Painting the Black (15 page)

My father drove me to Woodland Park. In the car he talked about how proud he was of me, how he admired my spirit. I know he was trying to connect with me, but I was too nervous to listen closely, let alone answer.

Coach Wheatley gave us a pep talk I don't remember at all. Then I stretched, ran a little, did some infield practice, and got a few batting practice cuts. The next thing I knew the umpire was shouting: “Play ball!” Josh and the other starters—including Curtis, whose big bat had won him the third-base job—took their places on the diamond, and I headed to the bench.

Right then I felt totally deserted. There were other guys not playing, of course. Darren Smith and Kolas Chang and Mike Nelson. David Reule, our number two starter. Carlos Hernandes, the designated hitter. But we didn't talk. We spread out on the bench, each of us feeling there was something wrong with us, each of us trying to be invisible, each of us aching to play.

It was better once the game started. O'Dea's leadoff guy was thin as a pencil and fast as lightning. He showed bunt on the first pitch, but Josh burned a fastball over the heart of the plate. Strike two was another fastball on the outside corner. With the guy leaning out over the plate a little, Josh came back inside with still another fastball. The batter jumped out of the way as if it was close to hitting him, but Selin didn't have to move his mitt. “Strike three!” the ump hollered.

“That's the way to pitch!” Wheatley shouted.

I cheered, and so did all the other guys on the bench. But once the cheer ended, we lapsed back into silence. There's nothing much to do on the bench.

O'Dea's number two guy grounded out to third, bringing up the three hitter, Number Forty. He looked familiar, but I couldn't figure how I could know him. Then it came to me: the number, the build—he was the linebacker who had sacked Josh so many times in the football game.

I looked out at Josh's face, and I knew he knew it too. He got a first pitch strike on a curve. Then he came in with a hard fastball, high and tight, that put Forty down in the dirt. The pitch would have beaned him if he'd been a tenth of a second slower. Forty stood, dusted himself off, then glared out at Josh.

It wasn't just show, either. The guy was tough. Josh came back with another curve on the outside part of the plate. You figure that after a fastball up and in, the batter is not going to be leaning out over the plate any time too soon. But Forty went out and got that ball, rifling a shot down the first base line that Dillon Combs caught without moving an inch. He was out, but Josh hadn't fooled him.

The starters clattered into the dugout. Josh sat down by himself at the end of the bench. I started toward him, but he put a towel over his head and closed himself off.

Around me all the other guys seemed to have somebody to talk to. I felt like a stranger with nothing to say and no one to say it to. I looked back to where I'd been and saw Ruben sitting there. I leaned against the Cyclone fence, twining my fingers through it, and stared out to the field.

The O'Dea pitcher was tight, and he walked Van Tassel on four pitches. Once he threw his first strike he settled down, and Curtis, Richardson, and Bayne went down easily. The way the O'Dea infielders made the putouts told you they were good. The third baseman bare-handed Curtis's dribbler and threw a strike on the run, and the shortstop was smooth as silk on Combs's two-hopper. There was no way we were going to blow them out—not with the pitching and fielding they had.

In the second inning I watched Selin, watched the way he called the game. He was moving Josh's pitches in and out, changing speeds. But there was something not quite right, something missing. It wasn't until the third that I figured it out: no sliders.

Selin had handled the slider better in practice, but he wasn't calling for it in the game. Not with no strikes, not with two strikes. It was lack of confidence, and it was pride too. You don't want balls getting by you when you're catching, especially with people watching. So he kept Josh throwing fastballs and curves.

It didn't matter as long as Josh was getting everybody out, but in the fourth, Josh lost the plate. He walked the first guy on five pitches, then hit the number two batter. That brought up Number Forty again, this time with a chance to do some serious damage.

Selin called time and went out to the mound to go over strategy. I knew what I would have done, how I'd have pitched Forty. I'd have started him out with the slider to get him thinking. Then I would have busted a fastball in on his hands, wasted a curve outside, and polished him off with another slider. Change speeds; change locations; keep him off balance.

But that's not what Selin did. He called for heat, heat, and more heat. Josh blew the first fastball right past Forty. And he got a strike on the second fastball, too. Only on that one, Forty got a piece of it and sent a foul ball straight back into the screen.

You can tell a lot from foul balls. If they're hit down the right or left field lines, then the pitcher has got the hitter's timing off, and he's in control. But a foul ball straight back—that means trouble. The hitter has the pitch timed, and the pitcher had better do something different—and do it quick.

I stood, leaned against the fence. “The slider,” I whispered. “Call for the slider.” But Selin wanted another fastball, and Josh would never shake off the heater. Forty was right on it, and I thought he'd driven the ball all the way to Green Lake, but he was just under it. Still, the ball carried to the warning track in straightaway center before Andy Bayne hauled it in. Both runners tagged and moved up a base, but at least there was one out.

Wheatley held up four fingers, so Josh walked the cleanup hitter intentionally to load the bases. Everybody was up now—O'Dea fans and Crown Hill fans—cheering and screaming.

Josh peered in, shook off one sign, then another, and another. Finally Wheatley called time and trotted out to the mound.

Even from the bench you could tell that Josh and Selin were furious with one another. They wouldn't look at each other, and Wheatley kept swiveling his head back and forth, first talking to one and then to the other. Finally he returned to the bench.

The next pitch was the first slider Josh had thrown all day, and it was a dandy. The batter waved at it as it broke, but the ball got by Selin and rolled all the way to the backstop. The runner on third scored easily, and the other two runners moved up. Wheatley kicked at the Cyclone fence, then looked down the bench toward me.

Josh's next pitch was a fastball right down the pike. The O'Dea hitter sent a shot toward right field that looked like a clean base hit. But Jesse Van Tassel went way up to spear it. The ball stuck in the webbing of his glove like a scoop of vanilla ice cream on a cone. The runner on second had taken off for third, certain the ball was headed up the alley for extra bases. Van Tassel trotted over to the bag to double him up. They'd taken the lead, but we were out of the inning.

The score was still 1–0 heading to the bottom of the sixth. Carlos Hernandes worked a leadoff walk, but our next two guys went down easily—a lazy fly to center and a pop-up to the first baseman. With two down, Bethel Santos ripped the first pitch he saw right back up the middle for a single, moving Hernandes to third. “We had something going at last.”

Santos had decent speed, but the O'Dea pitcher acted like he was Rickey Henderson. He should have concentrated on Brandon Ruben, who was batting, but he kept throwing over to first, trying to keep Santos close. When he finally did come to the plate, he served up a fastball belt-high right over the heart of the plate. Ruben was a little late with his swing, but he caught the ball solid and sent a line drive down the right field line. It landed fair by about a foot and kicked into the corner.

Hernandes scored the tying run easily. As Santos flew around second, Wheatley, coaching at third, pinwheeled his arm sending him home. O'Dea should have had him, because the right fielder got the ball cleanly and made a good throw. But the relay from the second baseman was way up the line. Santos slid in safely, and we had the lead.

I'd hardly finished cheering when I heard Wheatley. “You're done for today, Selin. Get your gear on, Ward. You're catching the last inning.”

I stared at him, unsure if I'd heard right.

“Come on!” he hollered, clapping his hands. “Get moving!”

My eyes met Selin's. For a second his flashed in anger. But just for a second. “Close them out,” he said, as he unbuckled his chest protector. “You can do it.”

I'd imagined taking the field as a varsity player for the first time. I pictured myself walking slowly out onto the grass and looking around, like a movie actor, savoring the moment. It didn't work out that way. I still had only one shin guard on when Van Tassel popped up to end the inning. My hands were shaking so much I didn't think I'd ever get the straps right. I waddled onto the field hooking up my chest protector and praying I wouldn't fall flat on my face.

Josh was no help. I sort of smiled at him as I returned his first warm-up, but he looked through me like I wasn't there. So I took a deep breath, crouched, and put on my own game face.
Three outs,
I told myself.
That's all we need. Three outs.

The number nine hitter led off, a break for us. Even better, he was first-pitch swinging. Josh busted a fastball in on the fists, and he went down on a weak pop to shortstop. It was a gift out, but there weren't going to be any more gifts. The top of the order was up.

O'Dea's leadoff guy was a classic number one. Quick, with a good eye. I figured Wheatley had put me in to catch the slider, so that was the pitch I called. But Josh shook me off and threw another inside fastball instead. The O'Dea hitter laid down a beautiful bunt. Curtis raced in, bare-handed the ball, but fired wildly to first. The ball caromed off the Cyclone fence, and the O'Dea guy didn't stop running until he'd reached third base.

Talk about a tight spot—the tying runner was ninety feet from scoring with the two, three, and four hitters due up.

We had to pull the infield in. Doing that gives the fielders a good shot at cutting down the runner at home on grounders hit right to them. But when you're in close you don't have time to react to balls hit to your right or your left. Easy outs at normal depth become hits.

When the O'Dea hitter saw the infield in, he choked up on the bat. He was going to try to poke a grounder through.

I wanted to save the slider for the strikeout, so I had Josh start him off with an inside fastball. The guy had a good cut, but he was late and fouled it off down the first base line. Next I called for a curve that missed outside. Then I came back with another fastball, and he fouled it off again.

Now!
I thought, putting down three fingers for the slider.
Now!

Josh nodded, a little smile in his eyes. I knew he was going to break off a wicked one and, with the tying run bluffing down the line at third, I also knew I had to keep the ball from getting by me.

Josh wound and delivered. The guy swung at it like it was a fastball, but it broke late, dancing down and under his bat. I moved with the pitch smooth as could be, catching it off the dirt. “Strike three!”

Two down.

There was no time to relax because Number Forty was stepping up to the plate. He'd had two good at-bats against Josh—the screaming line drive out in the first and the long fly ball that had just missed being a home run. He took about eight vicious practice swings before stepping in.

Josh was tired. I could see it in his face, in the way he leaned forward, his right hand on his knee. There was no way he was going to blow this guy down. I was going to have to outthink him.

Number Forty had watched Josh throw first pitch inside fastballs to three straight hitters. I figured he'd figure he'd get the same thing. So I called for the slider away. I wanted him to see it, even if he didn't swing. He was too comfortable up there, way too comfortable. I wanted him to worry.

And Josh threw a beauty. It was belt high down the middle, and then it was in the dirt. Forty swung and missed. I blocked it, keeping the ball in front of me and keeping the runner from scoring.

Strike one.

Forty stepped out, pulled on his gloves. I almost smiled, because I knew that slider had hatched some butterflies in his belly. He'd be looking for it again, I decided, so I called for the fastball inside. He started to swing, then tried to check. Too late. “Strike two!” the umpire hollered.

If it had been the second inning, I'd have had Josh waste a pitch. A curveball a foot outside—something like that. But he was too tired to waste any energy. He pinwheeled his arm twice, peered in. I flashed the sign for the slider. He nodded. Looking into his eyes, I knew he was going to throw the best one he had because it was the last one he had. I got ready to move. I couldn't let it get by me.

And there it was, fast and breaking down into the dirt. Forty swung over the top as I slid to my knees to block it. The ball hit against the heel of my mitt and then off my chest protector, rolling out in front of the plate.

Forty took off toward first as I scrambled to my feet and hustled after the ball. I thought my legs would never get there. Finally I picked it up and made a good crisp throw down to first for the game-ending out. The guys swarmed Josh, swarmed him like he'd just won the championship game, not the opening game. And why not? We'd beaten O'Dea! For the first time since who knows when, we'd beaten O'Dea!

Once the celebrating ended, Josh and I sat next to each other on the bench, packing away our stuff. Or rather he was packing up his stuff. I was so excited I just sat.

Coach Wheatley walked by and gave my arm a squeeze. “Nice job out there,” he said. “In my book you get the save.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling up at him. “Thanks.”

“He's right, you know,” Josh said when he was gone. “Forty had my fastball timed. The slider was the only pitch I could get him with. Selin would have never called for it, not with a runner at third. You play your cards right and you'll see a lot of action.”