Batting Ninth Page 3

  Danielle didn’t waste any time moving me along. She hit a line drive down the right field line on the first pitch, and I easily scored my first run of the season, sliding into home even though I was well ahead of the throw. Before the inning ended, Danielle too had scored, and we led, 8–2.

  In the bottom of the sixth inning, I stood at shortstop waiting for Ryan Ramsey to get the final out of the game.

  “Heyyy, batter. … Heyyy, batter,” Jose called from second base, as I popped my hand in my mitt. The red-haired kid, who had started at pitcher for the Astros, stood on first.

  Ryan let go with a blistering fastball, and the Astros batter barely made contact, rolling a slow grounder toward my position. I charged the ball, picked it up with my bare hand, and fired it to first for the final out. The dugout emptied onto the field, high fives all around.

  Officially, I ended the game with one hit in one at bat. But, with a base on balls in the top of the sixth, I had been on base all three times, and I’d scored a run. Striking out was nothing but a bad memory. Coach Ramsey rallied us around him.

  “Listen up! That’s one win. Three games left, and we need three wins to make the championship. Be out here at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon. The Marlins are tough, so bring your game faces.”

  I glanced at Danielle. She already had hers on.

  *****

  Late Saturday afternoon, I sat down with a soda to search for a game on television. I had settled on highlights of the earlier games on the Sports Network when the phone rang.

  “Did you hear about Zach Neal?”

  “Hi, Jose,” I said. “I can’t say I did. Did he beat up a third grader or something?” Jose cackled on the other end of the line but quickly turned serious.

  “He no-hit the Hornets!” Jose announced. “Even worse, he threw a perfect game. Eighteen up and eighteen down!”

  “He’ll be hard to live with at school on Monday,” I said, imagining Zach trying to sell his autograph.

  “How does he do it?” I asked, not really wanting an answer.

  “I tell ya, it’s steroids, man!” Jose said. “I just know it. There isn’t a twelve-year-old alive who comes by that natural.”

  “Nah, even Zach Neal isn’t that stupid,” I said. Still, there was no telling what he had hiding in that locker of his.

  As I lay in bed that night, I imagined how it would feel if I was as good as Zach Neal. “Did you see Chad crush that ball? He ripped the cover off it! I don’t think it’s come down yet!”

  I grinned and looked at the full moon shining through my bedroom window. “Someday,” I said aloud. “Someday.”

  Chapter Six

  Stealing Second

  Like Coach Ramsey had said, the Marlins were not going to be pushovers like the Astros. Next to the Red Sox, the Marlins were the best team in the league, and they scored a lot of runs. But their defense wasn’t nearly as good as ours. Still, with the Marlins only one game ahead of us in the standings, the game was a must-win. If we won, we’d be tied, and we owned the tiebreaker. Two more wins after that, and we were assured a spot in the league championship. If we lost today, though, we’d fall two games back. The Marlins would hold the tiebreaker, and they’d clinch their own spot in the championship game.

  As I took batting practice, Mark Wilcox arrived. He hardly limped at all.

  “How’s the knee?” I asked.

  “Doing a lot better,” Mark said. “Funny the difference a day makes. You didn’t do too badly yourself yesterday.”

  Mark watched as I hit a few pitches lightly across the infield.

  “Watch your elbow,” Mark instructed, lifting my arm slightly at the shoulder. “Keep it high, and you’ll get a lot more power behind your swing.” I ripped a line drive back at the pitcher.

  I took off my batting glove and turned to find Mom standing near the on-deck circle wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat.

  “How’s it going, guys?” she said.

  What’s she doing on the field? I wondered. Then I remembered what Dad had said about keeping an eye on me.

  “Mark, this is my mom. Mom, this is—”

  “Mark Wilcox,” Mom said with certainty. “He doesn’t remember me, but I remember him.”

  I breathed in deeply and looked at Mark as he searched his memory.

  “Jen Griffin,” Mom said, extending her hand and lifting the brim of her hat. Mark shook her hand, but clearly he couldn’t remember her.

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t—”

  “Matt Griffin? Southeastern League?” she reminded him. “You probably forgot. That was ages ago.”

  “Matt Griffin!” A grin replaced Mark’s blank look. “You never told me Matt Griffin is your dad!” he said to me.

  “I never knew you guys knew each other.” I lied, and Mom knew it, so I made sure to avoid eye contact with either one of them.

  “Well, I guess ‘knew each other’ isn’t really the way to put it,” Mark explained. “We played on opposite sides of the field a lot. Your dad was the best catcher I ever saw.”

  Mom smiled. “Well, that was a long time ago. I’m sure you’ve seen much better in the majors.”

  “Not really,” Mark said. “Matt was a can’t-miss big-league catcher. Too bad he got hurt.”

  I held my breath and looked at Mom, who paused for what seemed like an hour.

  “That’s part of the game, I guess,” she said.

  I silently let the breath escape the corner of my mouth.

  “Sometimes it just doesn’t turn out the way you plan,” she said.

  “That’s for sure,” Mark said, flexing his knee. “I never expected to be in Brightsport.”

  “Neither did Matt,” Mom said. My heart felt stuck in my throat. “Well, I’ll see you guys later,” she said before Mark could get in a word. “Have a good game, Sweetie.” She stuffed the tag into my shirt collar and headed toward the bleachers.

  “So, your Mom dresses you, too,” Danielle Baker said, as she pulled the batting helmet off my head. “My turn, nerdface. I’m pitching today, and I expect to drive in a few runs while I’m at it.”

  She looked into the helmet. “You didn’t leave any bugs in here, did you?”

  I sat down next to the water cooler in the dugout and stared toward the beach. Mark didn’t even act like he remembered he had ended Dad’s career. I wondered if he even cared.

  The Marlins batted first, their best pitcher and hitter, Max Tisdale, leading off the game.

  “Talk about steroids,” Jose said. “Max must eat ’em for breakfast.”

  Max was even bigger than Zach Neal. He was also the oldest player in the league, missing the cutoff for American Legion—the next league age group—by just one day. Rumor had it that he was actually supposed to be in high school, but I knew better. I had been in class with Max since kindergarten.

  The Marlins didn’t waste any time getting on the scoreboard. Max walloped Danielle’s first pitch to the left-field fence, where Jimmy Lee chased it down, turned, and fired it to me at shortstop. But the throw went over my head, and the ball bounced past Danielle, rolling toward the first-base bench. Max barreled around third base on the error and scored standing up.

  “No steroids there,” I told Jose. “That’s pure speed.”

  Danielle glared at Jimmy Lee and blew a huge bubble. But she quickly settled down, and held the Marlins scoreless for the next two innings. Still down by a run, I came to bat with one out in the third inning.

  “Remember the elbow,” Mark said from the dugout as I stood in the on-deck circle. I gave a quick nod and pounded the end of the bat on the ground to knock the donut weight loose.

  Standing at the plate, for the first time I could remember, I didn’t have a single butterfly in my stomach. I wasn’t even breathing hard. I raised my elbow and watched Max’s windup.

  The ball came at me like it had been shot from a cannon. It was a blur speeding toward the plate. In an instant, I knew that the pitch was wild, and I dropped my bat and fell backwa
rd. A stinging thud pounded my ribs.

  “Take your base!” the umpire yelled. I clutched my ribs and looked up at him through his mask. Max came running in from the pitcher’s mound.

  “Geez,” Max said. “You okay?”

  I sat up. I was sure breathing hard now. Coach Ramsey stepped in and helped me to my feet.

  “Rub it out,” he said, forcing my hand hard against my ribs. I could see Mom standing at the backstop.

  “Don’t let her out here,” I coughed.

  “Nah, you’re a tough guy. Take your base,” Coach said. Coach Ramsey gave Mom a thumbs-up, and I trotted to first base.

  “I bet that’s gonna leave a mark,” the first baseman kidded me.

  “Hope not,” I said. But it sure would make a great trophy. Too bad it would probably be gone by the time Dad got home.

  The play had obviously rattled Max. “Shake it off,” the Marlins coach shouted. “Keep your head in the game!”

  The coach called time and trotted out to the pitcher’s mound. Max nodded as they talked, and he kept glancing at me. He pounded the ball into his mitt and stared in at the catcher, trying to look confident. But the damage was done.

  Max walked Danielle and Ryan, moving me to third base. Jose came to the plate with the bases loaded, one out, and the Marlins still holding a 1–0 lead.

  Jose took the first two pitches, both far outside the plate. Coach Ramsey stood in the coach’s box, just a couple of feet over my shoulder.

  “Be ready to tag up on a fly ball,” he said. All three of the outfielders played shallow, expecting Jose to drop the ball just over the infield. It would be hard to score on a sacrifice.

  Jose stepped back in and took a couple of practice swings. At two balls and no strikes, Max was clearly off his game. When Max threw the next pitch down the middle of the plate, Jose took a strong cut and sent the ball high over first base into right field. The Marlins fielder took a few steps in before realizing that the ball wasn’t going to drop. He quickly turned his back to first base and raced to catch up with the ball sailing over his head. But it flew beyond his extended mitt and rolled to the fence.

  I had been holding on third base, expecting the right fielder to make the play. When the ball hit the ground, I jogged home to score the tying run and turned to watch the Marlins outfielders chase the ball down. Coach Ramsey signaled Danielle and Ryan to head for home as Jose circled the bases. Jose slowed at third as the fielder threw to the cutoff man at first base. But Coach Ramsey knew that the Marlins were weak defensively, and he shouted for Jose to score.

  As Jose tucked his head and sprinted for home, the Marlins first baseman wheeled and fired the ball into the catcher. Jose started to slide a few feet in front of the plate.

  “Safe!” the umpire shouted, spreading both arms to his side. I helped Jose to his feet as the crowd celebrated his inside-the-park grand slam home run.

  Mark met us as we came back to the dugout. “That’s the way it’s done, boys!” he said.

  I watched the bright scoreboard lights change: Rangers 4, Marlins 1. Before the inning ended, we had batted around the order and added another run. We kept the momentum when we took the field, and Danielle mowed down the high-scoring Marlins in the fourth inning.

  I led off the bottom of the fourth, but I was a little gun-shy. Max had been wild since he hit me the inning before. He threw four straight pitches outside, and I drew a walk.

  Danielle grounded the next pitch to third base, moving me to second on the sacrifice. We couldn’t draw any more blood, though, and the fourth inning ended with the score still 5–1.

  Danielle continued to dominate on the mound, and the score held until the top of the sixth.

  As the last inning began, the Marlins finally started hitting the ball, and the first two batters singled.

  “Come on, Danielle!” I shouted from shortstop. “Bear down, and let’s get out of here!”

  “I got it under control, nerdface,” she shot back, before turning her attention to the batter.

  The right fielder who had misplayed Jose’s home run earlier in the game stood at the plate. Danielle sent him back to the dugout on three pitches, and the Marlins runners held at first and second base with one out. The next batter met a similar fate. We were within one out of a victory.

  The Marlins catcher, fourth in the order, batted next. This guy could make the game close with one swing, I thought. Danielle signaled that she wanted to pitch him a little outside. But the first pitch got away, bouncing in the dirt and rolling to the backstop. Both runners advanced.

  With first base open, Coach Ramsey came to the mound, calling the infield with him.

  “Let’s put this guy on,” he said. “That’ll leave us with a play at any base for the win.”

  “You want to put the tying run at the plate?” Danielle asked. “Remember, this is the Marlins. We may as well just give them the runs!”

  “You do the pitching, and I’ll do the coaching,” Coach Ramsey said. “Max is up next, and he’s having a bad day. You can take him down.”

  “Now that you mention it, I think you’re right,” Danielle said, glancing at Max in the on-deck circle. “Get back to your positions, boys. This game is almost over.”

  To the surprise of the entire Marlins team and to the grumbling of a few Rangers fans, Danielle threw the next three pitches outside, intentionally walking the batter. Max Tisdale stepped to the plate with the bases loaded and two outs, still trailing by four runs.

  After the count went to one and one, Max caught the next pitch solidly and drove it to left field, where Jimmy Lee was playing deep near the fence. It looked like we were going to have a tie ball game as Jimmy watched the ball and felt for the fence with his hand. This is do-or-die time, I thought. We’re either going home, or we’re going to the bottom of the sixth.

  The ball seemed to hang in the air forever as Jimmy stood with his back pressed against the fence. Finally, it spiraled down, falling into his mitt for the last out.

  The whole team met Jimmy at second base and nearly carried him off the field.

  I turned to Danielle.

  “Not bad, holding the Marlins to one run. I bet you didn’t expect to do that,” I said.

  “You kidding me?” she asked, the corner of her mouth held tight. “These guys ain’t nothin’.”

  Chapter Seven

  Coach’s Signal

  Heading into the last week of the season, we were just two wins short of clinching a spot against the Red Sox in the league championship. I was finally contributing in the field and at the plate. For the first time all year, I was no longer an automatic out.

  School was out for a teacher’s workday on Monday, so Jose came over to watch the White Sox play the Indians on television. Mom was off work, too, so she joined us in the living room.

  “I haven’t watched so much baseball in years,” she said. “I forgot how much I enjoyed it.”

  “Even though the game has changed for the worst?” I asked.

  “A few players cheating can’t ruin a great game,” she said. Mom seemed like a real sports fan. I didn’t even mind her watching my games, as long as she didn’t call me Sweetie.

  As the game started, the doorbell rang, and I found Mark Wilcox standing on the front porch.

  “Hey there, Chad,” he said. “You ready for practice tomorrow?”

  “You bet. But I’m even more ready for Wednesday’s game,” I said.

  “Don’t get too far ahead of yourself. We’ve got a lot of work to do before the last two games.”

  I invited Mark in and showed him to the living room, where Jose and Mom were watching the White Sox pitcher warm up.

  “Dave Chandler,” Mark said, nodding at the television. “Young guy. He just got called up from the minors. Has a rocket arm,” Mark sighed.

  “I bet you wish you were out there today, don’t you?” I asked.

  Mark nodded, glancing down at his knee.

  “Yeah, but those are the breaks. Anyway,
I stand a better chance of winning a championship with the Rangers this year. The White Sox are buried in last place.”

  “But if you were there, everything would be different,” Jose said, drawing a smile from Mark.

  “So, Mr. Wilcox,” Mom cut in. “What brings you here?”

  “Well, I was hoping to talk to your husband,” he said. “Is the best catcher I’ve ever seen around today?”

  “Sorry, he’s out of town until the weekend,” Mom said. “But please sit down and watch the game with us.”

  Mark took a seat in the recliner by the front window as the game began.

  “I haven’t watched a game live on television in a while,” he said. “Looks like I’ll be doing a lot more of that now.” Mark slowly rubbed the inside of his knee.

  Mark and Mom spent most of the fast-moving game talking about the old days. Mark had forgotten most of the games Mom remembered, but he did recall a lot of details from Dad’s career.

  “Matt could see the ball like nobody I ever knew,” he said. “Guess it has something to do with being a catcher. When Matt swung the bat, he may as well have been hitting the ball off a tee. He could see it that well.” I remembered how Mark had told me to count the stitches as the ball came to the plate.

  “But defense is what Matt was best at.” I turned my head toward Mark. Dad hardly ever talked about defense.

  “Matt could call a ball game with the best of them,” Mark said. “He knew his pitchers better than they knew themselves. And, whenever you played against him, you knew he’d done his homework. He always kept the pitcher away from a batter’s strength.”

  Mom mostly listened while Mark talked about Dad, hardly paying attention to the ball game that the White Sox trailed, 3–1.

  “So, how come Matt did not get into coaching?” Mark asked.

  Mom didn’t hesitate in answering.

  “Frustration,” she said. “After Matt got hurt, he couldn’t bear to watch baseball. It killed him not to be out there on the field. He tried to come back but just couldn’t adjust his game to make up for a weak knee. He decided life in the minor leagues wasn’t the way to raise a family. The salary and long road trips weren’t a part of his dream. Plus, he got tired of the steroids and the bad publicity that the game was getting.”