High Heat (12 page)

I tossed the ball to Miguel Alvarez, and he tossed it back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone running. I looked
over, and Greg was trotting toward me, a smile on his face. When he reached me, he stuck out his hand. "Good to see you, Shane."

I shook it. "Good to see you, too."

We both stood there looking at each other, at the field.

"This is great, isn't it?" he said. "Getting to play against each other."

"Yeah. It is."

"I've been following your games in the paper. Seems like you're doing pretty well, and your team too."

"We've done okay," I said.

"Okay? You're unbeaten, and you haven't given up a run all year, have you?"

I shook my head. "Not yet."

He smiled. "That's more than okay. That's outstanding."

"You guys aren't doing so bad either."

He nodded. "We've got a good team. Reese—that guy who moved into your house—he can hit."

"That's what I hear."

"No. I mean he can
really
hit. He'll be a major leaguer someday, no doubt about it." He paused. "Well, I should get back to my team. I only wanted to say hello and wish you luck. We should get together sometime."

I shook his hand a second time. "Yeah. We should."

With that he trotted off.

A couple of minutes later Reese Robertson stepped into the batting cage to take his swings. Outside the batter's box, he didn't look like much, not all that big or muscular. But inside the batter's box, he seemed to grow. The bat was on his shoulder, and then it was whipping through the strike zone
with incredible speed. His head was down on every pitch, his arms extended. He took five swings, and every swing resulted in a line shot somewhere. The balls jumped off his bat, one-hopping the fences or sailing right over them.

As Robertson was taking his cuts, my eyes shifted to our starter, Hank Fowler. He was watching Robertson, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. I should have gone over to Fowler then; I should have told him that anybody could hit in batting practice. But I didn't, and Fowler's eyes grew wider and wider with every crack of Robertson's bat.

"Play ball!" the home plate umpire shouted. I found a spot at the far end of the bench, stretched my legs out, ripped open a pack of sunflower seeds, and shoved a handful in my mouth.

Fowler started the game strong, striking out the first two Shorelake batters, bringing Robertson to the plate. It was Fowler's chance to send a message to the Shorelake team, to set the tone for the game. He needed to show them that he could handle their best. The fans in the bleachers knew it too. There was shouting from both sides. "Strike him out!...Get a hit!"

Fowler rocked and delivered. A good fastball for a called strike. Robertson tapped home plate once, twice. Fowler peered in, got the sign, went into his motion again, delivered. "Strike two!" Another fastball, and for the second time Robertson didn't swing.

On the bench, we were up, shouting for the strikeout to end the inning. Fowler went into his wind-up, came to home plate. It was yet another fastball, but this time, quick as lightning, Robertson swung. The ball jumped off his bat, a line shot into left center. If Robertson had gotten under it even a
little, it would have gone out of the park. As it was, it was a solid single, but with two out, Robertson decided to try to stretch it into a double.

Jeff Walton ran down the ball quickly, wheeled and fired to second. The throw was on the money, only it was head high. Robertson slid in hard, bowling over Kurt Lind, our second baseman, as he tried to put down the tag. The ball dribbled out of Lind's glove toward the pitcher's mound. Robertson popped up on the bag, clapping his hands, a smile creasing his face. But Lind stayed down, clutching his knee, which had twisted under the force of the slide.

Coach Grandison raced out, and so did Mr. Burns, the guy in charge of first aid for our team. They checked Lind's knee, gently feeling for any damage. Finally Lind stood up and jogged a few steps. All the parents clapped for him. I could see Grandison ask Lind if he was okay. Lind flexed his knee a couple of times, grimaced, but nodded. "I can play."

When a guy goes down clutching his knee, all you can think is that he might be done for the year. You're not thinking about the next batter, the next pitch. So when it was time for Fowler to pitch again, he wasn't ready.

His first pitch was a fastball down the middle with not much on it. The Shorelake hitter didn't cream it, but he did smack it on the ground toward the hole between second and first base. I'd seen Lind make the play on balls hit harder than that one. Now, unsure of his knee, he barely moved. The ball scooted into right field for a single. Robertson, off at the crack of the bat, scored easily. I watched him walk back to the bench, high-fiving the on-deck batter on his way. He sat
down in the middle of the bench, a big smile on his face.

That was the first run of the inning, but it wasn't the last. Robertson had sucked the confidence right out of Fowler. Instead of rearing back and throwing, he started guiding the ball. He gave up another single, a walk, and then a pair of doubles—one to left center and the other a rope down the right field line. By the time the top of the first was over, we were down 5–0. The guys coming in from the field had their heads down.

Before Grandison took his spot in the third-base coach's box, he strode up and down our bench, clapping his hands. "Look alive, gentlemen! There's a lot of baseball left to be played."

It worked, at least a little. Guys sat up and chattered as Jim Wilson, our leadoff hitter, stepped into the batter's box. "Come on, Jimbo! Get a hit." One run. That's all we needed. One lousy run would make us feel that we belonged on the field with Shorelake.

Scott Parino was pitching for Shorelake. He looked bigger than I remembered, as if he'd been lifting weights, and his fastball seemed faster. His first pitch to Wilson was a strike on the outside corner. He followed that with a fastball inside—sending Wilson spinning out of the way. On the bench we all jumped up, hollering at Parino, even though we knew the pitch wasn't really that close.

Wilson stepped back in. Parino's next pitch was another fastball, right down the middle. It was the kind of pitch Wilson normally handles. But this time he managed only a weak swing and popped out to second. Lind, still limping, tapped
the first pitch he saw right back to the mound. Two pitches later Pedro Hernandez popped out to the catcher, and the first was over.

Fowler struggled through the second, giving up a walk and a single, but no runs. I felt myself hoping again. All we had to do was hold them down for a few innings, then chip away—a run here, a run there, and we'd be right back in it.

I looked down the bench at the guys. They were leaning forward, elbows on knees, chins resting on their hands. For the first time I wished I'd gone to the barbecue, hung out with them at lunch or before school. Then I could have walked up and down the bench, encouraging them, pumping them up. Instead, all I could do was sit on my hands and watch as Parino shut us down in the second inning.

Fowler started the third inning strong, blowing away Shorelake's first two hitters with a combination of fastballs and changeups. He was pumped to strike out the side—too pumped. His first pitch to the third hitter sailed over the guy's head all the way to the backstop. His next pitch wasn't much closer. Two more balls put that batter on first.
No big deal,
I thought. But then came an infield hit and an error by our third baseman, Paul Barrett. Just like that the bases were loaded—with Robertson stepping to the plate.

Fowler was intimidated. You could see it. His first pitch was a foot outside; the one after that was two feet outside. With the count 2–0, there was nothing he could do but serve up a fastball and hope for the best. Fowler rubbed up the baseball, went into his wind-up, and threw his best fastball down the middle. Robertson was waiting for it. He sent a rocket into the
left-center-field alley. The ball skipped past Walton, rolling all the way to the fence. With two outs, the runners had taken off at the crack of the bat. The first two scored standing. The throw home to try to nail the third guy was wild, and he scored too. And standing on third base, no more than twenty feet away from me, was Robertson, clapping his hands and grinning ear to ear, his team ahead 8–0.

The game was over. In the top of the third, it was completely over. After Robertson's big hit, players on both teams started swinging at the first pitch, just trying to finish the game. Grandison still called out encouragement to batters, but there was no urgency in his voice. On the Shorelake bench, guys were punching one another, laughing and joking, hardly watching the action on the field, moving around simply to keep warm. Even guys on our team were making jokes, only quietly.

The score was 11–0 after four innings. In the fifth, Grandison took out Fowler and put in Cory Minton, who did a little better, getting through the fifth without giving up a run. But in the top of the sixth, Robertson—who else?—hit a mammoth home run to left center to push Shorelake's lead to 13–0.

When Minton returned to the bench after recording the third out, Grandison came over to me. "Shane, do you want to pitch? Because if you do, the seventh is yours. If not, I'll let Minton finish. Your call."

For a moment I couldn't say anything. Did I want to pitch? I didn't really know. Then I felt a surge of cold fury. "I'll pitch." I grabbed my glove, tapped Alvarez on the shoulder, and headed for the sidelines.

It was cold and getting colder when I finally took the mound to pitch the seventh against Shorelake. A low fog was hanging over the outfield, making it tough for the hitters to pick up the ball, and I was going to make it tougher.

The leadoff batter was a sub, a guy I didn't know. I teased him with a changeup outside, then came in with a fastball on the hands. He took a weak swing and dribbled the ball right to me. I tossed the ball to first for the out.

One down, two to go.

Brian Coombs was up next. We'd never been friends, but he nodded at me and half smiled, generally acting as if he expected me to smile back. I gave him nothing—nothing but fastballs that he couldn't touch. Three pitches, three strikes. Two down.

The ball went around the diamond and came back to me. I rubbed it up, then turned to face the final batter of the night. I looked, then looked again.

Reese Robertson.

I'd been so focused I hadn't noticed him on deck. But now that he was there, facing me, I knew this was what had to be, that it was somehow fated.

Something odd happened next. The guys on the Shorelake bench stood up. They started screaming and hollering. "You can do it, Reese!...Just a single, that's all you need."

I didn't get it. They were up by what ... thirteen runs? You'd think that would be enough. Then the chant started: "Cycle! Cycle! Cycle!"

That's when I understood.

Hitting for the cycle is the rarest accomplishment in baseball, rarer even than a no-hitter. A hitter has to get a single, a double, a triple, and a home run all in one game. It takes power and speed and luck. Some great ballplayers go their whole careers and never do it, not at any level. All Robertson needed was a single, and he'd have done it. Just a measly little single.

He wasn't going to get it. Not off me.

I stepped onto the rubber and glared down at him, but he didn't register anything. He was so calm, so confident. There was nothing personal in the way he looked at me. Benny Gold put down one finger, calling for the fastball on the outside corner. I nodded and let it fly. Most guys can't take a full swing at my fastball; their bats aren't quick enough. But Robertson was on it; he just swung right under it. "Strike one!" the umpire yelled. Robertson stepped out, pulled on his batting gloves a little, trying to act cool, but the speed on my fastball had surprised him.

I wound up, delivered. Another fastball, but this time I'd thrown it about six inches outside, figuring he'd be overeager. I was right. He swung awkwardly, barely fouling it back. "Strike two!" the umpire called.

He stepped out, took a deep breath, adjusted his gloves again, then stepped back in. For a second his eyes met mine and locked. Blue friendly eyes, confident eyes.

Gold gave me the sign for another fastball. I nodded. Then Gold crouched down and held his glove a good foot outside. He thought we could get Robertson to go fishing and strike out. But Robertson was a smart batter. He peeked down
at Gold and saw how far outside he was set up. Immediately he crowded close to the plate, thinking he'd be able to lean out and poke the outside pitch into right field for the hit he needed to complete the cycle.

Robertson's strategy might have worked if I'd thrown to Gold's glove. Instead, I reared back and fired the ball harder than any ball I've ever thrown in my life. Only I didn't throw it outside. I threw it inside. Up and in.

High heat.

It was the last thing in the world Robertson was expecting. He was leaning out over the plate, looking for something outside and low. By the time he understood what was really coming, he was lost. His cleats might as well have been bolted to the ground.

He was lost, but the ball found him. It found him as if it were some heat-seeking missile. At the last fraction of a second he threw his hands up and tried to duck away, but it did him no good. I heard the ball hit him, hit him so solidly it sounded as if it had hit his bat. It caught him half on the skull, half on the helmet, shattering it. He wobbled, and then he went down. A few seconds later blood was flowing from his nose, and his legs started flopping around.

Everyone stood frozen for what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds. A woman in the bleachers screamed. Gold and the umpire were on their knees, leaning over Robertson. Coach Levine ran out, followed by Grandison and other people from the stands. So many people were crowded around Robertson that I couldn't see him.

I did see his mother, though. She stood off to the side, covering her mouth with her hands, tears running down her
face. She looked nothing like the woman who had gone through our house, checking each closet and light switch, talking and talking and talking.