinating outside the window? Is it the green grass growing? Or the flight of a particularly energetic bumblebee?”

  Cody heard a few nervous giggles. He tried desperately to kick-start his brain.

  “The, um, the depth at which, uh, magma is produced?” he stammered.

  “Yes, that is the topic,” Ms. Wratched said.

  Finally, it came to him. “Well, that’s easy,” he said. “It’s fifty to two hundred kilometers.”

  Ms. Wratched could not have appeared more shocked if a total eclipse of the sun had just occurred.

  “Very good, Mr. Parker,” she said at last. “And of course you have your schematic diagram of how lava reaches the surface of the Earth, because that was last night’s homework assignment. Perhaps you’d show that to us now?”

  Cody grinned. Yes, he could do that too. He reached down for his binder and fumbled through a pile of papers. Something popped out of the side pocket and clattered to the floor.