CHAPTER 17

I drove home and got my stuff, then drove to the field. I was hardly out of the car when I heard Dad’s voice calling me from across the lot. He was all smiles.

“This is going to be a tough practice,” he said. “You’ll all need to be at the top of your game in San Diego.”

He was right about that. The Beach Blowout was an invitational, and the best teams from the United States, Mexico, and the Caribbean would be there. Just to be included was special.

We ran a few laps, stretched, and started our various warm-ups. We usually had a few spectators at our workouts. Some were parents of team members. Sometimes there were college scouts. And always there were a few kids or old people with time on their hands who just wanted to see some good players. Hardcore guys like Dad and Pop Mancini came whenever they could.

When my brothers and I were little, Dad actually helped coach some of our teams. Unfortunately, as we grew up, he never completely kicked the habit. It was pretty common for him to wander down on the field and ask the coaches questions—or even offer advice. Mostly Coach and Wash humored him; he did know baseball, and he cared about the team’s success.

I was waiting my turn for batting practice when I noticed him jawing with Wash down by the dugout. He had on a glove, and he was demonstrating something with it while Wash nodded his head and smiled tolerantly.

Shotaro was throwing B.P. when my turn came. I started slow, trying to get down my timing. When I started hitting line drives I picked up the power a little. We always had a little fun seeing who could hit the farthest or put the most pitches over fence. The little kids would hang out on the other side with their gloves, shagging the balls that left the park.

I was just about at the end of my turn, so I thought I’d try to rip one really hard. That’s something any batting coach from Pee Wees up will tell you is counterproductive. But I didn’t care. I jumped on Shotaro’s pitch way too soon and hooked a screaming liner right at the third-base dugout. I heard a shout and turned just in time to see the ball hit Dad in the head right above his left eye.

He dropped straight to the ground as Wash tried to break his fall. People, including me, came running from all directions. Somebody was yelling, “Call 911!”

The next twenty minutes seemed like hours. Dad was on his back, completely unconscious. He was breathing, you could see that, but blood was coming from a nasty gash on his temple and his face was starting to swell. Wash knelt beside him with a damp towel and wiped away some of the blood. I got down next to him and said, “Dad! Can you hear me?” But he didn’t move.

At some point I began hearing sirens in the distance, and before long paramedics were bent over him, attaching wires and pushing open his eyelids to check his pupils.

“I’m his son,” I said to one of the medics. “How is he?”

“His heart and breathing are good,” he said. “He’s got a head injury, pretty obviously. No telling how serious. We need to get him to the hospital.”

“I’ll follow you,” I said.

“I’ll go with you,” someone said. I looked around. It was Pop Mancini.

“Me too,” Nellie said.

They put Dad on a gurney and wheeled him out to the ambulance in the parking lot. With their siren screaming, they pulled out into traffic with the three of us right behind.

“I can’t believe this,” I said. “What if I killed him?”

“Don’t start down that road, Trip,” Pop said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah,” Nellie chimed in, “it was an accident. It could have hit anyone. Or no one.”

I pulled into the emergency room entrance behind the ambulance. “You can get out here,” Pop said. “We’ll park the car and find you.”

I jumped out and almost ran into a blonde woman with a microphone. Behind her was a guy with a video camera. “KLAS Channel 8,” she said. “Is Julio Costas in that ambulance? What happened? Is it true he’s in a coma?”

They were wheeling Dad into the hospital when the KTNV truck pulled up. I just followed the gurney, ignoring voices behind calling, “Mr. Costas! Wait!”

Wait is what I would do for the next six hours.