One Shot at Forever (20 page)

On this afternoon, they received a surprise.
The star catcher they came to see
wasn't behind the plate but on the mound. It was a switch made out of necessity. Mt. Pulaski's top pitcher, John Jaggi, had pitched the first game in the regionals the day before and the team's number two pitcher and cleanup hitter, Mark Dannenberger, broke his collar bone toward the end of the regular season. It fell to Werth to take the mound.

It wasn't a huge drop-off. Though he possessed no off-speed pitches, Werth threw the ball as hard as any high schooler in Illinois. The same could not be said of the spindly boy who took the mound for the opposition, his shirttail spilling out of his belt.

As he peered in at Dean Otta, John Heneberry focused on one thing: starting strong. All season—his entire high school career, really—the first inning had been his weakness. His father could never figure it out.

“Why do we go through it?” Jack Heneberry had asked his son one night a month earlier, while sitting at the dinner table after a game.

“What do you mean?” John asked, even though he knew exactly what his father meant.

Jack rubbed his forehead. “Why do you have to walk the first two guys every game?”

“Well, you know, I didn't
try
to walk them.”

“Maybe you should take a longer warm-up,” Jack said. He was always looking for ways to remedy his son's wildness, certain there was a solution out there.

“But I did that.”

Jack frowned. “Then don't do that. Try a shorter warm-up.”

And on it went, Jack suggesting physical solutions to what was likely a psychological issue.
Move to the other side of the rubber. Watch where you stride and how far. Dig a deeper hole for your cleat. Do something, anything to get back on track
.

Now, just as Heneberry feared, his first pitch sailed wide. His second bounced in the dirt.
Oh crap
. He walked one batter, gave up a single.

Don't get in a hole
, Heneberry thought to himself.

Crack!
The ball soared into the alley for a triple. Hole dug. 2–0 Mt. Pulaski.

Outside the Mt. Pulaski dugout, the boys took vigorous warm-up cuts, all of them now eager to get a crack at Heneberry. Though Werth was the clear star, Mt. Pulaski was by no means a one-man squad. The boys played baseball in the fall (twenty-five games), the spring (another twenty-five), and the summer. The team was deep, well-coached, and took pride in its defense and pitching. Coming into the regional final, the players knew only that the Ironmen had an ace, a boy named Shartzer, and that they wouldn't have to face him. Now, up 2–0 in the second inning, and with Werth mowing down the Ironmen, they felt even more confident.

On the Macon bench, Sweet told the boys not to sweat the deficit. Werth may be a hell of pitcher, but if he was pitching it meant he wasn't catching. All the Ironmen needed were base runners. In the fourth inning, they got one. Werth lost control of a fastball and plunked Dale Otta. On the next pitch, Otta took off, swiping second. Moments later he scored when Shartzer's grounder snuck through the infield. With that, the floodgates opened. Stu Arnold doubled home Shartzer, Dean Otta doubled home Arnold, and David Wells singled home another run. Just like that, the Ironmen led the regional final, 4–2.

Now it was up to Heneberry to hold the lead.

With each at bat by Werth, Sweet held his breath. Yet time and again, Heneberry's curveball worked its magic. It had taken a while, but it was breaking again. Even Jaggi, who'd hit a first-inning triple, was stymied. Three times in a row he struck out.

Heading into the seventh inning, the score remained 4–2 in Macon's favor. Then, with two outs, the Ironmen took off running again. From the mound, Werth could only watch in dismay as the Ironmen circled the bases. By the end of the inning Macon had scored five runs—all with two outs—and stolen an astounding nine bases on the day, including a daring swipe of home by Arnold. In the bottom of the inning, after a rough stretch, Heneberry closed it out with one final curveball that dropped like an elevator that's had its cable cut. And with that, it was over; in a game they were expected to lose, the Ironmen had somehow won in a rout, 9-4.

Behind the backstop, the two hundred–odd Macon fans who'd made the trip leapt to their feet, arms upraised. Girlfriends shrieked. Grown men bellowed. Sweet beamed like a lottery winner. The players slapped hands, smacked gloves, and exchanged hugs. Even McClard looked pleased. Finally, they could say it: “regional champs!”

They were just boys. Fifteen-, sixteen-, and seventeen-year-old boys who did boy things. Mark Miller could pass gas on command. Dale Otta was fascinated by model rockets. Steve Shartzer loved comic books.

But somewhere in between the Mt. Zion game and beating Mt. Pulaski, they became more than boys. They became symbols of a town. Of many towns, really. Even over in Mt. Zion, the players were rooting for Macon, though of course they'd never admit it to the Ironmen. Strange as it may seem, the Macon boys were now heroes to many.

Scott Taylor was nine years old at the time and lived in Elwin, one house down from Steve Shartzer. His father was good friends with Bob Shartzer and went to nearly every Macon High game, no matter the sport. Bob Taylor rooted for the basketball team, helped fix pregame dinners for the football team, and came to every baseball game. One year at the Macon High athletic banquet the school awarded Taylor a plaque as M
ACON'S
#1 F
AN
. It stayed on his mantel for decades.

His son was right there with him. To Scott, there was nobody on the planet more amazing than Steven Shartzer. Many an afternoon Scott sat on his porch, waiting for Steve to launch a Wiffle ball into his yard, just so he could return it and perhaps be invited to play.

It wasn't just Steve though. Scott looked up to all the boys on the team. He fetched foul balls at games. He sat on the end of the bench, mute, just so he could overhear the players joking and laughing. “Every once in a while,” he says, “I'd even get to play catch with them.”

During away games, Scott's father pulled him out of school and brought him along. He saw the boys' pictures in the paper; he read the articles. There was no pro team within easy driving distance of Elwin, just the Class-A Commodores in Decatur. In a world of three TV channels and one grocery store, being the star athlete at Macon High was about as big as it got. To Scott, the Ironmen were the closest thing in his life to celebrities.

Some of the players were oblivious to the power they now wielded; they were teenagers, after all. But not Shartzer. Blessed with talent and confidence, he was also cursed with self-awareness. He understood the stakes. This wasn't just about teammates and parents anymore. This was about all those folks at the Country Manor. It was about legacy and civic pride. It was about the Scott Taylors.

He didn't intend to let any of them down.

14

Would they even show?

All day the girls wondered. You never knew with those boys, after all. They might decide to go off fishing, or drinking beers. An impromptu game of over-the-line might take precedence.

Come 7
P.M
. on Saturday, May 22, however, they were all there. There was Mark Miller, his blond shock of hair slicked down; and Heneberry sporting a powder blue tuxedo; and Dale Otta beaming as he escorted in the shapely junior Sherrie Dunmire. It may have been only three days before sectionals, but
this was the Macon High prom
. No boy with an ounce of testosterone would miss it.

One by one, dates on their elbows, the Ironmen ascended the steps of the Hotel Orlando, a stately, seven-story brick hotel in downtown Decatur. Across one wall the prom motto was written in big, happy letters: W
E'VE
O
NLY
J
UST
B
EGUN
. The theme came from a hit song by the Carpenters, but naturally the players saw in it a reflection of their baseball team's journey. Still, this was a night to dance. Over in the corner, Jeff Glan, hair parted just so, twirled around Jane Metzger, who'd long since split with Shartzer on agreeable terms—those being that Shartzer didn't want a girlfriend and Metzger didn't want a boyfriend who said he didn't want a girlfriend. If Glan's jacket looked a bit roomy as he danced, it was understandable. He'd sent his sport coat to the dry cleaners so it would be ready for the big night, but upon arriving to retrieve it had been told the coat was still being cleaned. Which is how, after some desperate beseeching, Glan came to spend his prom night wearing Roger Britton's double-breasted, two-button blue blazer.

It was an extravagant evening, at least by the standards of the boys, some of whom had never been to a hotel before. Dinner was served in courses—iceberg lettuce salad followed by roast beef with mashed potatoes and green beans and, for dessert, ice cream. Up on stage, Britton gave a little speech and senior class wills were read. Heneberry bequeathed “twenty pounds of excess weight to next year's football team,” while Dean Otta bestowed his catching ability to Sam Trusner. Dancing was encouraged, though of course only with your date, and at arm's length.

Afterward, some of the boys headed to the site of the official post-party at the YMCA to play Ping-Pong and pool. Others, like Shartzer and Heneberry, headed home or out into the night. As Shark reminded them all, it was important to stay focused. They'd have plenty of nights to hang out in the years to come, but only one chance to prepare for the Illinois state sectionals.

Besides, they had a reputation to uphold now, at least if you believed that weekend's papers, whose sports editors knew a good angle when it showed up wearing a peace sign and a Fu Manchu. Suddenly, the Ironmen had become local media stars—and not just because of their success on the field. Under a large photo of Sweet in profile sporting those bushy sideburns and with his dark hair curling down his neck, the headline of the
Courier
of Lincoln, Illinois, read “Coaching Goes Mod,” while an account of the game referred to the Ironmen as “Macon's Mod Squad.” For its part, the Decatur
Herald & Review
ran a banner headline that read
“Mod Squad Bids for State”
above an article noting that “the baseball team loaded with players sporting long hair and wearing peace symbols” was set to play Potomac on Tuesday.

The media circus, and the game, would have to wait, though. On Sunday night the sky darkened. By dawn the next morning, it tore open. All day it rained in thick sheets. By midmorning, the first semifinal game between Matoon and Bloomington was called off. While the players cursed, the farmers rejoiced. After the dry spring of 1970 and a similarly dry spell in the early months of 1971, the deluge was especially welcome. Fortunately, the impact of southern blight had been less than expected, due in part to preventive measures. The manager of the grain elevator, a man named Jim Shaw, had flown to Georgia to learn about the disease, then returned to advise the farmers. Already, there was hopeful talk of a return to previous crop levels. It would be a busy fall at the grain elevator.

Tuesday morning, Sweet and the boys woke to more rain. That afternoon, word came that the Bloomington game was postponed again, until Wednesday afternoon. This meant two things. First, the field was sure to remain waterlogged for Macon's game a day later, a blow to the Ironmen's run-and-run-some-more style. Second, if the Ironmen did win the semifinal, they'd have to come right back and play the championship the next day while their opponent would benefit from a day of rest.

Those were future concerns, though. For the moment, the Ironmen prepped for Potomac, a small school from northeast of Champaign. All Sweet knew about the team was what he'd read in the papers, and most of that concerned ace pitcher Mark Carley, who carried a twenty-six-inning scoreless streak into the game. Of equal interest to college coaches and scouts, Carley was also batting .526 with eleven home runs in only seventeen games.

Naturally, Steve Shartzer viewed each of those home runs, and each of those scoreless innings, as a personal challenge. How dare there be someone as talented as him at sectionals.

On the eve of the sectional opener, Pat Shartzer fidgeted at the dinner table. She couldn't help it; she was excited for her brother. Tomorrow, he would pitch the biggest game of his young life.

Sandy-haired and pretty, with a raspy voice and a dry sense of humor, Pat was two years older than Steve. Marooned together in Elwin as children, they were often each other's only playmates. As a result, they'd brokered a deal of sorts.