Alex was glad to face the top of the order to start his stint on the mound, if only because it meant he didn’t have to pitch to Matt. Andy Hague was leading off for the blues, and happily for Alex, he swung at an outside fastball on the second pitch and grounded it weakly to second base. That helped quiet Alex’s jitters. He struck out the next two batters and walked into the dugout feeling very pleased with himself.
He got a few pats on the back, but most of the talk was about Matt’s home run off of Bailey.
“Did you see that?” Jonas asked, without even saying what “that” was.
“I was right here, Jonas,” Alex answered. “It would’ve been hard to miss.”
“Dude was wasting his time playing football,” Jonas said, ignoring Alex’s stab at sarcasm. “I mean…”
“Yeah,” Alex said.
He was trying to think of something else to say when he heard Coach Birdy’s voice: “Myers, you’re on deck. Grab a bat.”
Alex had forgotten he was due up second in the inning. Ethan Sattler had pitched the first two innings for the blues, but now it was Matt’s turn on the mound. Alex watched from the on-deck circle while Brendan Chu, the starting right fielder, took a strike down the middle, then hit a weak ground ball right back to Matt, who quickly threw him out at first.
Alex stepped into the batter’s box. He hadn’t seen enough of Matt the previous day to really have a sense of how hard he threw—although the two fastballs he’d thrown Chu had whizzed in with plenty on them.
Alex dug in and waited for the first pitch. Matt came out of his windup and whipped a pitch that appeared to be headed right for Alex’s chin.
He bailed out quickly, bat flying, only to hear Coach Birdy say from behind him, “Strike one.” Matt had thrown a curveball that had broken right across the plate. As Alex got up, feeling a little embarrassed, Matt said loudly, “Never seen a curveball before, Myers?”
Alex had certainly never seen a curveball like that one before. Not very many Little League or junior high school pitchers threw breaking balls, and those who did had very little control of them. Matt’s next pitch started at Alex’s chin again. This time, he hung in and managed to tap a weak foul ball off the end of his bat. Strike two.
Alex stepped out for a moment to gather himself. He wondered if Matt would throw another curve or a fastball. He guessed fastball. Sure enough, the next pitch didn’t start out at his chin but right down the middle of the plate. Alex swung his bat in a perfect arc to connect with the pitch as it crossed the plate, belt-high.
Only it didn’t cross the plate, belt-high or anyplace else. Instead, it took a last-second dip, breaking out of the strike zone and away from his flailing bat. Alex twisted himself into a pretzel, hitting nothing but air.
“That’s called a slider,” Matt yelled as Alex slunk from the plate.
The only good news for Alex was that no one else on the reds could touch Matt, either.
They played six innings in all. Alex gave up a run in his second inning on a double by Jeff Cardillo, a stolen base, and a sacrifice fly. He might’ve been pleased with the way he’d pitched if not for feeling completely inadequate compared with Matt. After they were finished, Coach Birdy told them they’d play another intrasquad game the next day and then have a light practice Thursday.
As they all headed to the locker room, Matt came up to Alex. “Remember what I said about you being the number two starter behind me?” he said.
“Yeah,” Alex said, ready to admit defeat.
“I was wrong,” Matt said, surprising him. “Warner’s better than you too. At best, you’re number three. Better work on your hitting.”
With that, he picked up his pace, leaving Alex in his wake—again.
Wednesday’s practice went a lot like Tuesday’s, and Coach Birdy told them he would post Friday’s starting lineup the next day. Alex figured Bailey Warner would be the starting pitcher. Jonas was clearly the team’s best outfielder. Matt would be in the lineup someplace, but where? Matt had told Coach Birdy his best nonpitching position was shortstop, but the team’s captain—Cardillo—was the shortstop. Alex usually played the outfield when he wasn’t pitching, so he was hoping he’d start in left field, if only because Billy Kellner couldn’t hit at all, even though the only person on the team faster than Kellner—from what Alex had gleaned in three days—was Jonas.
When he and Jonas got to the locker room on Thursday, the lineup, as promised, was posted. Jonas was leading off and playing center field. Warner was hitting third and pitching. No surprises there. Matt was hitting cleanup and playing shortstop. That was a surprise. Cardillo, batting second, was playing third base.
“A little Jeter/A-Rod thing, I guess,” Jonas said. “Except here the starter got moved, not the new guy.”
When Alex Rodriguez was traded to the Yankees in 2004, they put him at third base, even though he’d been a Gold Glove shortstop in 2002 and 2003, for the simple reason that the Yankees weren’t moving Derek Jeter. This time, Coach Birdy had done the opposite, moving the veteran in favor of the new arrival.
Alex looked at the rest of the lineup. Kellner was playing left field and batting ninth. He, Alex, wasn’t starting. Reading his mind, Jonas patted him on the back. “Coach’s just giving the senior the chance to start the opener,” he said. “You’ll start Tuesday. No doubt.”
Alex wasn’t so sure. He’d done okay during the two intrasquad games, but he hadn’t overwhelmed anyone. If Matt was right and he was no better than the number three pitcher, he wouldn’t get many chances to start. Since most of the regular season consisted of Tuesday and Friday games, having just two starters was enough for most teams. Offensively, he’d been okay, but—again—nothing special.
Alex understood that there were a lot of juniors and seniors on the team. They weren’t stars—except for Cardillo, who seemed to get on base every time he came up and was a very good fielder—but they had experience. Alex had to remind himself he was a freshman. He hadn’t even played a game yet. He had to be patient, the way he had been during football season.
“I guess I just have to wait my turn,” he said to Jonas.
“It’ll come soon,” Jonas said. “I guarantee it.”
Alex’s turn came a lot sooner than he had thought it would. Bailey Warner struggled right from the start against Wilmington South. It was a chilly, breezy afternoon, and there couldn’t have been more than a couple of hundred people sitting in the bleachers. Chester Heights’ baseball field was formally called Roy Campanella Field, in honor of the Hall of Fame catcher, who had grown up in Philadelphia.
Alex wondered how Campanella would feel about the honor if he were still alive: There were bleachers that stretched from just outside third base to just outside first base and seats—benches—that, when full, might hold a thousand people. They were nowhere close to full when Coach Birdy turned to Alex as the top of the fourth inning began and told him to get loose.
The score at that point was 5–5. Both Warner and Wilmington South’s starter had been knocked around early. The Statesmen had gotten three runs off Warner in the top of the first, but those runs had been answered quickly when Jonas and Cardillo both singled and, after Warner flied out to deep left, Matt crushed a home run over the right field fence in the first at-bat of his career. He had driven in two more runs with a double in the bottom of the third to tie the score again.
Alex jogged down the right field line with Coach Bloom, who caught for the pitchers when they warmed up during the game. He was nervous. For one thing, it had never occurred to him that Warner would get into so much trouble early. For another, the two intrasquad games had put doubt in his mind about his pitching.
It had never once occurred to him that he couldn’t do the job at quarterback when he got the chance to play during football season. Maybe that was because Matt had put the name Goldie on him right away, or maybe it was because he could see how much better he threw the football than the other quarterbacks every day in practice.
&nbs
p; In basketball, he’d known from the first day he practiced with the varsity that he was the team’s best point guard. But this week had been different: He wasn’t close to Matt Gordon as a pitcher or as a hitter, and he wasn’t sure if he was even as good as Bailey Warner, who, at the moment, was having trouble getting anyone out.
That trend continued in the fourth. Warner walked the first two men he faced. He was tiring and afraid to throw strikes.
Coach Bloom stood up from his catching crouch. “You ready, Alex?” he asked.
“I guess so,” Alex said, not exactly sure what “ready” meant.
Coach Bloom turned to the dugout and held his hand up to indicate to Coach Birdy that Alex was warmed up. Coach Birdy started out of the dugout instantly. He walked over to the umpire for a moment, which confused Alex.
“He’s double-switching,” Coach Bloom explained. “You want to throw a couple more?”
Alex shook his head. He’d get five warm-up pitches when he got to the mound. That would be enough—he hoped.
Coach Birdy left the umpire and walked to the mound. He waved at Billy Kellner in left field and took the ball from Warner. Now Alex understood. Warner was a better hitter than Kellner, so he would move to left field and Kellner would come out. Coach Birdy waved his right arm at Alex.
“You’re up,” Coach Bloom said. “Go out there and have fun.”
Yeah, sure—fun, Alex thought. He nodded, forced a smile, and jogged to the mound.
The good news for Alex was that he got through the fourth inning. The bad news was Chester Heights was down, 9–5, and his coach had been ejected from the game.
Coach Birdy had said very little to him when he arrived at the mound, simply handed him the ball, saying, “You gotta throw strikes. Don’t walk the ballpark.”
Alex knew what the phrase meant: Warner had walked, by Alex’s count, five hitters—including the last two. That was a big part of why he was out of the game.
Alex did what he was told. His first pitch was a strike, a fastball down the middle. His second pitch was also a fastball down the middle. The Wilmington South hitter, a chunky righty, blasted it in the gap between Jonas and Warner. As fast as Jonas was, he had no chance to cut the ball off. It rolled to the wall for what would have been a triple if the batter had any speed. Instead, he jogged into second as two runs scored.
Matt had raced into the outfield to take the throw from Jonas after he ran the ball down. Seeing the runner wasn’t going anywhere, Matt jogged to the mound, still holding the ball.
“This isn’t Little League, Myers,” he said, handing him the ball. “You have to pitch to the corners. You throw the ball down the middle like that, they’re going to crush you.”
“I know,” Alex said. “Coach said to throw strikes….”
“On the corners,” Matt said, nodding. “Don’t be afraid. Your stuff is good enough to get outs. But you have to make the batter work. Okay?”
Alex nodded. There was a little of the old Matt in the pep talk. He liked that.
He got the next two batters out, but working the corners against the cleanup hitter, he walked him on a 3–2 pitch. Alex thought the pitch was a strike.
“Where was that, Ump?” he asked, walking to the front of the mound.
“High,” the ump answered.
“High?” Alex replied. “The guy’s, like, six four. How could that pitch be high?”
The ump walked out from behind the plate and pointed a finger at Alex. “If you want to be an umpire, son, go train for it. If you want to be a pitcher, get back on the mound and shut up.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Coach Birdy starting from the dugout. He put up a hand to indicate he was okay, turned his back on the ump, and went back to the mound. He was steaming. The pitch had been a strike.
He was still angry when he threw his next pitch, and it cost him. Not focused, he threw a fastball down the middle. As soon as he released the pitch, Alex knew he had messed up. Sure enough, the batter turned the pitch around so fast that all Alex saw was Warner turning his back in left field to watch it fly over the fence.
That made it 9–5. As the guy jogged the bases, Alex really wanted to scream at the umpire. Before he could make that mistake, Coach Birdy—perhaps reading his mind—arrived at the mound.
“You can’t let one bad call distract you like that, Alex,” he said. “You know that. It’s no different from basketball. Umpires make mistakes. You have to let it go.”
“But, Coach, I was out of the inning….”
“I know,” Coach Birdy said. “Doesn’t matter.”
Alex nodded. Coach Birdy turned to leave. As he did, though, he pointed a finger at the umpire. “At least admit you missed it,” he said. He wasn’t shouting, but in the emptiness of the ballpark, everyone could hear him.
The umpire took off his mask and walked toward Coach Birdy. “You too?” he said. “I’ll take it off the kid because he’s emotionally wound up. Not you.”
Coach Birdy had been walking in the direction of the dugout. Now he stopped and turned to meet the approaching umpire.
“You missed it,” Coach Birdy repeated. “You think you’re umpiring high school games because you’re a great umpire?”
“You think you’re coaching high school games because you’re a great coach?”
Coach Birdy smiled. “No, I’m coaching high school games because I’m a history teacher and I like baseball.”
The two men were now nose to nose. Alex wondered if he should intervene, then thought better of it.
“Well, you’d better find another game to watch today,” the ump said, “because you are out of this one.” He gave the ejection sign, arcing his right arm into the air and pointing at the sky. Coach Birdy, who had always been the calming voice in the basketball locker room, completely lost his temper for a moment.
“Are you kidding me?” he said, now right in the ump’s face. “You’re throwing me out because I stood up for one of my kids after you blew a call? The game’s about the kids, pal, not about you and your overblown ego!”
Alex didn’t hear the ump’s response because Coach Bloom had raced from the dugout to pull his boss away. Alex ran in while Coach Bloom stood between them and the umpire just in case Coach Birdy decided to make another charge.
“You’d better get him out of here!” the ump was yelling at Coach Bloom. “One more word and I promise I’ll recommend a suspension in my report!”
Matt was on the scene now, having charged in from shortstop when the argument started to get out of control.
“Go back to the mound,” he told Alex. “Don’t say another word to this guy.”
The ump looked at Matt for a moment, as if expecting him to argue too, but Matt just put his arm around Alex and walked him back to the mound.
Coach Bloom got Coach Birdy off the field. As Coach Birdy left, heading, Alex figured, for the locker room, the ump walked behind the plate, put his mask back on, and pointed at Alex.
“Play ball,” he said.
That, thought Alex, is what we’re all trying to do.
Alex got out of the inning with no further damage, but by then it was too late. Given a four-run cushion, Wilmington South’s starter got his second wind. Matt crushed another home run, a two-run shot in the sixth to make it 9–7, but Johnny Ellis, who relieved Alex in the seventh, gave up an additional run, and the final score was 10–7. Alex went to left field for the seventh to replace Warner, but the game ended in the bottom of the inning with him in the on-deck circle when Oliver Flick popped to second for the last out.
As the players began to line up for the postgame handshake, Alex was tempted to run over and say something more to the home plate umpire. He decided against it. There was a good possibility the guy would work more of their games before the season was over.
In the handshake line, Alex came face to face with the cleanup hitter. “Dre Byers,” he said as they shook hands. “Between you and me, that was strike three back in the fourth.”
>
Alex wasn’t sure what to say. He settled for “Alex Myers” and “Thanks for saying that.”
“We’ve had that guy in the past,” Byers said. “He’s not very good, and he’s got a temper.”
“Nice combination in an umpire,” Alex said.
Byers laughed. “No kidding. Good luck the rest of the season.”
“You too,” Alex said.
He couldn’t help but sigh. In football, he’d gotten knocked cold in the season opener. In basketball, he’d made a play that led to his coach getting ejected in his first game. And now, in baseball, he’d been in the middle of another dustup that led to his coach getting ejected.
Jonas walked up behind him. “If I ever coach and you have a son, do me a favor and tell him to play a different sport,” he said.
“You’re always here for me, aren’t you?” Alex said.
“Someone’s got to do it,” Jonas said. “You keep getting your coaches kicked out of games.”
He was clearly pleased with himself for his humor. Before Alex could respond, he saw Christine Whitford and Steve Garland, the sports editor of the Weekly Roar, approaching. Except that Christine, after giving him a quick wave, peeled away to talk to Matt, leaving Alex with Garland.
“Have you given any thought to just showing up for the third game of each season?” Garland said.
“You too?” Alex asked. “Is it my fault the ump missed strike three? The kid I threw the pitch to just told me it was a strike. How is that my fault?”
“Little uptight, Alex?” Garland asked.
“Yeah,” Alex admitted. “Just a little.”
Steve Garland was a good guy, a good reporter, and a good writer. During football season, he had been the one person in the school willing to call Coach Gordon out for running up scores, for being a bully, and for taking credit for plays he hadn’t called.
He asked Alex to walk through what had happened, which Alex did, including what Dre Byers had said to him a few minutes earlier.
The DH Page 3