High Heat (15 page)

"Stomach's a little off."

"Can you pitch?"

"I think so."

"Go down and throw to Alvarez some."

I threw to Miguel Alvarez for ten minutes or so. Right before game time, Grandison came down to watch. "You warmed up?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"All right. Let it rip."

I reared back and fired. Alvarez's glove popped. I threw a second blazer, then a third, and a fourth. Grandison watched them all, then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

When the game started, I took my spot at the end of the bench and watched. I was hoping for a blowout. I didn't care
whether it was a win or a loss. All I wanted was a chance to pitch an inning or two without any pressure. I just needed to get a few outs to regain my confidence. Then I'd be all right.

Hank Fowler was pitching for us, and he started strong. He kept the ball low, his fastball had zip, and his control was better than I'd ever seen it. He was ahead in the count against every batter. Ingraham got an infield single in the second, and a bloop double in the fourth, but that was it.

Ingraham's pitcher matched Fowler pitch for pitch, out for out, inning for inning. He wasn't fast, but he had a bigbreaking curve ball, which you don't see all that often in high school. The ball started out at the waist or even the chest, and then dropped to the knees. Our hitters were swinging over the top, striking out or hitting soft rollers to the infield. In some games it doesn't seem as if anybody is ever going to score a run, and this was one of them. For six innings all that went up on the scoreboard were zeros.

Jeff Walton led off the top of the seventh for us with the first well-hit ball for either team, a rope into left field. If Ingraham's pitcher hadn't had a no-hitter going, their left fielder would have played the ball on a hop and Walton would have pulled up at first with a solid single. But the left fielder didn't want his pitcher to lose the no-hitter, so he dived for the ball, trying to make a circus catch. The ball short-hopped him, bounded over his shoulder, and rolled and rolled.

Walton can run. And with the left fielder down on his belly, their center fielder had to come over to make the play. The guy had been sleeping; he hadn't made a move to backup until the ball was past the left fielder. Now he was flying
across the outfield as Walton flew around the bases. The center fielder's throw hit the shortstop's glove when Walton was already around third. The smart play might have been to hold him up, but Grandison was waving his arm like crazy. The shortstop double-clutched, then threw high. Walton slid in headfirst with the first run of the game. Our guys were on their feet. "Way to go!" they shouted, high-fiving him as he came to the bench.

From the third-base coach's box I heard Grandison's voice. "Loosen up, Shane."

Ingraham's pitcher struck out the next three batters. Fowler walked out to start the seventh, but there was no bounce in his step, and his warm-up pitches had no zip. If I hadn't been so bad in the last game, Grandison would have had me out there.

Still, there was a decent chance Fowler could finish the game. He was facing the bottom of the Ingraham order, batters he'd handled easily. He worked the count to 3–2 on the first hitter, taking a ton of time between pitches. The payoff pitch was in the dirt, but the guy chased it for a strikeout.

The number-eight hitter wasn't so stupid. He could see that Fowler was struggling, and he worked the count to 3–1 before he took his first swing. The pitch was right down the middle, and he ripped a solid single into left field.

Grandison looked at me along the sideline and then at Fowler. For a moment, I thought he was going to leave Fowler in. But then, just before Fowler started to get the sign for the next batter, Grandison called time and ran onto the field. When he took the ball from Fowler, the players on our bench stood and cheered for him, and so did the parents behind our
bench. It was by far Fowler's best game, and it was up to me to save his victory.

I'd been strong along the sidelines. Not as strong as the game before, but strong. And maybe that was better, considering how the other game had finished. I felt confident walking onto the field, confident taking my warm-ups. Everything was going to be okay. But as soon as I saw the batter step in, the lightheadedness came back.

The hitter was their number-nine guy, a little second baseman with no power. I didn't need to be one hundred percent to get him. Ninety percent would have been plenty. And if I could get him to hit a ground ball, we might be able to turn a double play to end the game. One save—that's all I needed.

I went into my stretch, then tired the ball to first to keep the runner close. I stretched again, delivered. The batter swung and sent a ground ball to short, just like I wanted. Only he didn't hit it hard enough. Fletcher had to charge in, and when he fielded the ball, all his momentum was forward. He made the smart play, getting the sure out at first. But the tying run was now at second, and the leadoff batter was standing at the plate.

I'd watched this hitter each time he'd come to the plate. He was a slap hitter, tough to strike out. But if I threw my best fastball, I could blow the ball by him.
Now,
I thought to myself.
Make it happen.

I blew out some air, stepped onto the rubber. Benny Gold called for the fastball and stuck his glove right over the middle of the plate. If I fired it in there, just cut loose like I had with Alvarez along the sidelines, the batter wouldn't be able to handle it. All I had to do was trust myself. I went into my
motion, checked the runner at second, then came straight over the top. He was going to get my best fastball.

Only he didn't.

Instead of exploding out of my hand, the ball came out like a second baseman's throw, straight and clean. The Ingraham hitter's bat flashed through the strike zone, catching the ball solidly and sending a stinging line drive down the left field line. The runner on second scored, and the batter cruised into second standing up.

I'd blown Fowler's victory. The only thing left was to blow the whole game.

I did that on the next pitch, another dead-arm fastball down the middle. Ingraham's hitter rifled it into right center. The runner kicked up a cloud of dust sliding into home, but he could have walked in. For the second straight game, my teammates plodded off the field as the other team celebrated a last-inning victory.

The guys gathered their stuff quickly. Fowler was headed to his parents' car before I took my shoes off. Alvarez and I were the only ones catching a ride with Grandison. We helped him pack the gear and load it into the van. When Grandison slid the door shut, he turned to me. "Your arm okay? You're not injured or anything, are you? Because if you are, tell me. You can hurt yourself if you throw when you're not right."

"My arm is fine," I said.

He turned to Alvarez. "What do you think, Miguel?"

"Shane throws fast along the side. His ball ... it moves. Faster than Minton. Faster than Fowler. On the side, Shane, he's the best."

Grandison turned back to me. "So what happens when you get in the game?"

"I don't know," I said. But I did know.

And Grandison knew too.

On Sunday afternoon I dragged myself to the library. As usual, all the computers were taken. I wrote my name on a white board and waited while the kid on computer number three played some stupid game in which he stacked blue boxes on top of red ones. Finally his forty minutes ran out, the screen went back to the library's homepage, and it was my turn.

I went to Google and typed in "Shorelake High School." From the way I was looking around and sweating, you'd have thought I was trying to log on to
Playboy.

Shorelake's homepage came up, and after a couple of clicks I was looking at the baseball team's page. The first thing I saw were the scores, including Saturday's game against Endeavor High, which they'd lost 8–1.

I clicked on a button labeled "Box Score." Slowly, methodically, I went over every name. Ted Hearn had been the starting pitcher; Robby Richardson had gotten two hits; Greg Taylor had smacked a double and scored the run. But the name I wanted to see wasn't there. Some guy named Brad Post was playing center field.

I leaned back in the chair, looked at the ceiling, and closed my eyes. I was being stupid. So what if they'd lost? It wasn't my fault. Besides, one loss was no big deal. Nobody goes unbeaten in baseball. Shorelake would still be a top-ten team. And as for Reese—of course he wouldn't be playing yet.
It had been only a week. He'd be back for the next game probably, and if not that one, then the one after that. Missing two weeks wasn't such a big deal. Twist your ankle and you're out longer. The time off would work out to his benefit. He'd be fresh for the state playoffs, and he'd give Shorelake a lift when he did come back.

But Reese didn't play the next week, or the week after that. And Shorelake didn't win either. The loss to Endeavor was their first of five in a row, dropping them completely out of the state rankings. Ted Hearn's name stopped showing up in the box scores, and so did Greg's. Both of them must have gone down with some injury or other. Their season was falling apart.

And so was mine. Loosening up along the sidelines, I was as fast as ever. Once I got into a game, that same seasick feeling came over me. I just couldn't throw hard, not with a batter standing in. Sometimes I'd get lucky and a hitter would crush the ball right at somebody. But in most games I got bombed, and most games we lost.

One Thursday, after I'd blown yet another lead and cost us another game, Grandison kept me after practice. "I got some information that I thought you'd be interested in hearing. It's about Reese Robertson." His tone was curt.

"What did you hear?" I said, my voice distant.

"You know he hasn't played since that game, don't you?"

"No," I said, "I didn't know that."

Grandison glared at me. "You didn't notice his name wasn't showing up in the box scores or in the Wednesday newspaper?"

I shrugged. "Why would I check Shorelake's box scores?"

His eyes narrowed. "Oh, I don't know, Shane. Maybe because you hit him in the head and sent him to the hospital. But I suppose that hasn't been bothering you, has it?"

"It was an accident," I said. "I've told you that."

"So you have."

There was a long silence.

"So what did you want to tell me?" I said.

"Nothing much. Only that Reese is going to play again, tonight. Shorelake's got a game against Bellevue at Woodland Park. I'm going to the game. I thought you might want to go too."

I shook my head. "I can't go."

"Can't go? Or won't go?"

"Can't go. I've got homework. Besides, I'm not supposed to leave my sister alone."

"So if I called your mom and explained the situation, she'd tell me there was no way you could go?"

I looked down. "I can't go."

"All right," he said, "go on home."

I headed for the gym. I hadn't gone more than ten steps when he called out to me. "Shane, did Miguel Alvarez ever tell you that he's a pitcher?"

I turned back. "No."

"Well, he is. He pitched in relief last year for his high school team in Sacramento. His uncle showed me his stats. He
did pretty well. I'm going to give him a chance to pitch for us."

Right away I understood. Grandison was telling me I was done as a closer.

"That's a good idea," I said, my voice blank.

"Starting tomorrow, you'll work in the outfield. You might like it out there. I'm not telling you to quit pitching; I'm just going to give you a break from it for a while."

On the bus ride home I tried to picture myself playing in the outfield, far from the action. For a while I was depressed, but then it didn't seem so bad. I could stand out there on the green grass, run down a fly ball or two, make a throw to second or third now and then.

Back home, I fixed Marian and me dinner—hot dogs, baked beans, and potato chips—then went upstairs to do my English homework and listen to music. But I couldn't get settled; I kept standing up and walking around. At about six-thirty I went downstairs. Marian was watching television. "You done with your homework?"

"Kaitlin's coming over later. We're going to do it together."

"Would you be okay by yourself for a while?"

"Sure, I'll be okay," she said. Her eyes never strayed from the television.

"You won't tell Mom I left you alone."

"I won't be alone. I told you, Kaitlin's coming."

"I'll be back by ten at the latest."

I thought about taking the bus but decided against it. Buses were late half the time, and they didn't run much at night anyway. I went down to the basement, half expecting my bicycle to have been stolen. But there it was, locked to a foundation post. I was surprised that I still knew the combination. I rolled the bike back and forth a couple of times, then checked the tires. They weren't fully inflated, but they weren't flat either.

Woodland Park is about five miles from my house. Most of the way is downhill, so it didn't take me long to reach the park. When I was little, my dad had taken me to a place for dirt bikes, fifty yards away from the third base line. That's where I locked the bike to a tree. I picked out a grassy spot closer to the diamond, sat down, and looked across the field.

Right away I spotted Reese. He was shagging fly balls in center field, making everything look easy, moving well, joking with the other outfielders. He looked exactly the way he'd always looked, and I could feel his teammates feeding off him. A whistle blew, and the Shorelake guys trotted in. A minute later the game started.

Bellevue batted first. Scott Parino was pitching for Shorelake. He had his good stuff early, striking out the first two guys. The third hitter ripped a line drive to right center. It looked like a sure double, but Reese got an incredible jump on the ball and tracked it down, making a sliding, knee-high catch. After that catch, the whole Shorelake team tunneled over to him as he trotted in, patting him on the back and grinning. In the stands the parents rose and cheered.