High Heat

by Carl Deuker

  Wilson stepped back in. Parino's next pitch was another fastball, right down the middle. It was the kind of pitch Wilson normally handles. But this time he managed only a weak swing and popped out to second. Lind, still limping, tapped the first pitch he saw right back to the mound. Two pitches later Pedro Hernandez popped out to the catcher, and the first was over.

  Fowler struggled through the second, giving up a walk and a single, but no runs. I felt myself hoping again. All we had to do was hold them down for a few innings, then chip away—a run here, a run there, and we'd be right back in it.

  I looked down the bench at the guys. They were leaning forward, elbows on knees, chins resting on their hands. For the first time I wished I'd gone to the barbecue, hung out with them at lunch or before school. Then I could have walked up and down the bench, encouraging them, pumping them up. Instead, all I could do was sit on my hands and watch as Parino shut us down in the second inning.

  Fowler started the third inning strong, blowing away Shorelake's first two hitters with a combination of fastballs and changeups. He was pumped to strike out the side—too pumped. His first pitch to the third hitter sailed over the guy's head all the way to the backstop. His next pitch wasn't much closer. Two more balls put that batter on first. No big deal, I thought. But then came an infield hit and an error by our third baseman, Paul Barrett. Just like that the bases were loaded—with Robertson stepping to the plate.

  Fowler was intimidated. You could see it. His first pitch was a foot outside; the one after that was two feet outside. With the count 2–0, there was nothing he could do but serve up a fastball and hope for the best. Fowler rubbed up the baseball, went into his wind-up, and threw his best fastball down the middle. Robertson was waiting for it. He sent a rocket into the left-center-field alley. The ball skipped past Walton, rolling all the way to the fence. With two outs, the runners had taken off at the crack of the bat. The first two scored standing. The throw home to try to nail the third guy was wild, and he scored too. And standing on third base, no more than twenty feet away from me, was Robertson, clapping his hands and grinning ear to ear, his team ahead 8–0.

  The game was over. In the top of the third, it was completely over. After Robertson's big hit, players on both teams started swinging at the first pitch, just trying to finish the game. Grandison still called out encouragement to batters, but there was no urgency in his voice. On the Shorelake bench, guys were punching one another, laughing and joking, hardly watching the action on the field, moving around simply to keep warm. Even guys on our team were making jokes, only quietly.

  The score was 11–0 after four innings. In the fifth, Grandison took out Fowler and put in Cory Minton, who did a little better, getting through the fifth without giving up a run. But in the top of the sixth, Robertson—who else?—hit a mammoth home run to left center to push Shorelake's lead to 13–0.

  When Minton returned to the bench after recording the third out, Grandison came over to me. "Shane, do you want to pitch? Because if you do, the seventh is yours. If not, I'll let Minton finish. Your call."

  For a moment I couldn't say anything. Did I want to pitch? I didn't really know. Then I felt a surge of cold fury. "I'll pitch." I grabbed my glove, tapped Alvarez on the shoulder, and headed for the sidelines.

  CHAPTER 13

  It was cold and getting colder when I finally took the mound to pitch the seventh against Shorelake. A low fog was hanging over the outfield, making it tough for the hitters to pick up the ball, and I was going to make it tougher.

  The leadoff batter was a sub, a guy I didn't know. I teased him with a changeup outside, then came in with a fastball on the hands. He took a weak swing and dribbled the ball right to me. I tossed the ball to first for the out.

  One down, two to go.

  Brian Coombs was up next. We'd never been friends, but he nodded at me and half smiled, generally acting as if he expected me to smile back. I gave him nothing—nothing but fastballs that he couldn't touch. Three pitches, three strikes. Two down.

  The ball went around the diamond and came back to me. I rubbed it up, then turned to face the final batter of the night. I looked, then looked again.

  Reese Robertson.

  I'd been so focused I hadn't noticed him on deck. But now that he was there, facing me, I knew this was what had to be, that it was somehow fated.

  Something odd happened next. The guys on the Shorelake bench stood up. They started screaming and hollering. "You can do it, Reese!...Just a single, that's all you need."

  I didn't get it. They were up by what ... thirteen runs? You'd think that would be enough. Then the chant started: "Cycle! Cycle! Cycle!"

  That's when I understood.

  Hitting for the cycle is the rarest accomplishment in baseball, rarer even than a no-hitter. A hitter has to get a single, a double, a triple, and a home run all in one game. It takes power and speed and luck. Some great ballplayers go their whole careers and never do it, not at any level. All Robertson needed was a single, and he'd have done it. Just a measly little single.

  He wasn't going to get it. Not off me.

  I stepped onto the rubber and glared down at him, but he didn't register anything. He was so calm, so confident. There was nothing personal in the way he looked at me. Benny Gold put down one finger, calling for the fastball on the outside corner. I nodded and let it fly. Most guys can't take a full swing at my fastball; their bats aren't quick enough. But Robertson was on it; he just swung right under it. "Strike one!" the umpire yelled. Robertson stepped out, pulled on his batting gloves a little, trying to act cool, but the speed on my fastball had surprised him.

  I wound up, delivered. Another fastball, but this time I'd thrown it about six inches outside, figuring he'd be overeager. I was right. He swung awkwardly, barely fouling it back. "Strike two!" the umpire called.

  He stepped out, took a deep breath, adjusted his gloves again, then stepped back in. For a second his eyes met mine and locked. Blue friendly eyes, confident eyes.

  Gold gave me the sign for another fastball. I nodded. Then Gold crouched down and held his glove a good foot outside. He thought we could get Robertson to go fishing and strike out. But Robertson was a smart batter. He peeked down at Gold and saw how far outside he was set up. Immediately he crowded close to the plate, thinking he'd be able to lean out and poke the outside pitch into right field for the hit he needed to complete the cycle.

  Robertson's strategy might have worked if I'd thrown to Gold's glove. Instead, I reared back and fired the ball harder than any ball I've ever thrown in my life. Only I didn't throw it outside. I threw it inside. Up and in.

  High heat.

  It was the last thing in the world Robertson was expecting. He was leaning out over the plate, looking for something outside and low. By the time he understood what was really coming, he was lost. His cleats might as well have been bolted to the ground.

  He was lost, but the ball found him. It found him as if it were some heat-seeking missile. At the last fraction of a second he threw his hands up and tried to duck away, but it did him no good. I heard the ball hit him, hit him so solidly it sounded as if it had hit his bat. It caught him half on the skull, half on the helmet, shattering it. He wobbled, and then he went down. A few seconds later blood was flowing from his nose, and his legs started flopping around.

  Everyone stood frozen for what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds. A woman in the bleachers screamed. Gold and the umpire were on their knees, leaning over Robertson. Coach Levine ran out, followed by Grandison and other people from the stands. So many people were crowded around Robertson that I couldn't see him.

  I did see his mother, though. She stood off to the side, covering her mouth with her hands, tears running down her face. She looked nothing like the woman who had gone through our house, checking each closet and light switch, talking and talking and talking.

  A minute later I heard a siren in the distance. It grew louder and louder, finally an aid car pulled onto t
he field, right up to home plate. Two medics jumped out. Everyone stepped back.

  They bent over Robertson, taking his pulse I guess, or maybe checking his heart. I couldn't really see. They put a brace around his neck. After that they moved him onto a stretcher, then slid the stretcher into the back of the aid car. Reese's mom and dad climbed in with him, and they went tearing off the field, siren screaming.

  At home plate Grandison, Levine, and the umpire conferred. It didn't take long. Grandison turned and waved us all in. "Game's over, men," he said.

  All of the other guys either had a parent at the game or were going home with a friend. I was the only one getting a ride home in the school van. I packed the gear, threw it in the back, and got in.

  Grandison didn't come right away. As I waited, I told myself what some of my teammates had also said as they were leaving: that it wasn't my fault, that it was an accident. Robertson had been leaning out over the plate. I was moving him back, like any good pitcher would. That's all. Just moving him off the plate. If he'd fallen down or jumped back, he'd have been fine. Not that he wasn't fine anyway. He'd had his helmet on. So how serious could it be?

  Grandison got into the van. "They've taken him to Children's Hospital. I'm going to go there right now. You want to come along?"

  "I have to get home," I said. "My mom is at work. I have to—"

  "Look after your sister," Grandison interrupted. "All right. I'll take you home. I don't have time to argue."

  CHAPTER 14

  When I opened the door to the duplex, all the lights were off. On the kitchen table was a note. "Marian's sleeping over at the McGinleys. There's a plate of food for you in the refrigerator. Hope you had a good game. Try to get to bed early. Love, Mom."

  It was deli food: a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich on rye bread, a dill pickle, and potato salad. There was a raspberry Snapple there, too.

  At any other time I'd have wolfed it down, but that night I picked at it before throwing it away. I even poured most of the Snapple down the drain.

  I took a shower, then looked around the place. It was such a dump. I wanted to go somewhere and do something, but I didn't know where or what. I ended up sitting in front of the television watching Xena and Hercules until it was nearly midnight. Lots of times I stay awake until I hear my mom come in at around one, but that night I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  In the middle of the night I had a dream. I was back on the field, and everything was happening again, only in slow motion. I saw Reese leaning out over the plate. I saw the ball flying toward his head. Closer ... closer ... closer. "Hit the dirt!" I shouted in my dream. "Hit the dirt!" Then I heard it again, the sound of the baseball crushing bone. Not helmet. Bone. Only now I wasn't dreaming but sitting straight up, sweat pouring off me.

  Had I killed him? It happens sometimes in baseball. It even happened to a major league player once. Ray Chapman was his name. He died not on the field but the next day, or maybe it was the day after that, at the hospital. Carl Mays hit him. Chapman got up after he was hit, took a couple of steps, then fell.

  Reese hadn't even gotten up. I thought of the blood that had come from his nose. Where was that blood from? Was it from his brain? Then I thought of the blood on the carpet in my father's study.

  I got out of bed, made my way downstairs, and opened the phone book. It took a while, but I found the number of Children's Hospital and punched it in. "I'm calling about Reese Robertson," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "He was admitted earlier tonight. I want to know if he's okay."

  "One moment," the voice said. Music came on—the Beatles singing "Here Comes the Sun." It played and played. I was about to hang up and start over when the fine came alive. "Night nurse, intensive care unit. How can I help you?"

  "Reese Robertson," I said. "He was hit with a—"

  "I know who he is," she interrupted, sounding annoyed.

  "I'm a friend of his. How is he? Is he okay?"

  "He's not okay, but with a little bit of good luck, he's going to be okay."

  "So he's not going to die or be brain damaged or anything?"

  She sighed. "No, he's not going to die, and he's not going to be brain damaged or anything. If you give me your name, I'll tell him you called."

  "That's okay," I said, and I quickly hung up.

  CHAPTER 15

  At breakfast the next morning, Mom seemed more tired than usual. She didn't ask anything about the game. Marian came back around noon, her friend Kaitlin trailing behind her. "Did you have a good time?" Mom asked them.

  "Uh-huh," Marian answered, and the two of them went upstairs and closed the door.

  At one I ate a sandwich. Normally I'd have watched sports on television or maybe listened to CDs, but I was too itchy to stay in the house. I pulled my shoes on. "I'm going down to Market Street in Ballard," I said to Mom. "To that new music store."

  "Okay, but be home by five."

  I bought an all-day bus pass—on weekends they're cheaper than two one-way rides—and got off in Ballard. I walked up and down Market, went into the Secret Garden Bookstore and the Dollar Store, checked out the CDs. Finally I got an Italian soda at Dutch Treat and sat outside. I took a long time drinking that soda.

  As I finished, I looked up and saw the forty-four bus coming—the bus to Children's Hospital. Suddenly I knew what I'd been wanting to do all day. I stood up, dodged cars as I crossed Market Street, and waved down the bus driver.

  He stopped, but he was angry. "Don't do that again," he said as I climbed the steps. "No bus ride is worth getting hit for."

  "I won't," I said as I showed him my pass.

  As the bus bumped along, I felt better. I'd go see Reese, tell him I was sorry. We'd shake hands just like major leaguers would, and it would be over. Just past the University of Washington I gave the cord a tug and hopped off.

  Children's Hospital is perched on a hill above Sandpoint Way. When we'd passed it in the car before, it had always seemed like just another big building. But that day, with the birch trees blowing in the wind and dark gray clouds racing across the sky, it was spooky. As I trudged up the hill, the hospital seemed to grow larger. Car after car passed by. I could see parents looking out. They'd see me but look right through me.

  I walked past one parking lot, then another, then another. For every one of those cars, there was a sick kid. It was hard to believe there were that many sick kids in the whole world. An ambulance sped up the hill past me, its siren strangely silent.

  I felt the urge to turn around, head down the hill, and catch the first bus back to my duplex. Instead, I forced myself to keep going. Once I got this over with, I'd be fine. Besides, Reese wouldn't be with the really sick kids, the bald kids with cancer who were fighting for their lives. He'd be with guys who had normal stuff—like broken legs and arms. That's what most of the kids would have. They were here for a day, maybe two, and then they went home all fixed up and better. The hospital wasn't a graveyard.

  I finally reached the main entrance. I stepped on the black rubber mat, and the doors opened automatically. Inside, there was a cleaning lady mopping the floor. She looked up, read the confusion in my face. "Reception is over there," she said, pointing. "They'll get you where you want to go."

  "Thanks," I said.

  On the counter was a bouquet of flowers, the biggest bouquet I'd ever seen. Sitting at a desk in front of a computer was a woman with reddish hair and big arms. "Can I help you?"

  "Reese Robertson's room. I'm a friend."

  She typed his name into the computer and then gave me the number—B3213—on a slip of paper. "Now here's how you get there."

  As she gave directions, a woman about my mom's age with dark hair and dark eyes came up beside me. I looked at her and smiled, and she smiled back, but her eyes were brimming with tears.

  The woman behind the counter stopped talking. I hadn't listened carefully to her directions, but I couldn't ask her to repeat them, not with the sad woman waiting. So I thanked her, walked to th
e elevators, and got in. A few seconds later the doors opened and I stepped out.

  The hospital was big. It seemed as if wherever I turned, there was a new hallway with other hallways opening off it. Nurses, doctors, orderlies, bustled about. Wheelchairs and gurneys and linen carts lined the halls. I wanted to ask for help, but everyone looked busy or worried or both.

  I turned a corner and came to an area with sleeping bags and mattresses on the floor. Some parents were sleeping there. Others, with bags under their eyes and coffee cups in their hands, whispered with one another or looked out the window. I walked down the corridor quickly, not making eye contact with anyone.

  Finally I found myself in front of a long breezeway that connected one wing of the hospital with another. There was a sign above the breezeway: To Rooms 3000–3400. That had been the problem; the hospital had two different wings, and I'd been in the wrong one.

  Relieved, I headed down the walkway. All along the walls were plaques with names etched on them. Not cheap plastic plaques, but classy ones, like the ones you get for being MVP on a team.

  I was almost at the other side before I stopped to read a few. For a time I didn't get it. There was a name, then two dates. Sometimes the dates would be a few days or weeks apart, but other times there'd be years between them.

  Then I understood. The day the kid was born; the day he or she died. I looked back along the breezeway. It seemed as if there were thousands upon thousands of plaques there. My face went hot, and I felt dizzy. Suddenly I didn't know what I was doing in the hospital. I picked up my pace, walking faster and faster, but now I wasn't looking for Reese Robertson's room; I was looking for exit signs.

  I found them, all right. Too many of them. I went up this hallway, down that one, following the green lights and the black arrows. I turned left, then right, then left, breaking into a clammy, nervous sweat. I had to get out, but the place was like a huge maze.