One Shot at Forever (10 page)

Shartzer was the first to say it, the following week during practice: “Why can't we go all the way to state?”

After all, as Shartzer pointed out, “It ain't like there's a rule against it.” And indeed, this was true. There were, however, years and years of precedent. Schools like Macon didn't make it to state, and with good reason.

In 1970, the Illinois high school baseball playoffs were one big free-for-all,
bereft of divisions or the classifications
that were later created to ensure that small schools need only compete against other small schools. As a result, the competition was staggering. There were roughly seven hundred high schools in Illinois that fielded baseball teams, encompassing nearly seven hundred thousand students, and all were fighting for the same prize. To advance all the way to the state tournament required an incredible run. A team needed to win its conference, then prevail in two games at the district playoffs, two at the regionals, and two at the sectionals. And that was just to
qualify
for the state tourney, an eight-team affair held at Meinen Field on the campus of Bradley University in Peoria. To capture the title a school had to win ten consecutive playoff games, or four more than the champion of the modern-day NCAA basketball tournament.

The teams that prevailed usually hailed from the largest schools, sports powerhouses like Waukegan High in Waukegan; Griffin High in Springfield; Adlai Stevenson just outside Chicago; and, most feared of all, Lane Tech on the North Side of Chicago. The largest school in Illinois by both enrollment and physical size, Tech boasted fifty-two hundred students, all of whom were boys. It splayed out on a thirty-three-acre campus, its five-story, fortress-like structure so large that students sometimes went an entire school year without running into each other in the halls. Both an academic and sports juggernaut, Tech drew talent from across the Chicago metro area and spit out a steady succession of Division I and professional players, including Giants outfielder Phil Weintraub; Cubs slugger and 1945 National League MVP Phil Cavarretta; Cubs pitcher Len Church; and, most recently, Mets draftee Buzz Capra, who would go on to be an All-Star and lead the National League in ERA in 1974. Upward of five hundred freshmen tried out for the Lane Tech team every spring, each one assigned a number and sent through a series of sprinting, fielding, and hitting drills on which they were judged on a scale of 1–8. To even have a shot at making the squad a player needed to grade out at five or better in every category. For many an Illinois schoolboy, just making varsity at Lane Tech was enough athletic accomplishment to last a lifetime.

If Tech represented the top of the system, then metro schools like Stephen Decatur (2,500 enrollment) and Eisenhower (2,000) represented the next rung, followed by suburban powers and large schools in small towns. Finally, there were the rural outposts like Nashville (enrollment 450) and, below them, the Macons of the world. These schools were usually fed by a lone junior high and populated with the offspring of farmers. Their teams played sporadic schedules and logged long hours on buses, rolling down rocky back roads. For such schools, just advancing to the regionals was akin to winning a title.

All of which made Sweet's next decision even more unusual. All year, Tomlinson had been the team's ace,
finishing the season with a 5–0 record and a staggering fifty-one strikeouts
in 32
¹
/
3
, innings. But now Sweet pulled Tomlinson aside on the eve of the regional opener against Stewardson-Strasburg and the two spoke in low voices. Tomlinson nodded, if reluctantly. Then Sweet walked over to Shartzer.

“Steve, I want you to pitch against Stew-Stras.”

“Me?”

Shartzer was genuinely surprised. He'd had a great season, finishing with a 6–1 record and 44 strikeouts in 41
¹
/
3
innings, but he didn't expect this. Not only because he was a sophomore, and because Tomlinson had been so dominant, but because Shartzer had long idolized the older boy. The Tomlinsons lived between Macon and Elwin and, for years, Steve yearned to be accepted as an athletic equal to Doug. He hadn't prepared to actually get the chance, though. At least not so soon. But Sweet had a plan.

7

There are moments in a boy's life that are seared into his memory. For the Ironmen, one was the first time they walked onto Fans Field in Decatur, Illinois, site of the regionals.

The home of the Commodores, a Class-A team in the Midwest League affiliated with the San Francisco Giants, Fans Field was located at the corner of East Garfield and North Woodford Streets in a residential neighborhood just north of downtown Decatur. Built in 1924, it was one of the last wooden stadiums, an elegant throwback to the ballparks of the early part of the century. By 1970 it had seen better days, but to the Macon boys, for whom even a chain-link outfield fence was a rarity, it looked like Yankee Stadium.

Entering through the back of the dugout, Heneberry stepped onto the cropped grass and paused for a moment, taking it all in. Having spent the first eight years of his life in Decatur, he considered Fans Field to be hallowed ground. This was where Tito Fuentes played, where a nineteen-year-old super-prospect named Gary Matthews now starred. And on this afternoon, Heneberry was going to be the one playing, not watching.

The outfield stretched before him, flat and green as a golf course. The infield dirt was fine and loose and the pitching rubber sat atop a small hillock, one of the first raised mounds he'd ever encountered. Above him, great banks of lights looked down from the top of the stadium walls. The fence, adorned with ads for auto care and Hostess bakeries, seemed miles away at 340 feet in right, 370 in center, and 340 in left. Wooden roofs extended over the bleachers, which rose above roped-off box seats. In all, the park seated over 5,000, a staggering figure to boys accustomed to a turnout in the teens.

One by one, the players walked onto the field as if in a daze. Finally, lugging a sack of bats and wearing a uniform he'd washed the night before, came Sam Trusner. Of all the Macon boys, he might have been the most elated. For once, he had a real dugout to stock. Ever so carefully, he lined up the bats in the wooden rack, then made his way down to the bullpen—an actual bullpen! He pretended to inspect its readiness for warm-ups but really was just thrilled to stand atop the rubber. Perched there, he looked up at the press box and saw, peering down as he peered up, a pair of reporters. It was the first time he'd ever seen anyone from the media at a Macon game.

Across the infield, the Stew-Stras players warmed up, decidedly less starry-eyed. Stewardson-Strasburg was a rural school based in a southern Illinois hamlet where the population of German immigrants took two things very seriously: baseball and drinking. Stocked with talent, the team had advanced to the regional final only a year earlier, when it lost to MacArthur, one of the big Decatur schools. Now, after blowing out Shelbyville 8–2 in the semis, the Stew-Stras Comets entered the game at 11–3 and
brimming with confidence
. And who could blame them? Instead of a power like MacArthur, they'd drawn a tiny school full of farmers' kids. What's more, for reasons the players couldn't fathom, Macon wasn't even starting its ace pitcher.

By 4
P.M
., it was pleasantly warm, if a bit humid. In the stands,
nearly 150 fans
clustered above the dugouts, roughly half of whom were from Macon. Looking up, Sweet not only recognized parents, teachers, and administrators, but also townspeople like Bob Taylor, an imposing bank manager and Macon booster whose flattop towered above the crowd. Behind home plate, Sweet spotted a small cluster of raucous Macon students.

On the mound, Shartzer warmed up, rocking, firing, and grunting. As Sweet watched, he felt good about his decision to start the boy. He'd done so for two reasons. First, if the Ironmen were as good as he suspected, he would need Shartzer to pitch down the line, when tournament games are held on back-to-back days. To do so, the young man needed confidence. Second, Sweet knew that, as good as Tomlinson was, Shartzer was the key to Macon, both that season and for two years to come. No one's fire burned hotter.

Maybe it was the enormity of the moment. Maybe it was playing on that fancy field. Or maybe it was all those eyes watching. Then again, maybe it was just that the Ironmen had finally met their match.

Whatever the case, Shartzer trudged off the mound after the top of the seventh, looking despondent. Sweet would have none of it. “C'mon, this game's still going,” he said. “Let's get some runs here.” But all Shartzer could think about was how he'd let the team down.

Really, though, it was the other way around. In seven innings, Shartzer had pitched well, allowing only two earned runs on five hits. The problem was that John Geisler, the pitcher for Stew-Stras, had been better, stymieing Macon with exceptional control and an impressive repertoire that included a knuckleball, a pitch most of the Ironmen had only heard about on TV. All season, the Ironmen had scored in bursts, averaging over six runs a game. Now their offense had gone cold at the worst time. Heading into the final half-inning, Macon trailed 3–0.

Now, of all the kids to lead off, the team's hopes were pinned on Brad Roush. Roush was a senior who'd joined the team a month earlier, when track season ended. Handsome and well-liked, he was a natural athlete who set the school record in the 880. He was
renowned for his resolve
late in races, often relying upon pure determination to fend off an opponent's finishing kick. That was track, though. On the baseball field he was fluid and quick but ungainly at the plate. To date, Roush had only one hit for the season. What's more, this would be his first time against Geisler. Sweet had inserted Roush in the top of the sixth for Brian Snitker, the freshman right fielder who was the opposite of Roush—“Good hit, bad wheels,” as Sweet said. But hit Snitker could; he finished the season with a .379 batting average, the third-best mark on the team.

Taking Snitker's bat out of the lineup was a risky move, but Sweet was playing a hunch. Roush was not only older, stronger, and more experienced, but also much faster and a better fielder. If he did get on base, his speed gave him the chance to create a run.

Or at least that's how Sweet figured it in his head. Now, as Roush walked casually to the plate, devoid of the typical slugger's swagger, Sweet rose and clapped along with his players, trying to generate momentum. Inside, he began to have second thoughts.

The first pitch from Geisler was a fastball down the middle. Roush sized it up and, as if admiring a particularly impressive rainbow, watched it pass by before finally swinging. STRIKE!

The next pitch was the same thing: pure heat. Determined to at least give himself a chance, Roush threw back his shoulders and took a mighty cut. There was only one problem: Geisler had thrown the ball roughly three feet above the strike zone. “STRIKE TWO!”

On the bench, Sweet felt his heart sink. “Oh, shit,” he murmured. “This is bad.”

Then, for whatever reason, Geisler went for the kill. Even though he had Roush 0–2, he didn't force him to chase a ball away, nor did he test one of his breaking pitches. Instead he threw
another high heater
. Now, Roush may not have been a great baseball player, but he was a good athlete, and, given three chances to hit the same pitch, he could time it. With a high, forceful tomahawk swing he met the ball square on and sent it soaring toward the gap in right center.

The Macon bench rose. Sweet let out a little whoop. All had the same thought:
That thing has a chance
.

For a moment, it looked as though the right fielder had a bead on it. But the ball kept rising, soared over his head, and struck the old wooden wall on one hop, some 350 feet out. Meanwhile, Roush took off like he was running the 100 meters. If he saw Heneberry signaling at first base, he didn't acknowledge him. Roush was a runner; this is what he did. He sprinted to second and then, without hesitating, made a wide turn and bore down on third. The throw bounced in at the same time as Roush began his slide, but the boy was too quick. He had a lead-off triple. It was one of the only extra-base hits of his high school career.

In the stands, the Macon contingent roared and Bob Taylor leapt up, hands in the air. Down in the dugout, there was a corresponding surge of energy on the Macon bench. If Roush could hit Geisler, maybe others could, too.

To the plate strode Jeff Glan, whom Sweet often called the “king of the dribbler.” True to form, he sent a seeing-eye single back up the middle, just out of the second baseman's reach, bringing in Roush. Macon was on the board, down 3–1 with no outs.