High Heat

by Carl Deuker

  I leaned forward, hoping for just that. Minton stretched, checked the runner, delivered. A fastball, right down the middle, belt high. The Woodinville hitter swung so hard he almost came out of his shoes. The ball, hit solidly, rose in a high arc against the sky. When it came down, we were three runs behind.

  It got worse. A walk, a stolen base, and a single to center brought home a fourth run. Minton struck out the next hitter for the first out of the inning, and the batter after that lined out to third. But the following hitter blooped a double down the first base line. The runner, off on contact, scored the fifth run of the inning when Benny Gold couldn't handle the throw from the outfield. When the third out was finally made—on a comebacker—the guys trudged in, heads down.

  Grandison walked up and down the bench, clapping his hands. "We've got six more innings to play, gentlemen."

  Right on cue, Jim McDermott took the first pitch he saw and whistled a line drive past the pitcher's ear and into center field for a single. On the very next pitch, he took off for second. It's usually bad baseball to try to steal when you're down a bunch of runs. Get thrown out, and you look like an idiot. But even though the Woodinville catcher threw a strike, McDermott beat the throw with a headfirst slide. He made third on a groundout and scored a run on a sacrifice fly. The score was 5–1 as we took the field for the bottom of the second, but at least we'd started on the road back.

  And we kept coming back. Minton settled down and retired Woodinville in order in their half of the second inning. In the third, Gold walked, took second on an infield out, and scored on Kim's double: 5–2. In the fifth Pedro Hernandez took a 2–0 pitch over the fence down the line in left: 5–3. Grandison had me warm up during our half of the sixth. "If you can hold them," he said to me, "we'll win. I can feel it."

  I could too. We all could. It was a strange thing to be down two runs with one at bat left and still feel confident, but we did. Minton had held Woodinville in check with an assortment of junk pitches. Curve balls, changeups, the occasional fastball. I came in and threw nothing but heat, and they weren't ready for it. It didn't hurt that the umpire suddenly seemed to be in a hurry to go home. Every close call went my way. I struck out the side, throwing a total of twelve pitches. When we came in for our last at bat, guys were whooping as if we were ahead.

  Fletcher was first to bat. He worked the count to 2–2, then took a good swing at a fastball right down the middle. Had he hit it solidly, the ball would have gone sixty miles. But he was just a tad under it, sending a sky-high pop-up into short center. Woodinville's center fielder had to play the wind, but he stayed with it and made the putout. On the bench, guys went quiet.

  But they didn't stay quiet, because on the first pitch he saw, Kim smacked a single into right. Lind followed that with another single back up the middle. The two of them then pulled off a double steal, putting the tying runs in scoring position. The game was right there, waiting for us to grab it.

  Tim McDermott was at the plate. The pitcher took his time, working inside and out, until the count reached 3–2. I remembered how big the umpire's strike zone had been for me. "Be a hitter!" I screamed out, but McDermott took the pitch. "Strike three!" the umpire yelled, and we all groaned.

  We were down to our last out. Woodinville's coach called time and ran out to talk with his pitcher. The guy was just about done. Drops of sweat were rolling down his face. He nodded his head up and down way too fast. Miguel punched my arm. "Shane, we're going to win this game. I can feel it."

  "Play ball," the umpire called out. Woodinville's coach trotted off the field. Jim McDermott stepped in.

  He was looking for a first-pitch fastball, and he got it. His swing was fast and fluid, and at the crack of the bat we all started screaming. The ball rose high and deep in the air to straightaway center. The outfielder turned and went back on the ball, to the warning track. He stopped at the fence and leaped. A second later he was running toward the infield, holding the ball aloft, a huge smile on his face. The Woodinville players surrounded him, grabbing at his hat and jersey, delirious with joy.

  CHAPTER 12

  It's hard to get up for practice so late in the season, especially after a loss. You've done drills so many times that they're a bore. So I wasn't looking forward to Tuesday's workout.

  We stretched as usual, but instead of having us break off into our different groups, Coach Grandison called us together. "I liked the way you fought back yesterday. I was proud of you, and you should be proud of yourselves. So I don't want to see anybody with his head down. You hear me?"

  We all nodded.

  A smile formed on his lips. "We're going to do things differently today. Change things up. Instead of regular drills, we're going to play a game I like to call Maniac."

  I can't begin to describe how the game works. All I can say is that Maniac is the right name for it, because that's what you needed to be in order to win. Grandison pulled out about two dozen rag baseballs, the kind they use with little kids. There were two teams. The guys on one team would stand in the vicinity of home plate and hammer ground balls as fast as they could at the guys on the other team, who were all playing different infield positions. The idea was to field as many as possible and throw to the first baseman. But with so many balls flying around the infield all at once, it was total chaos.

  After Maniac, we played Demon. At first this game didn't seem quite as crazy because the balls were thrown, not batted. But after a couple of minutes, balls were coming at you from two or three directions, and if you weren't looking, you'd get beaned.

  Grandison kept the games going fast and furious all through the practice. The two hours flew by. Later, in the locker room, we were still laughing about balls that had bounced off somebody's head or butt.

  Before heading to the bus stop, I slipped into the room with the big tournament chart hanging on the wall. Grandison had filled in the results. I saw our name in the losers' bracket. It would be a tough road from down there to make it to state.

  I was about to leave when something caught my eye. I looked back and saw that Shorelake had also fallen into the losers' bracket. Kamiak had nipped them 4–3. Their name was just a couple of slots above ours. I followed the little lines as they moved to the right. Then I followed them again. I started to do it a third time but stopped myself. It was clear. If they won, and if we won, we'd play each other on Saturday.

  After school on Wednesday, Coach Grandison met Miguel and me and a couple of other guys. We were playing in Marysville, and he was worried about traffic on 1–5. "I don't want to forfeit," he said, "so be ready to go." As it turned out, we made it to the field with an hour to spare.

  All through warm-ups Miguel talked loudly to anyone who would listen, a smile on his face. He did the same in the top of the first as our guys batted. But when Tim McDermott popped up to end the inning, Miguel grabbed his glove, then turned to me. "I don't think I can do this."

  "You can do it, Miguel," I said. "You can do it."

  As he warmed up, Grandison came and stood by me. "He's going to do great, Coach," I said. "Don't worry."

  Grandison looked at me. "You sure?"

  I shook my head. "No."

  He smiled. "I guess that's why we play these games, isn't it?"

  "Play ball!" the umpire yelled, and the Marysville batter stepped up to the plate. He tugged on his gloves, his pants, his gloves again. He took a practice swing, then another, finally, he stepped in. Miguel looked at Benny Gold, nodded, went into his wind-up, and fired. "Strike one!" the ump called, and some of the tightness went out of Miguel's face.

  He struck the first batter out, getting him to swing at a two-strike pitch in the dirt. The next two hitters went down on a pop-up and a groundout. Just like that, the first inning was over, and instead of being down a bunch of runs, we were knotted in a scoreless tie.

  Rather than squeeze the bat to death, guys stayed loose. And loose muscles are quick muscles. A one-out single, followed by a walk, an error, and another single broug
ht two runs across. For the first time in the tournament, we had a lead.

  Miguel shut Marysville down in the second and third, working out of trouble in both innings. In our half of the fourth, Pedro Hernandez lifted a leadoff fly ball to right center. Both the right fielder and the center fielder broke on the ball. It should have been the center fielder's ball. I don't know if he called for it or not, but the right fielder kept coming. They collided, and both of them went down as if they'd been shot. The ball dropped between them. Hernandez lumbered around the bases as fast as he could. By the time the second baseman had retrieved the ball, Hernandez was almost to third. Grandison waved him home. The relay throw was high and wild, and we had our third run.

  As soon as Hernandez scored, the umpire called time out. The Marysville coach ran out to check on his players. The right fielder was up, but the center fielder stayed down, his legs swinging side to side. They had him lie there for a good five minutes, finally he stood up and, with everyone clapping for him, walked off the field.

  I looked over to Miguel, and our eyes met. You never want to see an opponent hurt. Still, the center fielder had been their cleanup hitter, strong with speed. Now he was out of the lineup.

  Miguel struggled again in the fourth. The Marysville hitters were working the count, taking as many pitches as they could. And the umpire's strike zone seemed to shrink. A single and a couple of walks loaded the bases with two outs. The number-three hitter then smacked a grounder up the middle and into center field, making the score 3–2. Miguel's eyes had a wild, scared look in them.

  The four spot was up, the spot that should have been filled by Marysville's center fielder. Instead, his replacement stepped to the plate. Miguel's first pitch was over the batter's head, but he was so nervous he swung anyway. The scared look went out of Miguel's eyes; he knew he could get him.

  He burned the heart of the plate for strike two, then fanned the hitter when he swung at another pitch up in his eyes. I was clapping for Miguel as he came to the bench, but his eyes went right past me. "Coach, I'm done."

  Grandison turned to me. "Can you go three innings?"

  As I took the mound for the bottom of the fifth, I knew I'd have to pace myself. If I went for strikeouts now, I'd be out of gas by the seventh inning. My pitches would come up in the strike zone, and the Marysville hitters would have a field day. I had to concentrate on location, not velocity. "Keep the ball down," I told myself.

  My first pitch was so low it bounced up to the plate. I half smiled but then came back with a changeup about eight inches off the ground. The hitter beat it into the dirt toward third for an easy out. The next guy looped a single to right, but the batter after that bounced a one hopper back to me. I fired to second for the force-out, and the return throw was in plenty of time for the double play. I was out of the inning, and I hadn't thrown ten pitches.

  "Let's get some runs," Grandison shouted as I jogged back to the bench, but we didn't manage so much as a hit.

  As I trotted out for the sixth, I was tempted to bring out my fastball and try to power my way through two innings. But I had to keep pacing myself until I could see the end of the game. Only then could I cut loose.

  The Marysville batters must have gotten some coaching. In the fifth they'd been up there swinging, making things easy for me. In the sixth, the first batter took a fastball that couldn't have been more than two inches outside for ball one; then he took another that I swear was a strike but that the umpire called ball two.

  I stepped off the mound and rubbed up the baseball. If the hitter was taking, that meant I could split the heart of the plate and he wouldn't swing. Gold called for a fastball, and I threw a nothing pitch, a batting-practice fastball, right down the middle. The hitter's eyes lit up, but he let it go. "Strike one!" the ump yelled.

  That was when he dug in. But he wasn't getting any more fat pitches. I threw him a hard fastball, low and outside. This time he swung, sending a sharp grounder right to first base. Hernandez fielded it and stepped on the bag. One out.

  The next batter stepped in. As I started my wind-up, he went into that fake bunt routine that is supposed to distract pitchers. I put a belt-high fastball over the plate, and he was too off-balance to swing. Strike one.

  Gold signaled for a changeup. Why not? I thought. I choked the ball in my hand and let it fly. The ball must have looked as big as the moon. The batter swung but was way out in front, sending a soft roller toward short. Brian Fletcher charged but tried to throw before he really had the ball. It rolled up his arm, then bounced off his belly. The tying run was on base. Fletcher picked up the ball. Head down, he walked over to me. "Sorry, Shane," he said.

  "Forget that one," I said. "Because the next one's coming to you."

  And it did. A two hopper that drew Fletcher toward second base. He fielded it on the run, stepped on the bag, and fired to first for another inning-ending double play.

  "How do you feel?" Grandison said as I took my spot on the bench. "I could put Minton in if you're tired."

  "Heel great."

  We didn't score in our half of the seventh, so it was up to me to get the final three outs, with only one run to work with, which is the way I wanted it.

  Based on how I'd pitched, the Marysville players must have thought I was a control pitcher, that my game was working the corners and keeping the ball down. Well, they'd find out differently. They were going to see three pitches from me: fast, faster, fastest.

  The first batter, a guy with thick arms, had a long swing with a hitch in it. Gold gave me a target on the outside corner. I missed with my first pitch, but I didn't miss after that. The hitter swung so hard that he would have hit the ball into outer space if he'd connected. On strike three, he corkscrewed himself into the ground and then glared at me as he walked back to the bench.

  Two outs to go.

  I stepped off the mound to rub up the ball. My jersey was drenched in sweat, and sweat was rolling down my forehead. The next batter, a little guy who choked up on the bat, stepped in. My arm suddenly felt tired. But I wasn't going to give in to it. If Marysville was going to beat me, they were going to have to hit my fastball. I reared back and fired pitch after pitch.

  They were strikes too. One after the other. The batter just poked at them, slapping foul ball after foul ball down the first base line, spoiling pitch after pitch. He worked the count to 1–2, then 2–2, finally 3–2. Grandison called time and came out to the mound. Gold trotted out to listen. "How about a changeup, Shane?" Grandison said. "He'd be way out in front."

  I shook my head. "I'm not giving in."

  "Your arm is going to fall off."

  "My arm is fine. I don't want to walk this guy, Coach. I'm not sure I could throw a changeup for a strike. Not now, anyway."

  "Okay, Shane. It's your game."

  Gold went back behind the plate. I looked in for the sign. He showed one finger for fastball. I shook him off. He showed a fist for the changeup. I shook him off. The batter stepped out, confused, which is exactly what I wanted. When he stepped back in, Gold put down one finger again. This time I nodded.

  I slowed my wind-up just a hair, but when I came over the top, I put every ounce of energy I had into the pitch. I think he must have been expecting a changeup, because he started after the pitch, then stopped. "Strike three!" the umpire yelled. My teammates on the bench were up, screaming. One more out.

  Only I was done. My arm felt so tired I could barely lift it. And stepping to the plate was their number-three hitter. I don't usually take much time between pitches, but I did then. I had to.

  Finally I stepped back onto the mound and looked in for the sign. Gold held down a fist for the changeup. I almost shook him off, but then I thought, Why not? The batter had to be expecting the fastball. How would he know I didn't have another fastball in me?

  I gathered my strength and delivered. The ball went right down the middle, but he was out in front. He tried to hold back but couldn't. The bat caught the ball, sending a lazy pop fly in foul
territory down the first base side.

  There was no way Jim McDermott could reach it, but he took off anyway. I half watched as he raced into foul territory. But when he dived for the ball, I was more than half watching. He was going to come up short, I was sure, and when he didn't I was certain the ball would pop out of his glove. In spite of the impact from his dive, it didn't. It stuck out of the webbing of his glove like a snowball. The umpire's thumb went up into the air.

  McDermott jumped to his feet, took the ball out of his glove, and, with his arms widespread and a huge grin on his face, raced toward the infield. We met him just behind first base, clapping him on the back and shaking him so hard his cap fell off.

  CHAPTER 13

  As soon as school ended on Thursday afternoon, I hustled over to the gym. I was the first player there. In the locker room I spotted Grandison. He was in the meeting room, a permanent marker in his hand, and was filling in the names of the teams that had advanced. When he saw me, he stopped.

  "Is it Shorelake?" I asked.

  "Yeah, Shane. It's Shorelake."

  I wanted a tough workout at practice, but Grandison wouldn't let me pitch at all, and he stopped me when I started running hard in the outfield. "You need to be strong on Saturday. What you need is rest." He was right, if he was talking about what my body needed. But it wasn't my body I was trying to wear out.

  When I opened the door to the duplex that night, Marian was on the sofa. She didn't have a book open, which was odd. She was just sitting there. "Mom at work already?" I asked.

  She nodded. "How was practice?" she asked.