by David Aretha
The coach chuckled to himself. “Be a good sport, Morgan,” he said.
In the outfield, another coach swatted high fly balls, which fell softly into the players’ gloves. Behind the backstop, a third coach tossed balls to a menacing hitter, who drilled liner after liner into the fence. We cringed every time the ball crashed into the chain-linked metal. Smash! … Smash! … Smash … ! Smash!
“It’s psychological warfare,” Riley said. “They are trying to rattle our brains.”
“Don’t let ’em get to you guys,” Coach Quinn said, a worried expression filling his face.
United Bank & Trust was no ordinary team. They had won the seven-, eight-, and nine-year-old Hickory Oak Little League championships and were gunning for their fourth straight title. Jeffrey said they had never lost a game.
“There’s something not fair about this,” Tashia said. And there wasn’t. Mr. Reynolds, an executive with United Bank & Trust, wasn’t just the team’s coach. He was the commissioner of the entire Hickory Oak Little League! Dad had been grumbling about that for three years.
“If you’re the umpire, and the commissioner comes out and argues the call, what are you going to say to him?” Dad said. “You’re going to say, ‘Yes, sir, Mr. Commissioner. I’ll reverse my call right away, Mr. Commissioner.’”
Coach Reynolds, with his slicked-back hair and confident posture, oozed wealth. In fact, all of UB&T’s players were from the wealthy Lovelton School.
While our moms and dads sat on the bleachers, their parents brought their own fold-out chairs—with double cup holders.
Jeffrey was the only Morey’s player to play travel-league ball, a summer league that you have to try out for. Almost every UB&T player, if not all of them, played travel-league ball. Jeffrey said that most of them worked out at Frozen Ropes. That place is very expensive, but the kids get instruction from professional ballplayers—some of whom played in the major leagues.
Even their uniforms were a cut above. While our jerseys were just T-shirts, they wore button-down jerseys like the pros wear. UB&T’s uniforms were all white except for their team name on the left side of their jerseys. It was written in fancy blue script: United Bank & Trust. Not only that, but they were the only team to have their names on the backs of their jerseys.
Everyone called UB&T the Bankees, and not just because they were named after a bank. They were rich and powerful, just like the New York Yankees.
“All right, guys,” Coach Quinn said. “Let’s give it our best shot. What’s our motto?”
“Ya gotta believe!” Evan said.
“I believe we’re doomed,” Marty said.
Before we took the field, my dad showed me the Bankees’ lineup card. The other scorekeeper had written down each of the players’ current batting averages. The highest was .667. The lowest was .385. Everyone else was batting in the .400s or .500s.
“I can’t believe he wrote down their averages,” Dad said.
“Is he trying to intimidate us?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Dad said.
I was still shivering when we took the field. Jeffrey, our ace pitcher, was firing strikes during warm-ups. But when the umpire yelled “play ball,” Coach Reynolds came out to cause problems.
“Blue,” the coach said. (In baseball, coaches call the umpire Blue.) “The pitcher can’t wear a jacket under his jersey.”
While Coach Quinn frowned, the ump made Jeffrey remove his jacket. He returned to the mound wearing a white, long-sleeved Under Armour shirt beneath his jersey.
“The long sleeves have to go, too,” Coach Reynolds told the ump.
“What?” Coach Quinn said, running onto the field.
“It’s in the rules, Pat,” Coach Reynolds said. “Pitchers can’t wear long, white sleeves. It distracts the hitter.”
“But your team’s uniforms are completely white,” Coach Quinn said.
“But we don’t wear long sleeves. It’s in the rules.”
“Well, who wrote the rules?” Coach Quinn said in frustration. Coach Reynolds probably did. He’s the commissioner.
Jeffrey took off his Under Armour, leaving him with just his uniform T-shirt.
“Jon, it’s 45 degrees,” Coach Quinn said. “I don’t want these kids catching colds.”
“It’s all right, Dad,” Jeffrey said.
“Your son can wear his white sleeves, or his jacket, if he plays another position,” Coach Reynolds explained. “Just not on the mound.”
Gary, fuming at shortstop, couldn’t hold back. “You’re just trying to take our best pitcher out of the game,” he said.
“Hey!” Coach Reynolds retorted while walking toward Gary. “Do you want to play another game in this league?”
“Yes,” Gary said.
“Then I suggest you shut your mouth!”
“I’ll take care of my players,” Coach Quinn told Mr. Reynolds.
“Well, I think you should take this loudmouth shortstop of yours out of the game as punishment for mouthing off.”
“Well … I’m not going to do that,” Coach Quinn said.
Coach Reynolds snickered and shook his head, and both coaches returned to the dugouts.
“All right, guys,” Coach Quinn said with a sigh. “Let’s have fun.”
Now freezing on the mound, Jeffrey struggled to get the ball over the plate. The leadoff man walked, stole second, stole third, and came home on a wild pitch. Somehow, Jeffrey got out of the first inning trailing only 2–0.
Gary returned to the dugout with fire in his eyes. “At least Coach Quinn stood up to that coach,” Gary said. “Now it’s payback time.”
The Bankees’ pitcher was firing bullets, but Gary rifled a line-shot single on the very first pitch.
“Yeahhh!” we cried from the dugout. But when he tried to steal on the next pitch, their catcher gunned him down.
As Gary trotted back to the bench, the catcher took off his mask and gave him a cold, hard stare. “That’ll teach ya to open your mouth,” he told Gary. The catcher was a big, massive kid. The name on his jersey said Sludowski. He had a real ticked-off expression, and he followed Gary with angry eyes until Gas reached our dugout.
“What’s his problem?” Tashia asked.
“That’s … Sludowski,” Rupa said. “But they call him … Sludge. … I … hate him.”
The look on Rupa’s face revealed that he truly disdained that kid. He later told me that Sludge had teased him for three long years. A lot of the kids at Lovelton School (the UB&T kids) had made fun of Rupa, but Sludge was the biggest bully.
“When you try to talk, your face looks like it’s constipated,” Sludge had told him.
They were mean, horrible words. Rupa, I’m sure, had revenge on his mind when he stepped into the batter’s box in the third inning.
“Hey, Rupa,” I could hear Sludge say. “Do you hit as well as you talk?” The kid was cruel.
Rupa took a mighty swing on the first pitch, but missed. Sludge smiled. “Don’t be afraid to throw inside,” he told his pitcher.
The next pitch was indeed inside, causing Rupa to jump back.
“Strike!” boomed the umpire.
Down 0–2, Rupa took the next pitch down the middle. He retreated to the dugout.
“At least swing at it!” Sludge scolded.
I would have expected Rupa to throw his helmet or something. But he merely sat on the end of the bench, by himself.
I guess if you kick a dog for so long, it loses its will to fight. Rupa looked defeated.
“You’ll get ’em next time,” Jackson told him.
But there wouldn’t be a next time. While Jeffrey deserved a Cy Young Award for allowing just five runs in three innings to the Bankees, Riley didn’t fare as well.
While pitching the fourth inning, he coughed up five runs of his own. After we went down one-two-three in the bottom of the fourth, the score was 10–0. That was it.
In Little League, if a team is up by ten runs after four innings, the game is
over. Some refer to it as the mercy rule. Others call it the slaughter rule. Each applied. UB&T showed no mercy, and we were slaughtered.
“Well, at least you weren’t the 2007 Baltimore Orioles,” Dad told the team. “They lost one game to Texas, 30–3.”
“Doug,” Mom said over the fence. She put her fingers to her lips and made a “zip it” gesture, as if to say the kids don’t want to hear that now. We were all pretty down.
“It’s okay, guys,” Coach Quinn said, as we took our seats on the bench. “Nobody ever beats this team.” The coach couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Did you at least have fun out there?”
“Uh, it was like freezing, and we got killed,” Riley said. “So not really.”
“Why are they going back on the field?” Evan asked.
The Bankees were about to scrimmage amongst themselves.
“They win every game by slaughter rule,” Jeffrey said. “So they play a practice game afterward to get more innings in.”
Coach Quinn stared at the Bankees and then looked at his own team—a long row of dejected faces. Gary sighed. Evan’s feet dangled back and forth.
“Tell you what,” he told us. “Let’s have an extra practice tomorrow, where we concentrate solely on hitting. The proper stance, the swing, the weight shift—the whole ball of wax. And then afterward, if it’s okay with your parents, I’ll take you all to Buddy’s for pizza.”
“Buddy’s!” Jackson blurted.
Buddy’s is only the best pizza in Michigan.
“No. 1, Detroit News,” Marty blurted. “No. 1, Detroit Free Press.”
Buddy’s pizza comes in thick, square slices with melty cheese that oozes over the sides. I like mine with mushrooms.
Evan turned toward his mother. “Can I go, Mom?” he asked. “Can I go?” His mom and some of the other parents smiled and nodded yes after a little more pleading.
“All right then,” Coach said. “Practice and pizza. Now let’s hear it.”
We stood and put our hands together.
“One, two, three,” Coach said.
“Ya gotta believe!” we cried.
After that morning’s game, we didn’t yet believe we could win the league championship. But we believed in Coach Quinn, and that was a good place to start.
Chapter Seven
A Lesson About Perfection
Thanks to Coach Quinn’s Sunday hitting clinic, Morey’s Funeral Home was digging a grave for Little Miss Muffin. By the fourth inning of this sunny Wednesday road game, we were beating the bakery-sponsored team, 6–4. With runners on first and second and nobody out, I had a chance to bust the game open. What followed was the craziest hit in Morey’s history.
Coach had taught me how to drive my hips forward when I swing. This, he said, would generate more power. Against the Muffin left-hander, I blasted a high fly to deep right-center. The center fielder caught it on the run and rolled on the ground, but then the ball popped out of his glove. The skinny teenage umpire froze, unsure whether he should call it a catch or a hit.
Poor Coach Majus had no idea what to do with his three base runners. At first, he sent Riley and Gus back, thinking the outfielder had caught the ball. But when the right fielder threw the ball to the infield, he waved them along. I had thought that the kid had dropped the ball, so I tried for a triple. The result? Three guys standing on third base!
“This can’t be good,” Riley said.
The third baseman took the ball and tapped all three of our helmets. I looked around, and everyone was cracking up.
“Two of you have to be out,” the ump shouted.
“Which two?” Coach Majus asked.
“I have no idea, sir.”
Gus, the upstanding teammate, volunteered to leave. But if I left, I’d be credited with a double instead of a triple. So Riley and I did rock, paper, scissors. He won. I trotted off amid cheers and chuckles.
“Did that ever happen in the major leagues—with three guys on one base?” Evan asked my dad.
“Just once,” he said. “Brooklyn Dodgers, 1926. Don’t ask me how it happened.”
The play launched a discussion of the strangest hits in baseball history. Dad remembered when a fly ball bounced off outfielder Jose Canseco’s head and over the fence for a home run. No one could top that.
We wound up beating Little Miss Muffin, 10–5. We were now 4–4 with four games left to go. The hitting clinic had worked out so well that Coach Quinn added a baserunning workout for Sunday, May 23, and a fielding clinic for May 30. Since the parents determined that we shouldn’t eat at Buddy’s every Sunday, Riley’s and Marty’s parents offered to host post-practice get-togethers on those two days.
Coach Quinn worked wonders in those practice sessions. Jackson learned how to slide for real instead of just plopping on his butt. The infielders learned how to stay really low on ground balls.
“It’s much easier to field a chopper when the ball’s bouncing at eye level,” explained the former college infielder.
The other kids and I became closer during those last two weeks—better teammates, better friends. With wins in our next two games, we improved to 6–4. It felt good to know that for the first time in Morey’s history, we wouldn’t finish with a losing record. Even Dad got into the winning spirit.
“If you kids win the championship,” he said, “I’ll take you all to Farrell’s for ice cream.”
“Can we order The Zoo?” Jackson asked. The Zoo is a massive ice cream creation that serves ten people and costs fifty dollars. It’s thirty scoops of ice cream topped with whipped cream, cherries, almonds, pecans, and bananas. Two waiters are needed to lug the monstrosity to the table.
“Absolutely,” Dad said. “It’ll be on me.”
You have to know that my Dad isn’t a big “splurge” guy. He’s so cheap that when his underwear gets too tight, he snips the waistband with scissors rather than buy a new pair. I’m sure he also thought that winning the championship would be impossible as long as United Bank & Trust was in the league.
Nevertheless, we enjoyed our success while it lasted. I was on a tear at the plate, upping my average to nearly .400. Noting my sky-high confidence, Coach Quinn put me in to pitch against Drain Surgeons in game ten. Since we were leading, 8–2, in the fifth, it was no big deal. I retired all three hitters for a “Lawrence Welk,” as Gary referred to it.
“What,” Gus asked after the inning, “is a Lawrence Welk?”
“It’s a one-two-three inning,” Gary explained. “You know that old bandleader who was on TV? He’d begin each song with ‘and a one, and a two, and a three. …’ It’s on my list of best baseball lingo. Here. …”
Gary pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. He had printed out an article entitled “Best of the Best Baseball Lingo.” The list included:
Bugs Bunny change-up: A pitch that seems to stop in front of the plate—similar to what Bugs Bunny threw in his cartoons.
Five o’clock hitter: A player who hits great during five o’clock batting practice but stinks once the game begins.
Go full gorilla: To give 100 percent effort.
Golden sombrero: Going 0-for-4 with four strikeouts.
Lawrence Welk: A one-two-three inning.
Linda Ronstadt fastball: It blew by you (named after Ronstadt’s famous song “Blue Bayou”).
Mendoza line: A .200 batting average. It was named after shortstop Mario Mendoza, who always struggled to hit over .200.
No room at the inn; bags are juiced; ducks on the pond: All terms that mean that the bases are loaded.
Reagan-era fastball: A pitch thrown in the mid-80s (named after Ronald Reagan, president of the United States in the 1980s).
Uncle Charlie: A big-breaking curveball.
“My favorite,” Gary beamed, “is go full gorilla!”
“I like the Bugs Bunny change-up,” Jackson said. “I want to throw one of those.”
I actually tossed a Bugs Bunny in the season finale. We had lost our eleventh gam
e, 8–7, to Sew What? But we mopped the floor with Oodles of Poodles Dog Grooming in our last game.
I pitched the fifth inning of a 10–2 blowout, allowing a single but no walks or runs. My Bugs Bunny actually worked. The super-slow-mo pitch dropped to the ground right before the ball reached home plate. The hitter swung and missed for strike three. “A-ba-dee aba-dee a-ba-dee,” Riley said. “That’s all folks!”
What I most remember about that day was coming home with my dad and turning on ESPN. “Oh, my gosh!” Dad screamed. “No! … No, no, no, no!”
Mom came running into the living room, panicked. “What happened?” she asked, figuring that some building had blown up.
“Galarraga pitched a perfect game, but the umpire blew it!” Dad said.
“That’s what you’re screaming about?” Mom asked.
“Look at this!” Dad said, pointing frantically to an instant replay of the Tigers-Indians game at Comerica Park. “It’s an outrage!”
Armando Galarraga, a lanky right-hander out of Venezuela, had retired the first twenty-six batters he had faced. He was just one out away from a perfect game, which means no hits, no walks, and no base runners allowed. No Tigers pitcher had ever thrown a perfect game, and there had been only twenty in major-league history. Now Galarraga was on the brink.
The twenty-seventh and final batter, rookie Jason Donald, bounced a ground ball to first baseman Miguel Cabrera. He tossed the ball to Galarraga, who was on first base. The runner was clearly out, yet for some reason, umpire Jim Joyce called him safe. The ump blew the perfect game.
Galarraga stood there with his hands on his head and a grin on his face. He couldn’t believe it.
“He was out by three feet!” Dad blared. Dad’s face was beet red. Steam was practically coming out of his ears. “How could he make such a stupid call when a perfect game was on the line. … He should be fired!”
“Doug, calm down,” Mom scolded.
“I’m serious, Bridget. That umpire blew it. He blew it for everybody.”
A lot of people in Detroit were as angry as my dad … until they heard Galarraga in an interview later that night. The pitcher had talked to Joyce, who had admitted that he had blown the call. Galarraga didn’t feel sorry for himself. He felt sorry for the umpire.