High Heat (11 page)

That's what I did. And even though he didn't say anything else, I could feel his anger. Before the game, the guys talked about the Wiffle ball game and the tank top Grandison's daughter wore. From what I could tell, I was the only player who hadn't shown up, not that anybody other than Grandison seemed to have noticed.

When warm-ups were over, I took a seat at the end of the bench next to Alvarez. There weren't many parents or kids in the bleachers, but I could feel the buzz of opening day. Our leadoff hitter, Jim Wilson, nubbed a little roller down the third base line. Their guy got to the ball okay, but his throw was wild. By the time their right fielder ran it down, Wilson, who can fly, was standing at third. Kurt Lind, batting second, struck out. It didn't matter, though, because Pedro Hernandez unloaded a long home run to left field, giving us two quick runs. We scored twice more in the second inning on doubles by Jeff Walton and Benny Gold, and I thought we might blow them out. But after the second inning, the Rainier Beach pitcher settled down and our bats went quiet.

Cory Minton was steady on the mound. He didn't overpower anyone, but he kept the ball low. In the early innings, the Rainier Beach hitters were overanxious, and they pounded those low pitches into the dirt for easy groundouts. But little
by little they started to time Minton. They put together a couple of hits and a walk to push across one run in the fourth, and they scored another on a triple and a groundout in the fifth.

By the sixth, Minton was done. You could see it in his face and in the length of time he took between pitches. Rainier Beach's leadoff hitter smacked a single to left. "Hunter!" It was Grandison's voice. "Get warmed up. Fast." I nudged Alvarez. He grabbed his catcher's mitt, and the two of us hustled up the first base line.

As I warmed up, I kept one eye on the game. Minton threw one ball, then another. The hitter dug in and ripped the next pitch on a line, but right at Brian Fletcher for the first out. But the next batter laced a double down the right field line, putting runners at second and third. I speeded my warm-ups. Grandison looked down at me. I shook my head
no.
There was still some tightness in my shoulder. I'd need a few more throws to get loose.

Minton went into the stretch, delivered. The crack of the bat was so loud both Alvarez and I stopped to watch the flight of the ball.

It was a towering drive to left center. Walton broke on the ball, raced to the base of the fence. I was sure it was gone, but at the last second Walton leaped. His glove was about six inches over the top of the fence, but he pulled the ball back in. The runner at third tagged and scored, cutting our lead to 4–3, but without Walton's incredible play we would have been down 5–4.

Grandison walked slowly out to the mound. I fired one
pitch, then another, to Alvarez. I saw Grandison look over to me. This time I nodded, and he waved me into the game.

I was sweating like crazy when I took the ball from Grandison. "Get him out," he said, and I nodded, my throat too dry to talk. It was the first time I'd been on the mound in a real game since the day my father died. I could almost feel him as I took my final warm-up tosses. "Play ball!" the umpire called. Gold settled in behind the plate.

The situation was pretty simple. Two out, tying runner at second. The batter was their first baseman, a guy with legs like tree trunks.

I was pumped—too pumped. My first pitch was wild high. Gold jumped to his feet, but the ball sailed over his mitt to the backstop. The runner at second trotted down to third-ninety feet from tying the score.

My next two pitches were a little better, but not much. Both were high and outside, but at least Gold could get to them.

With the count 3–0, Grandison called time and trotted out to me. "You want to walk him?" he asked. "Take our chances with the next guy?"

I looked to the on-deck circle. The next batter was a left-handed contact hitter, the kind of guy who puts the ball in play. You never know what's going to happen with hitters like that. "I can get this guy out."

Grandison nodded. "Okay. Just trust your ability. Be fluid."

As he trotted off the field, I crouched down and retied my shoelaces. If I could go slower, my pitches would be faster. I stood up, and smooth as silk, went into my wind-up. I hadn't tried at all, but the ball was a bullet that smacked into Gold's mitt. "Strike one!" the umpire shouted.

From the bench, Grandison clapped his hands together. "Two more just like that, Shane. Just like that."

I got the sign from Gold, went into my motion, delivered. Everything was easy, and the result was another bullet at the knees. "Strike two!" the umpire shouted.

The crowd, loud to begin with, got louder. "Don't overthrow!" I whispered to myself as I went into my motion for the payoff pitch. Again everything seemed effortless, yet the ball exploded out of my hand. This time the batter swung, but the ball was in Gold's mitt before he got the barrel of his bat over the plate. "Strike three!" the umpire yelled.

As I trotted off the mound, the guys behind me whooped and hollered, and when I sat on the bench, they came over and patted me on the shoulder and the top of my head. "Way to go, Shane!" I hardly looked at them. I had another inning to get through.

But that strikeout breathed life into my teammates' bats. We pounded the ball all over the park in the top of the seventh, bringing home five runs on four hits, two walks, and an error.

With a six-run lead, I wasn't going to nibble at the corners. Everything in the bottom of the seventh was right over the plate. Nothing but strikes—hit it if you can, but they couldn't. There was a pop-up to first, a comebacker, and a strikeout.

When the umpire yelled "Strike three!" on the last batter, my teammates rushed the pitcher's mound. I high-fived them all. Grandison came out to me, too. "You the man!" he said, a grin on his face.

I made my way to the bench and as I packed my bag, Kurt Lind came over. "My dad's going to buy us all burgers at Red
Robin. You want to come?" It was the kind of thing my dad used to do at Shorelake after we'd won a game.

I looked across the parking lot to a big van where a bunch of the guys were standing and talking. Even Benny Gold, who hardly talked to anybody, was with them.

"Sorry," I said. "I've got to get home."

"Ah, go with them, Shane," Grandison said from behind me.

I didn't like him listening in on my conversations.

"I've got to go home."

Grandison frowned. "Your sister again?"

"As a matter of fact, it is."

Lind put up his hand. "Next time."

But I didn't hang out with the guys after the next game or the game after that, either. When I closed out the fourth victory of our season by striking out the side, Kurt Lind didn't bother asking me.

"You like being an outsider or something?" Grandison said when he dropped me off in front of the duplex.

I shrugged. "I don't mind."

"I suppose it's easier," he growled. "If you become friends with people, you have to talk to them, get to know them. You can't spend so much time thinking about yourself, can you?"

"Thanks for the ride." I slammed the van door shut and headed inside the house.

It was around then that Marian made a new friend, Kaitlin McGinley. Kaitlin had red hair and freckles and was quick to
laugh. She also had an older sister and brother and two younger sisters. They lived a block away in an old ramshackle house that looked as if it would collapse in a windstorm. Marian went there every chance she got and stayed as long as she could. She was full of stories about the McGinleys' dogs, their creepy attic, and the Ping-Pong tournaments in the waterlogged basement. She was smiling again, and her nightmares had almost stopped.

On more and more school nights, I was alone in the duplex while Marian did her homework at Kaitlin's. You wouldn't think it would matter. When she'd been home, we didn't talk much. She'd go upstairs and read, and I'd stay downstairs and watch television. But there's something about being the only one in a house that's different.

After that fourth victory, I couldn't find anything I wanted to watch on TV. Bored, I stretched out on the sofa and flipped through the
Seattle Times.
In the sports section, there was an article about Shorelake's team. I tried not to read it, but I couldn't resist.

They were crushing their opponents, winning games by scores like 10–2 and 14–1. The writer talked about how good their two starters were, and how many complete games they'd thrown. There was no mention of any relief pitchers.

One name did jump out at me—Reese Robertson. I'd thought he was a total braggart when he'd talked about wanting to hit against me, but according to the article, the guy was some kind of hitting machine. He'd been all-state in California as a sophomore. He was hitting over .500 for Shorelake, with two home runs, a bunch of RBI. He stole bases and caught everything that was anywhere near him. I
read the article over and over again, and every time I read it, I hated him more.

We won our fifth game by thumping Cleveland 7–3 on Saturday afternoon. I pitched another perfect seventh to close it out. Guys were pumped at practice on Monday, but it wasn't the Cleveland game Grandison talked about. It was the next game, Thursday's nonleague game against Woodway. "You've all heard about what happened over at Woodway High, haven't you?" he said.

I'd seen the article in the newspaper—there'd been a big drinking party at Richmond Beach, with nearly the whole team involved. A fight had broken out, the police were called, and a half dozen players were arrested. "The school has decided to shut the entire team down, to forfeit all games for the rest of the year." Grandison paused. "I don't want anything like that happening to this team. You hear me? No drinking, no drugs. No cigarettes. No chewing tobacco. No nothing."

It was nice to get the forfeit, but when you're on a winning streak, you want to keep playing. The coming weekend was the only weekend all season when we didn't have a game. "So we won't play until next week?" Benny Gold asked.

"That's how it looks right now," Grandison said. "But I've got an idea that I'm working on. Pretty exciting, too. That is, if you guys want to play. Only it wouldn't be Thursday. It would be Friday. How about it? You willing to give up your Friday night?"

"Yeah, sure," guys called out.

"Who'd it be against?" Cory Minton asked.

"I'm not saying," Grandison answered mysteriously. "Not until it's definite. But it's a good team, a team I've
wanted to play for a long time. We beat them, and we'll get some attention."

When I got home that night, there was a note on the kitchen table. "Had to start work early. There are some burritos in the fridge for you and Marian. Love, Mom."

I microwaved the burritos, and Marian and I ate them. As I was washing the dishes, a crazy idea came to me. But the more I considered it, the less crazy it seemed. When the dishes were dry and put away, I went to the front room where Marian was reading. "There's something I need to check on the Internet. You want to come to the library with me?"

She shook her head. "I'm going to Kaitlin's. We're doing a science project."

She looked excited; I could tell she wanted to talk. "What's it on?"

"It's an invention. We're going to use my rat wheel to generate electricity. The rat runs in the wheel, and the lights go on."

"How much light?"

"Not much. But it's the theory that counts. You could get lots of lights."

"If you had lots of rats."

"You're making fun of me."

"No, no. It's a good invention."

At the library, I was first in line for a computer with Internet access. I didn't think any of the people would ever log off, but
at last an old man stood up and stretched. It took him about ten minutes to put on his coat and pick up his papers and pencils. Finally the computer was mine.

Immediately I logged on to Shorelake's website and went straight to their baseball schedule. There it was. "Saturday, April 3, Woodway High." Next to it was a single word: "Cancelled."

I was right.

Shorelake didn't play Seattle teams. Their schedule was tilled with games against other private schools and the suburban high schools. But the Woodway forfeit had left a hole in their schedule, a hole that only Whitman could fill. Coach Levine wouldn't want a long layoff. A game against us was a natural.

I stared at the screen. Part of me didn't want to play them. I hated thinking about them sitting in the dugout talking about me and my dad. But another part of me remembered Greg, Cody, and Reese driving by me in the mornings, pretending they didn't see me. Well, they wouldn't see my fastball either.

I pictured the seventh inning. Somehow we'd be up a run, and I'd get the call to close the game. I'd mow them down. Their last hitter would be Reese Robertson.
I'd like to hit against you sometime.
That's what he'd said. I'd make him eat those words. The Shorelake parents and players would be up and screaming, but I'd strike him out on three pitches.

The whole thing was a fantasy, but it wasn't a crazy fantasy, like imagining that I was going to fly to the moon. They were better than us, no doubt about it, but baseball is a quirky game. On any given night, anything can happen.

When I got home, I couldn't settle down. Finally I dug out Coach Grandison's phone number. It rang about ten times before he answered. "Did you get the Friday game?" I asked him.

"Who is this?"

I scrambled. "It's me. Shane. My mom asked me to call so she can get somebody to look after my sister if I'm not going to be home."

There was a long pause.

"Is there a game?" I repeated.

"Yeah, there's a game," he said. "And it's against your old school, Shorelake. But you already figured that out, didn't you?"

"No," I said too quickly. "I mean it occurred to me it might be against them, but it's no big deal to me who we play."

"Right," he said, "just another game."

The game was at five o'clock at Woodland Park, field one. We were already warming up when the Shorelake bus pulled into the parking lot, and the players spilled out of it and onto the field. When I'd been on the Shorelake team, I hadn't thought anything of our uniforms. Now, across the field from them, I noticed. Black and white pinstripes, just like the Yankees, with major-league-style warm-up jackets. They looked like professionals, and they walked with the swagger of guys who knew they were better than us, and knew that we knew it.