The Batboy

by Mike Lupica

  I’ve heard a lot about you, Hank.

  You’ve got a great kid, Liz.

  Gag me, Brian thought.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Tigers were scheduled to play two games in Minneapolis against the Twins. Then they were going from there to Chicago for three against the White Sox. After that they returned to Comerica for a ten-game home stand against the best of the American League East: Rays, Red Sox, and Yankees.

  What that meant to Brian was that he got a full weekend of baseball with the Sting, Friday and Saturday games against the Lake Orion Dragons, then a doubleheader against Motor City on Sunday at Lahser High School.

  He still missed the team when it went on the road, missed the routines he’d already fallen into in a pretty short time, for both day games and night games. He even missed hanging around with Finn every day.

  But the idea of taking a little break from Hank Bishop didn’t kill him.

  He knew this wasn’t just his summer with Hank Bishop, it was his summer with the Tigers. That meant the other twenty-four players, the manager, the coaches, Mr. Schenkel, even the broadcasters he saw at the ballpark every single day. He’d been given a kind of backstage pass to big-league baseball.

  Not to just one guy.

  Even if that one guy had been his favorite player his whole life. And even if that one guy seemed to be taking over his life. Now even his mom seemed interested in baseball.

  On Thursday night she came into the den and announced she was going to watch the Twins game with him, at least until Grey’s Anatomy came on.

  “I’m sorry,” Brian had said when she’d sat down in the big leather chair in the den that used to be his dad’s favorite seat for watching baseball. “Are you lost?”

  “Lost is Wednesday night,” she said.

  “Good one, Mom.”

  “What,” she said, “I’m not allowed to watch a little baseball with my boy?”

  “You mean watch something you never watch?” Brian said. “Or maybe it was one of my other moms who told me once she’d rather have food poisoning than watch a whole baseball game? The mom who just the other day was comparing baseball to the Mafia.”

  “Those were figures of speech,” she said. “In writing, we call it dramatic license. Even newswriting. And, by the way, I didn’t say I wanted to watch the whole game.”

  “You just want to watch Hank,” he said.

  “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

  Like they were still just kidding around. Only now Brian wasn’t. He didn’t know why the air in the room had changed, why he felt hot all of a sudden. But he did.

  “You meet the guy one time and suddenly you’re interested in the Tigers?”

  “And there’s something wrong with that?” she said. “I thought you wanted me to like baseball.”

  “Mom,” he said, “when I first got this job, you sounded like you’d rather have me be a bag boy in a supermarket than a batboy for the Tigers. Or mow lawns to make extra money. Or just hang around the house doing nothing.”

  “I come in and want to watch a few innings of a game with you and now you’re getting mad at me?”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Well, you sound mad to me.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  She turned the chair a little, angling it so she was facing him now.

  “Then I guess I’m not getting this,” she said. “Because you’re the one who told me one time that I shouldn’t hold baseball against you because of the problems it caused for me and your dad. And for you.”

  “I know I did. But, well, you shouldn’t like baseball again just because of this one guy, is all.”

  “But I thought he was your guy,” she said. “Are you telling me now that he’s not?”

  “No,” he said, “I’m not telling you that.”

  “Then what are you telling me? I feel like we’re having a fight about something here and I don’t even know what it’s about,” she said. “Which is something I mastered when your dad was still around.”

  “I guess I’m just saying that I don’t get you sometimes.”

  “Makes two of us,” she said, getting up out of the chair now. “If you don’t want me to watch with you, just tell me and I won’t.”

  “I’m not saying that, either.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Okay.” Brian sighed, trying to squeeze a smile out of himself. Trying to change the air. “Hank just struck out to end the top of the second. I’ll call you when he’s up again.”

  “Okay,” she said, and walked out of the room.

  Brian sat there thinking. It was as if Hank Bishop was in the room even when he wasn’t, when he was playing on the road, because he was up on his mom’s radar now. And that was making him mad, even if he wasn’t going to admit it.

  Liz Dudley had an expression she used on Brian all the time: Be careful what you wish for. Now he knew exactly what she meant. Ever since his dad had left, there’d been so many nights when he sat in this room and wished he had somebody he could share the games with. Now he wasn’t so sure. By the time Hank Bishop did come up the next time, he was up in his room, listening to the game on the radio. Alone. And liking it.

  Alone and wondering how baseball ever got this complicated.

  The Sting won both games at Lake Orion’s home field, Brian’s only hit of the series driving in a run. It was Will Coben’s ninth-inning home run that won Saturday’s game.

  They ended up losing the first game of Sunday’s doubleheader against Motor City, but that wouldn’t be the game everybody would remember. The second game, with Kenny Griffin pitching, was the one they’d remember at Lahser High.

  It wasn’t going to decide anything in their league, so there was no reason for the game to have any kind of playoff juice or edge to it. But the longer it went on and the longer it stayed scoreless, the more it felt exactly like the playoffs.

  Brian felt the way he did watching Tigers games from his seat next to Davey Schofield, only this was better. This was what Kenny called “the goods.” This was a great game that Brian was in.

  He had worried that because he had the batboy job, playing for the Sting might not make him feel the same way he used to about playing ball. But he was finding out today on the field at Lahser High that there was nothing to worry about. He was actually glad the Tigers were in Chicago today because if they hadn’t been, he would have missed out on Bloomfield-Motor City, Game Two.

  From the top of the first, Kenny had pitched like the total star he was. His pitch count was low today, as low as Brian could remember it. He had been around the plate all day and the Motor City hitters weren’t taking many pitches, almost like they wanted to keep Kenny out there as long as possible, even as Brian could hear their coach practically begging them to be patient.

  Kenny usually had to be pulled from the game once the seventh inning ended because the maximum number of pitches he could throw—the number agreed upon by his dad and Coach Johnson—was ninety. And he’d be right around ninety by the sixth or seventh. But today the innings kept going by fast and Kenny kept getting stronger, striking out the side on eleven pitches to end the Hit Dogs’ seventh.

  “You good?” Coach Johnson said to him when he got back to the bench. “Because you’re only at sixty-eight pitches.”

  “Sixty-six,” Kenny said, toweling off.

  “Well, I got you with two more.”

  Kenny grinned at him. “All due respect, Coach? I got you two off.”

  “I take it that you’d like to continue then?”

  “Try getting the ball away from me.”

  “What we need to get is a run.”

  It came in the bottom of the inning, Kenny doing the job himself, singling home Will from second with one out and then advancing to second base on the throw home. Brian had a chance to make it 2-0 when he ripped the first pitch he saw from the Hit Dogs’ starter, a beast of a lefty with a vicious rising fastball. But the ball hung up just enough in right-center for thei
r center fielder to run it down.

  So the game stayed 1-0 headed into the eighth. Kenny got two quick ground balls and a strikeout to close out the top of the inning. He was still way under his limit, but Coach Johnson came over and sat next to him with the Sting up to bat in the bottom of the eighth. Before their coach even asked the question, Kenny grinned at him and said, “Coach? Don’t even think about it.”

  It actually made Coach Johnson laugh. “Coaching this team is such an easy job sometimes,” he said, and got up and walked away.

  When he was out of earshot, Brian said, “You sure you’re good?”

  Kenny turned to him and in a whisper said, “I’m gassed. Totally. Mad gassed. But you know the deal. This is my chance to go the distance. Never did it in Little League, never did it in school ball.” He kept his voice low and said to Brian, “You know that home run you want to hit someday? Going nine is that home run for me. A tape-measure shot.”

  Brian knew exactly what his bud was talking about. The Sting went down in order, so Kenny didn’t get much rest before taking the mound for the top of the ninth. He walked the first batter he faced on four pitches, took a deep breath, then got the second batter to line out to Will at first.

  The ball was hit hard, though. The next kid singled on the first pitch.

  First and third, one out. And Brian could see that Kenny was laboring out there.

  “C’mon, finish these guys,” Brian said to himself, willing the words to reach Kenny all the way from left field.

  The next batter worked the count full and should have taken ball four to load the bases, but he wound up doing Kenny a favor by swinging right under the high pitch.

  The runner on first had been running with the pitch and ended up stealing second easily.

  One more out to go.

  Brian hadn’t been doing the math, but if Kenny wasn’t at ninety pitches by now, he was close enough as the Motor City cleanup hitter stepped into the box. He was the biggest kid in the game, and strong. Brian had heard the other kids calling him “Buddha,” not sure whether the nickname was meant to be a compliment or not.

  Thinking, It sure does fit, though.

  Buddha had hit the ball hard every time he’d been up, even if he still didn’t have a hit to show for his efforts.

  Inside, Brian said to himself. Do not let him extend those massive arms.

  Inside, Kenny G.

  The first pitch wasn’t close to being inside. Not only did Buddha extend his arms, but he got all of the pitch, hitting a hooking line drive toward the left-field line.

  Hard to Brian’s right.

  And this ball wasn’t going to hang up like the one Brian had hit earlier. Buddha had gotten on top of Kenny’s fastball, putting all this topspin on it, like the killer forehand in tennis.

  Getting a good jump on the ball wasn’t Brian’s strong suit as an outfielder. He had a strong arm, and if he could get his glove on the ball, he could catch it. But he wasn’t fast and he knew it.

  He’d been ready for this one, though, and got a good jump on it. Still, he felt his heart sinking the way the ball was, the ball tailing away from him too hard and too fast, Brian just knowing it was going to land fair. And if it landed fair, both runners would score and the Sting would lose. And Kenny would have finally gone nine, only to lose the game.

  Brian waited until he couldn’t wait anymore and went into his dive, extending his left arm across his body, lying out with his glove hand as much as he possibly could.

  He felt two things then, one right after another.

  He felt the ball in the webbing of his—what else?—Hank Bishop glove.

  Then he felt his right shoulder hit the outfield grass at Kenning Park as hard as if he’d used that shoulder to try to break down a door. But Brian wasn’t worrying about that, he was just worrying about keeping his glove as high above the grass as he could, even if that meant his shoulder had to take all the impact when he hit.

  So he didn’t roll. It was basically as if he’d just belly-flopped out there, about a foot from the chalk of the left-field line.

  But with his Hank Bishop glove high enough for the infield umpire to see.

  The glove that held Kenny’s first complete game ever in its webbing.

  Brian sat up, holding the glove above his head now, like some kind of trophy. The ump signaled out. Brian sat right where he was and saw Kenny, still standing on the mound, throw his own glove up in the air.

  Then he watched as his bud ran toward the Sting’s bench, where Kenny’s father was pumping his arms in celebration. They hugged, hard.

  Brian stood and began slowly walking off the field, his shoulder suddenly hurting a lot more than it had a moment ago.

  CHAPTER 16

  There were so many questions he wanted to ask Hank Bishop, so many questions he realized he would probably never get answers to.

  It was pretty clear by now that Hank wasn’t just rusty at the plate. Even Brian could see that he didn’t have the same bat speed he used to have.

  There was something else, too. Brian couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly, but something about Hank’s swing itself looked different. Brian told himself it was just the angle he had, now that he was watching on the field. But even watching from home when the Tigers were on the road, there was no denying it. Hank Bishop was no longer the hitter he once was.

  Brian remembered Tim McCarver one time on the Game of the Week saying that getting a fastball past Hank Bishop was like getting table scraps past a hungry dog.

  Now Brian wished there was some way to ask him what that was like. What it felt like to swing and know instantly that the ball was headed out of the park for a home run. What adjustments he had to make at the plate now that his hands wouldn’t do what he wanted them to do, what his brain was probably still telling them to do.

  And did it make Hank mad?

  Or maybe just sad.

  Hank Bishop wasn’t a bad hitter now. He just wasn’t great anymore. His average was at .280 since he’d come back to the Tigers, with three homers and ten RBI. But whether Brian was watching him from next to the dugout at Comerica or watching him on television, he’d always see a few pitches per game that were practically begging to be crushed by Hank’s bat but would end up being routine fly balls.

  More than anything, though, the question he knew he would never have the courage to ask was this:

  How much Hank Bishop thought steroids had to do with the success he used to have.

  Brian loved baseball enough to know that it was the record books, the stats, that connected one era to another, that connected somebody like Ty Cobb, the greatest Tiger of them all—and, from everything he’d read, a hundred times the jerk that Hank could be—to the players of today. And Brian knew that what was now called the “steroid era,” the era that pretty much took up his whole life, had made a fine mess of the record books and of history, especially when it came to home runs, because nobody could sort out how much the modern stats were real and how much they had to do with drugs. Who was clean and who wasn’t.

  Every time one of Hank’s balls ended up on the warning track, he wondered if it would have been a home run five years ago.

  He knew Hank had to wonder the exact same thing, whether he’d ever admit that or not.

  Brian had experienced a lot of feelings since Hank Bishop became a Tiger again, more bad than good. A lot more bad than good, actually.

  He’d never expected to feel sorry for him. Yet he did.

  Even stranger, in a way that Brian couldn’t understand

  properly, it made him feel sorry for himself.

  It was three thirty in the afternoon, middle game of the Red Sox series, halfway through the home stand, the Tigers riding a four-game winning streak, and Brian and Finn were in Equipment Room No. 3, the real start of their day.

  “Here’s what you need to do, if you want my opinion,” Finn was saying.

  “Wait a second,” Brian said. “This opinion, the one you’re about to giv
e me, is this one I have a choice about?”

  “Yes,” Finn said. “But I’m telling you in advance, it’s not one you’d want to miss out on.”

  They were changing out of their own clothes and into their Tigers golf shirts.

  “I’m going to risk it,” Brian said.

  “I know you well enough already to know you don’t mean that,” Finn said.

  He turned now, having pulled his shirt over his head.

  “You gotta stop thinking you’re going to get to know Hank the Crank,” Finn said. “Get to know what he’s really like.”

  He put air quotes around really.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because this is what he’s really like!” Finn said.

  “I still don’t believe that,” Brian said.

  Finn acted as if he hadn’t even heard him. “And I’ve got another bombshell for you.”

  “Wow,” Brian said. “Who’s luckier than me today?”

  “All those questions you tell me you want to ask him about being a former juicer? Say you did ask him one day in a moment of complete wigged-out insanity. You think he’d give you an honest answer? He still won’t admit he even took the drugs, remember? Says he didn’t know what his trainer was giving him.”

  “I still want to know.”

  “Dude,” Finn said. “You’re the big history guy, remember? You’re the one who told me that guys wouldn’t tell the truth about drugs even when they went in front of Congress.”

  “Yeah. Mark McGwire said he didn’t want to talk about the past on a day all they wanted from him was to talk about the past.”

  “You need to start focusing on the guys who actually like having us around,” Finn said. “Not Hank the Crank, who acts like we were the ones who suspended him from baseball.”

  Brian thinking: The guy acts like he’s still suspended.