Our first tournament game was on Monday, against Woodinville at their field. The school sat on a hill, with the playing fields spread out below. It looked more like a college than a high school.
Miguel had been our best pitcher for weeks, so Grandison had everybody shaking their heads when he picked Cory Minton to start. It made no sense. Then, watching Minton warm up just before game time, I understood. Cory was a three-year letterman. He'd stuck with the team through tough times. He deserved the start, and Grandison was right to give it to him.
On the bench before the game, we were tight. If we could just get a run in the top of the first, everybody would relax. And it looked as if we would, too. Kim Seung hit the first pitch into right field, a sinking liner that seemed like a cinch base hit, maybe even a double. But Woodinville's right fielder made a sliding one-handed catch that brought their fans to their feet. After that, Kurt Lind and Tim McDermott went down on easy groundouts.
Minton took the mound. I watched his final warm-up tosses, but you can't really tell anything from warm-ups. I clapped my hands. "One, two, three," I shouted.
The Woodinville batter stepped in, a lefty with a short stroke. Minton threw a ball, then a strike. With the count 1–1, the hitter laid down a perfect drag bunt. Startled, Minton got a late break on the ball, and our second baseman was way too deep to come in and make the play. The Woodinville guy flew down the line, safe at first.
That bunt single rattled Minton. The next hitter was trying to bunt the runner to second, but Minton was so wild he couldn't do it. Four straight balls, none of them close, put runners at first and second.
Brian Fletcher did the right thing. He trotted in to talk to Minton. I could read his lips. "Keep the ball down," he was saying. "A ground ball, and we'll turn a double play and get out of this."
I leaned forward, hoping for just that. Minton stretched, checked the runner, delivered. A fastball, right down the middle, belt high. The Woodinville hitter swung so hard he almost came out of his shoes. The ball, hit solidly, rose in a high arc against the sky. When it came down, we were three runs behind.
It got worse. A walk, a stolen base, and a single to center brought home a fourth run. Minton struck out the next hitter for the first out of the inning, and the batter after that lined out to third. But the following hitter blooped a double down the first base line. The runner, off on contact, scored the fifth run of the inning when Benny Gold couldn't handle the throw from the outfield. When the third out was finally made—on a comebacker—the guys trudged in, heads down.
Grandison walked up and down the bench, clapping his hands. "We've got six more innings to play, gentlemen."
Right on cue, Jim McDermott took the first pitch he saw and whistled a line drive past the pitcher's ear and into center field for a single. On the very next pitch, he took off for second. It's usually bad baseball to try to steal when you're down a bunch of runs. Get thrown out, and you look like an idiot. But even though the Woodinville catcher threw a strike, McDermott beat the throw with a headfirst slide. He made third on a groundout and scored a run on a sacrifice fly. The score was 5–1 as we took the field for the bottom of the second, but at least we'd started on the road back.
And we kept coming back. Minton settled down and retired Woodinville in order in their half of the second inning. In the third, Gold walked, took second on an infield out, and scored on Kim's double: 5–2. In the fifth Pedro Hernandez took a 2–0 pitch over the fence down the line in left: 5–3. Grandison had me warm up during our half of the sixth. "If you can hold them," he said to me, "we'll win. I can feel it."
I could too. We all could. It was a strange thing to be down two runs with one at bat left and still feel confident, but we did. Minton had held Woodinville in check with an assortment of junk pitches. Curve balls, changeups, the occasional fastball. I came in and threw nothing but heat, and they weren't ready for it. It didn't hurt that the umpire suddenly seemed to be in a hurry to go home. Every close call went my way. I struck out the side, throwing a total of twelve pitches. When we came in for our last at bat, guys were whooping as if we were ahead.
Fletcher was first to bat. He worked the count to 2–2, then took a good swing at a fastball right down the middle. Had he hit it solidly, the ball would have gone sixty miles. But he was just a tad under it, sending a sky-high pop-up into short center. Woodinville's center fielder had to play the wind, but he stayed with it and made the putout. On the bench, guys went quiet.
But they didn't stay quiet, because on the first pitch he saw, Kim smacked a single into right. Lind followed that with another single back up the middle. The two of them then pulled off a double steal, putting the tying runs in scoring position. The game was right there, waiting for us to grab it.
Tim McDermott was at the plate. The pitcher took his time, working inside and out, until the count reached 3–2. I remembered how big the umpire's strike zone had been for me. "Be a hitter!" I screamed out, but McDermott took the pitch. "Strike three!" the umpire yelled, and we all groaned.
We were down to our last out. Woodinville's coach called time and ran out to talk with his pitcher. The guy was just about done. Drops of sweat were rolling down his face. He nodded his head up and down way too fast. Miguel punched my arm. "Shane, we're going to win this game. I can feel it."
"Play ball," the umpire called out. Woodinville's coach trotted off the field. Jim McDermott stepped in.
He was looking for a first-pitch fastball, and he got it. His swing was fast and fluid, and at the crack of the bat we all started screaming. The ball rose high and deep in the air to straightaway center. The outfielder turned and went back on the ball, to the warning track. He stopped at the fence and leaped. A second later he was running toward the infield, holding the ball aloft, a huge smile on his face. The Woodinville players surrounded him, grabbing at his hat and jersey, delirious with joy.