Beanball (8 page)

When Luke told me Dawkins had come to visit him,

I told him about Kyle quitting the Compton team.

Luke hadn't known.

I hadn't told him earlier because I thought

he might not want to hear Kyle's name.

 

“He quit,” Luke repeated.

 

“Right after it happened,” I said.

 

Luke didn't say anything for a while.

Then, in a voice so soft I could barely hear it,

he said, “It wasn't Kyle's fault.

All along I've been blaming him for throwing at me.

But it was as much my fault as his.

I made a bonehead decision.

I knew how wild he is, but I was leaning in,

expecting an outside pitch.

How long have we been playing ball?

I should have known better. I got careless.”

 

“It wasn't your fault,” I said.

 

Luke bit at his lower lip.

He ran a hand through his hair.

“That's what I should have told Kyle,” he said.

“That it wasn't his fault.”

 

“You still can,” I said. “You can call him and tell him.”

 

“Maybe I will,” he said.

Luke smiled at me today.

 

I almost didn't go visit him.

I wanted to see him, but I didn't know

what kind of mood he'd be in.

What if he was angry about those articles,

and he found out I was the one who'd sent them?

But I finally decided to go anyway.

 

His head is still all bandaged, and he still looks bad.

But when I walked in the room,

his face seemed to light up.

He actually seemed glad to see me.

At least he made me feel that way for the first time ever.

I'm so happy I was finally able to make him smile.

Sarah came today.

I was hoping she would,

but I wasn't expecting it.

I haven't exactly been great company

when she's been here.

 

It's a funny thing: when we worked on

that research project at school,

I never thought of her as pretty—

at least not in the way Melody is.

 

But today . . .

She must have done something different—

with her hair, her clothes.

I don't know.

But when she smiled,

it actually sent a little tingle through me.

 

Does that sound crazy?

 

I told her about some of the articles I'd read

about athletes with impaired vision,

and she got a funny look on her face,

as if she felt embarrassed

or guilty about something.

 

It was as though a light

had been snapped on in my head.

“It was you, wasn't it?” Luke said.

 

“What was me?”

 

“You sent me those articles.”

 

I wondered how he knew, or if he was just guessing.

Should I tell him the truth or not? I'm not a good liar.

Before I could say anything,

he read the answer on my face.

 

“Thanks” he said. “I'm glad you did.

But why didn't you let me know it was you?”

 

“I didn't want you to be mad at me.”

 

He reached out his hand toward me.

I didn't know what else to do,

so I reached mine toward him.

He squeezed it.

“No way,” he said. “I'd never be mad at you.”

We play Compton tomorrow.

That's always the game we most want to win.

We've lost one conference game, and they've lost four,

but we need to win to stay in first place alone.

Palo Cove has lost two.

A loss to Compton would tie us with them.

 

More than anything, we want to beat Compton

because of their coach.

He's a real piece of work.

I don't know how his team can play for him.

He'll be coaching at third

and yell at a guy for taking a called strike on the corner.

But if a player swings at one on the corner and misses,

he'll scream at him to be more selective.

I'm surprised anyone on that team has his head on straight.

 

At least we won't have to face Dawkins.

I feel bad for him; he's a great pitcher.

I guess he quit because of beaning Luke,

but maybe the real reason was that he was fed up

with playing for their bigmouth coach.

 

I'm sure glad we have Coach Hucklebee.

If we win only one more game this year,

I sure as hell hope it's this one.

That first Oak Grove game ruined our whole season.

If Dawkins hadn't hit the kid, he'd still be pitching,

and we'd still have a shot at the title.

 

I get mad every time I think about how

that damn Oak Grove kid froze.

If he'd just gotten out of the way . . .

 

He ruined our whole damn season.

The last few days have been tough.

With the Oak Grove game coming up,

everybody remembers.

 

Even if they don't say it out loud,

I can see it in their eyes.

Some of them blame me for our season

going down the crapper.

 

Pete says not to worry about it.

He says Coach has been making me the fall guy,

and a couple players bought into it.

But most of them didn't.

 

All I know is, I made the right decision.

When I saw Luke in that hospital bed,

his face all bandaged up

and blind in one eye because of me,

I knew I was right

not to risk doing that to someone else.

I'm Kyle's catcher, not his shrink.

I can't tell him he should pitch again,

but I think he needs to.

Not for Bradington.

Not even for the team.

 

For himself.

 

That's easy for me to say;

I've never been the cause

of anybody getting hurt that bad.

But it was an accident,

and Kyle's got to put it behind him now.

 

Oh, I understand why he couldn't pitch

right after it happened.

But when I see how it's eating at him, I worry.

 

I've tried to tell him it wasn't his fault.

He's got a great future as a pitcher

if he gets control—

and I don't mean just of his pitches.

I mean control of his emotions, too.

 

I'm no shrink; I can't tell him he should pitch again.

He has to tell himself.

I hope to hell he can.

I wish I hadn't gotten assigned to ump

the Oak Grove-Compton game.

Not because of what happened to the Wallace boy.

Because of Bradington.

 

Most coaches are fine.

Oh, sure, there's always someone upset

at a couple calls every game.

That's expected.

 

But Bradington—

if he's not yelling at one of the umps,

he's yelling at his own players.

 

I have to tell you, I earn my money at Compton games.

I can control what he says to me

by threatening to toss him

if he says another word about one of my calls.

But I can't stop him from shouting abuse

at his own players.

 

I'd never penalize the kids on a team

because of the antics of their coach,

but Compton games make it tough

for any ump to be completely objective

and just call them like he sees them.

A borderline pitch? Sometimes it's a struggle

to ignore which team is Bradington's.

Coach Hucklebee's a low-key guy. Never yells much.

But it's funny.

Today he had to chew us out—

for laughing at the Compton coach.

You could tell his heart wasn't in it;

you could see he was trying hard not to laugh himself.

One of the things he preaches is to respect the other team.

But there's no way to respect their coach.

 

Bradington was ragging on his own players the whole game.

He'd beaten them halfway down already,

so it was easy for us to finish the job.

Only the ten-run rule kept us from stomping on them worse.

 

Andy Keller's been red-hot with the bat.

He pounded out four more hits today.

I guess he was out to get revenge

for what happened to Luke.

That damn team of mine.

What a bunch of chokers!

They just flat-out quit on me.

I'm embarrassed to admit I'm their coach.

Teams like this year's make me wonder

why I even bother.

They don't appreciate what I do for them.

All they care about is girls and video games

and cars and who knows what all.

 

When I was a kid, we played our guts out.

Nowadays, they don't seem to give a damn.

We were going good before,

but ever since that win over Compton,

our kids have been on fire.

Every time they take the field,

it's as if they know they'll find a way to win.

Even if we fall behind early, they never lose their poise.

They know they'll find a way to come back.

 

This is a team that just won't quit.

I know it's a cliché, “Win one for the Wizard” and all that.

But these kids really do feel the need to win for Luke,

as if going the distance this year

will make some kind of sense out of his injury.

 

It's great to see that kind of selflessness

in high school kids.

I've never coached a team quite like this one.

“I sure wish you could come down to Coolidge

for the games. Be there when we win it.”

 

“Me, too. But at least the local station

will carry our games.

I'll be able to listen to them on the radio.”

 

“Remember, at the start of the season you called it:

State champs. Two more wins and we've got it.

With Paul and Doug throwing, we've got a good shot.”

 

“I wish I could have been a part of it.”

 

“You were. We couldn't have gotten this far

if we hadn't played every inning

with the same intensity and focus

the Wizard would have.”

 

“It's not the same, though.”

 

“I know.”

Heartbreak.

Oh, this was tough to take. One win away

from going to the state championship game.

 

The only consolation is, we didn't lose it;

Beva High came out in the seventh and took it from us.

 

We were just one out away.

Paul Gettys pitched maybe the finest game of his life.

Beva had only one base runner going into the seventh.

We led, 1–0.

 

Paul struck out the first two. Then they got

a scratch hit and a bloop double.

The next hitter got jammed with a good fastball,

but he punched it to left center.

Gordie raced over and dived for it.

It was a great try, but the ball was just out of reach.

 

There's an old saying, “If a bullfrog had wings,

he wouldn't bump his rear end.”

In other words, it's no good wondering “What if?”

 

Still, I can't help thinking . . .

if Luke Wallace, the Wizard, had been there,

he might have caught that ball.

It was a tough call, picking the MVP.

I had five boys I could have given it to,

and nobody would have complained.

There were the two pitchers:

Paul Gettys and Doug Goulin.

Then there was Andy Keller and Alonzo Mitchell.

Keller gave us a big shot in the arm.

He surprised us all by how well he hit.

He finished at .388, about two hundred points

higher than I would have thought.

Mitchell played a great shortstop and stole more bases

than the rest of the team combined.

 

But I had to go with Gordie Anderson, our top hitter.

He had big shoes to fill on defense,

taking over in center after Luke got hurt.

Nobody ever forgot the way the Wizard

could handle the glove,

but they all respected the job Gordie did.

Dad pulled into the driveway, and there it was:

The house. The basketball hoop. Mom's garden.

I went inside and climbed the stairs.

After weeks of being stuck in bed

and seeing nothing but hospital walls,

walking into my own room,

with all my stuff just the way I'd left it,

was like being reborn.

 

I looked out the window.

I could see Andy's house across the street, two houses down.

I opened my closet and saw sneakers. Baseball cleats. Clothes.