by Alan Gratz
The rest of the team began to arrive for their morning game at the Prospect Park baseball fields, and Michael and his catcher Carlos Reyes finished up their workout to join them.
“You’ve just about got that curveball down,” Carlos told him.
“Yeah. But not quite.”
“When the baseball strike ends, you should watch Fernando Valenzuela throw. He has the best curveball in the majors.”
“Fernando has the best screwball in the majors.”
Carlos grinned. “Yes, but his curveball is the best too.”
In the dugout Michael found his closest friend on the team, Adam Rosenfeld, and tossed his glove on the bench beside him. Adam was a curly-headed eleven-year-old from Richmond, Virginia, who could never sit still. He played just about every position on the team, was a star football player, and could beat Michael handily at any video game.
“Me and Raul saw Raiders of the Lost Ark last night,” he said.
“Again? How many times is that?”
“Seven. How many times you seen Empire?”
Michael shrugged. “Ten or twelve.”
Coach Clemmons clapped his hands as he came into the wire-fence dugout. “All right, troops, big game today. Big game.”
Michael and Adam rolled their eyes at each other. Every game was a “big game” for Coach Clemmons, even though it was the middle of the season.
“Who’s ready to get off the schnide? Hmm?” He clapped again. “I want to see some focus out there today, all right, boys?” He made his way down the bench. “Let’s take good swings today, all right? Keep your eye on the ball. We’re going up against their best pitcher.” Coach Clemmons got to Michael. “But they’re going up against our best pitcher, right, Michael?”
Michael shrugged, even though he knew it was true. They all knew it was true. If the coach could run him out to pitch every game he would, but the league rules wouldn’t allow it.
“We’ve lost three straight,” Coach Clemmons told Michael. “I’m counting on you to be our stopper now, all right? And just remember, not every pitch has to be perfect, Mikey. Most batters will get themselves out, and the guys behind you can do the rest, all right? We may not be able to hit a lick, but we can field like nobody’s business. All right?”
Michael nodded and Coach Clemmons went back down to the front of the dugout, clapping to rally his team.
“All right, you’re our best pitcher now, all right?” Adam said, riffing on Coach Clemmons. “You don’t have to be perfect, all right? Just all right. All right?”
Michael held up his hands and laughed. “All right! All right!”
“All right,” Adam said.
The Bob Smith Ford team took the field first, and Michael and Adam chatted while their Fulton Street Pawn and Loan teammates took their swings.
“So you’ve seen Empire all those times,” Adam said as they watched George Robinson ground out to short. “Who do you think Yoda meant when he said, ‘There is another.’ You know, when he was talking about other Jedis besides Luke.”
“Han Solo. Has to be.”
“No way,” Carlos said. “He says he doesn’t believe in all that stuff.”
“So what? He doesn’t have to believe in it. The Force is what it is.”
“I think it’s Lando,” Adam said.
“What? No.”
“Well who then?”
“I think it’s R2-D2,” Carlos said.
Michael and Adam busted out laughing.
“You guys settle down back there and focus, all right?” Coach Clemmons called. “Now come on. Let’s hear a little baseball chatter, all right?”
Michael wiped tears from his eyes. “Come on batter. Get a hit,” he called, trying not to laugh.
“Um batter, um batter,” Adam said, but he was overcome by another laughing fit and had to stop.
“What? Who says R2-D2 can’t have the Force?” Carlos said.
“Dude. He’s a robot. Robots can’t have the Force. Only living things.”
“Says who?”
The last batter struck out swinging and the bench shuffled to its feet to take the field. Michael shook his head, still laughing, as he climbed up on the mound. He threw a few warm-up tosses and then the first Bob Smith Ford batter stepped up to the plate.
“Easy out, now, easy out,” Adam called from first base.
Michael set up his off-speed pitches with his fastball, fast, slow, fast again, and got the lead-off batter to pop out. The second batter saw a steady diet of fastballs, this time in and out, out and in. He struck out swinging on four pitches. The third batter was Bob Smith Ford’s best; he’d hit two doubles off Michael last time they’d played, and Michael didn’t want to let him do that again. He worked him inside, inside, inside, not letting him get those big long arms around on anything. He got a piece of one that shot a mile in the air and came down in fair territory around third base, where Ramon hauled it in for the last out of the inning.
Back in the dugout Michael started kidding Carlos about C-3PO maybe having the Force. Adam nodded at something behind him.
“Little brother alert,” Adam said.
Michael’s little brother, David, stood on the other side of the chain-link fence, a messy ice cream cone in his hand and the other half on his face.
Michael sighed. “What?”
“You want to play Atari later?”
“I’m kind of doing something right now, David. I’ll worry about that later, all right? Sheesh. Now get out of here.”
David stayed where he was and scarfed his ice cream cone.
“Go on, beat it!” Michael said. David turned to go back to the stands. “Wait, wait,” Michael said. “Tell Grandma Kat I’m opening up too much on my follow-through and ask her what I should do.”
David took another bite of his ice cream cone.
“So go on, you little Ugnaught.”
David left again.
“What a dork.”
“So, you think you’ll play Atari later?” Adam asked.
“Yeah. Probably.”
Coach Clemmons called Michael out on deck, and he went to the plate to bat when Ramon grounded out. Michael’s helmet was a little too big and his bat was a little too small, but he wasn’t a very good hitter anyway. Good enough to bat seventh, but that was only because Tim and Alberto were a lot worse.
Michael managed to work a two and two count and got his aluminum bat on the next pitch, but all he did was float a weak liner to second base for the third out. He tossed his bat and helmet back in the dugout and Adam brought his glove out for him as the teams changed sides. The next half inning he made quick work of the Bob Smith Ford batters, notching two strikeouts and a fly ball to right. He still wasn’t locating his pitches where he wanted them, though, and David wasn’t back when he came off the field. He tried to find his family in the bleachers, but he couldn’t see them.
“Useless,” Michael said.
The next half inning he went back to the mound to face the bottom three hitters in the Bob Smith Ford lineup. He got a strikeout, a ground out, and then the ninth batter, probably the lamest on the team, made Ramon have to dive to save a sure double down the line. But Ramon was so good and the runner was so slow he still threw him out at first.
Michael threw his glove against the chain-link fence and kicked the dirt floor when he got back to the bench.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” Coach Clemmons called. “Let’s show a little respect for the game down there, all right?”
Michael caught sight of his brother on the path behind the dugout and called him over.
“David! David, what did Grandma Kat say?”
David had a little red and white bag of popcorn, and he stuffed a handful in his mouth.
“Abow wha?”
“About me opening up too soon! Not locating my pitches.”
“She seb if yow’re piding pewfec yow’re nob dobing anbyfing wong.”
“In English, please?”
David swa
llowed. “She said if you’re pitching perfect you’re not doing anything wrong.”
“But I’m not pitching perfect.”
“Yes you are,” Adam said. “Nobody’s reached first base in three innings. That’s perfect.” Adam laughed. “Hey, just six more innings and you’ve got a perfect game!”
“Right,” Michael said. Like he could ever be perfect.
2
Fulton Street Pawn and Loan didn’t score in their bottom half of the inning, even though they did muster two hits. In the bottom of the fourth Michael faced the other team’s top three hitters again, registering a strikeout and a ground out to Adam for the first two outs of the inning. Then the big doubles hitter came to the plate, and Michael knew he wouldn’t fall for a barrage of inside pitches again. He looked in to see what Carlos was thinking.
Carlos put down the sign for an inside fastball.
Michael sighed. With just a fastball and a changeup, his off-speed pitch, he didn’t have many options. He nodded to Carlos. Even if they didn’t go there the entire at bat, he could throw an inside fastball that at least set the batter up, make him think that’s what they were going to do again this time.
But Michael didn’t want to “waste” a pitch—to throw one that did nothing but delay confrontation. Instead he aimed for the edge of the plate, looking maybe to get a called strike if the umpire was in a generous mood and the big hitter was expecting junk.
The hitter took the pitch. “Strike one!” the umpire cried. The big guy slumped his shoulders and looked back at the umpire, questioning the call without saying a word. His coach said something about it, though, giving the umpire an earful from the dugout.
Carlos threw the ball back to Michael and he looked in again. Fastball inside. Michael shook his head. Carlos wanted a repeat of the first at bat, but Michael knew this guy wouldn’t let another close strike go by without doing something with it, and he wasn’t going to swing at something too far in. Behind the plate, Carlos shrugged, as if to say, “Okay, what then?”
Carlos put down the sign for a fastball away. Michael nodded. It was worth a shot, and the hitter might be expecting more inside stuff. But Michael would really have to waste one now. If he put it anywhere near the plate the hitter would tattoo it to right field.
Michael took a deep breath, aimed, and let his fastball fly. The hitter was ready for it, eager for anything he could reach out for, and he lunged after the fastball like a golfer.
“Strike two!” the umpire called. Michael snapped the ball back in his glove and nodded to Carlos. They had the guy on the ropes. He peered in for the sign.
Carlos dropped two fingers.
The curveball? Was Carlos crazy? A third of the time it bounced to the plate, and a third of the time it floated in like the fattest, most hittable pitch the batter had ever seen. Sure, there was that other third of the time when it broke just right, when it came in looking like a fastball and then dove away at the last second, leaving batters flailing, but there was no way he could take the chance. He shook Carlos off.
Carlos’s catcher’s mask tilted sideways, and Michael knew he was wondering: “If not now, when?”
Michael sighed again. Carlos was right, and he knew it. The pitch wouldn’t get to be perfect if he didn’t use it, and a two-strike count was the time to try it. He motioned for Carlos to cycle through the pitches one more time and nodded at the sign for curveball.
“Drop in there,” Michael whispered as he went into his windup. “Drop in there drop in there drop in there.”
He released, staring the ball down as it flew closer, closer, closer—
—but didn’t drop. It hung like a fat breaking ball, and the big Bob Smith Ford hitter took a late, greedy hack at it. The ball pinged off his bat and flew straight back into the chain-link fence backstop behind the plate—thwack!—rattling the No Pepper sign.
The big hitter glanced back at Michael like he couldn’t believe the gift he’d just been given, and he kicked at the dirt for not blasting the ball for a home run.
“All right, enough of that, then,” Michael said. He got a new ball from Carlos and they went back to square one. Another fastball away? No. Another fastball inside? No. An off-speed pitch way outside? No. Everybody always wanted to waste pitches when they had a two-strike count, like they had three balls they could throw anywhere. What was the point of wasting a good count just to run it back to three balls and two strikes?
Carlos called time-out and jogged to the mound.
“You gotta call something, amigo. I say try the curveball again.”
“No,” Michael said. He grasped for something, anything he could use to get him out. “Changeup low. Bottom of the strike zone.”
“Why not waste a couple first? Get him guessing.”
Michael shook his head. “He’s too smart for that. Let’s go with the low changeup.”
Carlos shrugged and jogged back to the plate, and Michael kneaded the ball in his hands. When his catcher was set he went into his windup, then slowed his delivery down, aiming for the bottom of the strike zone. The ball took an eternity to get there, and he watched as he followed through. The hitter waited, waited, waited, hitched his shoulder, then swung—
The bat met the ball with the resounding ping of aluminum, but he drove the ball down, into the ground. It tore a divot in the earth four feet in front of home and bounced to short, where George made quick work of it and threw the batter out at first. Michael pumped his fist and slapped Carlos on the back as they ran back in the dugout, four innings in the books.
Four perfect innings.
Michael was up first for Fulton Street Pawn and Loan, and he grabbed his helmet and bat and walked out to the plate while the other pitcher took a few warm-up tosses. Perfect through four innings. That was something, but a lot of pitchers had been perfect for four innings. Perfect for nine innings was a different thing altogether. There had only been ten perfect games in the history of Major League Baseball. Grandma Kat loved to tell the story of being there for Sandy Koufax’s perfect game in 1965, but good as he was, Sandy Koufax had never thrown another. Tom Seaver and a host of others hadn’t thrown any.
A perfect game was practically impossible, wasn’t it? Especially for Michael. He’d walk someone, or there would be a bloop hit, or one of his teammates would throw one three feet over Adam’s head at first for an error. Besides, none of that was going to matter if they didn’t get some runs. The score was still 0-0.
Michael did his best at the plate, but the pitcher was too good for him. Even when he could guess what was coming he still couldn’t do much with it, grounding back out to the mound and getting tossed out easily at first.
Coach Clemmons clapped as he ran back into the dugout—Coach Clemmons clapped for everything, from a home run to a strikeout—but nobody said anything to Michael as he made his way down to the end of the bench. He sat next to Adam and Carlos, but neither of them said anything either.
“So I’ve got another idea,” Michael said. “About who the other Jedi is.” He paused, trying to build suspense for his punchline. “It’s Chewbacca!”
Michael grinned, expecting Adam to laugh and Carlos to get upset that they were still making fun of him, but Adam just looked at his feet and Carlos worked at cleaning the dirt from his cleats.
“It could be Chewbacca,” Adam said.
Michael looked around at his friends. What was wrong with them? Had he done something to make them mad?
Before he could ask, the last batter of the inning struck out and Coach Clemmons was rallying everyone back out onto the field. Michael walked up on the mound, still wondering what he’d said to make his friends upset. But if something was wrong Carlos didn’t show it behind the plate. He was all business as the bottom half of the inning got going, and they made quick work of the next three batters in the lineup, setting them down one-two-three.
Coach Clemmons clapped as Michael ran past him into the dugout, but he didn’t say anything. The whole bench was quiet,
and Adam and Carlos sat near Michael but wouldn’t even look at him. Michael’s little brother, David, standing right beyond the chain-link fence and eating a Moon Pie, was the only one who even acknowledged his presence.
“Everybody’s talking about you,” David said.
“What?”
“In the stands. Everybody is talking about your perfect game.”
Adam and Carlos glared at David, but said nothing. So that’s what this was about. His teammates all knew he had a perfect game through five innings, and nobody wanted to say or do anything to jinx it.
“Mr. Robinson says it’s impossible.”
“Shut up,” Michael said.
“Dad thinks you can do it, though.”
“Shut up,” he said, Adam and Carlos joining him this time. His friends frowned at Michael as if to say, “Don’t jinx it!”
Coach Clemmons called Carlos’s name, and he got up to go hit.
“I’m telling Mom you told me to shut up.”
“So go tell her and leave me alone!”
David turned to go.
“Wait!”
Michael ignored the glare from Adam and went to the back corner of the dugout to whisper through the fence with David. “What does Grandma Kat say?”
David shrugged.
“Ask her what she thinks I should do about that big guy, their number three hitter. I have to get him out one more time. Ask her what I should do.”
David took another bite of his Moon Pie.
“So go already!”
David wandered off, and Michael watched as Carlos hit into a double play. Four pitches later Ramon was down on strikes and the half inning was over. It was time for Michael to face the bottom of the sixth.