Say It Ain't So (11 page)

And he'd be right.

Everyone knows the story of Mike Schmidt. Mike Schmidt was the greatest Phillie of all time. He might have been the greatest third baseman
ever
to put on a glove. I say he definitely was. (My dad would say David Wright, but that's just one way you know my father is not a very serious human being.)

But did you know this about Mike Schmidt? He was a terrible baseball player in high school. His batting average was under two hundred! That's one hit every five times at bat. That's, like, really bad for anyone. Terrible for high school. There is, like, zero chance that if you hit under two hundred in high school you'd make the major leagues. Zero chance! That would be like
me
ending up making the majors. And not just making the majors but being an all-star. One of the best third basemen of all time! Okay, maybe it's not quite as unlikely as
me
doing those things, as I hit well under two hundred. I hit about zero hundred. Can you hit a negative number? Lenny Norbeck can.

My point is this: Mike Schmidt was not a very good hitter in high school. Plus, he had two bad knees. But somehow, Truck knew. He just knew. He guessed that Schmidt would make it big, and boy, did he ever. Truck was a direct line to the big time. And he liked to start guys young. So if he was interested in you, it was a very big deal. And rumor had it that warm Tuesday morning at Schwenkfelder
Middle School, Truck Durkin was very interested in Hunter Ashwell.

Hunter laughed it off. Took it in stride. Joked about it. “Hey, of course he's interested in the Great Imperial Ashwell. Who isn't?” Maybe he was nervous, but he didn't show it. It takes a special kind of person to be a pitcher. You have to stand there, raised up on the middle of the field, with everyone watching you. You have to want the ball, even after you mess up. You have to believe in yourself with an intensity that bordered on insanity. I mean, you didn't have to be a cocky maniac like Hunter Ashwell, but it didn't hurt either.

Mike, Other Mike, and I discussed Truck over lunch. Other Mike, of course, knew nothing about Truck's legend or even about Mike Schmidt. He did enjoy the conversation, though, mainly because he got a kick out of saying “Truck Durkin” over and over again. It
is
kind of fun to say.

“Truck Durkin, Truck Durkin, Truck Durkin.”

“Dude, Other Mike, shut up,” Mike said.

I laughed, and added, “Truck Durkin.”

“The weird thing about him,” Mike said, “is that no one ever sees him coming. That's what my dad said anyway. He said that back when Truck was scouting Schmidt, he didn't want anybody to know.
He wanted to make sure that the Phillies got him, so he'd pretend he wasn't interested. He'd do stuff like lurk in bushes or hide in his station wagon. One time he supposedly watched a game with binoculars from a nearby rooftop.”

“Seems pretty shady,” Other Mike said. “I don't know if we can trust this Truck Durkin.”

“Oh, we can trust him,” I said. “He has a reputation for being the best. But if he's always so secretive, why do we all know that he's coming?”

“This is a good point,” Mike said, taking a sip of his milk. “Maybe he's getting sloppy in his old age.”

“Or maybe Hunter just made up the whole thing to make himself seem awesome.”

“That does sound like something Hunter would do,” Mike agreed.

“Wow,” I said, pretending to be surprised. “Selling out your own battery-mate. Aren't you supposed to defend him?”

“Hey,” Mike said. “I just catch him. Don't hold me responsible for the crazy stuff that comes out of his mouth.”

“Well, I'll help you guys find out if this Truck Durkin is there or not,” Other Mike said. “Wouldn't he have to be ancient?”

“Yeah,” we said.

“Well,” Other Mike said. “Can't be too hard to find a hundred-year-old guy climbing a tree with a pair of binoculars and a clipboard.”

He had a point.

Mike was taking the bus with the team, so me and Other Mike made plans to ride our bikes over to Griffith's field. We took the bus home from school, each grabbed our bikes, then met at his house.

“Ready, ‘Truck'?” I said. We had a running joke about pretending to be a biker gang with cool and tough nicknames. I thought he'd get a kick out of being called “Truck.” I was right. He snorted and a bubble of snot bloomed from his nose. “Sick!” I said. He laughed again.

“Ready, ‘Truck,' ” he said as we pushed off on our bikes, heading across town.

“We can't both be named ‘Truck'!” I said.

“Sure we can,” Other Mike said. “I'm Truck, you're Truck. Truck Durkin is Truck. We're all Trucks.”

Other Mike was pretty weird sometimes, but hilarious.

The bike ride over to Griffith was fun. I totally won at the end, outsprinting Other Mike as always. We found a bike rack to lock our bikes up and headed over to the field. The players were done warming up and the game would be starting soon.

The first thing I noticed was that they had an announcer's booth too! I was kind of annoyed. It was high up, located behind home plate. It made my own little shack seem shabby by comparison, not that I was complaining.

“What the heck?” I said to Other Mike. “I thought we were the only ones who had a cool announcer's booth.”

“Where do you think Mike's dad got the idea?” Other Mike said.

“Well, that stinks,” I said.

“Not really. I'm sure you're way better than that guy.” He pointed up to the booth and we could see the announcer through the glass. He didn't look like much—a short kid with glasses and a buzz cut. Then, to our surprise, he turned on the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem,” he said. His voice was okay. Not
better than mine or anything. Then he started to sing. No prerecorded music, nothing. Just this kid, belting it out. And, man, he could
belt
it out. By the time he got to “home of the brave,” I felt like I had tears in my eyes. I think everyone in attendance felt the same way. It was a medium-sized crowd. It wasn't big like the Schwenkfelder home crowds, but it was an okay turnout. Lots of parents, including Mike's mom and dad, and other kids. Yet it was totally quiet. Man, that kid was good.

“Jeez,” I whispered to Other Mike. “Way to make me look bad, kid.”

“You're still the best,” he said.

The whole crowd stayed quiet. And then there was a recognizable squeak over the loudspeaker. Well, it was recognizable to me. It was the noise that the microphone made when you bumped into it or dropped it or something. I looked up at the booth. There, joining the short guy with the amazing singing voice, was someone in a Schwenkfelder uniform! I saw the maroon hat and jersey, but I couldn't tell who it was. The microphone clicked.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “This is the Great Imperial Ashwell speaking.” I looked over to the Schwenkfelder dugout and saw Coach Zo shaking his head. He was also turning bright red and his
eyes were bugging out of his skull. “I see an enormous number of you have come today to see the Great Imperial Ashwell pitch. How would you like to have me go to the mound and strike out every batter I face?”

If he was expecting applause, he didn't get it. A few people from the Griffith side booed. A few people laughed. Mostly people looked uncomfortable. Even Hunter's own team looked embarrassed. I couldn't tell what Mike was thinking because he had pulled his catcher's mask on. I imagined that he was rolling his eyes.

“What was that?” Other Mike said. “
Great Imperial Ashwell
? Sounds awesome.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But it's really rude to be so cocky, don't you think?”

“I guess,” Other Mike said. “But I have a job to do.”

“Good luck looking for Truck, Truck,” I said.

“Got it, Truck,” he said.

Other Mike really was a good friend. He was braver than people gave him credit for. And cooler than people gave him credit for. Basically, people didn't give him credit for anything, but he ruled. “You rule, Other Mike,” I said. He nodded.

And with that, he was off. He started walking
really slowly, taking huge steps like he was sneaking up on someone. I rolled my eyes and laughed.

Hunter continued on with his pregame rant. “I'm going to take my time. I have a few things to say and they can't start the game without me. It's funny what a few no-hitters can do for a man. They make you feel
goood
. So good I think I'm going to throw another one here tonight! I'm about to debut a pitch never seen by this generation, or any generation. So please, ladies and gentlemen, enjoy.”

We were the visiting team, so that meant we batted first. Turned out they could start the game without Hunter. The home team took the field. Byron Lucas was hitting leadoff and was all ready to step into the batter's box. But he was waiting for the go-ahead from Coach Zo, and Coach Zo was nowhere to be seen. I searched the field and found him—of all places—on Griffith's bench. Well, he wasn't sitting on the bench, he was leaning up against it, deep in conversation with Coach Fenner of the Griffins. Coach Moyer looked around. The umpire walked over there, apparently to ask if there was a problem. Coach Zo held up a finger like “just a moment,” then finished his conversation.

What was that about? Was Coach Fenner mad because of Hunter? It was hard to read his face. He was one of those guys who always looked mad, like Mr. Webb.

Coach Zo strode back across the field, his hands in his pockets. He never looked mad. He looked as calm and cool as always. Finally, the coaches were in their spots. The pitcher was on the mound. Hunter was back in the dugout. The umpire yelled, “Play ball!” Then he threw the ball to the Griffith pitcher, who I recognized as Jagdish Sheth. If Jagdish was upset by Hunter's antics, he didn't show it. He just pulled his hat low over his eyes and started to pitch.

I began announcing in my head.

Jagdish Sheth takes the hill for the Griffith Griffins. They're looking for revenge after being blanked in the historic perfect game to open the season against their visitors today, the Schwenkfelder Mustangs. Sheth is not a big guy, but he has a decent fastball and good control. We've already had some theatrics today, as Hunter Ashwell pulled the unprecedented stunt of announcing his greatness into the microphone before the first pitch was thrown. Should be an interesting one .…

The top half of the first wasn't that interesting, though. Not really. Our guys managed a hit and a walk against Jagdish, but Nathan Gub lined into a double play and the inning was over. The sides changed and Schwenkfelder headed onto the field. Mike took his customary spot behind the plate and Hunter fired a few warm-up tosses. I thought about his line the other day: “Get in there, brother. I don't need no warm-ups for you!” Man, that must be really annoying if you're on the other team. Especially because he could back it up.

Hunter's pitches looked sharp in warm-ups. He fired one pitch over the inside corner, then another over the outside corner. He mixed the fast ones with the slow ones. He was ready.

The first batter stepped up to the plate and knocked the dirt out of his cleats with his bat. I almost felt bad for him. The odds of getting a hit are never that good, really. Even the best hitter fails to get a hit two out of every three times. And if you were facing a guy who pitched a perfect game against you only a week ago? Let's just say that the Griffith Griffins could not have been feeling very positive about their chances.

But yet, as that first batter stepped into the batter's
box, I noticed something odd. He wasn't cowering. He wasn't nervous. He wasn't upset. He had a definite glimmer in his eye, a definite hop to his step. And, unless I was mistaken, he was smiling.

I started to announce in my head.

The Schwenkfelder pitcher Hunter Ashwell is a little man with a big mouth and a bigger right arm. He's been talking an even bigger game than usual today, but not without reason. He threw a perfect game against Griffith last time and claims he'll do the same today. His warm-ups are sharp and he looks ready to roll
.

Newts gives the sign. Ashwell nods. He rocks into his windup. Here's the pitch and … Well, the perfect game is over. Johnny Vander Meer, your record is safe. There will be no back-to-back no-hitters here. That ball is gone, long gone over the scoreboard in center field. Hunter Ashwell looks shocked, absolutely shocked. He literally cannot believe what just happened. The first pitch of the game is a home run and a one-to-nothing lead for the Griffith Griffins
.

Mike did a good job as catcher and went out to the mound to calm Hunter down. It didn't seem to work, but that wasn't Mike's fault. He did what a catcher is supposed to do. Tell the pitcher to forget about it, get the next guy. Mike went back to his
crouch behind the plate. The umpire threw Hunter a new ball. He caught it in his glove and stared at it like he didn't even know what it was. Like some strange animal had fallen from the sky and taken up residence in his baseball mitt.