Then
A crack of the bat makes me turn and hurry back to my seat. The opposing team, the Blue Jays, have already made a couple of outs by the time I sit down next to Mom.
“Where’ve you been?” she asks.
“Talking to Terry.”
“I saw him with his parents five minutes ago.”
“I was talking to other people too.” I’m definitely not going to tell her about my conversation with Derek Brannick.
“He look all right to you?” Mom asks, talking about Devon.
He’s in position at first base, bent at the knees, glove extended, the way coaches over the years have taught him. I look for that familiar intensity he gets in his eyes when he’s playing.
“He’s fine,” I tell her. I glance back over my shoulder. I see Matt and the others leaving the complex. So much for staying to watch Devon play. I see no sign of Derek Brannick. I feel better that he left, but my heart is still pounding. I turn back and find Mom staring at me.
“You all right?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I lean forward to focus on the game.
The Blue Jays make their last out. Bottom of the first, Devon comes up, batting in his usual cleanup spot, with two outs and Brady on first base. First pitch looks like it might have been a little outside, but the umpire calls it a strike. Devon lets the next two pitches go by as well. A ball, then another strike. Finally, he takes a swing at a ball above his head and misses. Strike three.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I call out to him. “You’ll get it next time.”
He takes his glove out to first base, throws grounders to the other fielders while the pitcher warms up. I watch him carefully. He seems okay now.
Top of the fourth, it’s still scoreless. The Blue Jays have two outs with a runner on third, but all the White Sox have to do is get the out at first to end the inning.
Which is what it looks like they’re going to do. The second baseman grabs the ball grounded to him. Throws it to Devon at first.
It’s an easy toss. Right there. And Devon drops it. Clinking off his glove, it lands at his feet. Runner safe. Devon scoops the ball into his glove, head down, while the other team in their dugout and Blue Jays fans in the stands cheer.
The inning ends with the score 1–0.
By the end of the fourth inning, I’m convinced something’s wrong. This isn’t just Devon having a bad game. He’s up third in the inning, and after Brady and the batter following him get on, Devon walks to the plate with runners on first and second and nobody out.
He swings and misses at the first two pitches. Halfhearted swings. Neither pitch was over the plate.
On the next pitch, he hits a weak grounder to the pitcher, and the Blue Jays get a double play at second and first.
Mom stirs next to me. “Just not his game so far, is it?” I watch Coach Neville talk to Devon in the dugout.
By the time we get to the bottom of the sixth inning, we’re behind 5–0. Our last chance. We’re near the bottom of our order; two batters, then the top of the order will come up. Terry, as usual, is sitting next to me at this point, muttering under his breath.
The Blue Jays bring in a new pitcher. I recognize him. He’s good, throws hard.
This kid usually throws strikes, so it’s obvious he doesn’t have his best stuff when he walks our first two batters. Soon the White Sox have done it again, kept the inning going so that Devon comes to the plate representing the winning run. The score is 5–3 with runners at second and third. One out.
Devon lives for these moments. He loves the challenge.
I watch him carefully, study his body language. He seems okay. Focused. Maybe talking to the coach helped.
I can feel the White Sox fans in the bleachers stirring. Excited. Some people shout encouragement to Devon. Kids have gathered on the other side of the outfield wall, as usual, anticipating a home run.
Take a deep breath, I try to tell him mentally. You don’t have to hit a home run. Just keep the rally going. Even a ground out would bring in a run.
As Devon sets himself, I see the catcher move his glove outside. Way outside. The first pitch hits the glove. Ball one. The catcher might as well stand up as they do in Major League Baseball. The second pitch is just as far outside. They’re intentionally walking him. The other team’s coach would rather put the winning run on base than face Devon in this situation.
The third ball goes by. Three balls, no strikes. I lean back, frustrated. Mom looks at me. “They’re doing that on purpose,” she says. “Can they do that?”
“Sure they can,” I mutter angrily. At least the White Sox will have the bases loaded with only one out.
The pitcher looks at the runners. The catcher extends his glove again. Devon waits to take his walk.
The ball comes down a foot wide of the plate.
And Devon swings. Misses.
I can’t believe it. What was he thinking? Maybe he’s frustrated too. Wants to get the big hit. Figured he’d try one swing. Now he’ll let the next wide one go by.
But he doesn’t. Even though the ball is even more outside. He swings. Misses by a lot.
Full count. What’s going on?
Devon. Take the walk. Except maybe they’re not going to walk him now, not with two strikes on him. Maybe they’ll give him a pitch to hit. Is that why he did it? Force them now to try and get him out? Give him one pitch he can drive?
I try to see Devon’s face, get an idea what he’s thinking.
His face has no expression. Blank.
Devon waits, bat ready. The pitcher takes in a deep breath, exhales, brings his glove to his chest, checks the runners. This time the catcher’s glove does not move outside.
The sound in the stands has grown muted. Everyone knows what Devon is capable of.
The pitcher winds up. Releases the ball.
It comes straight down the middle of the plate. A perfect pitch to drive. I can see the catcher doing everything he can short of jumping across the plate to grab it before Devon swings.
But my brother lets it go by. The sound of the ball slapping the catcher’s glove fills the air.
“Strike three!” the umpire calls.
White Sox fans groan while Blue Jays fans cheer. I hear Terry whisper in an unbelieving voice, “How could he let that go by?”
Devon turns away from the plate. His body language reveals nothing.
But for just a brief moment, he looks up into the stands. At me.
His eyes are narrow. Gray slate. His brow is furrowed. I’ve seen that look on his face two other times in his life.
The last time was during the previous game, as he went barreling home from third, against his coach’s orders, and slammed into the catcher.
Only now the expression is directed right at me.
I hear Mom let out a deep sigh and say, in a low voice, “He just doesn’t have it today.”
I don’t respond. I’m still watching Devon, now sitting at one end of the dugout, away from his teammates.
The rest of the game ends quickly.
But not in the way I expect.
Maybe the pitcher is so ecstatic over striking out our best hitter in that situation—especially when he was trying to walk him—that he let his guard down. Our next batter, on the very next pitch, a kid named Jake Holohan, makes the first home run he’s hit this year count big time, sending it sailing over the right field wall. And just like that, the game is over. Final score: White Sox 6, Blue Jays 5. The White Sox will be moving on to the next round of the playoffs.
The Blue Jays walk off the field, dejected. Jake’s teammates mob him when he reaches home plate. The last one to join them is Devon.