Fenway Fever (19 page)

“Well, there’s still today. What if you get a few bad hops out there? What if you go oh-for-four? The thing is, there’s no one else for you to catch. You can only go downhill from here.”

Stats bent over the scorebook, coughing softly to kick-start his heart.

Coach Carrigan shook Mark’s knee. “Take a breather. That way, you’re in for sure.”

“I could do that? I mean, just not play?”

“This game doesn’t mean anything. We’re in first place. The Stallions are in fourth. The only difference today’s game might make is to slide you backward. You could lose your spot. Am I right, Stats?”

Stats pretended to be caught by surprise, taking a moment to glance up. Then he slid down the bench with his nose in the scorebook. “Well, technically, I guess. One error in the field would drop him to .995. Same as this other guy.” He pointed to a name. “Two errors would not be good at all. That would let a couple of better hitters gain ground in fielding, and they could close in if they have good days at the plate. But if Mark even goes one-for-three, one error wouldn’t matter too much. Overall, he’d still be ahead. Unless, like I say, one of these guys has a great day, and Mark has a really bad one.”

Mark sniffed a sharp breath and gazed out toward center
field. His lips undulated as he pondered the matter. Then they tightened, and he hawked out a load of spit toward the chalk line.

“What if I go one-for-four?”

Stats calculated. “If you do that and this guy in L.A. goes three-for-four, he’d edge you out by a couple of points.”

“Up to you,” said Coach Carrigan. “But you pretty much got a sure thing here. Rather sit down, breathe easy?”

“Okay, I see what you mean.” Mark huffed out a short burst through his nostrils. He finished tying his second shoe. Slowly, softly, as if calculating, he said, “Sit down, huh?”

He pushed his lips forward, then sat back. “Coach, the thing is this. If those guys are playing, I’m playing. All there is to it.” He rose without giving the man another glance and started walking toward the ballfield. “Sit down, my butt.”

Stats did not move, letting Mark’s choice weigh in. He still had a great chance, but if he was going to play, he would no longer be a sure thing. Somehow, though, Stats was not surprised. After all, Mark was a ballplayer. And that’s what they do—play ball.

He watched number nine jog onto the field to join his team.

“Keep him in the lineup, Stats.” The coach stood up. “Geez, I hope he doesn’t regret this.”

It was a hope Stats shared as well. Even so, he had never in his life held more admiration for his brother than at that moment.

Next, he repeated in his mind the last thing Mark had said.
Sit down, my butt
.

Stats grinned and stretched his legs out, getting comfortable
on the dark green bench. Mark might have meant that as a joke, but as far as Stats was concerned, those were words to live by.

Mark’s first home run of the day went to left. His second, though, was an oppo-field beaut, clearing the fence in the right-center gap by five feet. A real power blast. He was having no trouble at the plate that day.

The trouble was in the field.

In the third inning, he charged a red-hot skimmer to his left, which caught the heel of his glove and shot straight up and over his shoulder into center field.

Too hot to handle? Stats thought so. But to be sure, he went to check with Mr. Scorggins, the official scorekeeper, between innings. It was declared an error. With a shaky hand, Stats recorded an E-6 into his book.

Immediately, he checked with the Stat Pack. Since most of the meaningful games were farther west that day, there were no new reports. But for some strange reason, there was a new name.

“What the heck?” Stats shook his eXfyle, then reloaded the page. Same results.

On the top of the list of fielding percentages in the shortstop category, there was another guy with a one thousand mark.

“Who’s this Tony Welzer?” asked Stats, echoing his text to the Pack. “Where did he come from?” It had to be some kind of mistake. It would be impossible for another player to gain perfect status.

Soon enough he had his answer. The kid had been in the
second-base category until game time. Having split his defensive duties between short, second, and third, he had only today recorded more innings at shortstop than at any other spot. Thus, he now qualified in Mark’s category.

“Oh, great.” Should I tell Mark? he wondered. Would he want to know? Or would it cause him to press too hard? He’s already made one error.

For the moment, Stats kept the info to himself.

Mr. 2B/3B/SS was one-for-two so far. And based on having a lower number of at bats, the guy, Welzer, could actually pass Mark’s average if he got another hit.

When Mark flew out to center his third time up, he fell perilously close to the guy in batting average. With another hit, Tony Welzer could climb to the top of the list of shortstops—in both categories.

A shadow passed over the scorebook. It was Mark’s.

“Why’re you looking so worried, Freddy? What’s going on?”

Stats squinted up at his brother. He could not lie. “Another guy just passed you. At least, he’s ahead in fielding and just a few points away in hitting.”

“What? You kidding me?” Mark shook his head. “Geez, somebody’s having a good day.”

That was all talk, and Stats knew it. Mark was doing his utmost to stay loose, treating the news lightly, trying to stay focused.

If only, thought Stats, Mark had just taken Coach Carrigan’s advice and had sat this one out. He’d still be perfect in the field.

“Forget about it, Freddy,” said Mark. “Seriously. Don’t tell me anything else about my situation. I just want to play my game.” He strode off.

Welzer’s game was moving along faster than Mark’s. He was soon two-for-three and had moved in front of Mark in hitting by one point.

It’s slipping away, Stats realized. Mark’s chance to play at Fenway, to represent America—the spot he owned going into this game—was slowly slipping away.

In Mark’s final at bat, he walked. Normally this would not be a bad thing. But today nothing was normal. With the walk, Mark’s average froze. That would have been fine if he were still in the lead. But he wasn’t. He was still two-for-three on the day and he had needed to gain ground if he were to have even one sliver of a chance.

Then the news got worse. Tony Welzer was now three-for-four, no doubt riding a wave of adrenaline, Stats figured. He sat four points in front of Mark. Four points. That was like a million light-years ahead.

Uncatchable. By anyone.

In the bottom of the seventh, the final inning, Mark stood at shortstop pawing the earth. Could he possibly know what had happened? Had he felt the vibe of sadness that radiated from Stats?

All Mark’s team needed were three outs and they would win the game 4–2, but Stats barely felt like watching.

The first batter walked.

“Double play, Mark!” shouted Coach Carrigan from the dugout. “Let’s get two right here.”

At this point, if not for the scorebook on his lap, Stats would hardly have known he was at a baseball game. But a sad cloud hovering nearby kept reminding him. He was at the worst baseball game he had ever witnessed.

The next guy doubled, but was tagged out by Mark after he got caught in a rundown between second and third.

Though one run came in, the play had emptied the bases and essentially killed whatever rally might have been brewing. One down, two to go.

Nice job, Monty, thought Stats. Way to pitch yourself out of a jam.

When he walked the next batter, Mark started yelling. “Let’s bear down, Monty! Get this next guy, right here. Come on now.” He shouted across to Jonny Peskovich at second. “Let’s turn two, Pesko. Get this game over with.”

Monty bore down. And he plunked the next batter in the ribs with a fastball.

Stats didn’t even record the play. So Monty falls apart? So Back Bay loses? Something horrible had already happened, and Stats was the only one who knew about it.

He watched with drained emotions as the next hitter bounced a chopper over the mound. Mark had shaded the guy toward the middle, double-play depth, so he was in a good spot, but had to backpedal to reach the high hopper. He grabbed it with his glove hand. At second, Pesko had also broken for the ball, then gave way to Mark and ran behind him.

In a case like this, the pitcher should’ve covered second, but Monty decided to be a spectator, so no one was there to take Mark’s throw. All he could do was race to the bag. It was the only play Mark had, and he got there just before the runner slid in.

Two down. Tying run on third.

So who cares, thought Stats, if we win or not?

His heart hurt as if he were the one who’d lost the all-star spot. Second place. Going nowhere. All because of an error. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

The following hitter—the Stallions’ best—took the next two pitches, both low and away. Walk him, thought Stats. Set up a force at second. It’s a one-run game, 4–3. Only the guy on third really means anything. Come on, let’s get this over with.

The batter walked. The cleanup hitter did too. Bases loaded. Not exactly textbook baseball, since the winning run was now on second, but still, there was a force play now at every base.

“Let’s go, Bums!” shouted Stats, more out of frustation than conviction. “Last batter now. Force at any base. Come on, you guys!”

Into the batter’s box walked the catcher, a fire hydrant of a guy with no neck and thick stubby arms. Quick stubby arms. He’d already had two singles in the game, both driven hard through the hole between shortstop and third.

The first pitch sailed high and inside. The guy ducked.

“Throw strikes!” Mark pleaded. “We’ll get him out.”

The next pitch was inside again. Belt high. The guy turned on it and slapped a hard grounder to the left side. This time Mark had shaded him perfectly, two steps toward third.

He slid across to get in front of the ball. Picture perfect. He brought his hands back against his belt and, with a gentle ease, scooped the ball up.

He sent a nice low underhand flip to Kerwacki, who stood waiting with one foot on third. Jacky Kerwacki, however, possessed a trait that at times presented the guy with a challenge. He had the attention span of a juvenile gnat. The runner from second was nowhere close, but Jacky seemed to be getting anxious. He banged his glove with his bare fist, then lunged out for the ball just as it arrived. The ball bounced off the thumb of his glove before dribbling away behind him.

Mark never broke stride. After the toss, he had planned to leave the field anyway, seeing the third out in front of him. So he continued on and raced past third base, overtaking the ball before it reached the dugout, where he slid to a stop. Cocking his arm, he spun toward home from his knees to gauge the situation. The runner who’d been on third was crossing the plate.

The trailing runner—most likely underestimating Mark’s athleticism—had decided to head on home, too, once he spotted the ball bounce past Kerwacki.

About halfway down the line, though, he skidded to a panicky halt, having seen Mark’s battlefield pirouette.

For a split second, he and Mark stared eyeball to eyeball, not five feet from each other, until Mark scrambled up and charged
right at him. Before the guy could regain his traction, Mark dove, head down, glove out, and slapped the runner on top of his ankle.

The umpire’s fist shot up. Three outs.

Stats caught himself hooting and bouncing against the dugout’s chain-link fence. The play was that good.

If there was another fifteen-year-old shortstop in the world who could have made that play, Stats would like to see him do it.

After righting himself, Mark flipped the ball toward the mound and came trotting in. It wasn’t until that very moment that Stats fully realized what had just happened. The game was not over. It was tied.

By going all out, by almost killing himself to make a nearly impossible play, Mark had done the only thing within his power to keep alive his already-dim hopes of making the nationals. He’d kept the game alive too.

“Who’s up?” shouted Mark as he hit the bench, slapping a posse of hands walking past. “Freddy, who made last out?”

Stats did not have to look. “Top of the order’s up.”

“Okay!” Mark clapped his hands. He showed no acknowledgment of the underlying message in what Stats had just said.

Mark was the number three hitter. He would bat again.

In the top of the eighth, Mark hit his third home run of the afternoon, and it made the other two look average. Dead center on dead red, it flew so high above the scoreboard that even in
Fenway, Stats figured, the ball would have caught a glimmer of light from the fancy John Hancock sign. The Back Bay Bums now led 5–4.

After Mark crossed home, Stats was waiting at the dugout opening.

“You are having a career day,” said Stats.

“Hope so,” Mark answered, underlining the importance this day might truly have on his future. Too bad the all-star spot was based on batting average and not slugging percentage, because no shortstop had the power numbers Mark had. But when it comes to batting average, a homer is the same as a single.