Nobody said a word, but I could feel my teammates watching me as I trotted out to right field at the next practice. I shagged fly balls until Grandison called me in for batting practice. I managed to hit the ball hard a couple of times, but I missed more than I hit. When my turn in the batting cage was over, Miguel Alvarez came over to me. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't worry about me, Miguel. Just pitch."
"You're better than me."
I laughed. "I'm terrible."
Grandison's voice boomed across the field. "Miguel, come here."
"You'll make it back," Alvarez said before jogging off.
He was taking my position from me, but I still liked him. In another time and place, he could have been a friend.
We had a game Wednesday afternoon against Edmonds. I sat at the end of the bench next to Alvarez, as usual. Only he was the one fighting to keep his nervous energy under control, and I was the guy just watching.
Edmonds broke on top with three runs in the second inning on an error, two walks, and a bases-clearing double down the line. But we fought back, scratching out single runs in the third and fourth innings, before breaking through for three runs in the top of the sixth. When Hank Fowler got the third out in Edmonds' half of the sixth, Grandison called down the bench. "Get loose, Miguel. You're pitching the seventh." We didn't score in the top of the seventh, so our lead was 5–3 as Alvarez made his way to the mound to pitch the bottom of the seventh.
Alvarez hadn't done anything, but by his third warm-up pitch sweat was pouring down his forehead. Usually he had a smile on his face, but he was all business. And he was on. He fired strike after strike. His arm was loose and free—the way mine used to be. He struck out the first Edmonds hitter on three pitches, got the next batter on a grounder to third. The final hitter lifted an easy fly ball out toward Jim Wilson in right field. Wilson settled under it and squeezed it for the third out.
The guys surrounded Alvarez at the mound, pounding him on the back. His grin went from one side of his face to the other. I joined them. "Way to go, Miguel," I said.
"Thanks, Shane. Thanks a lot."