7 Days at the Hot Corner (10 page)

I'll admit that as much as I love baseball, it can be boring sometimes if you don't know what's going on; in fact lots of times it's not very exciting. But if just once you get into a game as important as our game today is, and if it turns out to be a great one, you'll never see baseball the same way again.

We start out falling behind by two runs in the top of the first inning as Priest River, the other team, scores. In the bottom of the first, Josh Williams walks and then steals second. He makes it to third on a sacrifice fly to shallow right field; the play is real close with a great throw by their right fielder and an even greater headfirst slide by Josh. We get a run of our own when Josh scores with two outs on my single into left.

In the second inning, nobody scores but both sides make some incredible defensive plays. Alex Turner, our right fielder, who is usually pretty weak with his glove, makes a diving catch into the crowd, where he knocks over about four fans. During the bottom half of the inning, Priest River's shortstop, a little guy, only about five foot four, makes two unbelievable plays on balls that look like sure base hits; one to his left and one to his right.

Good pitching dominates the next four innings as our pitcher, Phil Coyle, settles down and strikes out five of the next thirteen guys he faces, giving up only one harmless single. Their pitcher does an equally good job. Good pitching can be boring, but these guys are working fast—and with a score of 2–1, and our winning streak, and the league championship riding on the outcome, the crowd's really into it.

In the seventh and eighth the offenses get going again for both teams. We take our first lead of the game in the bottom of the seventh, only to have them come back and score in the top of the eighth. Going into the last inning, the game is tied 5–5. Priest River scores the go-ahead run in the top half of the ninth inning on a two-out home run by their third baseman, a tall, gangly kid with a good glove who hasn't had a base hit all day. Their team goes wild; they pour out to greet the kid who has hit the dinger and mob him. I know I should be all depressed and down, but I can't stop smiling. The winning and losing thing just doesn't matter that much. If somebody is going to beat us, I'm glad it's their guy at third base—their hot-corner man.

We get the final out in the top of the ninth and are back in our dugout. I walk up and down the line kind of laughing and chattering it up with our guys. I am doing like “Hum baby, hum baby, come on …” as if we're back in Little League. Several of the guys start laughing along with me, doing “Hum baby, hum baby” too. It's like we are all eleven years old again, playing rec-league ball, and nothing matters but having fun. They are up 6–5, but we have one more chance!

We have to score one run to tie—this would force the game into extra innings—or two runs to win it straight out. Of course, if we don't get at least one run, we will lose. I refuse to think about losing. I refuse to consider the possibility that our season could end in a loss. Life is full of losing and losses—ones we can't do anything about. This is only a high school baseball game, but I am not going to let us lose today—life lets us win some of the time too. I
need
to win this thing—I need this win!

I'm due up fourth. Allen Smitter, our second baseman, leads off the inning. He walks up to the plate and drives the first pitch hard up the middle for what looks like a sure base hit until that incredible little Priest River shortstop makes another absolutely fantastic play, diving from out of nowhere to snag the ball and throw Allen out by two steps. Our coach, Mr. Trefts, pinch-hits Brad Collins for our pitcher, and Brad works a 3–2 count into a walk by fouling off two potential third strikes. Next up, batting just in front of me, is Matt Tompkins. Matt is one for three with a single in the fourth inning. He's our best power hitter, but he also leads the team in strikeouts and at hitting into double plays. If Matt can get on base or at least stay out of a double play, I'll get to hit. I'll either be the hero or the goat. My adrenaline pulses through me.

I walk to the on-deck circle and try to quiet my breathing. Inside my head I talk to myself like an ESPN Sportscenter announcer: “Collins represents the tying run and is on first. Tompkins, the big first baseman, is at bat, the potential winning run. And in the on-deck circle is Scott Latimer, two for two today with a walk, an RBI, and a run scored. It's important for Tompkins to stay out of the double play and to—”

An incredible crack of the bat interrupts my fantasy broadcast. Matt hits a one-hop dart right down the third-base line, where Priest River's third baseman, the hero of the top half of the ninth, is hugging the line. There is no doubt that they can turn a double play to end the game—Matt hasn't even gotten out of the batter's box when the ball smacks into the third baseman's glove.

“Foul ball,” the umpire calls and signals, spreading his arms out wide. Even from my spot in the on-deck circle I can see the crease in the dirt, two inches foul, five feet in front of third base.

If Matt strikes out, we'll be down to our last chance, down to my last at bat. I want it. I have played hard and practiced my whole life for this moment. A part of me is scared, but lately I've faced much bigger fears!

Matt takes a pitch, high and in for a ball, then another one low and away. Two balls and one strike. That count favors Matt, but their pitcher has pitched us well all day.

I need to clear my head, forget about failure and winning and losing, and just relax.

I look up toward the bleachers, up into the seats, hoping to catch a glimpse of my dad or mom or Travis. I need to escape from the pressure. I take a couple of slow, deep breaths and whisper, “Hum baby, hum baby,” to myself, getting ready; I even smile—

Crack!

It's a sound like no other in sport: the sound of a bat crushing the life out of a hard-hit fastball. The second I hear it, I know that if it's fair, it's gone. I look up in time to see the ball sailing into the sky toward straightaway center field. Matt drops his bat, raises his arms, and starts off toward first base at a quick trot.

The ball clears the fence by a good fifty feet. Home run!

It's over.

We've won!

All of our guys, who've been pressed up against the chain-link fence of the dugout, wearing their rally caps upside down and inside out, pour onto the field, jumping up and down like maniacs. I'm stunned. Of course, I'm happy we've won! We've set a new record for consecutive wins in an undefeated season, and we are the champs. But I also feel like I've lost my last chance. As I peel off my batting gloves, I can't lock out the weirdness of Matt Tompkins being the hero. I wanted to be the hero—I needed to be! I try to put it out of my head, but it keeps rolling over and over. All my life baseball has been the most important thing, and now, at its most important moment, I'm left standing in the on-deck circle? This isn't the way I saw things going—not at all. There's a huge hole in my gut, a huge empty feeling inside me; how can this happen, to be so close to being a hero only to have it snatched away at the last second?
You live in fantasyland … baseball and bullshit … you think everything is one way, the way you wish it were, when really nothing is!

I watch Matt trotting around second base and I realize that I'm being a jerk, a jealous jerk at that.

I remove my batting helmet and by habit drop my gloves into it. My bat lies on the ground at my feet; the metal donut ring is still wedged onto the barrel from my warm-up swings. Gloves, helmet, bat—if I don't get a call-up from the pros, this will be the last time I'll ever use this equipment. Matt is the hero, not me. How is that fair? But even as I ask myself the question, I laugh at how stupid that is—“fair” hardly ever has anything to do with what happens.

I walk out to join the rest of the team at home plate.

I crowd in next to Josh and Willie and all the other guys. It's mayhem as we all jump up and down together. The crowd pours onto the field from every direction, jumping up and down with us, waving their arms in the air, whooping and whistling and hollering. It's completely nuts. Brad Collins crosses the plate to a mugging of a hundred hugs and high-fives. By the time Matt comes around third, there is a huge mob of kids and he is actually smiling and laughing, accepting back-slaps and hugs and high-fiving kids; I don't remember
ever
seeing him laugh before.

The umpire behind home plate, getting jostled by the crowd, finally gets out of the way, giving up on the idea of watching Matt touch home. This game is over. My baseball career is probably over too. Oddly, it feels all right—actually it feels almost good.

The second Matt jumps up and lands with both feet on home plate, he is lifted onto the shoulders of dozens of crazed kids, some teammates, some classmates. They carry him off for a trip around the diamond again. I give up on the idea of trying to congratulate him—the crowd is too wild and he wouldn't care anyway. In the middle of that mob, though, I see the two girls from the Safeway. I can't remember their names—oh yeah, the taller, blond girl is Davita; I think that's right. The girls are helping carry Matt, the hero, on his victory lap. This is his moment.

I turn to leave the field, noticing for the first time all the kids surrounding me, slapping my back, excited to be close to me just because I've been a part of it. I am laughing and whooping along with everybody else. Some moments are pure
good
, and this is one of them.

I look across the white chalk running up the first-base line, and standing waiting for me are my dad and mom and Travis. Mom comes over and gives me a big hug. “I'm so proud of you,” she says. Dad hugs me too and adds, “Good game, great game, you guys were magic out there.”

Travis has hung back a little, but I see his face. It is obvious he doesn't want to take anything away from my moment, but I can tell he is really happy for me. How hard must it be for him to stand back and watch my parents give me so much love and support, while his parents have shut him out of their lives? Here I am being treated like a hero, when really I'm not a hero at all. Travis is the
real
hero. I get that now; he's done something brave—and it isn't in a baseball game, it's in
real
life, and it's something that matters a lot more than any game.

He steps tentatively toward me, smiling and putting his hand out for me to shake. I take his hand and use it to pull him close. I give him a big hug. It feels good, like it always used to feel when we were little and we'd wrestle with my dad, or as we got a little older and we'd be on the playground and score a winning goal or touchdown and we'd jump up and down and grab each other; it feels just right.

“Congratulations,” Travis says. “You guys were awesome.”

“Thanks,” I say, still holding my friend close. “I'm sorry,” I add softly. I feel really emotional, my throat tight and my hands kind of shaky. But it feels great to be able to apologize and mean it. “I'm so sorry,” I say, “for being a jerk, for not being a better friend, for not—”

He interrupts me. “Hey, we're cool. We can talk about all that later. Let's just enjoy this.” I look into his face and he is smiling too. He's right; we're in the middle of a gigantic party, so it's definitely party time.

We both laugh and pull away from each other, and do a fairly successful high-five.

At about this moment the crowd carrying Matt on their shoulders sets him down to a huge cheer at home plate. Matt looks deliriously, out-of-his-skull happy. He waves his arms over his head to the hundreds of fans still in the stands, and they cheer wildly again.

“I better go congratulate him,” Travis says, pulling away from me.

I haven't heard his words clearly, or his message just doesn't quite register in the chaos and excitement of the moment. Before I realize what's happening, Travis is walking straight toward Matt.

A rush of fear, backed by a jolt of adrenaline, blasts up my spine and into my head, exploding!

“Travis,”
I yell to his back, lunging. He can't hear me. As I throw myself after him, I bump into a skinny girl, almost knocking her over. “Sorry,” I say hurriedly, trying to pull away from her. But half a dozen other kids, jumping and screaming, are in front of me. Before I can get halfway to him, Travis is standing right in front of Matt. I see Travis's lips moving. Matt throws his head back and laughs, then he and Travis throw their arms around each other and Matt lifts Travis in the air, like a rag doll. They are both laughing and hopping up and down. I stop dead in my tracks and just watch them celebrate.

Eventually, the chaos and wildness and fun begin to ebb a little. The crowd thins out, and my mom and dad have gone.

Travis walks back up to me, smiling as he approaches.

“Jesus,” I whisper to him quickly. “Didn't you get my voice mail?”

Travis says, “No, I forgot my phone at your dad's.”

I say, “I thought you were going to get killed just now.”

He looks puzzled, “Why?”

“Matt Tompkins”—I'm still whispering—“knows it was you in the school paper. I tried to warn you before, and again a minute ago when I couldn't get to you—”

Travis laughs and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Tryin' to rescue me, huh?” he says. “Matt's known for a couple of years, Scott.”

“Years?” I ask, stunned. “Why would you tell Matt Tompkins before you told me?”

“I didn't actually ‘tell' him,” Travis says quietly.

I don't get it. “Well then, how'd he know?”

Travis smiles at me patiently. “That's secret, Scott. Matt's got his own reasons for needing to keep it that way.”

“Matt?” I ask, suddenly grasping what Travis is saying, completely surprised. “Big, tough, rough Matt?”

“What'd you think,” Travis says with a laugh, “that we all become hairdressers?”