But Reese didn't play the next week, or the week after that. And Shorelake didn't win either. The loss to Endeavor was their first of five in a row, dropping them completely out of the state rankings. Ted Hearn's name stopped showing up in the box scores, and so did Greg's. Both of them must have gone down with some injury or other. Their season was falling apart.
And so was mine. Loosening up along the sidelines, I was as fast as ever. Once I got into a game, that same seasick feeling came over me. I just couldn't throw hard, not with a batter standing in. Sometimes I'd get lucky and a hitter would crush the ball right at somebody. But in most games I got bombed, and most games we lost.
One Thursday, after I'd blown yet another lead and cost us another game, Grandison kept me after practice. "I got some information that I thought you'd be interested in hearing. It's about Reese Robertson." His tone was curt.
"What did you hear?" I said, my voice distant.
"You know he hasn't played since that game, don't you?"
"No," I said, "I didn't know that."
Grandison glared at me. "You didn't notice his name wasn't showing up in the box scores or in the Wednesday newspaper?"
I shrugged. "Why would I check Shorelake's box scores?"
His eyes narrowed. "Oh, I don't know, Shane. Maybe because you hit him in the head and sent him to the hospital. But I suppose that hasn't been bothering you, has it?"
"It was an accident," I said. "I've told you that."
"So you have."
There was a long silence.
"So what did you want to tell me?" I said.
"Nothing much. Only that Reese is going to play again, tonight. Shorelake's got a game against Bellevue at Woodland Park. I'm going to the game. I thought you might want to go too."
I shook my head. "I can't go."
"Can't go? Or won't go?"
"Can't go. I've got homework. Besides, I'm not supposed to leave my sister alone."
"So if I called your mom and explained the situation, she'd tell me there was no way you could go?"
I looked down. "I can't go."
"All right," he said, "go on home."
I headed for the gym. I hadn't gone more than ten steps when he called out to me. "Shane, did Miguel Alvarez ever tell you that he's a pitcher?"
I turned back. "No."
"Well, he is. He pitched in relief last year for his high school team in Sacramento. His uncle showed me his stats. He did pretty well. I'm going to give him a chance to pitch for us."
Right away I understood. Grandison was telling me I was done as a closer.
"That's a good idea," I said, my voice blank.
"Starting tomorrow, you'll work in the outfield. You might like it out there. I'm not telling you to quit pitching; I'm just going to give you a break from it for a while."
On the bus ride home I tried to picture myself playing in the outfield, far from the action. For a while I was depressed, but then it didn't seem so bad. I could stand out there on the green grass, run down a fly ball or two, make a throw to second or third now and then.
Back home, I fixed Marian and me dinner—hot dogs, baked beans, and potato chips—then went upstairs to do my English homework and listen to music. But I couldn't get settled; I kept standing up and walking around. At about six-thirty I went downstairs. Marian was watching television. "You done with your homework?"
"Kaitlin's coming over later. We're going to do it together."
"Would you be okay by yourself for a while?"
"Sure, I'll be okay," she said. Her eyes never strayed from the television.
"You won't tell Mom I left you alone."
"I won't be alone. I told you, Kaitlin's coming."
"I'll be back by ten at the latest."
I thought about taking the bus but decided against it. Buses were late half the time, and they didn't run much at night anyway. I went down to the basement, half expecting my bicycle to have been stolen. But there it was, locked to a foundation post. I was surprised that I still knew the combination. I rolled the bike back and forth a couple of times, then checked the tires. They weren't fully inflated, but they weren't flat either.
Woodland Park is about five miles from my house. Most of the way is downhill, so it didn't take me long to reach the park. When I was little, my dad had taken me to a place for dirt bikes, fifty yards away from the third base line. That's where I locked the bike to a tree. I picked out a grassy spot closer to the diamond, sat down, and looked across the field.
Right away I spotted Reese. He was shagging fly balls in center field, making everything look easy, moving well, joking with the other outfielders. He looked exactly the way he'd always looked, and I could feel his teammates feeding off him. A whistle blew, and the Shorelake guys trotted in. A minute later the game started.
Bellevue batted first. Scott Parino was pitching for Shorelake. He had his good stuff early, striking out the first two guys. The third hitter ripped a line drive to right center. It looked like a sure double, but Reese got an incredible jump on the ball and tracked it down, making a sliding, knee-high catch. After that catch, the whole Shorelake team tunneled over to him as he trotted in, patting him on the back and grinning. In the stands the parents rose and cheered.
"Nothing wrong with him," I said out loud.
Standing nearby was a man watching his son do bike tricks. "Were you talking to me?" he asked.
"No," I said.
Embarrassed, I walked closer to the field, both to get away from the man and to see Reese hit. I had a feeling something big was going to happen, and I was glad I was there.
In the bottom of the first, Shorelake got a leadoff single, followed by another single, and then a walk. The bases were loaded—the perfect setup for Reese's return. The Shorelake fans rose and cheered as he slowly walked to the batter's box, and they stayed on their feet when the Bellevue pitcher fired his first pitch.
It was a ball, way outside. The second pitch was right down the middle, only Reese took it. "Strike one!" the umpire yelled. The next pitch was yet another belt-high fastball. This time Reese swung, but his left side opened up, and his left foot lurched toward third base. He missed the ball by a foot. "Strike two!" the umpire hollered.
A sick feeling came over me. The Bellevue pitcher, suddenly confident, fired a fastball on the inside corner—his best pitch of the game. Reese jumped back as if the ball were close to hitting him. "Strike three!" the umpire yelled. The Shorelake fans booed the ump momentarily but stood and cheered Reese as he walked back to the bench. The next batter grounded into a double play to end the inning.
Reese didn't bat again until the fourth. Again the cheering was loud, but cheering can't make a guy hit. On the first pitch, he swung weakly and missed. "Hang in there, Reese," I whispered. He took a ball, then a second strike, then waved at a mediocre fastball out over the plate for strike three. When he ran out to center field at the end of the inning, his head was down.
The game stayed scoreless until the top of the fifth. Then Bellevue got to Parino, pushing across five runs on a couple of hits, a couple of walks, and a home run. I thought about leaving, but I couldn't go until Reese had had his final at bat. It came in the sixth inning. He struck out on three pitches, the last one a fastball right down the middle.
Before he was back on the bench, I was on my bike and headed for home. When I opened the door, Marian was sitting on the sofa reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire for what had to have been the fifth time.
"You should be in bed," I said.
"As soon as I finish. I've only got two pages to go. Where'd you go, anyway?" Her eyes were on her book, and she was still reading. She could do that—read and talk at the same time.
"A baseball game," I said, suddenly feeling a need to tell someone.
"Who won?"
"Bellevue."
"Is that who you wanted to win?"
"I didn't really care."
"Then why'd you go?"
"You know I hit a guy, don't you?"
She flipped a page. "Sure. Mom told me she thinks you feel really bad about it, though you won't admit it."
"He played tonight. It was his first game since I hit him."
"How'd he do?"
"Not too well."
She closed her book with a loud bang. "Done," she said, and she looked at me for the first time. "But he must be okay if he's playing, right?"
"Right," I said.
She stood up. "I'm glad he's all better. I'm going to bed now. See you in the morning."
"Yeah," I said, "see you in the morning."