Southpaw (4 page)
David Choi had taken the mound for the Hornets and was throwing his final warm-up pitches to Jared. Spencer and Lamont and the other infielders whipped a ball around the horn. The Union City leadoff batter stood in the on-deck circle, intently watching David’s delivery.
The umpire shouted, “Play ball!” and the batter stepped up to the plate.
“No batter!” Jimmy yelled, picking up on the infield chant. “He can’t hit!”
But he could, and he lined David’s first pitch into the gap between left field and center. The speedster rounded first and slid into second way ahead of the throw, popping up quickly and dusting off his pants.
“Settle down!” Coach Wimmer called. “No problem. No problem.”
A groundout moved the runner to third, and a single to center brought in the first run of the season. David walked the next batter, but then settled down and managed to get out of the inning with only the one run scoring.
Jared doubled home Lamont to tie the score in the bottom of the first, but after that the Hornets came up dry. Union City managed hits in every inning and gradually built a lead. It was 4—1 when the Hornets came up to bat in the bottom of the fifth of the seven-inning game.
“You two,” Coach Wimmer said, pointing toward Ramiro and Jimmy, “start warming up. David’s thrown a lot of pitches. We’re going to need you.”
So they took a ball and left the dugout, moving behind the metal bleachers outside the field. There was no bullpen here; they just found an uncrowded spot and threw the ball back and forth, warming up their arms.
After a few minutes they heard a solid crack of the bat and a roar rising up from the spectators. Jimmy turned and ran around the bleachers just in time to see the ball soaring over the fence. Spencer was running from first base toward second, his fist raised in the air. He’d hit a two-run homer. Hudson City was just one run behind.
Jimmy followed Ramiro quickly to the dugout. Their teammates were cheering Spencer and smacking his back.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Lamont said. “That shot was too good.”
Coach told Ramiro he’d be pitching the sixth inning. “We’re still in this game,” he said. “Keep us close.”
“Come on, man,” Jimmy said, punching Ramiro lightly on the arm. “We’ve got momentum now.”
And Ramiro started well, striking out the first batter he faced and getting the second to pop out. But then he seemed to lose his concentration, walking two batters in a row and falling three balls behind on the next one.
Coach Wimmer called time and walked to the mound. Ramiro kept nodding as Coach talked. He kicked at the dirt and bit down on his lip.
The next pitch was way outside, and Jared had to lunge to keep it from getting past him. So the bases were loaded.
Coach looked over at Jimmy. “You ready, Flem?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good. This next batter is his last. You’re going in.”
Jimmy gulped and nodded. He wanted to pitch, but he felt bad for Ramiro.
Jared was out on the mound, talking to the pitcher. He patted Ramiro on the shoulder, then turned and trotted back to his position.
Ramiro threw a strike, and that apparently made him relax. He nodded his head slowly, let out his breath, and gave the batter a determined look.
The batter swung fiercely at the next pitch but failed to make contact. Ramiro then struck him out with a fastball and walked swiftly toward the dugout.
“Nice job!” Coach said as Ramiro hurled his mitt onto the bench.
Ramiro sat down hard and pulled his cap down low over his forehead. “That was terrible,” he said softly.
“You pulled it together,” Coach said. “No harm done, right?”
“Right.”
“You kept us in the game. Good work.”
Jimmy sat next to Ramiro and said, “Way to bounce back.”
“Yeah, I guess. After I walked the whole team.”
“Three guys,” Jimmy said. “And they didn’t even score.”
Lamont came over from the corner of the dugout and spoke to Jimmy. “Somebody wants to see you,” he said, gesturing to the left.
Jimmy stepped over to the fence and saw his dad standing there in a jacket and tie.
“Just got here,” Dad said. “You play any?”
“I’m about to. I’m pitching the seventh.”
“Great. You can get the win if your guys can score a few runs.”
Jimmy gave a tight smile and exhaled hard. He was feeling enough pressure already.
“Saddle up and go,” Dad said.
“Saddle up and go,” Jimmy repeated.
He jogged to the mound, pounding his left fist into his glove. The Hornets still trailed, 4—3. It was up to him to shut down Union City and keep the team within striking distance for the bottom of the last inning.
Jimmy looked around the infield. His eyes locked with Spencer, who gave him a playful look and made that hacking sound again, spitting and smiling. “Grind time,” Spencer said. “Time to get us a W.”
Union City had the top of its batting order coming up. That leadoff hitter who’d doubled on the first pitch of the game stepped in, taking a few practice cuts and glaring out at the mound. He’d also hit a single and had scored two runs.
Jared signaled for a curveball, and Jimmy nodded in agreement. He went into his slow windup, bringing the ball way back, then zipping it forward with that overhand motion and whipping it toward the plate. It caught the outside corner and the umpire yelled, “Strike one!”
A supportive cheer went up from Jimmy’s teammates. “No batter!” they called. “Heavy phlegm!”
Jimmy rubbed his forehead with two fingers, holding the ball in his glove. The batter was crouched lower now, his mouth slightly open and his eyes fixed hard on the pitcher.
Jimmy threw a low fastball and the batter swung, connecting with the ball but sending it harmlessly out of bounds.
“Straighten it out, Blue,” came a cry from the Union City dugout.
The advantage was clearly Jimmy’s now. At 0-2, the batter couldn’t afford to let any close pitch go by. Jimmy would keep it low and inside.
Don’t give him anything good to hit.
Don’t give him anything good to hit.
But as soon as the pitch left his hand, he knew it would be trouble. The ball was moving fast, but it was waist-high and right down the middle. The batter swung cleanly and knocked it past Lamont for a single.
Jimmy took the throw and studied the base runner. The guy was fast; he’d be looking to steal.
Concentrate on the batter,
Jimmy thought, but that was easier said than done. The runner took a good lead and looked like he was ready to spring. And Jimmy’s next pitch was low and wild, skipping past Jared and bouncing off the backstop. The runner easily made it to second.
Concentrate on the batter,
Jimmy thought, but that was easier said than done. The runner took a good lead and looked like he was ready to spring. And Jimmy’s next pitch was low and wild, skipping past Jared and bouncing off the backstop. The runner easily made it to second.
Jared called time and trotted out to the mound. “Settle down,” he said, handing Jimmy the ball. “Forget the base runner. Let’s get this guy out.”
Jimmy threw a hard fastball, and the batter squared to bunt. The ball was nudged forward and Jimmy ran in to field it. He looked toward third base, but the runner was already sliding in. So he turned and threw to first for the out.
And just like that, Union City had set up another run. Unless Jimmy could get a strikeout or an infield pop-up, they were almost certain to score.
He looked toward his dad, who shook his fist and shouted, “Gut check!”
All right,
Jimmy thought.
Let’s see what I’m made of.
Jimmy thought.
Let’s see what I’m made of.
He had started to sweat, a good sign, and was angry that he hadn’t kept the ball down to that first batter. Now the guy was dancing on the third-base line, smirking at Jimmy, certain that he’d score again. “Blue,” they called him. Odd name.
Third-baseman Miguel Rivera darted to the base and Jimmy faked a throw in that direction, sending Blue right back to the bag. Jimmy would make sure he stayed there. He fired a fastball toward the plate, and the batter swung and missed. The second pitch was a ball, but the third flew right past and smacked into Jared’s glove for strike two.
Same situation. Jimmy was ahead of the batter.
Nothing good to hit,
he thought.
No creampuff pitches like that other one.
Nothing good to hit,
he thought.
No creampuff pitches like that other one.
The pitch was smooth, low, and a little outside, but too close for the batter to chance it. He swung and missed. Strike three! Two outs.
“Yeah!” yelled Ramiro from the dugout, where he was standing along the fence. The infielders increased their chatter now. They were one out from their last at-bats.
Jimmy pumped his fist toward his chest and took the throw from Jared. He squinted at the runner on third with a defiant glare. Blue gave the same look back. He took a half-step toward home plate, crouched low and ready to run.
Union City’s cleanup hitter stepped in. He was a strong kid and had twice sent Willie back to the fence in center for long fly-outs. He clearly had the power to hit one out of the park.
Strike one.
Ball one.
Ball two.
Strike two.
Jimmy squeezed the ball and wiped his face with his mitt. Everyone in the park was standing now. His mouth was dry.
This was the pitch. This would do it. As he brought the ball forward he felt it slip slightly from his fingers, just enough to make his stomach sink. It was low, it was outside, and it was spinning away from Jared.
The ball bounced in the dirt and skidded toward the backstop. And here came that runner, full speed toward the plate. Jimmy rushed in and grabbed for the ball as Jared tossed it, but Blue was sliding low and Jimmy couldn’t make the tag in time. He’d scored.
The batter grounded out on the next pitch and the inning was over, but the damage had been done. Three bad pitches. That was all it had taken to give Union City a run.
The Hornets scored once in the bottom of the seventh, but that made it even worse for Jimmy. If he’d pitched a clean inning then the game would be tied. But he hadn’t been able to do it. The Hornets had lost, 5—4.
“I blew it,” he said to Ramiro. “Two wild pitches and a big, fat creampuff.”
Coach was upbeat despite the narrow loss, but most of the players were mad. They’d come so close. Nobody said anything negative to Jimmy, but he could feel what they were thinking. He knew he’d let them down.
He left the field with his dad, who put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and squeezed. “You threw some good pitches,” he said.
“Yeah. And some mighty bad ones.”
“As long as you learn from it,” Dad said. “You can’t just groove one down the middle to a hitter like Blue.”
“I didn’t groove one, Dad. You make it sound like I did it on purpose.”
“You should have kept it low and inside. Don’t let him get so much wood on the ball.”
“I
know,
Dad. Sometimes knowing what to do and actually doing it are two different things.”
know,
Dad. Sometimes knowing what to do and actually doing it are two different things.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way, and they stayed quiet while Dad cooked some chicken and carrots. Jimmy put on the TV and watched the end of a
Simpsons
rerun.
Simpsons
rerun.
Dad gave him a smile when they sat down to eat. “There’ll be plenty more games,” he said. “By the way, I found
two
pens uncapped when I stopped here after work this afternoon. The one by the phone and another one out on the kitchen table.”
two
pens uncapped when I stopped here after work this afternoon. The one by the phone and another one out on the kitchen table.”
“So what?”
Dad shrugged and lifted a forkful of carrots to his mouth. “No big deal. But they dry
out
, Jimmy. And the caps get lost if they’re not attached to the pens.”
out
, Jimmy. And the caps get lost if they’re not attached to the pens.”
Jimmy stuck his fork into the chicken. “Who cares?”
“Yeah. Who cares? But pens do cost money.”
“You gotta be kidding me, Dad.” Jimmy shook his head and looked at the ceiling. He knew this couldn’t really be about the pens. “You’re mad because I blew the game.”
Dad laughed. “I am
not
mad.”
not
mad.”
“Admit it. You hate it when I don’t perform like a hero.”
“That’s not true,” Dad said evenly. “I would never put that kind of pressure on you.”
Jimmy looked down at his plate. “Sure, you wouldn’t.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Right, Dad.”
“Let’s forget it.”
“Right.” Jimmy salted his chicken and took a swig of milk.
Dad cleared his throat. “I just thought you knew better than to throw that kind of pitch to a hitter like Blue.”
“See! This is about the game.”
“No ... It’s not. I’m sorry. Really. I just want those kids to like you, Jimmy. I want you to fit in.”
“You think they’ll like me if I
pitch
better?”
pitch
better?”
“No. I know it’s not as simple as that. You know what I mean; kids are tough on newcomers.”
“No kidding,” Jimmy said sarcastically. He stood and walked toward his room.
“You didn’t eat much,” Dad called.
“Too bad.”
He stayed in his room for an hour, steaming. He knew his dad was quirky, but this thing with the pens was going overboard. And Jimmy knew that getting kids to like him would take more than pitching well. That kind of thinking was way too shallow.
He was hungry now, so he went out to the kitchen and made a peanut-butter sandwich. Dad was in the living room reading the newspaper, but he didn’t say a thing.
Jimmy took his plate and walked over to the couch, sitting down in a huff. He picked up the remote and turned on the television, glancing out of the corner of his eye at his father. Certain that his dad was watching, he very deliberately set the volume at 19.
There was more than one way to get things done. The right way, the wrong way, and a million different ways in between.
6
The Real Deal
F
riday afternoon the Hornets dropped their second game in a row, losing at Hoboken, 3—2. Jimmy and Ramiro never left the dugout. Miguel Rivera pitched the entire game and kept it close, so Coach Wimmer didn’t even have the relievers warm up.
riday afternoon the Hornets dropped their second game in a row, losing at Hoboken, 3—2. Jimmy and Ramiro never left the dugout. Miguel Rivera pitched the entire game and kept it close, so Coach Wimmer didn’t even have the relievers warm up.
“Nothing worse than sitting out a whole game,” Jimmy said as they made their way to the bus.
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