It was cold and getting colder when I finally took the mound to pitch the seventh against Shorelake. A low fog was hanging over the outfield, making it tough for the hitters to pick up the ball, and I was going to make it tougher.
The leadoff batter was a sub, a guy I didn't know. I teased him with a changeup outside, then came in with a fastball on the hands. He took a weak swing and dribbled the ball right to me. I tossed the ball to first for the out.
One down, two to go.
Brian Coombs was up next. We'd never been friends, but he nodded at me and half smiled, generally acting as if he expected me to smile back. I gave him nothing—nothing but fastballs that he couldn't touch. Three pitches, three strikes. Two down.
The ball went around the diamond and came back to me. I rubbed it up, then turned to face the final batter of the night. I looked, then looked again.
Reese Robertson.
I'd been so focused I hadn't noticed him on deck. But now that he was there, facing me, I knew this was what had to be, that it was somehow fated.
Something odd happened next. The guys on the Shorelake bench stood up. They started screaming and hollering. "You can do it, Reese!...Just a single, that's all you need."
I didn't get it. They were up by what ... thirteen runs? You'd think that would be enough. Then the chant started: "Cycle! Cycle! Cycle!"
That's when I understood.
Hitting for the cycle is the rarest accomplishment in baseball, rarer even than a no-hitter. A hitter has to get a single, a double, a triple, and a home run all in one game. It takes power and speed and luck. Some great ballplayers go their whole careers and never do it, not at any level. All Robertson needed was a single, and he'd have done it. Just a measly little single.
He wasn't going to get it. Not off me.
I stepped onto the rubber and glared down at him, but he didn't register anything. He was so calm, so confident. There was nothing personal in the way he looked at me. Benny Gold put down one finger, calling for the fastball on the outside corner. I nodded and let it fly. Most guys can't take a full swing at my fastball; their bats aren't quick enough. But Robertson was on it; he just swung right under it. "Strike one!" the umpire yelled. Robertson stepped out, pulled on his batting gloves a little, trying to act cool, but the speed on my fastball had surprised him.
I wound up, delivered. Another fastball, but this time I'd thrown it about six inches outside, figuring he'd be overeager. I was right. He swung awkwardly, barely fouling it back. "Strike two!" the umpire called.
He stepped out, took a deep breath, adjusted his gloves again, then stepped back in. For a second his eyes met mine and locked. Blue friendly eyes, confident eyes.
Gold gave me the sign for another fastball. I nodded. Then Gold crouched down and held his glove a good foot outside. He thought we could get Robertson to go fishing and strike out. But Robertson was a smart batter. He peeked down at Gold and saw how far outside he was set up. Immediately he crowded close to the plate, thinking he'd be able to lean out and poke the outside pitch into right field for the hit he needed to complete the cycle.
Robertson's strategy might have worked if I'd thrown to Gold's glove. Instead, I reared back and fired the ball harder than any ball I've ever thrown in my life. Only I didn't throw it outside. I threw it inside. Up and in.
High heat.
It was the last thing in the world Robertson was expecting. He was leaning out over the plate, looking for something outside and low. By the time he understood what was really coming, he was lost. His cleats might as well have been bolted to the ground.
He was lost, but the ball found him. It found him as if it were some heat-seeking missile. At the last fraction of a second he threw his hands up and tried to duck away, but it did him no good. I heard the ball hit him, hit him so solidly it sounded as if it had hit his bat. It caught him half on the skull, half on the helmet, shattering it. He wobbled, and then he went down. A few seconds later blood was flowing from his nose, and his legs started flopping around.
Everyone stood frozen for what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds. A woman in the bleachers screamed. Gold and the umpire were on their knees, leaning over Robertson. Coach Levine ran out, followed by Grandison and other people from the stands. So many people were crowded around Robertson that I couldn't see him.
I did see his mother, though. She stood off to the side, covering her mouth with her hands, tears running down her face. She looked nothing like the woman who had gone through our house, checking each closet and light switch, talking and talking and talking.
A minute later I heard a siren in the distance. It grew louder and louder, finally an aid car pulled onto the field, right up to home plate. Two medics jumped out. Everyone stepped back.
They bent over Robertson, taking his pulse I guess, or maybe checking his heart. I couldn't really see. They put a brace around his neck. After that they moved him onto a stretcher, then slid the stretcher into the back of the aid car. Reese's mom and dad climbed in with him, and they went tearing off the field, siren screaming.
At home plate Grandison, Levine, and the umpire conferred. It didn't take long. Grandison turned and waved us all in. "Game's over, men," he said.
All of the other guys either had a parent at the game or were going home with a friend. I was the only one getting a ride home in the school van. I packed the gear, threw it in the back, and got in.
Grandison didn't come right away. As I waited, I told myself what some of my teammates had also said as they were leaving: that it wasn't my fault, that it was an accident. Robertson had been leaning out over the plate. I was moving him back, like any good pitcher would. That's all. Just moving him off the plate. If he'd fallen down or jumped back, he'd have been fine. Not that he wasn't fine anyway. He'd had his helmet on. So how serious could it be?
Grandison got into the van. "They've taken him to Children's Hospital. I'm going to go there right now. You want to come along?"
"I have to get home," I said. "My mom is at work. I have to—"
"Look after your sister," Grandison interrupted. "All right. I'll take you home. I don't have time to argue."