The Only Game

by Mike Lupica

  Their team was their team again, Jack Callahan pitching and batting third.

  He hit the ball hard in BP, spraying the ball all over the field even if he didn’t jack one over the fence the way Nate Vinton had. When he was done, he ran out to short and fielded some ground balls, knowing he would be out there by the fourth inning. Coach Leonard had told him that even if his pitch count was stupidly low, he was only pitching three innings tonight.

  “Even in Little League,” Coach said, “it’s a long season.”

  “I’m the guy who made it a little shorter for us,” Jack said.

  Coach put his arms on Jack’s shoulders and turned him so they were facing each other.

  “Son,” he said, “I can’t change things that happened in my life yesterday, or last week, and neither can you. And neither one of us should be worrying about what’s going to happen tomorrow. All we can do is get after it tonight. Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “Take a look around this field and then ask yourself a question: Where else would you rather be?”

  “Nowhere else,” Jack said.

  “Go out and play that way,” Coach said. “Your whole life you’ve been hitting the catcher’s glove. Just concentrate on doing that tonight, and everything else will take care of itself.”

  The Rays were the home team tonight, just by the way the schedule was written, the first game between them and the White Sox reading this way: White Sox at Rays. Next time they played, the White Sox would be the home team and bat last.

  It meant Jack would get the ball first.

  The Rays fans were on the first-base side of the field, behind their bench. Jack looked over and saw his mom and dad, sitting in the top row the way they always did. His dad preferred watching games from up there, as high up as he could be, so he could see more of the field from the top corner.

  Jack waved at them. They waved back. Jack thought, Finally we’re all where we want to be.

  He was so focused on his parents that he didn’t notice Cassie and Teddy at first, the two of them leaning over the wire fence separating the field from the bleachers.

  “Were you going to say hello?” Cassie said.

  “Well, excuse me for wanting to acknowledge my parents first,” Jack said, grinning at her.

  “I know,” Cassie said. “I was just trying to lighten your vibe a little.”

  “Does my vibe need lightening?”

  “Oh yes,” Teddy said. “You’ve clearly taken the concept of ‘game face’ to a whole new level.”

  “What he’s trying to say is smile, Callahan,” Cassie said. “You’ve finally got a game of your own.”

  He shrugged and smiled. “Happy?” he said.

  “Not as happy as you,” she said, “whether you’re showing it to us fans or not.”

  Then she reached over the fence with her fist. Jack touched it with his own.

  “The only game,” Cassie said, and she and Teddy went to take their seats.

  He walked back to the Rays’ bench. His teammates were waiting for him there. So was Coach Leonard.

  “Have fun,” he said. “Play hard. Don’t show up your opponents, or the umps. Did I forget anything?”

  “Win?” Gus said in a quiet voice.

  Coach Leonard looked at Jack then and said, “How about you lead us out?”

  Jack did that, sprinting to the mound, picking up the new baseball the ump had left sitting on the rubber, feeling the seams, rolling it around in his hand until he started rubbing it up. He stood with his back to home plate as he did, taking in the whole field. Somehow it looked bigger to him than usual. Maybe because the night felt so big to him. He kicked the rubber, knocking dirt out of his spikes. Then he began his warm-up pitches to Scott Sutter, throwing loose and easy, picking it up, putting some steam on the ball for his last few pitches. He pretended the game had already started. The ball in Scott’s mitt sounded even louder and better than it had at practice, as distinctive to him as the crack of the bat.

  After the last warm-up, Scott came out of his crouch and threw a strike down to second base. Brett Hawkins—playing short until Jack did—gloved the ball and put a tag on an imaginary runner.

  The infielders threw the ball around. Jack took one more look up into the stands. He had thought a lot about his brother today and thought about him now. He pictured Brad sitting where he always used to sit, next to their mom.

  Tonight the seat belonged to Mrs. Morales.

  Gus ended up with the ball. He walked it over to Jack. Nobody had to tell Gus Morales to smile in that moment.

  He stuffed the ball, hard, into the pocket of Jack’s Pedroia.

  “Let’s do this,” he said.

  “Let’s,” Jack said.

  Then he proceeded to walk the first batter he faced on four pitches, not one of them close to the strike zone.

  Jack knew why, knew he was too amped up, overthrowing like crazy, unable to calm himself down. All that. As the batter—the White Sox shortstop, Conor Freeman—jogged down to first, Scott came about halfway to the mound before he threw the ball back to Jack. After he did, he made a calming gesture with his hands.

  “Throw me a strike,” Scott said. “I’ll pay you.”

  Jack forced a smile and nodded.

  He did throw strike one to the next batter, Wayne Coffey, who was taking all the way. Jack took a deep breath, let it out, and told himself the game was starting for him right here, even with a runner on first base.

  Then came four more balls: One wild high, one in the dirt, and the next two outside, way outside. Scott somehow managed to make great backhand stops on both of them.

  First and second, nobody out.

  Coach called time, jogged out to the mound, took the ball out of Jack’s glove, and rubbed it up, smiling from ear to ear.

  “I think we clocked a couple of those fastballs at nine thousand miles an hour,” he said. “You think maybe you could dial it down a little?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And please remember my first rule of baseball,” Coach said.

  “Have fun,” Jack said.

  “Even when you’re not having any fun at all.”

  Jack threw two quick strikes to Nate Vinton. Next he tried to get him to chase a ball intended to be way outside. But Nate was too smart. And too patient. He wasn’t going to get himself out.

  Jack went outside again.

  Again Nate didn’t bite.

  Two and two.

  In the past Jack had always prided himself on his control, even when he was trying to bust his best fastball past a hitter. But he knew he didn’t have his normal control right now, not even close, even if he’d put some pitches to Nate where he wanted them.

  Scott set up inside this time. Jack tried to get the ball inside. Just not enough.

  The ball caught too much of the plate, and Nate Vinton was all over it. And as soon as Jack heard the sound of the bat on the ball—the same sound he’d heard when Nate had hit the ball to the next field in batting practice—he knew. If you were a pitcher, you always knew.

  Jack turned and watched the same flight of the ball he’d seen when Nate had been hitting against his dad, saw the ball clear the centerfield fence with even more room to spare this time.

  Just like that, after just three batters, it was 3–0, White Sox.

  Coach was right about one thing, Jack thought.

  It was a long season already.

  TWENTY-TWO

  This time it was Gus’s turn to call time and come over to the mound. Jack was wondering who was next, his mom and dad?

  “You got this,” Gus said.

  “What I’ve got,” Jack said, “is nothing.”

  Gus said, “If they can score off you, we can score off Nate. Just get out of this inning and we’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m the one who needs to figure it out,” Jack said.

  “So do it and stop acting like the game is over,” Gus said. “It just started.”

  He ran
back to first. Jack got out of the inning. It wasn’t easy. He struck out O’Keeffe, who was swinging for the fences himself, and basically striking himself out on a ball up in his eyes. Then came an error by Hawk, a bloop single, two more men on. But T.W. saved Jack before things got any worse, making a diving stop on a line drive to his left, and doubling up the kid on first.

  Jack dropped his glove on the bench, making it clear he didn’t want to talk to anybody right now. He walked over to the drinking fountain near the fence, even though he’d brought Gatorade with him. He just wanted to be alone right now.

  But Cassie was waiting for him.

  “I can’t handle another pep talk,” he said.

  “Not here to give you one.”

  “So you just happened to be thirsty when I was thirsty?”

  “Nope.” She shook her head. “I just wanted to tell you that you should keep pitching from the stretch. Even though the last guy tagged that last pitch, I thought you threw better from the stretch after Nate hit his home run.”

  “For real?”

  “It seemed to slow you down,” she said. “And you stopped walking guys.”

  “You think that will work?”

  “I know it will,” Cassie said. “Oh yeah, look at me. Now I’m coaching you!”

  She ran back to sit with Teddy. When it was Jack’s turn to hit, Gregg Leonard had just tripled past the centerfielder and was standing on third with one out.

  Gus came over to stand with Jack in the on-deck circle. He tapped Jack’s bat with his own. Then he grinned at him.

  “You, like, can still hit, right?” he said.

  “We’re gonna find out.”

  He swung and missed at the first pitch Nate threw him. He thought he’d got all of the next one but caught the ball just an inch too close to the end of the bat, maybe less. And so what could have been a home run his first time up became a long sacrifice fly to center. He’d made an out but knew it was a good out, one that had scored a run for the Rays. He was on the board and so were they.

  Gus doubled to right but never made it past second base. The game stayed 3–1. Jack went out to pitch the top of the second, and it turned out Cassie was right about pitching from the stretch, even with nobody on base. He got two quick outs and looked like he’d pitch a one-two-three inning, when Wayne Coffey hit what looked like a routine ground ball to Hawk at short.

  But the ball went through Hawk’s legs. Jack made what he thought was a great pitch to Nate Vinton, but he hit this little flare to right, just out of T.W.’s reach. Wayne went to third. First and third, two outs.

  Nate took off for second with Mike O’Keeffe at the plate. Scott should have just let him have the stolen base. But he loved his arm and thought he could throw him out. Nate beat Hawk’s tag. Wayne Coffey had been running from third as soon as the ball was in the air. Hawk tried to get him at home, but Wayne scored easily. Nate took third. The White Sox leftfielder dropped down a perfect bunt in front of Gus, Nate scored, and it was 5–1 before Jack finally got the third out.

  Hawk caught up with Jack as he was coming off the field.

  “Dude,” Hawk said, “those runs are definitely on me. That should have been an easy inning.”

  “Forget it,” Jack said. “Nobody stopped me from getting the last out.” He turned as they crossed the baseline. “But, Hawk? I am not giving up another stinking run.”

  He didn’t, putting down the White Sox in order in the third, putting the ball where he wanted to, wishing he’d started the game with this kind of fastball and this kind of location. In the bottom of the inning he got his first hit of the season, a clean single to left, scoring T.W. Gus followed that by hitting a Nate Vinton fastball off the wall in left, maybe a foot from being a home run. Jack could have walked home. It was 5–3. Scott Sutter singled Gus home, and now it was 5–4.

  “Game on,” Jack said when Gus got back to the bench.

  He went out to shortstop for the top of the fourth. Now he didn’t have to control every pitch, just the area between second and third. Andre Williams came on in relief, Coach telling him he needed two innings before he was going to give the ball to Jerry York, their closer, for the sixth.

  “The plan,” Coach said, “is for us to have the lead by then so Jerry actually has a game to close.”

  Andre got through his two innings, giving up just one hit. But the White Sox reliever, Danny Hayes, pitched two scoreless innings himself. The game was still 5–4, White Sox. Jerry came in from rightfield to strike out the side in the top of the sixth.

  Last ups for the Rays, against the White Sox closer, Johnny Gaudreau, who’d been Jack’s and Gus’s teammate last season and was a left-hander with nasty stuff.

  Or “filthy,” as Gus called it.

  Jerry York, batting eighth, was leading off for the Rays, followed by Andre. Then came the top of the order. The math was pretty simple, Jack knew. He needed two guys to get on if he was even going to get to the plate against Johnny Gaudreau.

  Then Jerry struck out. So did Andre.

  “Not the way I wanted the inning to start,” Jack said to Gus.

  “Hey,” Gus said, “we’ve been in bad spots before and come back, right?”

  Jack thought about where he’d been a week ago and said, “Right.”

  Somehow T.W. worked a walk out of Johnny Gaudreau, laying off a three-two pitch that Jack was afraid was going to be called strike three but got called a ball. Gregg Leonard hit the first pitch he saw over third base. Jack thought it might be a double at first, but Nate Vinton—now playing left—quickly closed on the ball and held T.W. at second.

  So the night, Jack’s first night of baseball, had come down to him.

  He walked around the ump and Mike O’Keeffe, the White Sox catcher. He took a couple of practice swings and then gave a quick look over at the stands. But his eyes stopped on Cassie, by herself, leaning over the fence near the water fountain.

  She just gave a single nod of her head.

  Then smiled.

  Jack put his head down as he took his stance, because he felt himself smiling too. In that moment he knew, win or lose, that the feeling he had right now was what he had missed most of all, whether he got a hit or made the last out of the game.

  It wasn’t just one thing, it was everything: being excited, being nervous, even being a little scared.

  This wasn’t just baseball. It was sports. It was why you played, for a moment like this. It was just better in baseball. You against the pitcher. As if the two of you were playing for the championship of the next few pitches.

  Jack dug in with his back foot. Set his hands. Waited.

  Johnny threw his best fastball. Jack thought he was on it, but his timing was a bit off, and he fouled it back.

  0–1.

  Jack laid off the next pitch, sure it was outside. The home plate ump thought differently, deciding it had caught the outside corner even though Jack, who’d always had such a great batter’s eye, knew it hadn’t.

  0–2.

  Just like that, he was in a hole, one strike away from the game being over, from the White Sox staying undefeated and the Rays falling into a 1–4 hole and probably into last place.

  Jack stepped out. He wasn’t facing Cassie in a girls’ softball practice. But he knew Johnny, and he knew Johnny wanted to have his hero moment now and strike Jack out on three pitches to end the game.

  He just knew Johnny was going to come right at him. And he did, with the hardest pitch he’d thrown yet to Jack and in the inning, a rising fastball that TV announcers liked to say was “letter high.”

  Jack was ready for it.

  At first he thought he was too ready, that he’d been too quick, pulled the ball too much, done nothing more than hit a screaming foul ball past third.

  But he hadn’t.

  The ball landed about a foot fair and ran toward the leftfield corner, and by the time Nate Vinton ran it down, Gregg Leonard had chased T.W. across home plate and it was Rays 6, White Sox 5.


  Now Jack was back.

  TWENTY-THREE

  There was no school on Friday because of a teachers’ work day.

  Not only was there no school, there was no baseball practice later for either the Rays or the Orioles, and no games. So just like that it had turned into a summer day, and Jack had decided it was the right day for Cassie and Gus to officially make up.

  It wasn’t like they were still going at each other the way they had that day in the cafeteria. Things seemed to be cool between them at school and when Gus would show up for one of his sister’s games or Cassie would show up for a Rays game, now that Jack was back playing.

  But they had never hung out together. Jack knew from Cassie that they had never talked about what had been said that day at school, and he wanted everybody to move past that for good, now that things were going better for all of them.

  Cassie had talked about Jack and Teddy meeting her at the pond. When he suggested that Gus come along, she said, “Why?”

  “Because he’s my friend and you’re my friend, and I want you guys to be friends.”

  “We’re not not friends,” she said. “Can’t you be happy with that?”

  “No,” he said.

  “’Course not,” she said. “You give a mouse a cookie, he wants a piece of cake.”

  “Strawberry shortcake,” he said.

  “Fine,” she said.

  They all met up at Jack’s house, so they could walk to the pond together. Gus and Cassie showed up first. While they were waiting for Teddy, Cassie was the one who took the lead.

  “Listen,” she said to Gus, “I’m sorry I was so hard on you that day at lunch after Jack quit the team.”

  “No worries,” Gus said, and seemed willing to leave it at that until Jack poked him with an elbow.

  “What?” Gus said.

  “Isn’t there something you want to add?”

  Gus said to Cassie, “Sorry I was such a jerk.”

  Cassie nodded. “Yeah, you were.”

  She put out a fist. Gus bumped it with his own. “Friends?” Cassie said.

  “Yeah,” Gus said, “and I’ll tell you why.”

  “Why?” Cassie said.