by Carl Deuker
"It was okay."
On any other day I'd have gone into the kitchen and eaten dinner. But something made me sit down in the chair across from her. For a time she looked out the window. I didn't say anything. I just waited. Finally she looked back to me. "Do you think about Dad anymore?" she asked.
I felt my face go red. "Yeah. Sure I do." I paused. "Maybe not as much as I used to, but I think about him. How about you?"
She shrugged. "Not too much. But once in a while, when Mom's gone and you're gone, I'll pretend he's upstairs in his study like he used to be. There's nothing I really want to say to him. I just pretend he's up there with the door closed." She paused. "It makes me feel better for a while, and then I feel worse."
I picked a rubber band from the floor and played with it. "Stuff like that happens to me, too," I said at last. "As I was heading to the parking lot after our last game, one of the men said: 'Way to go, son.' I knew he wasn't talking to me, but I still turned around."
Marian looked at me for a while, then stared out the window. "You don't think Dad was a criminal, do you?"
"I don't know, Marian. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't."
"I don't think he was," she said.
We sat still for a while, then she reached for a book. "Mom will be mad if you don't eat the food she left for you."
CHAPTER 14
May weather in Seattle is hard to figure out. One day it can be as bright and sunny as a day in July, and the very next day it can be as cold and rainy as the worst days of January. Before I went to bed Friday night, I stepped outside and looked at the sky. I could pick out a few stars, which meant the clouds weren't thick. The last thing I wanted was a rainout.
Saturday morning broke cloudy and cool, but by noon the sun was peeking out. The Mariners game was on TV, which was perfect. For three hours I just stared at the tube. When the game ended, I ate half a hamburger and some fries Mom had bought at Zesto's.
Game time was six o'clock. At four-thirty we all piled into the car for the drive to West Seattle. Mom had arranged to take the night off. "I'd be thinking about you, and not the orders anyway. I won't make you more nervous, will I?"
I shook my head. "Nothing could make me more nervous."
"I think I'll take Marian to Starbucks," Mom said when she pulled into the parking lot and let me out of the car. "But we'll be back for the game."
She drove off, and I headed to our bench. As I neared it, I spotted Coach Dravus talking with Grandison. They stopped talking when I approached.
"Good to see you again, Shane," Coach Dravus said as he shook my hand.
"Good to see you, too," I answered.
Grandison moved off to talk with Benny Gold.
"How do you feel?" Coach Dravus asked me.
"I'm nervous, but my arm feels really good."
Dravus looked toward the Shorelake players, who were beginning to warm up. "This is going to be a tough game for you. It's difficult to pitch against your former teammates."
I shrugged. "I know some of those guys, but it's been two years. Lots of them I don't know at all."
We both watched in silence for a minute. "Which one is the boy you hit?"
My throat tightened. "Number forty-four. He's warming up over by third base."
Dravus's eyes shifted in that direction. "How's he been doing?"
"Okay, I guess. But I don't think he's much of a hitter anymore."
Dravus nodded. "It takes time to come back from something like that. Well, I'll go find myself a seat in the bleachers and leave you to your game. Good luck."
Once Dravus was gone, Grandison returned. "What did he say to you?"
"Nothing, really."
"How's your arm?"
"Fine. I could pitch two innings, easy."
Grandison shook his head. "Forget it. You'll pitch the seventh, but no more. The last thing Coach Dravus wants me to do is blow your arm out. Now get out there and play catch with Miguel."
As Miguel and I tossed the ball back and forth, I peeked at the bleachers behind Shorelake's bench. I spotted Greg's parents, and Cody's. I saw a few girls I'd known, only they looked more grown up. Reese's parents were in the middle of the bleachers, surrounded by other parents I half recognized. I wondered if any of them were sneaking peeks at me, pointing me out, saying, "That's Shane Hunter, the kid whose father killed himself, the one who hit Reese." Waves of heat rolled through me. My face and ears reddened, and a few seconds later I felt as if the blood were draining out of me, and I was cold as ice.
At last it was game time. Grandison called us in, and we formed a circle around him. "Just play your game. That's all." He paused. "Let's do it!" We let out a roar, and the starters raced to their positions on the field.
What we needed was a clean top of the first. Guys who'd played against Shorelake the year before remembered how they'd crushed us, and the new players had heard about it. Besides, the name Shorelake was just plain intimidating—you're playing both the team and the tradition behind it.
I'd vowed to stay relaxed, but after the first pitch I was up on my feet, my fingers gripping the chainlink fence. "He's nothing," I shouted to Cory Minton. "Strike him out!"
Instead of striking out the leadoff batter, Minton walked him. Then he walked the batter after him. With two on and nobody out, he grooved a first-pitch fastball that was drilled into right center for a run-scoring double. The next hitter smacked a curve ball up the middle for a two-run single. The game wasn't five minutes old, and we were down 3–0. It was going to be just like last year. They were better than us. Plain-and-simple better. And they were going to crush us.
Grandison clapped his hands together. "Hang in there, Cory."
Greg Taylor was at the plate. He looked bigger and stronger than I remembered. Minton checked the runner, delivered. Again it was a nothing fastball, and again it was smacked, this time into right center. The runner on first took off, certain it was over Kim Seung's head.
But Kim had gotten a great jump, and the ball seemed to hold up in the wind. At the last second he stretched out, making a great running catch. Immediately he spun around and fired a two-hop strike to first base to double up the runner. The parents behind our bench rose and cheered, and they cheered again when Minton struck out Cody Miller to end the first.
Three runs.
It was bad, but not as bad as it could have been.
"Come on," I shouted as my teammates raced in. "Let's get some hits!"
I didn't know the Shorelake pitcher. He was no freshman or sophomore, though, so he must have been a transfer. He had the stubble of a guy who needs to shave every day but hadn't for a week. He wore number thirteen, and he pulled his cap so far down that his dark eyes, hidden under the bill, were menacing. His first pitch to Kim was a fastball a foot inside. Kim jumped out of the way and then looked out. The pitcher scowled at him.
Kim stepped back in, then took a weak swing at the next pitch and sent a two hopper right to the bag at first. Kurt Lind tapped back to the mound for the second out, and Tim McDermott popped up to second to end the inning.
Minton started the second as badly as he'd pitched the first, walking the leadoff guy on four pitches. Next up was Brad Post, the player who'd taken Reese's spot in center field. I looked over to Reese. The guys around him were clapping their hands, calling out encouragement, but Reese just sat and watched.
Post was a big kid with a big swing—a pure fastball hitter. Minton threw him nothing but off-speed pitches, and Post finally struck out on a curve in the dirt. He swung so hard he nearly toppled over. That strikeout seemed to settle Minton. He went through the second inning without giving up a hit, and he gave up nothing in the third or fourth either.
If we could have scratched out a run or two, we'd have been right back in the game, but number thirteen just blew through our order. From where I sat, his pitches didn't look that fast. I thought he was as much bluff as anything, but I wasn't up there hitting against him.
Minton started the fifth strong, get
ting the first two batters easily, but the third hitter smacked a grounder right back up the middle and into center field. That brought up Post again.
All Minton had to do was throw off-speed stuff, little curves and changeups, and Post would get himself out. Instead Minton tried to sneak a first-pitch fastball by him. Post took that huge swing of his and connected, sending a deep drive into left center. For a second I thought the wind would hold it in the park, but then Tim McDermott looked up, the Shorelake fans screamed with joy, and we were behind 5–0.
The guys around me were pawing the ground with their cleats. We'd worked for months, won a bunch of games, and made the tournament. If we had to go out, at least we wanted to go out fighting. But this game was slipping away from us.
When the Shorelake players took their defensive positions for the bottom of the fifth, Post was on the bench and Reese out in center field. It didn't take long before he got into the action. With one out, Kim laced a line drive into center. If Post had still been out there, it would have dropped for a hit, but Reese raced in and made a beautiful shoestring catch. As he tossed the ball back to the infield, fans on both sides gave him an ovation.
That play mattered, too, because Lind doubled on the next pitch, and McDermott followed that with another single, bringing across our first run. All the guys were up and cheering, but the rally ended on a deep fly to right. "It's okay," Grandison called out as the inning ended. "We got one back. We'll get more."
Miguel pitched the top of the sixth. He was fresh, and the Shorelake batters were up there swinging, so he breezed through them one, two, three. I didn't know whether I was imagining it, but as the guys came in for the bottom of the sixth, there seemed to be a little hop in their step, a little fire in their eyes.
The top of the seventh was mine. As I headed out to warm up along the sideline, I glanced at number thirteen on the mound. His cap wasn't pulled down so far over his eyes; the scowl wasn't so set on his face. I looked at the Shorelake bench. Coach Levine was pacing back and forth in the dugout, but he had no relief pitcher up and throwing.
Pedro Hernandez stepped to the plate. Like all tired pitchers, number thirteen wanted to get ahead in the count. He started with a fastball, hoping Hernandez was taking, but Hernandez ripped it into left center for a standup double. I looked over to the Shorelake side. Still no sign of a relief pitcher.
Benny Gold was our next hitter. In his earlier at bats, he'd been overmatched. But not now, not with a tired pitcher on the mound and a runner leading off second base. Gold took a ball, then another, then lined a single into right field. Hernandez scored easily, and we were down three.
Dirk Becker batted next. He hit a sizzling ground ball down the first base line. I was sure it would skip into right field for another double, but the first baseman made a backhand stab and beat him to the bag for the first out. The Shorelake fans cheered, and our bench went quiet. But only for a moment, because Jason Crandle laced a 2–2 pitch into right field for an RBI single. Now the sweat was pouring down number thirteen's face.
I stopped throwing to watch Fletcher's at bat. If he made an out, then the Shorelake pitcher might just be able to suck it up and finish off the inning. But if Fletcher reached base, we'd have Kim at the plate representing the winning run.
Thirteen checked on Crandle, then delivered. Ball one. The crowd quieted. Another pitch ... another ball. "Get a walk," I whispered. Number thirteen took his stretch, came to the plate. Fletcher ran up on the ball and laid down a beautiful drag bunt. It dribbled past the pitcher, toward the second baseman. He raced in, but by the time he reached the ball, Fletcher was flying across first, Crandle was standing safely at second, and Kim was knocking the dirt out of his shoes on his way toward the plate.
"Strike him out!" someone shouted from the Shorelake side. I nearly laughed out loud. You never know what's going to happen in baseball. You can cream the ball and hit it right at somebody for an out. But I knew one thing wasn't going to happen—Kim wouldn't strike out.
He looked totally in control, even after he fouled off the first two pitches. It was as if he was waiting for his pitch, and on the 1–2 count he got it: a fastball, off the plate about three inches. Kim reached out and slapped it over the third baseman's head into the left field corner. Two runs scored easily, and Kim slid into third headfirst with a triple.
The game was tied.
Everybody was up on both benches as Lind stepped to the plate. Number thirteen's arm must have seemed as if it weighed one hundred pounds. He checked Kim dancing down third, delivered.
Lind should have been taking. He should have made the guy pitch and pitch. Instead, he swung and lifted an easy pop-up to first for the second out.
Coach Levine called time and ran out to talk to his pitcher. He was buying him time, trying to get him a few minutes of rest so he could get that one final out. At last the umpire had had enough. "Let's play ball," he shouted, and Levine walked slowly back to the bench.
"Come on, McDermott!" I yelled. "Get a hit!"
The rest seemed to help number thirteen. He threw a fastball right down the middle that had some zip to it. "Strike one!" the ump yelled. McDermott backed out, then stepped back in. Another good fastball. "Strike two!" This time McDermott didn't back out. Number thirteen went into his wind-up. He came straight over the top with all he had.
Only it was too much. He overthrew the fastball, bouncing it about three feet in front of the plate. It skipped past the catcher and all the way to the screen. Kim flew down the base line and slid across home plate. We were ahead 6–5. On the next pitch, McDermott struck out swinging to end the inning. I threw a final warm-up pitch along the sideline and headed to the mound.
CHAPTER 15
Every coach will tell you that with the game on the line, you've got to block everything out and concentrate on what you're trying to do. But there was too much for me to block out. So I gave up and let it all in. My dad ... my mom ... Grandison ... Kraybill ... Dravus. Somehow I was aware of all of them. But most of all I felt Reese, down at the end of the Shorelake bench, a bat in his hand, staring at me. I made my last warm-up toss from the mound; the Shorelake batter stepped in.
This was it.
I blew out some air and got the sign from Gold. Changeup. Not a bad call to start a big inning. The hitter would be expecting a fastball, and the Shorelake team knew I had a good one. I nodded, then came to the plate. The ball must have looked like a watermelon to the batter. His eyes were as big as saucers, and he swung from the heels. Only he was way out in front. He tried to hold back but the ball squibbed out between the mound and third base. Becker charged in, trying to bare hand the ball and throw to first all in one motion. He almost pulled it off, but his throw sailed just over the top of Hernandez's outstretched glove and down the line into right field. The hitter hustled safely into second base before Jim McDermott could get the ball back to the infield. One pitch into the inning, and Shorelake had the tying run in scoring position.
Greg Taylor was up next. As he left the on-deck circle, he nodded to me, and I nodded back, and that was that. Once he stepped into the batter's box, he had one job: moving the runner to third base. I had one job: stopping him.
Greg was a decent hitter, but it had always seemed to me that he was overanxious. I threw him a fastball that was at least a foot outside, but he swung at it anyway, just like I thought he might. Gold, thinking along with me, put down the sign for a changeup. I nodded, then threw the best changeup of my life. Greg lifted a little pop-up toward third base. "I've got it," Becker called out. A second later he squeezed it for the first out of the inning.
Up next was a little guy I didn't know. He had an exaggerated crouch, choked way up on the bat, and waved it around slowly. It seemed as if his strike zone was about two inches by two inches. I was outside on the first pitch, high with the second, and then outside with the third and the fourth. He trotted down to first, and Shorelake had both the tying and winning runs on base.
"Throw strikes!"
Grandison shouted.
I'd faced only three batters, but I was sweating as much as number thirteen had in six full innings.
Before stepping in, the next hitter took five vicious practice swings off to the side. I don't know what tipped me off. Maybe it was what Fletcher had done in the top of the inning or something in the way this batter held his bat; or maybe it was those exaggerated swings. But as soon as I delivered the pitch, I knew he was going to try to bunt his way to first.
It wasn't a bad bunt, but I pounced on it. I might have had a play at third, only I didn't want to risk making a bad throw, so I lobbed the ball to Hernandez at first.
Two outs ... but now the tying run was at third—only ninety feet from home plate—and the winning run was standing at second.
It had been loud throughout the inning. Loud the way a baseball game is supposed to be loud. People screaming out advice and encouragement or just plain screaming. But as I walked back onto the mound, the cheering changed to a murmur, then a hush. I looked in at home plate and understood why.
Reese Robertson was walking toward home plate.
From our sideline I heard Grandison yell for time. A second later he trotted out to the mound. "Let's walk this guy," he said. "If we load the bases, we'll set up a force at every base. It's the smart play. Okay?"
He was trying to make it seem as if it was strictly baseball, as if he hadn't even noticed Reese. I wanted to nod and say, "Sure, Coach." But that would have been the coward's way.
I shook my head. "I have to pitch to him, Coach."
Grandison looked me in the eye. "All right. Then pitch to him." And with that, he trotted back to the bench. Reese took a final practice swing and stepped in.
Gold knew who was up. He called for a changeup on the outside part of the plate, but I shook him off. I had to go after Reese with my best fastball. That's what he'd want, so that's what I was going to do.