Twelfth Angel (14 page)

“Yes, just about.”

“Is it really mine, forever, or just until baseball is over?”

“It’s yours forever and ever.”

“Wow!” he exclaimed, “I’ll take good care of it, honest I will.”

“I know you will. Now it’s almost dark, so let’s put the bike in my trunk and I’ll drive you home. Then tomorrow you can start riding it, okay?”

He nodded eagerly. “It’s the first new bike I’ve ever owned, Mr. Harding!”

When we pulled up close to Timothy’s home, the outside light did not go on.

“I don’t think my mom is home from work yet. Her car isn’t here.”

I removed the bike from the trunk and leaned it against the side of the house where clapboards were missing.

“Will you be okay?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, my mom will be home soon. Do you know what she promised, Mr. Harding?”

“No, what?”

“She said that if we got to play in the championship game next Saturday, she would take the day off, even if her boss got mad at her, and come to see me play. Won’t that be neat?”

“It certainly will be.”

“She’s never seen me play. Did you know that? Maybe I’ll get a hit in that game, while she’s watching.”

“I sure do hope so, Timothy. Now, don’t forget Wednesday night’s game, the last one before the big one. We’re playing the Pirates, and we can all start getting ourselves ready, in that game, for the championship tussle. Okay? See you Wednesday.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Harding. Thank you.”

I guess our kids were already looking ahead to the championship game against the Yankees, a week from Saturday, because they were terrible in their final game against the Pirates. I pitched Todd for three innings and
Paul Taylor for three so that my two aces would have some work in preparation for the big one, but the team as a whole played a sloppy game, and I think we managed to squeak out an 11-to-10 victory because the Pirates, certain to finish third in the league standings no matter what the outcome of our game, played as if they didn’t care.

Since we had clinched our spot in the championship game, I let Timothy play the entire six innings, hoping he would get that base hit he wanted so badly. He did hit a hard grounder to the pitcher in the second inning, but then he went down swinging the other two times he batted.

The ballpark and parking lot were nearly empty by the time Bill and I had gathered all the baseball gear and piled it into the trunk of his car. In the twilight I moved close to my old friend, extended my hand and said softly, “I’ll never be able to repay you for what you have done for me.”

Bill cocked his head and frowned. “What are you saying, John?”

“You came back into my life at just the right time. You gave me something to worry about, to think about, to live for—the Angels. You and those great kids actually returned my life to me when I didn’t want one anymore. God bless you.”

We embraced and said good night. However, when I was perhaps twenty feet away, walking toward my car, Bill called after me. I turned.

“Maybe we all contributed a little bit, John,” he called
out, “but you had better not forget to thank our smallest Angel. He’s taught all of us how to deal with life, day by day.”

I don’t remember how long I sat in my car before I turned the key in the ignition.

XIII
 

D
uring what seemed like an agonizingly long week leading up to the championship game on Saturday afternoon, we held two practice sessions for our Angels on Monday and Wednesday afternoons, while Sid Marx put his Yankees through their paces on Tuesday and Thursday. We concentrated on basics, especially batting, and although the kids were in great spirits, I couldn’t say the same for Bill and myself. Following the final game of the regular season we had learned from Paul Taylor’s mother that he would not be available for the championship game. Plans had been made and hotel rooms reserved by the Taylors almost a year ago to take Paul to Bermuda for two weeks of golf and scuba diving, and unfortunately their scheduled departure was just a day before the big game. As Paul’s mother said, “Who knew, ten months ago, that our son would be needed to
help win a ball game—the championship game?” However, before Monday’s practice, Paul’s smiling dad came over to Bill and me with the joyful news that he had managed to postpone his vacation for a week as well as change the family’s reservation dates at the exclusive Sonesta Beach Hotel. A miracle! Neither Bill nor I could believe our good luck.

The big game was scheduled to begin at two
P.M
. on Saturday, but when I arrived, slightly before one
P.M.
, the stands were almost filled to capacity and people had already started to open their folding chairs in both the left- and right-field foul territory, a custom that had apparently been initiated many years ago for the annual championship tussle. In the grandstands, to add to the special flavor and ambience of baseball on a warm summer afternoon, two vendors dressed in white were already busy selling ice-cream bars and boxes of popcorn. Behind home plate George McCord was doing his best to get the crowd into the spirit of the day by playing college marching songs over the loudspeakers, with the volume turned up a little bit louder than usual.

Bill saw me as soon as I came through the fence opening onto the field, and he immediately came jogging over. “Couple of things, John,” he said as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Over there, behind home plate,” he said without looking in that direction, “are some reporters—from the
Concord Monitor
and the
Manchester Union Leader
.”

“For a Little League game? This isn’t for the state championship, for God’s sake!”

“No. They said they were here to observe how a billion-dollar executive manages a bunch of kids under thirteen.”

“Great! Just what I need.”

“They’re nice guys. Not to worry.”

I glanced around the playing field. Four Angels had already arrived. Tony Zullo was playing catch with Timothy, and Paul Taylor was fielding grounders that Justin was rolling to him from his first-base position. “Bill, what else did you want to tell me?”

“Well, I thought you’d like to know that Timothy’s mother did come. She’s sitting in the first row of seats behind the third-base dugout, with Doc Messenger. Wearing a white T-shirt and a pink hat.”

“I see her. Thanks, Bill.”

I walked over to the stands, removed my Angel baseball cap and extended my right hand. “Mrs. Noble … Doc … I’m glad you are both here. I know this means a lot to Timothy.”

Mrs. Noble smiled and nodded. “Nothing could have kept me away today, Mr. Harding. Nothing. I hope you win.”

“Thank you. Doc, it’s good to see you again.”

The old man nodded as he shook my hand. “It’s mutual, sir. Mr. Harding, if you would, please refresh my fading memory for me. Am I correct that Timothy has yet to achieve his first hit of the season?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say it’s true.”

The old man removed his battered cowboy hat
and stared at it. “This game, then, is his last opportunity.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so, for this year anyway, and it won’t be easy. The Yankees are throwing their ace pitcher at us, and he’s very tough for anyone to hit.”

“Well,” he said softly, “I wish you the very best for your team, and I guess we’ll just have to pray extra hard when our young man comes to the plate.”

“Thank you,” I said, turning back toward the field as the familiar strains of the “Notre Dame Marching Song” echoed through the ballpark.

On a folding bridge table, behind home plate’s heavy wire backstop, Stewart Rand and Nancy McLaren had placed twenty-four trophies that sparkled in the bright sun, each a golden life-size baseball mounted on a square wooden base that held a small metal plaque already engraved with each player’s name, team, and the words
BOLAND LITTLE LEAGUE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME
. There were no losers in our league.

Finally two umpires approached home plate and beckoned to Sid and me. The tall one, Jake Laughlin, would be umpiring at home, and the other blue shirt, on the bases, was Tim Spelling.

“Gentlemen,” Laughlin said hoarsely, “this is the only Little League game played here, all season, where the home team is not designated by the league schedule. Mr. Marx, I’m going to flip this quarter. While it’s in the air, will you kindly call heads or tails? In this toss there are no options. The winner of the toss will be considered
the home team, bat last, and have the third-base dugout, understood?”

We both nodded, and while the coin was still above our heads, Sid yelled, “Tails!”

Another stroke of good luck. The familiar profile of George Washington stared up at us. My Angels would bat last. Fortunately our guys had already dropped most of their equipment and gloves in the third-base dugout as if they were unafraid to tempt fate, so they all cheered lustily when I told them they could stay and that we had last “ups” at bat. After they were all seated, except Todd, who was warming up behind our dugout, I walked slowly from one end of our bench to the other, my hands in my back pockets, leaning slightly so that I could look into the eyes of each boy. Finally I said, “Well, you made it to the big game, and each of you should be proud of the important part you played in the success of the Angels. Now, I have just one thing to say to all of you. Yes, this is the big one, but I want everyone to have fun today. That’s what this is all about. Being here today is your reward for your efforts all season, but rewards aren’t much good if you can’t laugh and smile and enjoy them. Remember, the sun will still rise tomorrow, whether you win or lose, and your best years are still ahead of you. Sure, it would be nice to win, but this is not life or death. It’s just a ball game, so stay loose, enjoy the day and remember what Timothy Noble has been telling us all season.” I pointed toward the little guy. “Remind them once more, Tim.”

He stood, raised his small arms above his head,
clenched those tiny fists and yelled, “Never give up, never give up, never give up!” Immediately the entire team joined in, “Never give up, never give up, never give up!”

The tall ump was waving at both dugouts and pointing toward the foul lines running from home plate. The Angels raced out onto the field and took their single-file positions down the third-base foul line, while the Yankees did the same down the first-base line, both teams close to home plate. Following an upbeat rendition of the national anthem that George McCord played over the loudspeakers, Todd walked out to the pitching mound, but this time, as previously arranged, he was joined by Yankee ace, Glenn Gerston, and together the two of them led the others in reciting the Little League Pledge. Then the home-plate umpire raised his mask high above his head, and our Angels leaped from the dugout shouting, “Never give up, never, never, never!” as they ran to their positions on the field.

The forty-fourth annual Boland Little League Championship game was about to begin.

Following Bill West’s suggestion, I had asked Todd Stevenson to warm up for at least ten minutes more than he usually did to prepare for a game, and the tall blond was faster than I had ever seen him. He opened the game by striking out the first two Yankees to face him. Then he walked the third batter before the Yankees cleanup slugger smashed a double to deep left-center and the Yankees suddenly had runners on second and third, bringing up their pitcher, Gerston. Todd worked
very carefully on his opposite number until the count was three balls and two strikes before Gerston swung at a fast inside pitch and cracked a hard shot between first and second and we were suddenly behind by two runs before we nailed down the final out of the inning.

In our half of the first, although Tony Zullo walked to lead things off, Justin and Paul hit easy grounders to the infield and Todd went down swinging after hitting two balls over the left-field fence—both foul.

We managed to retire the Yankees in order in the second inning but they did the same to us after both Tank and Charles Barrio walked. Opportunity wasted. Then, as Bill and I had planned, we inserted our other three Angels into the lineup at the top of the third inning. Chris Lang went in for Tony Zullo at second, Dick Andros went to left, replacing Bob Murphy, and Timothy Noble jogged out to right, replacing Jeff Gaston.

Sid Marx also made several changes. His scorekeeper and Bill exchanged the names of each team’s substitute, near home plate, after they had both notified the game’s official scorekeeper, who was seated at another folding table next to Nancy and the trophies, behind the wire backstop.

The first Yankee batter in the third inning smashed one of Todd’s fastballs down the third-base line, just inside the bag. I still don’t know how our Paul Taylor managed to get to the ball, but he did, making a sensational diving backhand catch before falling to the ground. The crowd leaped to its feet, applauding and
cheering for at least five minutes before both umpires went to the pitching mound and raised their arms, until the appreciative fans reluctantly settled back in their seats. It had been one of the finest baseball plays I had ever seen. Todd then struck out the next batter, and the side was retired when their lanky catcher hit a towering fly to center field, which Charles Barrio handled easily. Both teams, so far, had played errorless ball despite the pressure of the championship, but the Yankees had a two-run lead as we came to bat in the bottom of the third inning.