Batting Order

by Mike Lupica

  Instead of first and second, nobody out, the Astros had Stone at first with one out. It had become a completely different inning, just like that.

  As Ben ran back across the infield to the Astros’ bench, head down, Matt heard what everybody heard:

  “Not your fault, big man. You needed a coach there.”

  Matt couldn’t believe it. Mr. Roberson had been closer to his mom than Matt was on the Astros’ bench. If he hadn’t heard her tell Ben to go halfway, he hadn’t been listening.

  She acted as if she hadn’t heard. Maybe she didn’t hear what came next, maybe because Mr. Roberson managed to keep his voice down for a change.

  “That’s why she doesn’t belong out there,” he said.

  Matt heard.

  Then Matt was up off the bench and walking in Mr. Roberson’s direction before he realized he was doing it, knowing exactly what he wanted to say, even though he knew his mom could fight her own battles.

  This wasn’t even a battle, Matt thought. This was just Mr. Roberson doing what Matt’s mom called a “dumb-guy thing.”

  He was just going to tell Ben’s dad that his mom belonged on this field as much as anybody.

  But when he was in front of Mr. Roberson, he couldn’t say anything.

  “S-s-sh . . .”

  She.

  If he could just get that one word out, he knew the rest would follow right behind it.

  He couldn’t.

  “What is it?” Mr. Roberson said. “Did Ben send you over here?”

  Matt shook his head. He felt as if his tongue were stuck to his bottom teeth. He never wanted this to happen on a ball field and now it was happening to him again.

  “S-s-sh . . .”

  And this time, as ashamed as he felt, Matt gave up. He turned around to go back to the bench and nearly bumped into Ben, who leaned down and said, “I’m not finishing your sentence this time. Just starting one of my own.”

  Then in a voice quiet enough that Matt wondered if even the people behind Mr. Roberson in the bleachers could hear, Ben said, “It was my fault. Not Mrs. Baker’s.”

  Then he turned back to Matt and said, “That wasn’t for you. That was for me.”

  Matt and Ben sat back down on the bench and watched the guys at the bottom of the batting order keep getting hits until the Astros were back in front, 9–7. Sarge brought in Pat McQuade to close the game. But with two outs in the bottom of the sixth, Mike Clark dropped an easy fly ball in left. Just flat missed it. The kid who hit the ball ended up on second, and Pat walked the next batter. Then the guy who’d been the Mets’ best hitter all night, their shortstop, doubled to right-center and the game was tied at nine all.

  José was leading off for the Astros in the bottom of the sixth, then Matt, then Ben.

  “Get us started,” Matt said to José.

  José grinned. “Esta bien,” he said.

  “Don’t know that one,” Matt said.

  “It means ‘alright,’ dude,” José said.

  “Alright by me,” Matt said.

  José hit one hard to center, but it was right at the center fielder, and nothing more than a hard out. The left-handed reliever was still in there for the Mets. He got a fast strike on Matt, then missed away twice. He tried to go away with the fourth pitch of the sequence. It just wasn’t far enough away and Matt went with the pitch, hitting a hard grounder to the left of their second baseman. The kid got to the ball in plenty of time, but the ball took a funny hop at the last second, hit off his glove, and rolled away from him toward the right field line. When Matt got to first, he saw his mom waving her arm and saying, “Go!” He cut the bag cleanly, took off for second, beat the second baseman’s throw to the shortstop easily. His mom had taken a chance sending him. But she had read the play perfectly. When he looked over at her from second, she just winked at him.

  Now Ben was the one with a chance to win the game.

  Matt waited to hear something from Ben’s dad, but didn’t. He was standing in his same spot, arms crossed in front of him. But for once, he didn’t say anything. All you heard was Matt’s mom from the first base coaching box.

  “Good swing, Ben,” she said.

  The first one he took wasn’t. Big cut. Nothing but air. Same with the second pitch the left-hander threw him: big leg kick, even bigger swing than before, miss, strike two.

  Ben shook his head, frustrated, asked the ump for time, stepped out of the box. Matt thought he might look over to where his dad was standing. He didn’t. He stared down at Matt’s mom.

  She put her left foot just a little more forward than it was, and lightly tapped the grass in front of her.

  The left-hander tried to come inside on Ben then. But this time there was no leg kick. There was hardly any movement at all to his front leg. Just a slight tap.

  Matt was a few yards off second when the line drive went over him and over the shortstop in the direction of left-center. Matt waited until it came down, splitting the center-fielder and left-fielder.

  By then Matt was on his way home with the run that won the game for the Astros, 10–9.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  There wasn’t another game for the Astros until Saturday morning and only one practice scheduled before that. It wasn’t nearly enough baseball for Matt and José. They felt as if they were playing hooky, but didn’t want to be.

  So they decided to meet Thursday afternoon on the back field at Healey Park and just work on stuff.

  “What’s the Spanish word for ‘stuff’?” Matt asked.

  José grinned.

  “Stuff,” he said.

  “Are you messing with me again?” Matt asked.

  “Probs,” José said.

  Before they went over to Healey, José had come to Matt’s house for lunch. Matt’s mom, who had majored in journalism in college, had started working at the South Shore Dispatch, the local paper, after Matt’s dad left. She did a little bit of everything, editing and writing. She’d even helped to design the paper’s website. But the best part of her job was that the editor-in-chief of the paper let her work from home as often as she needed to, so that she hardly ever had to have Mrs. Dudley, a retired schoolteacher who lived on their block, babysit for Matt. Matt hated it when she called Mrs. Dudley a babysitter. One time his mom had asked what she ought to call her and Matt said, “Mrs. Dudley.”

  So Matt’s mom was home today and had made them sandwiches for lunch. As they were all cleaning up she said, “You know, I could come pitch to you guys if you want.”

  “You want to pitch hardball?” José asked.

  As serious as José sounded, Matt smiled.

  “Well,” his mom said, “I know it will be a challenge for me. But I will need the two of you to show me the fine points of gripping the ball and throwing it accurately.”

  Now José looked at Matt.

  “She’s messing with me, isn’t she?” he said.

  “You picked up on that, huh?” Matt said.

  When they got to the back field it was occupied by a dad pitching to a little boy who didn’t appear to be more than four or five years old. When the dad saw Matt and his mom and José he said, “We’re just wrapping up.” Matt’s mom told him to take as much time he needed. So they sat in the grass and watched the dad pitch underhand with a rubber ball that looked to be bigger than a baseball and smaller than a softball.

  Every time the boy would connect, he’d go tearing around the bases, and his dad would say, “Another base hit for Christopher Marino!”

  Matt and his mom and José started cheering and clapping every time Christopher connected. It made Matt remember being on this same field when he was about the same age Christopher was now, how excited he’d get when he’d put his bat on the ball.

  He just hadn’t had his dad pitching to him.

  The truth was, he couldn’t remember a time when his dad had ever pitched to him the way Christopher’s dad was now. It had always been Matt’s mom. He had no early baseball memories with his dad. Just her.
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  At one point Christopher’s dad called over to them and said, “You mind if we go a few more minutes? My slugger here is on a roll.”

  Matt’s mom said, “We’re having more fun than he is.”

  Finally Christopher’s dad announced that the bases were loaded with two outs in the bottom of the ninth of Game seven of the World Series and the game was tied.

  “No pressure,” José said to Matt.

  “Our guy Christopher will be able to handle it, wait and see,” Matt said.

  The dad soft-tossed one last pitch. Christopher hit a line drive right back at him. The dad made a big show of diving out of the way as the ball rolled past him and into center field. Christopher was already tearing for first base as his dad got to his feet and chased after the ball, even if he wasn’t chasing all that hard.

  When he picked the ball up, Christopher had already turned for home. They could see Christopher was going to beat his dad to the plate easily. But he slid across the plate anyway, as his dad, laughing, dove for him in vain. Then Christopher was jumping to his feet and into the air, arms over his head, yelling “Grand slam,” even though it sounded more like “Gwand slam.”

  His dad, covered in dirt the way Christopher was, picked up his son and held him high in the air.

  “Put me down!” Christopher said, but didn’t really seem to mean it.

  He seemed to like the view from up there.

  For some reason, in that moment Matt looked past Christopher and his dad, and all the way to the playground in the distance, beyond the right field fence.

  And there, watching Christopher and his dad the same way Matt and his mom and José were, was Ben Roberson.

  Before Matt could get his attention and wave him over, Ben got on his bike and rode away.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Matt and José might not have had as much fun hitting against Matt’s mom as Christopher had hitting against his dad.

  But they all still had fun.

  Matt and José insisted that she put the pitcher’s screen in front of her, and she finally gave in.

  “But I can still field my position,” she said.

  “We just don’t want you to get hit by a comebacker and be lost for the season,” Matt said.

  “Especially since your season just started,” José said.

  “You guys are no fun,” she said.

  “Are too,” Matt said.

  Even there on the back field, she was coaching them. “Coaching them up good,” as Sarge liked to say. It was as if she had just been waiting for a chance to coach guys their age. She had José try opening up his stance just slightly, as a way of helping him clear his hips. She had him raise his hands. She eventually sent both Matt and José to their infield positions and started hitting them ground balls. After that, she went down to first base and threw them grounders from there, so they could make their throws.

  “This is more like practice than practice!” Matt called over to her at one point.

  “Is that complaining I hear?” she said.

  “Sounded more to me like whining,” José said.

  “Whose side are you on?” Matt said.

  “Ours!” José said.

  When they finished, they all sat back down in the grass near third base and drank water. Matt leaned back on his elbows and stared into the blue sky, unable to spot a cloud anywhere. This had been a good idea. A good day.

  But it bothered him that Ben could have been a part of it and wasn’t, that he’d just up and left without even coming over to say hello.

  He mentioned that now to his mom and José.

  “Maybe he didn’t see us,” his mom said.

  “He saw us, I know he did,” Matt said, still staring up at the sky, feeling the sun on his face. “I just don’t get him.”

  His mom said, “Maybe you need to make even more of an effort to get to know him better.”

  “Mom,” Matt said. “I’ve tried.”

  “You mostly tried here,” she said. “You tried when you tried to be his batting coach. Maybe the two of you could have a conversation about something other than his swing.”

  “He could make an effort too, you know,” Matt said.

  “Seems to me that he has, and more than once,” she said. “First with that catcher, what’s-his-name with the smart mouth, and then with his father.”

  She tilted her head at him, and grinned.

  “You say you don’t get him,” she said. “But how well do you really know him?”

  “I know he’s really good at basketball and football,” Matt said.

  “Wow,” she said. “Even I know that. But do you know what his dad does for a living?”

  “No clue,” Matt said.

  “Same,” José said.

  “What about his mom?” Matt’s mom asked. “She got a job?”

  “Same answer,” Matt said.

  “Have you seen his mom at a game this season?” she said.

  “Don’t think so,” Matt said. “But I don’t even know what she looks like.”

  “I rest my case,” his own mom said.

  “Those aren’t the kind of things guys talk about,” Matt said.

  He had rolled himself up into a sitting position, so he was facing her.

  “I forgot about the law they passed saying that guys can only talk about sports and video games,” she said.

  “Not fair,” Matt said. “You know that’s not me.”

  “Well, it is me!” José said.

  They laughed. But Matt’s mom wasn’t backing off this subject, or backing up.

  “You are interested in more than baseball and video games,” she said. “I know how curious you are. I saw how deep you dove into climate change when you did that paper this year. So how about doing that kind of deep dive with a would-be friend?”

  “What if he doesn’t want me to do that?” Matt said. “What if he likes things between us the way they already are?”

  “You won’t know until you try,” she said. “And nobody I know tries harder at things, once he sets his mind to it, than you do.”

  Matt didn’t say anything. But he knew she was right. His answer was to pull out his phone and send Ben a text and ask him if he wanted to hang out later.

  A few seconds after he’d sent it he saw the little bubbles flashing that meant Ben was sending a reply.

  Ur house or mine?

  Now Matt hit him right back.

  Mine. 3 o’clock ok?

  Ben replied that it was. Matt told his mom and José that Ben was coming over in an hour. He told José that he was invited back to the house, too, but José said he told his mom he’d be home after the park.

  “It’s a good thing, anyway,” José said. “This is between you and Ben.”

  “Not sure what ‘this’ is,” Matt said.

  “You’ll make the right play,” José said. “You always do, nano.”

  “Nano?”

  “Combination of brother and friend,” José said.

  Matt looked at his mom.

  “What if I don’t know what to say?” he said.

  “What did I tell you to do before?”

  “Try,” he said.

  She winked at José now, and grinned.

  “Can I coach, or what?” she said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  There was no reason for Matt to feel pressure about Ben coming over. But he was feeling it anyway.

  And it was weird that he was even thinking about this, but he was worried about stuttering, even though he hardly ever stuttered inside his own house. To Matt, being inside his house was as safe as being inside his own brain, where he always spoke the way he wanted to, where the words really did come out like water from a faucet.

  But he didn’t want to stutter here today. Didn’t want Ben to feel the kind of pressure Matt was feeling.

  Stop it.

  Ms. Francis was always telling him to imagine the best outcome for himself, not the worst. One time she said to him, “Do you ever see yourself makin
g an error in a big spot in a game?”

  He told her he never did.

  “So that’s the way you present yourself to your teammates, and even your opponents, correct?” she asked.

  “Pretty much,” Matt said.

  “So do the same thing when you’re not on a ball field,” she said.

  Matt heard the doorbell now, and yelled to his mom that he’d get it. Ben was standing there when he opened the door.

  “Hey,” Matt said.

  “Hey.”

  As Matt waved him in, his mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron she was wearing. She’d already started tonight’s dinner.

  “Hi, Ben,” she said.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Baker,” he said. “It sure does smell good in there.”

  “Do you like pizza?” she said.

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Ben said.

  “Well, you’re welcome to stay,” she said.

  Ben thanked her, and said he’d call his dad later and ask him, and then he and Matt headed upstairs to Matt’s room.

  Once they were inside and Matt had closed the door, he didn’t waste any time.

  “I saw you at the park before,” he said.

  “I know,” Ben said.

  “You should have stuck around,” Matt said. “My mom ended up pitching BP to José and me.”

  Ben managed a grin. “Everybody knows I can’t hit your mom’s pitching,” he said.

  “The last thing she wanted to do was strike you out,” Matt said. “You know that, right?”

  “Trust me,” Ben said, “the last thing I wanted was to get struck out.”

  Matt sat cross-legged on his bed. Ben was sitting in the swivel chair at Matt’s desk. They just stared at each other, as if waiting for the other to make the first move.

  “This might not be easy,” Matt’s mom had said before Ben got there. “But do the best you can, because you might not get another crack at this.”

  “What if I don’t know what to say?” Matt said.

  “Then listen to what he has to say,” she said.

  For now, there was just all this awkward silence between them. When Matt couldn’t take it any longer he said, “You want to play Xbox or something?”

  He couldn’t believe those words had gotten out of his mouth. He’d never liked playing video games. He’d always preferred real games.