The Youngest Hero (34 page)

On all the other pitches, Elgin turned and erupted with a controlled but mighty swing. The sound of metal on plastic resounded
from the walls as each pitch was driven to the canvas. As far as I could tell there was not even a pop-up or fly ball. All
sped to the other end of the room in a line, most directly over the machine.

As I watched in awe, Elgin slipped around to the other batter’s box. Now a righty, he continued his barrage, stepping, swinging,
driving, recoiling, doing it again and again. His eyes looked alive, narrow, piercing in the dim light. He seemed to see nothing
but the ball. At that distance each pitch came in what seemed like milliseconds. How could he react? How could he hit with
such authority? I knew it could be only the hours and hours of practice. They had cost him bruises and frustration. But now
they had paid off—if being able to hit the hideous machine was payment enough.

Elgin had hit fifty line drives as if he and the pitches were part of the same script. “Help me pick em up!” he exulted. “I
want to show you something.”

I gathered up a few balls as if in a trance and dropped them into the bucket as Elgin hurried past. I wanted to compliment
him, to express wonder, to ask what the future might hold. Words would not come. Apparently, he understood. He just looked
at me and grinned.

He knew, I decided. There was nothing to say, nothing to be said ever. He had made himself into a miracle. I wondered if an
adult athlete could have done the same. Surely a big leaguer could do this. But would he have the patience to teach himself?

As I picked up three balls in a corner, I envisioned my son on television, on programs about people who do amazing things.
Was it marketable? Could he make a living at it? Would other people copy him and get better at it? “Watch this!” Elgin shouted.
“Take cover!”

He poured the balls into the machine. I skipped out of the way. He leaned past me and traded his fungo bat for his glove.
He stood on the plate, eyes wild as the first pitch came.

He was not quite ready, and it swept above him, hitting the wall within inches of his head. He whooped and hollered, and I
wondered if he had lost his mind. I wanted to tell him to stop, to quit showing off, to not try to do something he couldn’t
do. But still I was speechless. What was I watching? Who was this
child? Had he come from my womb? Yesterday he was a baby, a kid, who like everyone else, loved baseball. Now he was a marvelously
gifted and trained and honed and polished machine with a brain, which made him so much more and better than the metal conglomeration
that had helped turn him into what he was.

The pitches bounced in, swept in, sped in, dropped, rose, spun, danced, curved, slid, broke. He caught one after the other,
his face set, eyes afire. As each slammed into his glove he casually shook it loose and let it bounce away like a too-small
fish. Then he set himself again, left foot slightly forward, knees bent, bare hand and glove first on his knees, but only
for an instant. As the sound of the machine changed slightly, he let his hand and glove fall away from his knees and he crouched
even lower. His glove flashed like a turbine-powered vacuum cleaner, picking up every pitch.

Finally I found my voice. “How do you know?” I shouted.

“Know what?”

“Where the ball will go! They all look different!”

“They
are
different! You have to be ready for anything and watch where it goes and what kind of a spin it has!”

Catch and drop, catch and drop, catch and drop. He looked like a big leaguer. What team could possibly be good enough for
him?

Half an hour later, as he sat at the table in the kitchenette, eating popcorn and still sweating, I could tell he was thrilled
that he had impressed me. He never asked what I thought. He just sat and watched me, his smile huge, his eyes wide. I could
tell he knew.

“What are we going to do, El?” I managed finally. “You have got to do something with this.”

“This is nothing,” he said. “This is just for baseball. This is what I’ll do every day for the rest of my life to keep me
sharp for hitting live pitches. That’s all.”

“You don’t think people would pay to see you do something that no one else anywhere would even dare try?”

“Momma! I’m not a freak.”

I wasn’t so sure. “But you could challenge people, make them guess whether you could do it. Show them, demonstrate it. Then
get them to bet that you wouldn’t dare even stand in against it, let alone be able to hit it with a skinny, heavy bat.”

His face fell. “Momma, even if I could do that or wanted to—which I don’t—what do you think it would pay?”

“A lot.”

“Millions a year?”

“Well, no, of course not, but—”

“That’s what I can make as a big leaguer.”

“That’s a lot of years away.”

“I know. But by then I’ll be able to make even more. You know what? I’m on a schedule.”

“To become a big leaguer?”

“Nope. That’ll come when it comes. I’m on a schedule to move the machine even closer to the batters’ boxes.”

“Oh, Elgin, no.”

“You think I can’t do it?”

Would I ever again think he couldn’t do anything? I didn’t want to watch. I didn’t want to see that machine taking aim at
my son from twenty or even twenty-five feet away. I just listened to him tell of it every day for the next several weeks.

“Just for fun,” he told me, “I moved the thing to about fifteen feet away. I think I finally found out what I can’t hit.”

We both laughed. If he came even close to that, he might be the best hitter of all time.

“You coming to my tryout a week from Saturday?”

“If you’ll let me.”

“From now on, I want as many people watching as I can. Lucky’s bringing his family.”

My heart seemed to stop. My voice was weak. “His family?”

“He’s got two younger brothers and a bunch of nieces and nephews.”

“Is he married?” I tried to sound casual.

“I told you, Momma. His wife died. Cancer or something.”

“Uh-huh.”

Luke Harkness, his two brothers, their wives and six children, and Momma were not the only spectators at the high school
all-star summer traveling team tryouts. I guessed there were a hundred in the stands.

Hector Villagrande had eight spots to fill, and he required his six returning players to try out again too. There were no
guarantees, and he proved that nearly every year by cutting at least one returnee.

About twenty ballplayers, plus the six returnees, had been invited. I finished second in the wind sprints to one of the returnees,
a six-foot, two-hundred-pound shortstop. I finished fourth in throwing for distance, behind the shortstop, his twin-brother
second baseman, and a muscular Mexican pitcher. When we ran around the entire field, I leaped to an early lead and held off
a small, skinny outfielder I guessed would not make the team.

I had a little trouble running down everything hit to me in the outfield, but that was the one area in which I had the least
experience. Hector and his assistants sent fly balls to the fence on almost every shot.

It was in the infield where I shined. My throws from short were straighter and truer than they had been the year before, but
I knew I could not compete against the huge twin. I felt more comfortable at second where the throw was shorter, and I quickly
picked up the double-play pivot. The other twin seemed to have a lock on second as well. My only hope was to hit so well that
Hector would be forced to find a place for me.

Coach Villagrande saved hitting till last. He called all the players around him and assigned them to various spots in the
field. Fourteen would trade off at the infield and outfield positions with every hitter. His returning catcher would handle
all of batting practice. The remaining players would get ten pitches each.

The pitching was handled by a quartet of huge hurlers from the local American Legion team. Each was a big-league prospect.
The youngest was twenty, the oldest twenty-two. Three were right-handers, two white and one black. The other was a bald lefty.
He didn’t even have a rim of hair, nothing showing beneath the cap line.

I was sent to second where I traded off with the veteran with each new pitcher. The black right-hander was on the mound, and
apparently he and his cohorts had all been told the same thing.

No mercy.

T
hough the sun was high and bright in Chicago, I sat at the tryout shivering in a light jacket, one I was embarrassed to be
wearing in front of Lucky anyway.

“Should have brought my winter coat,” I said idly, but I was certain he hadn’t heard. He was a mother hen with his nieces
and nephews and always had an eye on them, even when talking with me.

“Uh-huh,” was all he said. But as I stared at Elgin, who was apparently failing in an attempt at small talk with the big twin
second baseman, Luke Harkness draped his huge, wool-lined leather jacket around my shoulders.

I smiled a thank-you at him and he looked away. “I don’t want
you
to be cold now,” I said.

“I’ve got a higher thermostat than you,” he said. “I’ll probably have to get rid of this sweater too, before long.”

“Nobody seems to be able to hit these guys,” I said.

“Yeah, well, my brother and me’ll hit em,” the second baseman said. ‘Just watch.”

“I expect to hit them too,” I said, but the boy didn’t respond. “What’s your name, anyway?” I tried.

“Dirk,” the boy grunted. “My turn.”

“My name’s Elgin,” I said as Dirk glided into position to field a weak grounder. It was the first fair ball hit off the American
Legion pitchers. Five hitters had gone down, and the pitchers kept rotating; sometimes two or three would throw to the same
hitter.

“We all know your name, buddy,” Dirk said. “You’ve got a lot to prove today.”

I wanted to say I had proved all I needed to the last time I tried out for this team. But a buzz of excitement cruised from
my seat to my head. This couldn’t be better. They knew who I was and were watching to see what I could do.

“You’re not going to get any base runners this morning,” Hector Villagrande hollered, “so play every grounder as if you’ve
got a guy on first and less than two outs!”

“Lefty pitching, Dirk,” I whispered. “This guy gets a bat on Baldy, it’s coming to you.”

Dirk straightened and turned to glare at me. “Baldy happens to be my cousin!”

I wanted to apologize. I hadn’t meant anything by it. I hadn’t known the lefty’s name, and I should have called him Lefty.
But the fair, thin kid who had been so impressive in the distance run—who had swung and missed weakly at the first three pitches,
somehow got his bat on this one and it rocketed between first and second, just as I predicted.

Dirk whirled too late and couldn’t get his glove down or his foot out of the way and took the liner off the top of his shoe.
He spun and danced and howled as the ball skittered into right.

Coach Villagrande screamed, “Are you all right?” marching from the third-base dugout to the foul line.

“Yeah! Woodell was distractin me!”

“Well, get out of there!”

I thought Hector was talking to me. He was not.

“If you can’t keep your head and your glove and your butt in
the game, let somebody in there who can! Get in there, Wood-ell!”

“Sorry, Dirk,” I said as we traded places. Dirk was red-faced and swearing.

Two batters and a couple of dozen pitches later, a left-handed hitter grounded sharply toward first. The first baseman came
charging, but I hollered him off. I speared the ball to my left in the baseline, and hopped to my right with both feet while
drawing the ball back.

I fired to the right of second, knowing that Dick, Dirk’s twin, would get there in time. I was right. Dick dragged his trailing
foot across the bag as he gathered in the throw and rifled the ball to first.

The crispness, speed, and power of the play left everybody speechless. The pitcher jogged over to slap gloves with Dick and
me. I smiled. Dick scowled.