by Donald Bain
A chorus of boos swelled up from the vicinity of the left-field fence. Meg took my hand and squeezed it.
“Those boo-birds out there are from San Pedro,” Doug Worzall announced as the camera panned a contingent of Texon fans wearing yellow-and-red shirts, the team colors, and waving WE’RE #1 foam hands.
“Here’s the first pitch. It’s a swing and a miss. That ball was outside, out of the strike zone. Looks like Ramos might be a little anxious.”
“That corner is the pitcher’s favorite, Ralph. Evans has left a lot of Rattlers swinging at that curveball.”
“C’mon, Ty,” Meg whispered, watching her foster son intently. “You can do it.”
“Here’s the windup. It’s outside. One-and-one.”
Ty used his bat to knock dirt from his cleats and twisted his right foot into the batter’s box. He nodded to the umpire and squinted at the pitcher, taking a practice swing.
“Ramos is an interesting guy, Doug. He was born in the Dominican Republic. That country has baseball in its blood. It’s the national passion. They’ve contributed more ballplayers to Major League Baseball than any other nation outside our borders, and with a population of less than nine million. Amazing, isn’t it?”
The next pitch was low and outside, a ball.
“Those population numbers are almost the same as New Jersey’s,” Trienza said. “And don’t forget, that’s where Ramos was raised. He was an all-star on his high school team, took them to the state championships.”
“He’s looking to take the Rattlers to the league championships now. Here’s the pitch. Ooh, he fouled that one off his instep. Got to sting. Two-and-two.”
The pitcher took off his mitt and rubbed the new ball between his hands, pinching the top with his fingers as if he wanted to smoothe out the leather. He stretched, put the glove back on, leaned over, and stared at the catcher, shook his head, then nodded and threw the ball. Ty jumped back as the ball whizzed by close to his head. He stepped out of the batter’s box and swung his bat twice.
“That was a close one, Doug. Evans was giving him a warning there—don’t crowd the plate. It’s a full count, folks, in the bottom of the ninth with two out. This next pitch could decide the game.”
Worzall laughed. “I’m feeling nervous myself, Ralph,” he said. “Imagine what Ramos must be feeling now. The whole team is counting on him. That’s a lot of pressure for a young player.”
“But he’s poised, Doug. Mature for his age. Let’s see what he does with this pitch.”
Ty tapped home plate with his bat, tugged on the peak of his cap under the batting helmet, and stole a glance at Meg. A small smile played around his lips. He adjusted his hips, swaying from side to side, lifted one shoulder after the other, then settled down into his batting crouch and waited. The pitcher wiped his lips, set the ball at his waist, reared back, raised his right leg, and hurled the ball toward home plate.
Ty swung. There was a loud crack as his bat connected with the ninety-mile-an-hour fastball. The crowd rose to their feet, and Meg and I joined them to watch the ball sail toward the right-field wall. The Texon outfielder skipped backward, keeping his eye on the ball, then turned to watch it clear the fence and bounce on the street outside the stadium.
“Home run! The ball game’s over. Ty Ramos hits a homer to end the game. The Rattlers have won the championship, with Ramos’s long ball bringing in two runs for a four-three victory over the San Pedro Texons. Here come the tying and winning runs down the third-base line. The San Pedro Texons will have to wait another year. The Mesa Rattlers are the Pacific West Double-A champions!”
Meg gave me a hug, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, Jessica. He did it! He won the game! I’m so excited. I’m so proud. I knew he could do it.”
“Congratulations, Meg. What a wonderful day for you and Jack.”
“Oh, I know Jack saw this. He’s watching our boy on TV.”
Around us, fans were jumping up and down, screaming and laughing, giving each other high fives. The cheerleaders bounced onto the grass, doing back flips and somersaults. The team mascot, an oversized character in a carpenter costume, wiggled his hips and pumped his fist in the air. Ty’s teammates poured onto the field to greet him as he crossed home plate.
With one exception. Junior Bennett spat on the ground, threw his glove across the dugout, and stomped off toward the locker room.
Chapter Two
Ty whooped and shivered as the ice from a bucket of Gatorade was spilled down his back. The floor was flooded. Whatever liquid was available—water, soda pop, juice, rubbing alcohol, and a few smuggled-in bottles of beer—had been used to anoint the team members, and not a few of the guests who’d been intrepid enough to enter the locker room and join in on the postgame festivities. Meg and I had congratulated Ty, who’d ushered us to a bench away from the melee. “You’ll be safer here,” he said, grinning. “And drier.”
“I almost took Jessica’s hand off when you were at bat,” Meg told him. “I squeezed it so hard.”
Ty smiled at me. “You okay, Mrs. Fletcher?”
I waved my hand in the air. “It still functions,” I said. “What an exciting game! I’m glad I got a chance to see you in action. Very impressive.”
“I was just happy I got to go in,” he said. “I would’ve hated sitting on the bench the whole game.” He glanced back at the sounds of cheers and whistles.
“You go on and celebrate with your teammates,” Meg said. “We’ll see you later at the dinner.”
“No, no,” he said. “Wait for me. I’ll only be here a little longer. I want to stop home to see the judge.”
“He called us on my cell phone right after the game,” Meg said, tearing up. “He’s just bursting with happiness. You make him so proud.”
Ty turned a pink bright, enough to be discernible against his naturally dusky complexion. “I like making the judge proud,” he said. “You stay right here, okay? Don’t leave without me.”
“We’ll be here,” I assured him.
Rattlers manager Buddy Washington was soaked from the top of his bald head to the bottom of his cleats. He wiped away rivulets of moisture from his face with his hand as a female reporter in a bright red suit with dark wet patches, testifying that she hadn’t escaped the celebration, shoved a microphone at his mouth. Behind her, a cameraman flicked on a light and aimed his lens at the manager.
“Buddy Washington, manager of the Mesa Rattlers, that was quite a nail-biter in the ninth inning, but your guys came through. You’ve been around a long time, but this is your first championship. Did you ever think this day would come?”
“We’ve got a great team, Karen. These kids are great. I’ve known we had a winning team ever since spring training. I had confidence in them.”
“And you kept it through that seven-game losing streak in July?”
Washington winced at the reminder. “Sure I did. Every team has its ups and downs. That was just a temporary hitch. You’ve got to play through it. And we did. We’ve got the basic talent here to be champs in any league, any league at all.”
Meg and I watched the interview and laughed along with Washington as Ty, egged on by another teammate, poured bottled water over his manager’s head.
The reporter turned to Ty.
“Ty Ramos hit a homer to win the game and seal the league championship. You’re the game’s most valuable player, Ty, and there’s talk you’ll be named MVP of the season. Tell the people how it feels to be the hero of the day.”
Ty pulled over another player and wrapped his arm around his teammate’s neck. “Carter here got three hits today,” he shouted into the microphone. “And our pitchers kept the Texons to only three runs. We got a great manager in Buddy Washington, who had faith in us even when we sucked. Can I say ‘sucked’ on TV?”
“You just did,” Carter said, laughing and taking a slug from a bottle of beer.
“Then I guess it’s okay,” Ty said.
“I can edit it out later, if the st
ation objects,” Karen said. “Keep talking.”
“Where was I? Oh, yeah, like Buddy says, this is a great team, with great team spirit.”
Someone shouted from behind him, “Rattlers forever!” and let out a loud war cry that left my ears ringing.
“See what I mean?” Ty said, looking over his shoulder. “When you got a great team, everyone contributes. It isn’t one guy or two. It’s all of us.”
“You tell him, captain,” Carter said, grinning.
“That’s a her, not a him,” Ty said, pointing his empty bottle at Karen, whose figure beneath the suit said loud and clear that she was indeed a “her.”
Carter guffawed and covered his mouth with his hand.
“Even Junior Bennett?” Karen said. There was a skeptical note in her voice.
“She’s baiting him,” I said to Meg.
“He can handle it,” she replied.
“Junior’s a great player,” Ty said. “Where is he? I haven’t congratulated him yet.” Ty craned his neck, peering around the chaotic locker room, then caught Meg’s eye and winked at her before turning back to the microphone. “Right now,” he said, raising his empty water bottle, “we’re the best team in baseball.”
Another reporter with a pad and pen stepped in front of Ty and Carter. “Can I get a comment from you for the Gazette?” he asked.
“Sure, Franco,” Carter said. “What would you like us to say?”
“Tedeschi, you stepped right into my shot,” Karen said, a frown marring her pretty face. She moved sideways to get the unrepentant newspaperman out of the picture. “We’ll have to edit. Keep rolling.” She adjusted her expression and continued. “This is Karen Locke in the Mesa Rattlers locker room, where good fellowship prevails—for now—and the celebration continues. Back to you in the studio.”
The cameraman flicked off his light and looked to Karen for guidance. “You want more?” he asked.
“Yes. I need some B-roll for tonight’s wrap-up,” she said, popping a piece of chewing gum into her mouth. She looked past the Gazette reporter and the two ballplayers and cocked her head at her cameraman. “I see team owner Harrison Bennett, Sr., coming in,” she told him. She lifted a foot off the wet, sticky floor and shook drops of moisture off her shoes. “Let’s get a comment from him and then get out of here before we’re all electrocuted.”
Ty spotted Junior Bennett and broke away from Carter and Franco Tedeschi to approach him. “Hey, buddy,” he said, grinning and raising his hand for a high five.
Junior ignored the gesture and pushed past Ty, shouldering him aside.
“Junior, Junior. We’re the champs,” Ty said to his teammate’s back. “Doesn’t that make you happy?”
Junior swung around, his expression furious, his hands fisted by his side. “You just love to be in the limelight, don’t you?”
“Sure, especially when we win,” Ty said, working to keep the grin on his face.
“You think you’re such a big shot. Anyone could’ve got a hit off that pitcher. He was slowing down.”
“Maybe he was. So what? The thing is we won.”
“So that was my hit. I should’ve been the one at bat.”
Ty held his hands up, palms out. “Hey, buddy. Not my call. Can’t you just be grateful we’re on top?”
“Don’t preach to me, you dirty sp—”
Buddy Washington grabbed Junior’s elbow and stepped between him and Ty. “Back off,” he growled. “I don’t want to hear that stuff. Grow up, Junior. He did what I wanted. He got the job done.”
“I could’ve done the same.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I make the decisions around here, not you.”
“We’ll see about that,” Junior said. “You were supposed to leave me in. You’re not long for this job.”
Several team members nearby turned to listen in on the conversation.
Junior looked around sheepishly.
Washington stroked his chin and peered at Junior from under bushy eyebrows. “I’m not? Really? You got some inside knowledge, Junior? Your father consulting you now about his plans for the team?”
Junior had the grace to blush. “No, um—I just think—” he stammered and fell silent.
“Yeah, well. Confine your thinking to how you’re going to work on improving your batting average in the off-season. And in the meantime”—he glanced at Ty, then back to Junior—“keep your disagreements private. The press is swarming all over the place. I don’t want to read any negative comments tomorrow or see anything but smiles on the news tonight. Understand?”
Junior gave a quick nod and hurried away.
“Don’t look at me,” Ty said to his manager, his hands in the air. “I was just tryin’ to congratulate him.” The grin was back on his face.
Washington scowled at him. “I got no patience for grandstanding,” he said, pointing his finger at his star player. Then his expression softened. He gave Ty a soft punch in the arm. “Good job today, son.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Yes, congratulations, Ramos,” a deep voice said from behind Ty.
I saw concern flash in Washington’s eyes and just as quickly disappear as the manager gave the owner a hearty smile, and said, “Congratulations to you, H.B. I told you we had a winning team.”
Bennett rested a hand on Ty’s shoulder. “Leave us alone, boy.”
“Sure thing, sir,” Ty said, looking to Washington, who waved him away.
“I don’t like it when my orders are ignored,” Bennett said.
“Shouldn’t we discuss this in your office?” Washington said softly, his eyes on the television reporter across the room. “We don’t want to be overheard.”
“Don’t tell me where I can talk. This is my team and my locker room. You’re my employee, and don’t forget it.”
Washington shrugged, but even from a distance away I could see a vein beating in his temple, a sign of the tension he felt. “Suit yourself,” he said, feigning nonchalance.
“I do suit myself. And so should you if you know what’s good for you. Didn’t I tell you to leave him in?”
I noticed that with all the Gatorade, beer, and soda flowing, no one in the locker room had dared pour a drop over Harrison Bennett, Sr. He was immaculately dressed in a gray sharkskin suit, a white shirt, and a tie patterned with little baseball caps of red, white, and blue. He was a tall man, broadly built, with a receding hairline camouflaged by a buzz cut that gave him the appearance of someone in the military.
Washington plucked at his damp jersey and weighed his words. “Junior hadn’t connected all day,” he said slowly. “The Texons had a leftie on the mound. We needed a good bat against a left-handed pitcher. Ramos was that bat.” He locked eyes with Bennett, his lips a tight line.
“I don’t pay you to second-guess my instructions.”
“But you do pay me to win,” Washington said. “And that’s what we did.”
The Gazette reporter, pretending not to listen, was inching toward the two men, and across the room Karen Locke strode in their direction and beckoned to her cameraman, who switched on the light on top of the camera.
Bennett squinted in the glare. “Turn that off, and get it out of here if you want to keep your locker room privileges.”