by Carl Deuker
But Reule was a competitor. Roosevelt beat him 7–4, dropping us into a tie with O’Dea. In his other starts, though, he got the outs when he needed them. Or if he didn’t, then Wilkerson or Smith came in and got them for him. I don’t think we won any of those games by more than two runs, and twice we had to come back in the last inning to win, but we won.
We needed those wins, every one of them, because O’Dea kept on winning too. It was like one of those stare-downs you have with your friends when you’re a kid. Only one of us could go on to the state tournament. Who was going to blink first?
When the showdown game was three weeks off, I was sure the league championship would be settled—one way or the other—before we met. It didn’t seem possible for both of us to win out. Either they’d drop a few or we would. But they took care of their business and we took care of ours. When I looked at the schedule after Josh shut out Nathan Hale 3–0 on a two-hitter, there was only one game left to play: O’Dea, at their field, with the regional championship—and a spot in the state tournament—on the line.
2
I didn’t like our chances. Not with Reule on the mound. For a while I second-guessed Wheatley, thinking he should have thrown Reule against Nathan Hale, and saved Josh for O’Dea. But that would have been risky, too. There was no guarantee Reule would have beaten Nathan Hale, and we didn’t need to face O’Dea coming off a loss. Besides, if you’ve got a rhythm going that’s working, you keep it.
Having to sit out the championship game played at Josh’s mind. Friday during lunch he kept talking about how in California things were different. “With our record, we’d be in the state tournament even if we came in second,” he complained. “And it’s a double elimination tournament besides.”
“Washington is smaller,” I said.
He glowered. “Yeah, well, it’s not fair.”
Saturday was one of those May days that tease you. When the sun was out, it was almost like summer. But when the clouds covered the sun, you’d swear it was January.
O’Dea played on an old field on Capitol Hill. Sections of the outfield fence were missing. The infield grass was spotty; there were holes in the screen behind the plate. The bleachers held about fifty people, so the fans—and there were a couple of hundred—sat along the foul lines to watch. None of that mattered. The feel of a championship game was in the air.
During their batting practice Number Forty put on a show. The drives he hit seemed to have after-burners—line shots into the left and right center alleys. He set the tone for all O’Dea’s hitters. They were loose and confident.
“They act like champions,” Josh whispered to me. “I’d give anything to pitch today. Anything.”
Reule, who’d been shaky in his last outings, came out throwing strong. He kept the ball low, and the O’Dea guys were overeager, pounding grounder after grounder into the dirt. They scratched out a couple of singles in the first two innings, but that was all. We didn’t do any better, though. The O’Dea right-hander mowed us down like we were toy soldiers.
The third can be a dangerous inning for a pitcher. The top of the order is coming back up again, and the second time around good hitters have a better idea of what to expect. The O’Dea leadoff guy smacked a hard grounder right at Ruben. The ball kicked off the heel of Ruben’s glove, caught him hard in the chest, then trickled toward second base. Runner on first. The number two guy tried to sacrifice the runner along, but Reule came inside with a fastball that nicked him in the arm. “Take your base!” the umpired yelled, and O’Dea was really in business.
Number Forty stepped to the plate, dug himself a little hole with his back foot, settled in, and nodded that he was ready. Reule checked the runners, then delivered a curve that dipped outside for a ball. His second pitch was another curve, this time just low. “Don’t give in to him,” Josh whispered. “Don’t give in.”
But he did. Reule’s 2–0 pitch had nothing on it, a fastball right down the pike. Number Forty uncoiled. The ball soared skyward, a tremendous drive to straightaway center.
Bayne turned one way, then another. He got his feet tangled and fell. But it didn’t matter. The ball cleared the fence in dead center by a good thirty feet. Forty rumbled around the bases as the O’Dea crowd cheered wildly. We were down 3–0.
The guys didn’t give up, though. They fought back, scratching out a single run in the fourth on a double, a stolen base, and a sac fly. Then in the fifth O’Dea gave us a run on a walk and a three-base error, a routine fly ball their right fielder butchered.
Reule held O’Dea in check through five. But you could see he was tiring. In between innings Josh cornered Wheatley. “I could pitch an inning or two,” he said. “I know I could.”
Wheatley shook his head. “Forget it. I won’t do anything that might hurt your arm.”
Josh slumped down on the seat next to me, stuffed sunflower seeds in his mouth, and machine-gunned the shells out.
In our half of the sixth, Wheatley sent me out to warm up Wilkerson. It was a good move, because when O’Dea came to the plate Reule walked the leadoff batter on four pitches. He got the next guy to pop up, but the hitter after that drilled a single through the box. Wheatley walked slowly to the mound, then called for Wilkerson. I went back to my seat on the bench next to Josh.
It was Number Forty again at the plate. “Is this guy always up?” Josh muttered as we watched Wilkerson take his final warm-up tosses from the mound. “Get him out, Randy! Get him out!”
Forty dug himself a toe hole. Wilkerson stretched. Suddenly I couldn’t look. I put my head down and stared at the sunflower seed shells on the ground.
I couldn’t close my ears though, and at the crack of the bat my head jerked up. Forty had sent a ringing double into the left center alley. This time Bayne played it well, and only one run scored. Wilkerson got the next two guys, but we were behind 4–2, and we were down to our last at-bat. Three more outs and our season was over.
As the guys came in, Wheatley clapped his hands together. “Let’s get going!” he shouted. “A little spirit here!”
A couple of guys—Ruben, Nelson—let out a cheer. But it was fake. You play a whole season; you win a slew of games; but the last one—the one that knocks you out of the tournament—is the one you remember.
Before he headed to the third base coach’s box, Wheatley came over to me. “If we get deep enough into the inning, you’re going to pinch-hit.”
Josh heard. “Check the card,” he said. “And get your bat.”
My heart was pounding like crazy as I walked over to where the lineup card was posted. Nelson was scheduled to bat fifth, and he was slumping. He’d struck out three times in the game, and he was zero for his last sixteen.
“Nelson’s batting fifth,” I said softly to Josh when I returned.
“It’ll be for him,” he said, then he paused. “If you get up, Ryan, the game will be on the line. Start thinking about it now. You’ve got to be ready.”
You find out about yourself in moments like that. And what I found out surprised me. I knew I’d changed since I’d met Josh. But right then I found out just how much. Because I wanted to get up. I wanted the chance to bat with the game, with the season, on the line. There was no way I would have wanted to be in a spot like that before Josh. No way at all.
It wasn’t that I was confident I’d get the big hit. Sitting on the bench, my hands working the handle of my bat, I knew the chances were good that I’d make an out. But that was okay. I could live with it. I wanted the chance.
Bayne started the inning by working a walk, but then Selin popped to left for the first out, and Jamaal Wilsey struck out on three pitches.
Carlos Hernandes straggled up to the plate, looking for all the world like the last out. O’Dea’s pitcher delivered a fastball right down the heart for a strike. Carlos stepped out, tugged on his gloves, stepped back in. The second pitch was a fastball in on the fists. Hernandes swung weakly, blooping a little flare, a dying quail that dropped in front of the r
ight fielder for a single. The tying runs were aboard.
I looked over at Wheatley as Nelson walked toward the batter’s box. For an instant I thought I’d figured wrong, that Nelson would bat. But then Wheatley came out of the third base box, pointing at me and waving Nelson back to the bench.
“Be hacking,” Josh whispered as I grabbed my helmet.
I passed Nelson as he headed back to the bench. I could see in his eyes that he was glad to be off the hook.
I took a few practice swings and then stepped in. Josh’s words went through my mind over and over. All right, I thought, let’s make it happen—now.
The right-hander stretched, checked the runners, fired. I’d like to say I saw the ball clearly, that it came in as big as a watermelon, but that’d be a lie. The truth is it was just a blur. I swung anyway, and I’m glad I did, because I caught that ball on the sweet spot and it took off, a rocket down the line in left. The only question was whether it would stay fair. As I raced toward first I watched the ball hooking, hooking, hooking.
And then, the magic words. “Fair ball!” the umpire shouted, and he twirled his finger in the air to signal a home run. The guys on the bench exploded, Wheatley exploded, our fans exploded. When I crossed home plate my teammates crowded around me, banging me on the top of the helmet and sweeping me toward the dugout.
It felt great, but the whole time I was looking for Josh. I couldn’t figure where he was, why he wasn’t sharing the moment with me. Then I saw him down in the bullpen warming up. “Get your gear on,” Wheatley said to me as Bethel Santos popped up to end our half of the inning. “You’re catching the bottom of the seventh.”
If I’d been managing the team, I’d have brought Josh in right away. Why warm him up if you’re not going to use him? But Wheatley sent Wilkerson back out there.
There never was a chance. Wilkerson is a decent pitcher, but there’s no way he could close out O’Dea. Not in their ballpark. Not for the championship. There was just no way.
His first two pitches were about three feet high. The third one was in the dirt. Ball four sailed clear to the backstop. Wheatley came out, took the ball from him, and motioned for Josh, who quickly trotted to the mound. “Let’s do it,” Wheatley said as he handed Josh the ball.
“It’s done,” Josh answered.
I’ve never seen eyes look the way his eyes looked that inning. They were so focused, it was scary. I knew what to call for, too. Those eyes told me, without a word being exchanged. Fastballs. Nothing but fastballs. Pure heat. Pitcher against batter. Here it is. Hit it if you can.
They couldn’t. Nine pitches. Nine strikes, the last three blown right by Number Forty, who swung so hard at the final pitch he fell down. And then we were all at the mound, jumping on Josh till we knocked him down. We had done it. We had beaten O’Dea! We were going to state. It was like a dream, a wild and crazy dream with the wildest and craziest ending. I’ll live my whole life and never be part of anything more exciting.
A huge headline blazed across the prep pages of the Sunday Seattle Times: Something Special on Crown Hill. It was all about Josh and how close he’d come to beating O’Dea in football. Now he’s done it on the diamond, the last sentence read, and don’t be surprised if his fabulous right arm leads the Vikings all the way to the Promised Land.
Monday at school Josh’s face was lit up like a Christmas tree. As guys on the team passed him on their way to class, they’d make little salaaming motions like he was their lord and master. Kolas Chang grabbed his right arm and started kissing it.
“Knock it off!” Josh said, smiling.
3
Sometimes I think what happened had to happen, like a crash of two trains speeding in opposite directions on the same track. But at other times it seems as if there were places where either one of them—Josh or Monica—could have turned off. Take that day. Monica could have let Josh ride high. She could have let him have his moment.
She could have, but she didn’t.
Ms. Hurley had a challenge going in our English class. If anyone found something badly written in a newspaper or magazine, they could read it to the class and get extra points. Monica had her hand up first thing that day.
“Listen to this,” she said, her arm over the back of her chair, her eyes darting around the room. “It’s from yesterday’s paper—the sports section.” Then she read: “Don’t be surprised if his fabulous right arm leads the Vikings all the way to the Promised Land.”
Ms. Hurley’s face broke into a smile.
“What’s so funny?” Josh demanded, his face reddening.
Monica grinned. “It’s ridiculous!”
“There is nothing ridiculous about it,” Josh insisted. “We can take the state.”
Monica shook her head. “I’m not talking about baseball. I’m talking about the writing.”
“It’s a mixed metaphor,” Ms. Hurley explained, in her best teacher’s voice. “It was the Jews who were trying to get to the Promised Land, not the Vikings.”
Still Josh glared, red-faced.
“Look, Josh,” Ms. Hurley went on. “Imagine Leif Ericson wearing his little horned helmet. Now imagine him wandering around the desert with Moses, and you’ll see why the sentence is silly.”
A lot of kids smiled then, but Josh stayed stonily silent, his arms folded across his chest.
Monica noticed. She turned toward Josh. “You have heard of Moses, haven’t you? You know, the guy in the Bible. God gives him the Ten Commandments. Maybe you saw the movie.”
I’d never heard her more sarcastic.
“Are you calling me stupid?” Josh snapped.
The smile disappeared from Monica’s face. “If the shoe fits . . . ,” she said, her voice trailing off.
“That’s enough, Monica!” Ms. Hurley interjected, her voice louder than I’d heard it all year. “More than enough.”
Monica held her hands up in front of her. “Sorry,” she said. But there was still the hint of a smirk on her face.
At practice that day everyone was chattering, hill of good spirits. Everyone except Josh. He seemed a million miles away. I knew what was on his mind.
“Don’t let Monica get to you,” I said as we walked home after practice. “That’s just her way.”
“Yeah, well, we all have our ways, don’t we?” he muttered.
4
The next day Coach Wheatley called us together. “You’re good baseball players,” he said. “Every one of you. But the other fifteen teams have good baseball players too. Talent won’t be enough. The team that wins will be the team that keeps its focus, the team that does the little things right.” He took a deep breath. “You don’t get many chances in life to be a champion, gentlemen. The golden ring is dangling right in front of our eyes. Let’s grab it.”
That practice was crisp. The infielders had their gloves in the dirt and their throws were on the money. The outfielders chased down flies into the gap. In the batting cage, guys were swinging at good pitches and hitting the ball where it was pitched. It felt so good, so exactly right, that I didn’t want practice to end.
I took a long shower that afternoon. I stuck my head right under the nozzle and let the water pound onto the top of my head. I must have stood there for a long time, because when I opened my eyes the shower room was empty. I turned the nozzle off and headed to my locker. The only guy still around was Jamaal Wilsey, and he was zipping up his bag. As I dried myself off, he asked me if I thought we could win the whole thing.
“You bet we can,” I said. “And we will.”
He nodded. “I think so too.” Then he looked me right in the eye. “And you know what else I think? I think it’s going to come down to you.”
That took me aback, because it was a feeling I’d had more than once. “How do you figure?” I asked.
“You’re our number one pinch-hitter now,” he said. “No doubt about it. The way you went up there and smacked that home run, it was like you had ice water in your veins.”
“I don
’t know about that,” I answered. “I was plenty nervous.”
He laughed. “There are ten guys on this team who wouldn’t have been able to swing the bat in that situation. I know because I’m one of them. You came up big in a big spot, Ryan. If a game is on the line again, Coach will want you at the plate.”
“You really think so?” I said.
He pushed the door open, then turned and looked back at me. “I don’t think it. I know it.”
The door swung closed behind him and I was alone. I had to smile at how unbelievable it all seemed. Me, the guy who had been afraid to try out, and now my teammates were hoping that I’d be the one to step up to the plate with the state title on the line. Even more amazing, I was hoping for it too. The pressure was like a drug in my veins. I wanted more.
I closed my eyes, and suddenly I wasn’t in the locker room anymore. I was at Cheney Stadium, playing on an emerald green cross-cut ball field. I was gunning down baserunners trying to steal, blasting RBI doubles into the power alleys, catching the third strike for the third out in the bottom of the seventh.
Then the door burst open and the night janitor was standing there. I just about jumped out of my skin. “What are you doing in here, kid?” he asked, and I could tell I’d scared him, too. “Get your pants on and go home.”
“Right,” I said, pulling my jeans up. “Sorry.”
When I stepped outside, a gray mist had settled in. The school felt strange, too quiet and too empty.
That’s why seeing the two guys startled me. They were maybe a hundred yards ahead of me, and they were moving in fits and starts down the hallway, hugging the wall as they went. Every so often they’d look around to see if anyone was watching them.
When they looked my way, I stepped into a classroom doorway so they couldn’t see me. I was a little scared, but it wasn’t just fear. They didn’t want to be seen, and that made me want to spy on them. The next few minutes were like one of those old detective movies. They’d move forward, and I’d move forward. They’d stop and I’d stop.