Every coach will tell you that with the game on the line, you've got to block everything out and concentrate on what you're trying to do. But there was too much for me to block out. So I gave up and let it all in. My dad ... my mom ... Grandison ... Kraybill ... Dravus. Somehow I was aware of all of them. But most of all I felt Reese, down at the end of the Shorelake bench, a bat in his hand, staring at me. I made my last warm-up toss from the mound; the Shorelake batter stepped in.
This was it.
I blew out some air and got the sign from Gold. Changeup. Not a bad call to start a big inning. The hitter would be expecting a fastball, and the Shorelake team knew I had a good one. I nodded, then came to the plate. The ball must have looked like a watermelon to the batter. His eyes were as big as saucers, and he swung from the heels. Only he was way out in front. He tried to hold back but the ball squibbed out between the mound and third base. Becker charged in, trying to bare hand the ball and throw to first all in one motion. He almost pulled it off, but his throw sailed just over the top of Hernandez's outstretched glove and down the line into right field. The hitter hustled safely into second base before Jim McDermott could get the ball back to the infield. One pitch into the inning, and Shorelake had the tying run in scoring position.
Greg Taylor was up next. As he left the on-deck circle, he nodded to me, and I nodded back, and that was that. Once he stepped into the batter's box, he had one job: moving the runner to third base. I had one job: stopping him.
Greg was a decent hitter, but it had always seemed to me that he was overanxious. I threw him a fastball that was at least a foot outside, but he swung at it anyway, just like I thought he might. Gold, thinking along with me, put down the sign for a changeup. I nodded, then threw the best changeup of my life. Greg lifted a little pop-up toward third base. "I've got it," Becker called out. A second later he squeezed it for the first out of the inning.
Up next was a little guy I didn't know. He had an exaggerated crouch, choked way up on the bat, and waved it around slowly. It seemed as if his strike zone was about two inches by two inches. I was outside on the first pitch, high with the second, and then outside with the third and the fourth. He trotted down to first, and Shorelake had both the tying and winning runs on base.
"Throw strikes!" Grandison shouted.
I'd faced only three batters, but I was sweating as much as number thirteen had in six full innings.
Before stepping in, the next hitter took five vicious practice swings off to the side. I don't know what tipped me off. Maybe it was what Fletcher had done in the top of the inning or something in the way this batter held his bat; or maybe it was those exaggerated swings. But as soon as I delivered the pitch, I knew he was going to try to bunt his way to first.
It wasn't a bad bunt, but I pounced on it. I might have had a play at third, only I didn't want to risk making a bad throw, so I lobbed the ball to Hernandez at first.
Two outs ... but now the tying run was at third—only ninety feet from home plate—and the winning run was standing at second.
It had been loud throughout the inning. Loud the way a baseball game is supposed to be loud. People screaming out advice and encouragement or just plain screaming. But as I walked back onto the mound, the cheering changed to a murmur, then a hush. I looked in at home plate and understood why.
Reese Robertson was walking toward home plate.
From our sideline I heard Grandison yell for time. A second later he trotted out to the mound. "Let's walk this guy," he said. "If we load the bases, we'll set up a force at every base. It's the smart play. Okay?"
He was trying to make it seem as if it was strictly baseball, as if he hadn't even noticed Reese. I wanted to nod and say, "Sure, Coach." But that would have been the coward's way.
I shook my head. "I have to pitch to him, Coach."
Grandison looked me in the eye. "All right. Then pitch to him." And with that, he trotted back to the bench. Reese took a final practice swing and stepped in.
Gold knew who was up. He called for a changeup on the outside part of the plate, but I shook him off. I had to go after Reese with my best fastball. That's what he'd want, so that's what I was going to do.
I checked the runners, paused, then fired. I was trying to put the fastball right down the middle of the plate, but the pitch sailed inside. Reese jumped back and out of the way, his helmet coming off in the process. "Ball one!" the umpire cried, and from the Shorelake side I heard a chorus of boos. "Watch your pitches, kid!" somebody yelled.
I took off my glove, rubbed up the baseball, and stepped back onto the pitching rubber. Gold put down one finger, but this time he set up on the outside corner. I stretched, my eyes focused on his glove, and I delivered. Reese let it go by. "Strike one!" the umpire yelled.
Gold tossed the ball back to me. I looked in for the next sign, but I also watched Reese's feet. He didn't move up in the batter's box. Gold called for another fastball on the outside corner. Again, I stretched, checked the runners, delivered. My arm felt strong; the ball rocketed to home plate. "Strike two!" the umpire called.
"That was outside!" some parent on the Shorelake side yelled.
"One more strike!" Grandison called.
Reese stepped out of the batter's box, adjusted his batting gloves, then stepped back in. Only this time, he moved closer to home plate.
I knew what was going through his mind. He was hoping I'd lay another fastball on the outside corner. If I did, he would try to poke it into right field.
I looked in for the sign. Gold called for another fastball. I nodded, but I wasn't going outside this time. I'd set him up for the fastball inside, set him up to strike him out. So that's what I had to do. I went into my stretch, checked the runners, and delivered. The ball flew out of my hand: a letter-high fastball that painted the inside corner. Reese jumped back as if it were close to hitting him. For a long second the umpire said nothing. At last, he brought up his right hand. "Strike three!"
A few seconds later guys were all around the mound, pounding me on the back and pumping my hand up and down. "Great game!" they said. "Way to go!" And I said the same things back to them. Grandison was in the middle of us, a huge smile on his face. I was turned this way and that, but I did manage to spot my mom by the fence waving excitedly, her eyes shining. Standing next to her was Coach Dravus.
After that we formed a line and shook hands with the Shorelake guys. They were classy, wishing us good luck in the tournament, telling us we could go all the way. When I reached Reese, I didn't know what to say. All I managed was "Good game."
"You too," he said.
I found my mother and started with her to the car. We were about halfway to the parking lot when Grandison's voice boomed across the field. "Whitman players, get back here!"
"What's he want?" Mom asked.
"I don't know," I said. "But he doesn't sound happy."
I put my equipment bag down and jogged back to the infield. Grandison was pointing to our bench area. "This is a mess," he said as a bunch of us approached. "I want you to clean up this garbage."
We'd been so excited about the victory that we'd left water bottles, towels, and half-eaten bags of sunflower seeds strewn around. In a few minutes we had cleaned it up. "All right," he said. "That's better. You can go now."