High Heat

by Carl Deuker

  Kim was so good the McDermott twins nearly got lost, but they were solid players too. They both had compact swings, yet still generated enough power to drive the ball into the alleys. And they ran well, too. Grandison put them in left and right field, and whatever fly balls Kim didn't catch, one of them did. As a pitcher, you see outfielders cover ground like that, and you know that if you get behind in the count, you can just fire the ball down the middle because even if the batter hits the ball hard, there's a good chance it will be caught.

  Those three guys were impact players, starters anywhere, but a couple of other guys from the football team, Dirk Becker and Jason Crandle, were in the mix too. Both were black guys, seniors who had nothing to do, since they didn't have spring football. Grandison had collared them one day after school. "No more excuses," he'd said. "I want both of you on my baseball team."

  They showed up, but I could tell they were feeling out of place. And with their muscles bulging, they looked out of place too. "What position do you want to play?" Grandison asked them. Becker looked at Crandle; Crandle looked at Becker.

  "What's open?" Becker finally answered, bringing a laugh from everybody.

  But nobody laughed when the two of them took batting practice. There were more than a few swings and misses, but there were also some long home runs. There was a fearlessness about them, too. They didn't care how bad they looked when they swung, and it made them doubly dangerous. Grandison ended up sticking Becker at third base. He was no Scott Rolen, but he made the routine plays. Crandle was terrible as a fielder, so Grandison made him our designated hitter.

  On the last day of tryouts we played a simulated game. I pitched two innings, and I blew the first five hitters away. With two outs in my last inning, Kim came up. I got a quick first strike on him too, but on the next pitch he laid down a bunt. I charged off and fielded the ball between third and home. I should have just held the ball, but I wanted a perfect outing. I turned and threw to first ... wildly. By the time Jim McDermott ran the ball down, Kim was standing at third. On my next pitch he faked down the line as if he were going to steal home. My concentration broken, I bounced the ball about ten feet in front of the plate. It skipped past Gold, and Kim trotted in. I did a slow burn, then struck out Crandle to end the inning. It wasn't until I was back on the bench that it occurred to me that Kim would be doing to other teams what he'd just done to me—creating a run out of thin air.

  At the end of tryouts Grandison had to cut a half dozen players. It killed him to do it. He went on and on about how he wished there were more uniforms or that there was a junior varsity team. He told the guys he'd cut that they could be equipment managers or scorekeepers if they wanted.

  I felt for them, but they'd never really worked at baseball. Besides, getting cut happens to everyone sometime. Even major leaguers reach a point when the competition is too tough and they have to hang them up.

  The guys who were left were solid. We had speed and power. Pedro Hernandez had batted cleanup the year before. Now he'd probably bat sixth or seventh. Cory Minton was back, and he'd be our top starter. Hank Fowler had graduated, but Miguel was as good as Fowler had been. Top to bottom, we were deeper and stronger. If I could close out the games and keep the starters fresh, we'd be good.

  The team picnic was on a Saturday. Gray skies, a chill wind, and drizzle—but every single player showed up. I brought Marian with me. "I have heard about you many times," Grandison said, his eyes on me as he shook her hand. "It's nice to finally meet you."

  Perplexed, Marian turned to me. I looked away.

  That was the first time I'd gotten a good look at Grandison's daughter. She had glowing skin and friendly eyes, and she wore her hair in cornrows. I smiled at her, and she smiled back, a bright smile. Since my father's death, I hadn't thought about dating. I noticed girls all the time, but I didn't have the energy to get anything going. I thought about talking to her. While I was working up my courage, Kim tossed a Frisbee in her direction. She caught it, then gave him a smile. "You must be Kim Seung," she said. He made a little bow. She threw the Frisbee back. So much for my chances.

  Gold, who usually kept to himself, came over. "He was player of the year in Portland last year."

  "What?"

  "Kim. He was player of the year. I was at a minimart on Aurora and saw a newspaper clipping of him on the wall."

  "What was a picture of him doing on the wall of a mini-mart?"

  "I don't know. Maybe his parents own it. Anyway, he hit way over .400 and led the league in runs scored and stolen bases."

  Marian came up to me, Frisbee in hand. "Will you play with me?"

  "Sure," I said. "Why not?"

  CHAPTER 2

  High school baseball games don't get the attention of football or basketball, but there's a certain electricity that comes with every opening day, even if the bleachers are half empty. Everybody's even—anything can happen. We opened on the road, playing Bellarmine High of Tacoma. They were a big, Catholic powerhouse school, always near the top in their league.

  Kim Seung led off. He took a couple of pitches, then smacked a routine two hopper to short. Bellarmine's shortstop stayed back on the ball and took his time with the throw. Kim was safe by two steps. From our bench we could see the Bellarmine infielders' shocked eyes.

  Kim wasn't done. On the first pitch to Kurt Lind, he took off for second. He had such a huge jump that their catcher didn't bother to throw. Two pitches later Lind poked a grounder to the first baseman, moving Kim to third. Tim McDermott then lifted a little pop into short right field. I thought Kim would bluff down the line, but he tagged up and then came flying toward home plate, challenging Bellarmine's right fielder to throw him out. The right fielder's throw was twenty feet over the catcher's head, and Kim scored standing up. We all high-fived him, but he acted as if it were routine. As we sat back down, Benny Gold nudged me. "You think anybody's ever been player of the year in two years in two different cities?"

  The score was still 1–0 in the bottom of the second inning when with one on and one out, Bellarmine's catcher belted a deep drive into the alley in right center. The runner on first, certain it was a hit, was rounding second on his way to third when Jim McDermott stretched out to make a beautiful running catch. McDermott turned, fired the ball to Lind, who fired it to Pedro Hernandez for the inning-ending double play. Pitching and defense win games. My father had said that many times.

  On the bench, guys were still buzzing about McDermott's catch as Kim came up for his second at bat. He faked a bunt on the first pitch, forcing the first baseman to creep forward a few yards. On the next pitch, Kim smacked a line drive right over the first baseman's head. By the time the right fielder tracked it down in the corner and threw it into the infield, Kim was sliding into third. "Did you see that?" Miguel said, looking up and down the bench. "You don't think he had that all planned, do you? The guy can't be that good, can he?"

  Lind brought Kim home with a soft liner into short right that fell for a base hit. We scored again in the fourth, and then Jason Crandle smacked a two-run double in the top of the seventh. That's how I came to be standing on the mound with a 5–0 lead in the bottom of the seventh.

  Gold put down one finger for a fastball; I nodded and went into my motion. My release was fluid, and the ball exploded out of my hand. It dipped a little to the right as it neared the plate, but the batter was so late with his swing that he wouldn't have hit my pitch had it been dead straight.

  Gold put down one finger again; again I rocked and threw. Another late swing. Strike two. Gold tossed the ball back, then called for a changeup. I almost nodded, but I stopped. This guy couldn't hit my fastball, so why mess around? I shook Gold off. He put down one finger again, and a few seconds later the Bellarmine batter was headed to the bench, dragging his bat behind him.

  The next guy was craftier. He didn't swing at the first pitch, and it dipped out of the strike zone for a ball. The second pitch did the same thing. With a 2–0 count, I stepped off the rubber an
d looked back at my fielders, poised and ready.

  I stepped back up onto the rubber and delivered another fastball, only this time I took something off to make sure it was a strike. The Bellarmine hitter swung and sent a high fly to right center. He'd hit it well, but not well enough. Jim McDermott was off with the crack of the bat and ran it down easily for the second out.

  The third batter was Bellarmine's best hitter, and he was up there swinging. Again I threw a fastball. Not my best, but a decent pitch. It tied him up, and all he managed was a ground ball to Lind. Lind pounced on it and fired to first; we were high-fiving one another on the infield while the Bellarmine guys packed their gear and headed to their waiting cars.

  On the ride home, I kept waiting for Grandison to tell me how well I'd done. But he tuned the radio to a jazz station and tapped the wheel as the miles clicked away, finally, he pulled up in front of my house. "Thanks for the ride," I said as I opened the door.

  "Sure. See you at practice. Oh, and nice game."

  CHAPTER 3

  Our next game was against Eastgate, at their field on the east side of Lake Washington. Grandison took me, Miguel, and the McDermott twins.

  None of us could believe how big the campus was. We saw the sign for the school and then drove and drove. The baseball diamonds were behind the soccer fields, which were behind the football fields, which were behind the gym. All of Whitman could have fit in one corner of Eastgate.

  Before most baseball games, you at least exchange glances with the other team, maybe even wish some of them luck if you come near them. But the Eastgate guys never once looked at us. They acted as if playing us was a nuisance, like taking care of your little brother.

  Grandison noticed their attitude. Before the game started he called us together. "Listen, gentlemen," he said. "Their coach was just asking me how bad the score has to be before we stop playing. He seems to think we're some sort of JV team." He paused. "Let's beat 'em."

  Miguel started, and he was wild in the first, walking the first two batters. But Benny Gold threw out a runner trying to steal third, and Kim Seung made a nice catch in the outfield to end the inning and save two runs.

  After that, Miguel settled down, shutting down Eastgate with only a scratch hit here and there. But the Eastgate pitcher was tough, too. Tim McDermott got a hit in the second but was stranded at first. Pedro Hernandez hit a double in the fifth, but he didn't get past third. Heading into the top of the sixth, those two hits were all we'd managed.

  Kim led off. He looked at a ball, then another one. "Take a pitch," I whispered, hoping that he could work a walk. The Eastgate pitcher went into his motion and fired. Kim wasn't taking. Instead, he turned on the pitch, something I'd seen him do only a couple of times. He caught the ball solid, sending a line shot down the right field line. We jumped to our feet and watched, amazed, as the ball rose against the sky. "Be fair!" I shouted, and a second later the ball landed over the fence just to the left of the foul pole. The umpire immediately started twirling his hand in the air. "Home run!"

  On the bench we were jumping up and shouting, high-fiving each other. But I couldn't celebrate for long. "Hunter!" Grandison called out. "Can you go two innings?"

  I hustled out and started warming up. My arm felt strong. Alex Knapp, a sophomore and our second-string catcher, noticed. "You've got it today, Shane."

  I didn't say anything. Too many times last year I'd been great on the sidelines but then couldn't cut loose in the game. When I took the mound for my final warm-ups, it was eerie. I felt as if I were barely holding the ball, yet I could pinpoint exactly where I was going to throw it.

  "Batter up!" the umpire yelled, and the game was on.

  For the next two innings, all I saw was Gold's glove. I didn't look at any of the batters; I didn't care about any of the calls. I threw the ball, let it move, and dared any of them to hit it. And they couldn't. I don't remember the individual outs, don't remember coming in at the end of the bottom of the sixth or going out to pitch the seventh. It was just one pitch and then the next.

  I do remember coming out of it when Benny Gold hopped out of his crouch and charged the mound, his arms wide, a huge grin on his face. Seconds later my teammates were slapping me on the back and high-fiving one another. In the van, Grandison looked over at me. "You were good." Only then did he turn on the radio.

  It was a Monday, so Mom didn't have to work. When I opened the door and stepped inside the duplex, she asked about the game. Usually I don't say much, but this time, once I got started, I couldn't stop. And now, strangely, I could see every hitter as if I were back on the mound again, facing them down. As I talked, Marian came out to listen. When I was finished, she started talking about a poster she'd drawn in Mr. Coleman's class and how much fun it had been. Mom asked her to describe it, and she told us how she and Kaitlin had drawn a sea serpent around the border and had used black gel pens for the writing. When she stopped talking, we looked at one another, and I think we realized at that moment that we were happy—all of us at once. Simply happy.

  I went upstairs, did some schoolwork, and read until the people we shared the duplex with came in. They were new neighbors, and the man shouted all the time, mostly about stuff he'd lost. If it wasn't his watch, it was his wallet. If it wasn't his wallet, it was his keys. This time he was hollering about the mail. He'd put it down somewhere and couldn't find it, and there was a bill he just had to pay. I don't know how his wife put up with him.

  CHAPTER 4

  Those first two wins set the tone for our practices. Guys arrived early and stayed late. The things players usually dog—the stretches, the outfield running, the base-running drills—everyone took seriously. When Grandison told us the weight room would be open in the mornings, we showed up.

  Thursday we had a game against Washington High School, way out by Enumclaw, more than an hour from Seattle. Mount Rainier loomed behind it, and the beauty of the mountain made the city—if you could call Enumclaw a city—seem more grim than it probably was. The high school was outside of town. It was another big, sprawling campus, but this one wasn't rich like Eastgate. There was something beaten down about the buildings, the field, the bleachers, everything. And there was a glare in the eyes of the guys on the Washington team. We were city kids, and they didn't like us.

  Cory Minton started. His fastball wasn't all that fast, and his curve ball didn't curve much, but our defense came through for him. Everything the Washington players hit, somebody caught. You make plays in the field, and you come into the bench ready to hit.

  Kim Seung led off the third with a bloop double into short right. The Washington pitcher didn't look back at Kim, so on the first pitch to Kurt Lind, he stole third base. Lind ended up striking out, but Tim McDermott singled Kim home. His brother, batting cleanup, walked, bringing up Jason Crandle.

  Crandle had been swinging terribly in batting practice, so I wasn't surprised when he swung and missed on the first two pitches. The Washington pitcher nearly struck him out on the third pitch. Crandle got the tiniest piece of it, and the ball popped out of the catcher's glove. Crandle fouled the next two pitches straight back, and his swing suddenly looked fluid. On the bench, everybody leaned forward, tense.

  Had I been pitching, I would have gone to my changeup and not risked another fastball. But the Washington guy reared back and fired. Crandle's bat flashed forward, and the ball rocketed high and deep against the blue sky. Washington's left fielder backed up, then turned and watched the ball sail over the fence. We jumped around on the bench, pounding each other on the back and pounding Crandle when he finished his home-run trot.

  Grandison would have thrown a fit if he'd known that any of us were thinking it, but that was the game. There was no way any team was coming back against us, not with me in the bullpen.

  I pitched the seventh. By then the score was 8–2. My arm felt as strong as iron, and when I rocked and fired, it was pure smoke. I struck out the first two guys, and the last hitter— their star—rolled a soft ground
er to first base.

  When the game ended, we high-fived each other, but there was more quiet confidence in those high-fives than there was triumph. We'd done what we'd expected to do—no reason to get excited.

  Miguel and I loaded up the school van. Usually Grandison was in a hurry to get home, but this time he stood for five minutes in front of the truck talking with a man I'd never seen before.

  It was a long ride back to Seattle. I fell asleep and didn't wake up until the van pulled to a stop in front of Miguel's apartment building. Miguel hopped out. "See you tomorrow," he said.

  Grandison backed out of the driveway, then looked over his shoulder at me. "You awake?"

  "Yeah."

  "Did you see that man I was talking to after the game?"

  It took me a second to remember, but then I got a clear picture. Gray hair, gray beard, thin. "What about him?"

  "His name is Dave Wood. He's an assistant baseball coach at the University of Portland. He's here to take a look at Kim Seung." I hadn't really thought about college recruiters, but it made sense that they'd be looking at a player as good as Kim. "There'll be lots of college coaches around to see Kim," Grandison went on. "And major league scouts, too, though I think Kim's family is set on him going to college."

  "Good for him," I said.

  "You bet it's good for him. And it's good for you, too."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean they'll see you, too. Take Wood tonight. He asked a lot of questions about Kim, but he also asked a couple about you."

  "About me?"

  "He wanted to know the pitches you throw, the kind of kid you are."