That was a great day, and the next day was almost better. We’d had a big test in chemistry class that I’d studied long and hard for. I thought I’d done pretty well, but when I got it back with a huge “A+” written across the top in red, I was amazed. After class Mr. Woodruff walked down the hall with me. “What are your plans for next year?” he asked.
I told him about Shoreline Community College.
“That’s a good school. You can get a start there. But be sure to take hard classes, university-level. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean you could go a long way. Have you thought about a career in medicine?”
I laughed out loud. “Me? A doctor?”
“What’s funny about that? You’ve got real skill in the laboratory. Good hands, better hands than I’ve seen in a long time. And you’re strong enough at the academics when you really work at them. It would take work and dedication, but you’d make a good doctor or dentist or veterinarian.” He paused. “Anyway, it’s something for you to think about.”
It was the kind of thing my father and mother had said to me for as long as I can remember. I’d always just blown it off when they’d done it. But coming from Mr. Woodruff, the words sounded different. Or maybe I was different. You work hard at something you’re not sure you can do—as I’d worked at baseball—and when you succeed you start thinking that maybe there are other things that had seemed out of reach, but really aren’t.
“I’ll think about it, Mr. Woodruff,” I said, not laughing anymore.
He nodded. “Good.”
Toward the end of practice that same afternoon it was Coach Wheatley’s turn. I knew something was up when I saw him talking first to Selin and then to Curtis. Finally he called me over.
“I like your defense, Ryan. I like the way you keep the ball in front of you. In fact, I like your defense so much I’ve decided to move Curtis to third base permanently and make you my only backup at catcher. If we’ve got a lead late in a game, you’re going in. You understand?”
“Yes sir,” I said, even though I’d never called him “sir” before.
“Good. And one more thing. Chris Selin has a lot of pride, and it’s tough to be yanked out of a game. But he’s a team player and a class guy. He’ll do everything he can to help you. So you listen to him.”
That turned out to be true. For the rest of that practice, and during the other practices that week, Selin filled me in on Reule and Wilkerson and Smith, telling me what they liked to throw and when they liked to throw it. “They aren’t like Josh,” he said, “but they’re good pitchers. You handle them right and they’ll get you outs.”
Thursday afternoon we played Garfield. Through the early innings I sat on the bench next to Josh. He had a big bag of sunflower seeds on the ground in front of him, and he kept stuffing his mouth and then spitting out the shells. He was watching the game, but watching it the way a fan does. He wasn’t going to play and he knew it. For me it was different. I’d gotten a taste of playing. And once you get a taste, you want more.
We cruised to an early 5–0 lead. Ruben had two doubles; Selin knocked in three with a bases-loaded single and a sack fly. Our pitcher, David Reule, gave up some pretty solid hits along the way, but Garfield couldn’t put anything together, and our defense, especially Curtis at third, made some great plays. It looked like an easy victory.
Then, in the top of the sixth, Reule lost his shutout to a two-out three-run home run. Randy Wilkerson came in to get the final out, but that home run woke up everybody. The game wasn’t over.
As we batted in the bottom of the sixth, I kept looking over at Wheatley, hoping he’d tell me to get my gear on. Wilkerson didn’t have a slider or any trick pitches, but defense is defense, and that’s all that matters late in a game when you’ve got the lead. Finally our eyes met, and I was glad they did.
“Ward, get your gear on. You’re going in.”
Josh nudged me. “Good luck,” he said.
Catching Wilkerson was entirely different from catching Josh. He had two pitches—a fastball and a curve. He had no clue whether the ball was going inside or outside, high or low.
I wanted to get ahead in the count on the first batter, so I called for a fastball. But the batter was up there swinging, and he took a cut. He must have got the barest piece of the ball, because it almost stuck in my mitt. Almost.
But instead of sticking, it glanced off my mitt and caught the thumb of my flesh hand, tearing the nail clean off. In a flash I was hopping around, shaking my hand out. Blood was flying everywhere.
Coach Wheatley came out and so did the team manager. They sprayed something on it, then bandaged it up. “Can you stay in?” Wheatley asked.
There was no way I was coming out, not even if my thumb was lying on the ground. I answered quickly. “I can play.”
He smiled. “That’s the spirit.”
But my thumb was throbbing. What I wanted was a nice, easy one-two-three inning. I didn’t get it.
Wilkerson gave up a solid single to the leadoff hitter. The next Garfield guy popped out to short center. We were lucky on that one, because the pitch looked to me like a batting practice fastball right down the middle.
Wilkerson didn’t get lucky with the next pitch, though. It was another fat fastball, and the hitter creamed it into the alley in left center for a run-scoring triple. That cut our lead to 5–4, and put the tying run ninety feet away. It also brought Wheatley out. He took the ball from Wilkerson and motioned to the bullpen for our left-handed reliever, Darren Smith.
Smith was the only freshman on the team. In practice he was fast, but wild, and just looking in his eyes told me how nervous he was. His warm-up pitches were everywhere.
I trotted out. “Just look at my mitt,” I said. “Forget about the guy on third. Forget about the batter. Just look at my mitt. You can do it.”
I returned behind the plate, crouched, put down one ringer, and stuck my mitt belt high in the center of the strike zone. Smith needed a strike, and I was willing to risk that the Garfield guy couldn’t hit his fastball even if it was over the middle.
He stretched, checked the runner, came home. The hitter swung, sending a little bloop into short right. Santos started back, then charged. He caught the ball on the dead run.
I peeked toward third. The runner was tagging. They were going to send him.
Santos’s throw was a good one. It reached me on one bounce and was just a couple of feet up the first base line. I caught it, then spun back toward the plate. The Garfield guy didn’t slide. I dived at him as he lowered his shoulder and hit me the way a linebacker hits a quarterback. The force of the collision bowled me over. I felt my wrist jam into the ground, but somehow I held on to the ball.
“Out!” the umpire yelled, jerking his thumb emphatically toward his ear. “Out!”