by Mike Lupica
It was as if somebody had turned up the volume on the chatter coming from both the outfield and the infield, including from Matt. For some reason, and for all the work he did with Ms. Francis on slowing himself down when the words wouldn’t come, somehow his fast chatter from second base was never a problem. Maybe it was because he didn’t feel as if his was the only voice on the field. He was just part of the group.
“What you got tonight, big man?”
“Tell the guys on the back field to look out.”
“Batter, batter, batter.”
“Don’t swing and miss, big man, the breeze might knock us all over.”
“Give him your heater, Sarge.”
“Wait, does Sarge even still have a heater?”
“Shouldn’t that swing count for two strikes instead of one?”
To Matt, it was like baseball rap. He liked real rap. But he loved it on a ball field like this.
Ben, even though he had swung right through Sarge’s first few pitches, was smiling. After he swung and missed again, and the chatter level increased a little more, he stepped out of the box, still smiling, and made a motion to his teammates in the field that said, “Bring it on.”
He looked down at Kyle at third base and said, “You better hope I don’t pull one, dog.”
Kyle laughed—a little nervously, Matt thought.
“If you’re trying to scare me,” Kyle said, “you just did!”
Matt knew what he was feeling, having been Ben’s teammate with the Nationals. There was nothing scarier than being a runner on third when Ben was just sixty feet away with a bat in his hands. Even though you knew he could pull a line drive and score you, Matt would find himself hoping for either a home run or a fly ball. He told his mom about his feelings one time and she laughed.
“Safety first,” she said.
Matt never said anything to Ben, but he knew that if Ben could ever figure out a way to cut down on his swing, he would be a much more dangerous hitter, and a much tougher out. It was what Aaron Judge had done the year he busted out with his fifty-one homers for the Yankees. He had better bat control, he had a better sense of the strike zone, and he still hit his homers. He just struck out a lot less than he had before that.
Ben’s swing was still as big as he was.
He connected with the fifth pitch he saw from Sarge. And as soon as Matt heard the sound of the ball on the fat part of Ben’s aluminum bat, he didn’t even have to turn. Oh, but he did turn, because Matt wanted to watch the flight of the ball.
There was another practice going on at Healey’s back field. Matt smiled as he watched Ben’s ball land between the center fielder and the right fielder, and go rolling toward their second baseman.
“Did you see where that sucker landed?” Kyle yelled.
“Wait,” José said. “The ball landed?”
Sarge had turned to watch the flight of the ball himself, and when he turned back to Ben he said, “That one feel okay?”
“Can’t lie, coach,” he said. “It didn’t stink.”
Still smiling.
Forget what it’s like being that size and that strong, Matt thought to himself. What is it like being able to hit a baseball that far?
Ben hit one more home run, though not nearly as far as the first one. He didn’t put another one in play. He didn’t even hit a foul ball. He finished with four more swings and misses. He thought he was done, but then Sarge said, “Let me throw you a few extra pitches, and instead of trying to hit one all the way to Glenbrook, let’s pretend we’ve got the winning run on base, and all you need is a single.”
“Shorten my swing, you mean?” Ben said.
“Just a little,” Sarge said.
“I can’t,” Ben said.
“Sure you can, Ben,” Sarge said. “You just haven’t learned how.”
“I’ll try,” Ben said. “But my dad taught me to hit a certain way. You know what they talk about on TV all the time. He wants me to elevate.”
“All I can ask is that you try,” Sarge said, ignoring the part about Ben’s dad. “It’s something we can work on a little bit at a time, big man.”
Ben stepped out. Matt watched him from second base, saw how hard he was concentrating as he took some shorter, more level practice swings, exaggerating hitting down on the ball instead of using his normal uppercut.
Sarge threw him more than a few extra pitches. But the harder Ben tried to just put the ball in play, the worse it seemed to get for him. The best he could do, on the last pitch, was a weak ground ball to Kyle.
Ben ran the ball out, all the way through first base even though Kyle had thrown him out easily. But as Ben crossed the base, Matt could see the frustration on his face. The kid who could smile his way through almost anything looked angry at himself.
About ten minutes later, it was Matt’s turn to hit, Sarge making him the last batter tonight. Of the ten pitches Matt saw from Sarge, he hit a couple of line drives up the middle, two to right, two to left. He fouled two pitches off, hit another ball right over second base. Then on the last pitch he saw he really connected, on the fat part of his own Easton bat, right on the sweet spot. The ball didn’t go over the fence in left-center. It did hit high up off the fence out there.
Not all I got, Matt thought to himself.
But close enough.
Since it was Matt’s last swing, he was running all the way, thinking double as he rounded first. But he was watching Denzel the whole time, and when the ball bounced away from him a little, Matt didn’t even slow down as he cut the bag at second base, knowing this was going to be a stand-up triple, even in practice.
But when he got to third, he slid into the bag just for the sheer fun of it. It was like he was ending BP tonight with his own exclamation point.
After he cleaned the dirt off himself, he jogged toward the bench on the first-base side of the field. When he got there, Ben came over to him and said in a quiet voice, “Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to hit a little bit more like you.”
Ben grinned then.
“Just don’t tell the other guys,” he said.
FOUR
For his birthday his mom had gotten Matt a subscription to MLB Network, which was pure heaven. It meant that on any given night he could watch any game he wanted on his laptop until it was time to go to bed.
And sometimes, even after that.
Matt liked watching games on TV, sometimes with his mom after dinner. But he was just as happy later in his bed, picking out a game from Houston or Chicago or Cincinnati or Boston or Cleveland or Baltimore. He could go to Minute Maid Park in Houston for an Astros game, or Wrigley Field in Chicago, or Progressive Field in Cleveland. Sometimes, with his door shut, Matt would not only watch the games, but pretend he was doing the color commentary on them. His favorite thing was when he’d be a step ahead of the announcers, calling for a hit-and-run or steal or squeeze play.
He loved it when that would happen.
Alone in his room, alone with baseball, he never had any trouble getting the words out. He never got stopped the way he did in class, when he’d feel a familiar panic come over him. He knew it would pass. He knew the words would eventually come.
He just didn’t know when.
But when he was alone in his room with baseball, he was always sure of himself. If it was a day when his team hadn’t practiced and he hadn’t gotten a chance to even play catch with one of his friends, watching these games at night was the happiest part of his day.
Tonight he watched the Astros play Cleveland. It meant that not only were José Altuve and Carlos Correa in the game, but so was Francisco Lindor, the Indians shortstop, another one of the best young players in the big leagues.
Sarge liked to say how lucky it was to be a baseball fan right now, because he honestly felt there was more young talent in the game than at any other time in its history.
“Hey, you’re only twelve,” Sarge had said to Matt the day he told him he was going to bat him third. “Some of these guys wil
l still only be in their thirties if you make it to the big leagues.”
“Right, coach,” Matt said. “You mean when I grow up?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Sarge said.
The game Matt was watching was in the top of the fourth, Astros and Indians tied 2–2, when he got the text from Ben Roberson, who Matt couldn’t remember ever texting him before.
U doing anything tomorrow?
Matt hit him right back.
Nah.
As soon as he did, he could see on the screen that Ben was answering.
Meet on the field at Healey, like 11?
Matt decided to call him.
“What’s up?” he said.
“I thought we could maybe do some work together,” Ben said.
“If you’re talking about baseball, I never think of it as work,” Matt said. “My mom says that nobody ever says they’re going to work baseball. They say they’re going to play.”
“Maybe we can do a little bit of both tomorrow,” Ben said. “Maybe Sarge is right, and I could do some work shortening my swing.”
Yes! Matt thought. But he didn’t say that.
“I’m down,” is what he said.
“Great,” Ben said. “See you tomorrow.”
Matt was glad to help him, if he could. If somehow Ben became a better hitter, their Astros would be a better team. He’d heard A.J. Hinch, the Astros manager, say once on television that the most important part of his job was putting his players in the best possible position to win.
Matt wasn’t a manager. He wasn’t a coach. But maybe there was a way to help Ben. Maybe not all dreams had to be big ones.
Maybe you had to start small.
FIVE
The day was so perfect, not too hot, no clouds in the sky. So often you heard the announcers talking about baseball weather.
Well, Matt thought, today really is baseball weather.
He was wearing his favorite T-shirt, one his mom had bought for him, a black Astros shirt with an orange star on the front. Since he knew he wouldn’t be doing any sliding, he was wearing a pair of gym shorts and rubber cleats. He had his bat with him, and batting gloves, and a couple of water bottles in his bat bag, and even a peanut butter sandwich he’d made for himself. If Ben was ready to work into the afternoon, so was he. As usual when it came to baseball, Matt was ready to go all day.
They had agreed to meet on the back field. The Bakers lived only a couple of blocks from Healey Park, so Matt had ridden his bike over. Ben was waiting on the back field when he got there. Ben was wearing shorts too, and a pretty cool T-shirt of his own, one with the Big Ben clock from London on the front.
He was also wearing a navy blue Yankees cap, with the white NY on the front. Ben said he’d almost had no choice when he was growing up. His dad had been born in the Bronx, New York, practically in the shadow, Ben said, of the old Yankee Stadium. So he was a Yankees fan and Ben’s two brothers were Yankees fans. The Yankees, Ben had told Matt one time, were practically a family business for the Robersons.
“What are we going to do if the Astros and Yankees keep going up against each other in the playoffs?” Matt said, pointing up at Ben’s cap.
“Root like heck for our teams,” Ben said, grinning, “and trash talk the heck out of each other.”
“Sounds good,” Matt said.
“Of course, I’m better at trash talk than you are,” Ben said.
“Tell me about it,” Matt said.
He started to get stuck on the t in “tell.” No reason. But by now he knew he didn’t need a reason. It just happened. And sometimes kept happening. He managed to slow himself down just enough, like he was unlocking a door, and got the words out. He didn’t want anything to get in his way today. He mostly wanted to get out of his own way.
“Judge has made me even more of a Yankees fan than I was already,” Ben said.
“He cut down on his swing,” Matt said.
“But he didn’t do it until he got to the big leagues,” Ben said.
Ben shook his head, as if he were already frustrated about his own swing before they even started today.
“Sometimes I almost feel as if I’m closing my eyes and hoping I get lucky enough to make contact,” he said.
“Maybe we can figure out a way to get you to make the kind of contact you did last night without getting lucky,” Matt said.
“At least one of us has a good attitude about this,” Ben said.
“You’re here,” Matt said.
“Yeah,” Ben said. “I guess I am.”
Matt saw five or six old balls in the grass next to Ben. He’d told him to bring as many as he could. Matt had brought about the same number himself. He figured they had enough so they wouldn’t have to keep stopping to chase them when it was time for Ben to do some hitting.
“You sure I’m not wasting my time and yours today?” Ben said.
Matt wanted to tell him no, he wasn’t.
But now he was blocked for real, and couldn’t tell him anything.
“N-n-.”
He felt as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth.
But suddenly Ben was acting impatient that Matt couldn’t get the word “no” out of his mouth.
“I know, I know,” Ben said, “you want to tell me that I’m not wasting my time.”
“Yes” was the word that came out then for Matt.
Then he took a deep breath and said, “Make a deal with you. I’ll try to help you with your swing. But you have to promise not to help me when I stutter. Because that doesn’t help me.”
He saw a look come across Ben’s face that he didn’t understand. For a second he thought maybe the guy who wanted to correct things wrong with his swing didn’t want to be corrected anywhere else.
“I just saw you were struggling,” Ben said.
“I have to get through it on my own,” Matt said.
“Yeah,” Ben said, “but I was just trying to help.”
“Thank you,” Matt said. “But I’ve got to work it out myself. It means that sometimes you have to wait for me.”
“Okay,” Ben said, as if wanting to change the subject. “But do you think you can help me?”
“Yes,” Matt said.
The word came out quickly. But for once Matt Baker wondered if saying something, about baseball this time, was going to be a lot easier than doing it.
SIX
Matt had gone on the Internet the night before and done some reading. It was almost like he was doing homework, though he would be the one trying to teach a class to Ben. It wasn’t a hardship. Matt loved reading about baseball, not just facts and figures, but history, too. He loved looking up players he heard the announcers talking about, even ones who’d played long before Matt was born.
And Matt loved going on YouTube and finding videos with coaching tips. His mom knew a lot about proper technique, for both hitting and fielding and even throwing. So did Sarge, who had not just been a great shortstop at South Shore High School, but had gone on to play college baseball, too.
They had taught him a lot. But Matt had taught himself, too, just by doing his own studying. He had learned little tips about fielding, and how to position your feet so you got the best possible running start when you took off from a base. It was all the little stuff, he knew, that could turn out to be huge in a big moment in a game.
“Soooo,” Matt said, “I’ve maybe got some ideas about how you can shorten your swing.”
“My dad keeps telling me that if I decide to stick with baseball, I can figure stuff like that out later,” Ben said, “but for now to keep swinging for the benches.”
Matt couldn’t believe what he’d just heard: If I decide to stick with baseball? He knew how good Ben was at other sports. Everybody in town who’d seen Ben play knew. But how could somebody who had it in him to give baseballs a ride the way he could ever think about walking away from the game without finding out just how good he could be?
“He’s a big golfer, my dad,
” Ben continued. “He says that the pro who taught him how to play when he was our age, told him to swing as hard as he could. He said the pro told him that you could always make a swing shorter, but that you could never make it bigger. So he’s applying that to baseball now. And to me.”
“I don’t know anything about golf,” Matt said.
“I always tell my dad that the ball doesn’t move in golf, but he doesn’t care,” Ben said. “His favorite expression comes from some old golfer who used to say, ‘Grip it and rip it.’ That’s what my dad wants me to do in baseball.”
“You can change if you want to,” Matt said.
He wasn’t sure that was true. But Matt knew that if he didn’t try to be positive, Ben was never going to buy in either.
“It’s gonna take some work,” Matt said.
“But sports are supposed to be fun,” Ben said.
“The better you get, the more fun they are,” Matt said.
The first thing he did was take Ben’s own Easton bat away from him and hand him Matt’s much lighter version.
“You’re not even letting me use my own bat?” Ben said.
“Not today,” he said, grinning at Ben.
Matt knew his bat would be way too whippy for Ben in a real game, the way he knew he’d never be able to get Ben’s bat around if he was facing real pitching. But from the studying up he’d done on YouTube last night, Matt learned that the key for Ben was simple:
Maintain the bat speed he already had, just using a much more compact swing.
He and Ben collected all the balls and went over to home plate. Matt asked Ben to hand him his bat back, then got into the right-hand batter’s box. He told Ben to kneel to the right of the plate, just a little bit up the first base line, and toss balls underhand to him.
“I’m going to get better with somebody pitching underhand to me?” Ben said.
“I just want to show you what we’re going to work on,” Matt said.
Matt didn’t set his hands the way he normally did when he was hitting. Instead he placed the end of his bat as close to his right ear as he could get it, with the handle pointing almost straight down at the ground.