Split Decision (9 page)

“Whoa! Thanks!” was all Cody could manage.

The coach chuckled. “Now don’t get a big head about this, Martin. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, especially when it’s dark. But, still—”

Cody thought for a moment. “So, Coach, what exactly are you trying to say here?”

“I’m saying, Martin, that you are one fine baseball player. Dependable. Fundamentally sound. Prone to lapses of concentration, but, all in all, solid. But son, you are a natural runner. Coach Clayton is right as rain about that. I’m a fair-minded kind of guy, and we coaches talk all the time about various athletes and how they can best help their school, best position themselves to compete at the next level. You understand where I’m going with this?”

Cody’s mouth was dry from fatigue and nervousness. He tried to clear his throat. “I think so, Coach, but I made a commitment to you. Besides, I love baseball!”

“Do you love to run too?”

“Sure I do. I love both sports. It’s really confusing, you know?”

Coach Curtis clicked his tongue three times against the roof of his mouth. “It doesn’t have to be that confusing,” he said. “You run track this spring. You can play baseball this summer. I’m thinking about coaching Grant’s USBL team. You can play for me then.”

Cody nodded, “I guess that makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense, Martin. I’m a coaching genius. So on Monday, you get your skinny carcass up to the track. You chase that Phelps around for a while and you’ll get scary-fast. Deal?”

Cody was eager to take the offer that was being handed to him, but he felt something tugging inside of him. “Almost a deal,” he said finally. “But I’d like to make one small amendment.”

The coach sighed wearily. “What is it, Mr. Martin, for Pete’s sake! Why do you have to make things more difficult than they need to be?”

“It’s just that we’ve got Holy Family again, at home on Tuesday, right? And Bart’s gonna pitch again?”

“Yeah, most likely.”

“Well, the poor guy is zero and three, with a blown save, to boot, and we’ve given him no run support. We’ve been kinda spotty in the field too. So—”

Even in the dark, Cody could see his coach’s head nodding emphatically, “So, what you’re saying, Martin, is that you want to help Bart get a W before you officially become a track man?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I think I can live with that. And I bet ol’ Country Clayton can too.”

High Heat

A
w, for cryin’ out loud, Martin,” Coach Curtis moaned as Cody jogged in from center field, “this isn’t turning out the way either of us hoped, is it? We got only one more at bat, and we’re still two runs away from getting old Bart his first win. And I can tell he’s losing confidence out there. Besides, the way we’ve been hittin’, two runs is a tall order.”

Cody nodded. He had prayed for a storybook happy ending to his baseball season—and an end to Bart’s losing funk—but it didn’t seem meant to be. Coach Curtis was right; Bart was shaky. He had walked six batters and plunked two more. And if Goddard hadn’t thrown his body around like a rag doll behind home plate, Bart would have been charged with at least four wild pitches.

Goddard’s uniform looks like it should be used in one of those commercials for extra-industrial-strength laundry detergents
, Cody observed.

Bart marched to the plate to kick off the seventh and final ending. Cody stood watching him, while swinging a weighted bat in the on-deck circle.

“You can do this, Bart,” he called emphatically. “Get us started, man. Wait for your pitch. Make him give you something you can hit.”

Bart watched two pitches smoke by him, for called strikes. Yeow, Cody thought, shaking his head. That Keenan Jones is as good a pitcher as he is a basketball player. He's got a catapult for an arm, just like Bart. But, he's got way more confidence!

Bart wheeled to bunt the next Jones pitch, and he did a decent job, guiding the ball down the third baseline. He over-strided on the way to first base, giving the appearance that he was running in slow motion. “Come on, come on!” Cody urged, as he watched the Saints' third baseman charge for the ball, bare-hand it, and hurl it toward first base.

Bart was safe by a step. “Okay,” Coach Curtis barked, “we got something going now. Let's keep it goin'! Swing level, Martin. Get the bat on the ball!”

Cody crowded the plate a bit, as Jones had been successful in nibbling on the outside of the strike zone on previous at bats. Twice, Cody had been sat down on called third strikes.

Jones must have taken note of Cody's strategy, because he threw some “chin music” on his first pitch. Cody jerked his head back and bailed out of the batter's box to avoid getting drilled with the high, tight fastball. He heard a few whoops from the Holy Family dugout as he drew in a deep breath and tried not to think about what KJ's fastball might have done to his head-even with the protective batter's helmet.

He shot the pitcher a stare as he stepped up to the plate again-crowding it even more than before. Go ahead and bring the high cheese again, KJ, he tried to send the message telepathically. I don't care how I get on base-as long as I get on base. But if it wouldn't be too much to ask, not in the head, KJ. Please not in the head!

Jones smacked his lips together and went into his wind-up. Cody watched the pitch bearing down on him-as if it were the predator and he was the prey. This fastball was not as high as the previous one, but just as hard. And just as inside.

Tenths of seconds seemed to freeze in time as Cody decided what to do. He recalled the previous season, when his victory-starved USBL coach ordered him to lean into a pitch. That had been wrong. But that was then.

This was now. There was no pressure from anyone-only the desire to help Bart. Besides, he wouldn't have to lean into the strike zone. This ball would find him on its own.

Cody winced as he felt the pitch strike him just below his left hip bone. That's gonna leave a fine bruise, he thought as he limped to first base. He heard a smattering of applause as he stood on the bag. He saw Coach Curtis leave the dugout and start to head toward him. He showed his coach his right palm and wagged his head. There's no way I'm letting a pinch runner take my place, he vowed. Not when I'm the tying run for Bart, for our team. Besides, even with a hitch in my get-along, Coach has gotta know I can outrun anybody on our team.

Cody stared toward the dugout again as Brett came to the plate. Coach Curtis gave the sign for a hit and run. Brett would put the ball in play-on the ground. He and Bart would take off with any contact. Bart shot him a quick glance, indicating he understood that the hit and run was on.

Jones tried to make Brett chase a pitch in the dirt, but Brett, a slightly leaner, more sharp-boned version of his twin, kept his bat on his shoulder. He spat emphatically in the dirt just in front of home plate, as if to tell Jones, “I'm not giving you anything; you want me to swing, then you put something at least close to the strike zone.”

Jones's next pitch was shoulder high-and well outside. Brett stepped out of the batter's box and adjusted his batting glove, and Cody could sense his teammate's frustration. He looked to the on-deck circle and saw Goddard taking a few slow-motion practice swings.

Now that KJ's down two-and-nothing in the count, Cody figured, he's gonna keep throwin' junk to Brett, so that he can get to Goddard. And Goddard hasn't hit a ball out of the infield all season. This stinks! So much for the hit and run!

Jones' third fastball was almost as low as his first. It zipped over the plate, at ankle height. Jones must not have known, Cody figured as he burst like a sprinter toward second base that Brett frequently golfed with his dad on the nine-hole course just outside of town.

But Jones probably sensed it now, after Brett swung his bat like a nine iron and golfed the pitch right past the Holy Family third baseman. Cody saw Slaven, who was coaching third base, waving his right arm like a windmill, giving the signal to head for home. As he sprinted for the plate, Cody shot a glance at Goddard, who seemed to be pantomiming the act of closing a treasure chest-or perhaps a conductor quieting his orchestra.

Cody knew what it meant; a throw was coming home, and he would need to slide in to the plate, rather than score standing up.

The Saints' catcher tore off his mask and waited, glove up. Two strides from the plate, Cody dove headfirst. He heard the ball pop into the catcher's chubby mitt, but he knew he was well under the tag. He heard the umpire bellow, “Safe!” and spread both arms out like wings.

Cody got up, coughing, blinking, and brushing the fine-as-cocoa powder infield dirt from his uniform. Dirt never tasted so good, he thought, spitting bits of brownish saliva from his mouth. 'Cuz now that Bart and I have scored, we're back in this thing!

Brett dashed to third on the attempt to put Cody out at home.

Showered in cheers of encouragement from his teammates, Goddard stepped to the plate. He wheeled to bunt while KJ was still early in his wind-up.

“Dude,” said Murphy, standing next to Cody in the dugout, “it takes guts to turn and face a flamethrower like KJ.”

“Yeah,” agreed Cody, “and Goddard has never been short on guts-even if he is short on a lot of other things.”

Goddard had to dive to the ground to keep from taking a Jones fastball right in the mouth-and making some dentist very rich.

Jones put his next pitch in the strike zone, defying Goddard to bunt again.

But Goddard wasn't to be defied. He connected with the pitch in the dead-center of his bat, pushing the ball down the first base line. Jones chased down the slithering ball quickly, but he seemed to know instinctively that his only play was to first base. Goddard was out by two steps, but Brett scored standing up.

Pounding his fist into his glove, Jones struck out Slaven on three pitches, bringing Murphy to the plate.

Murphy watched a fastball bullet right down Main Street for a called first strike. “C'mon, Murph,” Cody whispered. “If you gotta go down, at least go down swingin'. Make KJ work for it. He's tough, but not invincible.”

Jones' next pitch snagged the outside corner. Strike two. Cody expected Murphy to step out of the batter's box to collect himself, but he stayed put, feet planted. Cody saw him turn his head to his left, then his right.

Pitch number three was a change-up, which Jones disguised well.

But not well enough. Murphy waited on the pitch and spanked it into the gap in left field. At first base, Murphy got the green light to head for second, where he was tagged out on a close play.

But the damage was done. The score was 3 to 2, and Grant-and Bart Evans-was three outs from its first victory of the season.

Cody approached Bart and smacked him lightly between the shoulder blades. “You can do this.”

“I don’t know,” came the shaky reply. “I’m getting tired.”

“That’s okay,” Cody said earnestly. “You just throw strikes and have confidence in your team. We’re gonna be a wall behind you—you got that? Nothing’s gettin’ by us!”

“That’s right, Bart,” Brett added. “We’re gonna dive for balls, leap for balls, sprint for balls. Whatever it takes.”

As the Eagles took the field, Cody veered toward Murphy. “Murph,” he said with a chuckle, “how did you know KJ was going to try to change you up? I mean, he’s been giving all of us a steady diet of fast-balls all day.”

Murphy smiled. “I saw him wince after that second called strike. I think he may have pulled a muscle or something. Anyway, I knew he wasn’t gonna bring the heat again—because he
couldn’t.”

Cody took his place, in straight-away center field for this game, studying Hollister, Holy Family’s catcher, and the first Saint at the plate in the bottom of the seventh. After tempting Hollister with a low slider—unsuccessfully—Bart went to his curve. Hollister was fooled badly and nearly twisted himself into a sitting position.

“Okay, Bart,” Cody whispered. “Do that again! Give him your hook!”

Cody saw Bart shake off Goddard’s signal for the next pitch. Then the Grant pitcher shook off his catcher once more. Cody shifted his feet nervously. Goddard knew hitters, and a pitcher who ignored his signals did so at his own peril.

Bart’s third offering was a waist-high fastball. Hollister turned on it and smoked it to third. The ball was gaining altitude as it headed toward Murphy.

Fortunately, Murphy was gaining altitude, too. The leap he made to snatch the ball out of midair reminded Cody of those acrobatic dogs he had seen catching Frisbees on TV.

Bart nodded gratefully in Murphy’s direction. Murphy nodded back and fired the ball to home plate.

Holy Family’s left fielder was next up. Cody didn’t recognize him.
Must be a new guy,
he thought,
but he seems like a pretty good athlete
.

The Saint never got a chance to show his athleticism at the plate. Bart walked him on four pitches.

Bart got behind in the count, two-and-zero, to the next hitter, and Goddard jogged to the mound. Goddard was a head shorter than Bart, who, like his brother, was now pushing six feet. But it was clear to Cody that the shorter man was in control. Bart’s head was bobbing obediently, as Goddard leaned toward him, no doubt giving him an earful—maybe two earfuls—of firm guidance.