CHAPTER 13

On the day of the game, Wash gave us a little talk on how to hit a knuckleball. None of us had ever before seen one in a game.

“My grandfather threw a knuckleball in the Negro Leagues,” he told us. “He called it his ‘butterfly’ pitch. He used to say the knuckler is hard to hit because you don’t know where it’s going. But neither does the pitcher. The ball could accidentally wind up right where you want it.”

Wash grabbed a bat and took a stance. “The first thing is to move up in the box a little. You’ll give the pitch less time to move around. The next thing is to be patient. The knuckler comes in slow, so wait on it and watch it as long as you can.

“When you’re ready to swing don’t look up. Watch the ball hit the bat.”

Carson was on the mound for us. As we got started, I spotted Dad and the Yankees’ guys in the seats off the third baseline.

The first batter grounded to second for out one. Carson walked the next guy. The umpire wasn’t giving him much on the low side of the strike zone, and that might mean trouble. Carson’s fastball has a natural sink to it, and he gets batters to hit a lot of ground balls.

That’s what happened with the next hitter. He hit the ball hard on the ground to my left. I caught it on the run and flipped it to Zack, who turned the double play. I could hear Dad yelling his approval from the stands.

Dewey Wilkins took the hill in the bottom of the inning. The Miners’ catcher was wearing a mitt the size of a trashcan lid. Darius was up first, and frankly, he looked a little silly trying to hit the ball. After he struck out, he came back shaking his head. I heard Wash say, “Be patient.”

Gus actually made contact with the ball, hitting a high foul behind the plate that the catcher grabbed. Nellie, our power hitter, got the count to 3–2, but he fanned on a pitch that wound up in the dirt. It looked like Wilkins had his stuff.

Carson retired the side in the second. Sammy was first up for our side and actually hit the ball, but he was underneath it and flied out to short right field. I was up next.

I was thinking about holding back and being patient—all the stuff Wash had said—so I didn’t even swing when Wilkins threw a nice, fat fastball right down the middle on the first pitch. Man! Even knuckleballers mix in a fastball or a curve now and then, just to keep the batter off balance, in case he wasn’t that way already.

The next pitch was outside. I took it, but I really hadn’t seen it. It could just as easily have wound up a strike. In other words, the pitcher was still controlling me. The next pitch I swung at and felt nothing but air. It looked like it was going to be a short day.

Wilkins’s next delivery looked like a ball, but it fluttered over the plate at the last minute, and I knew I’d struck out. I heard the umpire yell strike, but then I heard the fans yelling. The ball had gotten away from the catcher, who was chasing it to the backstop. By the time he found a handle on it I was standing on first base.

Danny was at the plate after me. I was taking a big lead, trying to distract the pitcher. The fact is, stealing second on a knuckleballer is easier than with other pitchers: the ball takes longer to get to the plate, and it’s harder for the catcher to handle.

Wilkins had plenty of experience with that, but he wasn’t about to give me a free pass. He threw over to first a couple of times. I’d dive back, but I kept the long lead.

I think what happened next was Wilkins trying to get me out by way of the catcher. In any case, he threw a fastball. I broke for second, but it didn’t matter. The fastball was outside, but not far enough. Danny’s a righty, and he stepped into the pitch and parked it over the fence in right. We were two up.

The Miners got one back in the fourth on two doubles, but our hitters were starting to see the knuckleball a little better. The second time around the order three of us got hits, one of them mine, even though we didn’t score.

In the eighth they touched Carson. The first two batters singled and were standing on the corners. The third guy then hit a fly to shallow left. I yelled for it and started back, but then I heard Darius yelling, “Get out!” I wasn’t going to make this mistake twice, so I gave way.

Somehow, though, Darius dropped it. As he was running in, it hit his glove and bounced in front of him, so he booted it towards me. We were lucky in a way. The runners had held up in case it was caught, and the guy on third had only average speed. I barehanded the kick from Darius and gunned it to the plate from the grass in left. The throw was on the money, no hops, and Nick tagged out the runner.

Dad was again going crazy, slapping Brian on the back and yelling, “Heck of a throw, Trip!” There was a time when Dad’s approval would have meant the world to me. Now it just left me cold.