High Heat (21 page)

"Yeah. I guess it is."

A steady breeze was coming from the west. But as I walked up onto the mound, I suddenly felt hot. For an instant I panicked. Was I losing it? But then a deep calm came over me. This wasn't fear; it was adrenaline. This was what I loved about pitching.

Reese stepped in and nodded to me. I rolled the ball around in my hand, getting the two-seam grip I wanted. When I had it, I nodded back. But the truth is I didn't see him. At least I didn't see him as Reese. He was a batter, my enemy, and all I wanted to do was to strike him out.

I could feel the power in my arm, waiting. For weeks I'd been throwing in the low eighties, effortlessly, the way I used to throw in the high seventies. I'd added five miles per hour on my fastball. Minimum. That would put my top speed near ninety. There were major leaguers who didn't throw that fast.

You hear about players getting in the zone. That's where I was. Totally focused on my own pitches. I'd reach into the bucket, pull out a ball, and fire it.

Those ten pitches were incredible. The ball seemed alive, that's how much it was moving. And it was late movement, the kind of movement that freezes hitters. Darting down and in, or down and away. I was unhittable. I could strike out the world.

I reached into the bucket for another ball, but it was empty. That's when I came out of it. I looked in to home plate, and I saw Reese. His face was blank. Behind him were all the baseballs. He hadn't managed so much as a foul tip.

He turned, started picking up the balls, and then tossed them to me. When they were all back in the bucket, he stepped back into the box. I throttled back, throwing him a batting practice fastball. He didn't even swing.

"Not like that," he said.

"Like what?"

"Don't cheat me, Shane."

So I focused on the plate, reached back for everything and something extra besides, and I let pitch after pitch fly. Knee-high, blazing fast, with movement. Nasty pitches. Nine straight swings. Nine straight misses.

"That's enough," Reese said after he'd waved weakly at the last ball.

I helped him put the balls back in the bucket. We walked to his car. He opened the trunk, stuck the bucket inside, then turned to me. "It's been good coming here, staying sharp. But this is it for me. I won't be coming anymore."

"You're not stopping because of today, are you?" I said. "One time doesn't prove anything. You'll catch up to good fastballs. You wait and see if you don't."

He slammed the trunk shut. "Sure I will," he said.

"Come on, Reese," I said. "Don't quit on me."

"I'm not quitting," he said, angry. "I'll play this year, but get the Hollywood ending out of your head, Shane, because it's not happening. Not for me, it isn't."

"But we could still—"

"We could still what?" he interrupted. "The season starts next week. It was a good try, but time's up."

I stood there, not knowing what to say.

"You want a ride home?" he said.

"No. I feel like walking."

"All right then. See you around."

"Yeah. See you around."

Ten days later, on a crisp February day, tryouts began. I stretched on the outfield grass, looking up at the big, puffy clouds flying across the sky. The grass was a solid green, with the smell of earth just below it. The players around me were talking of games yet to be played, while in the distance I could hear the clatter of bats as Grandison unloaded his van. I'd been crazy to think I could ever quit baseball.

Kim Seung, the transfer Kurt Lind had claimed was so good, turned out to be a skinny guy who couldn't have stood more than five feet five. The first few times he stepped into the batter's box, he didn't seem like much. A lefty, he'd slap a ball down the third base line, hit a ground ball back up the middle, then pull something to right.

It was what he didn't do that made him good. He never swung and missed, never popped anything up. Everything was either a hard ground ball or a line drive. He could move
down the first base line more quickly than anyone on the team. In our practice games, he stole second base every time, sometimes going in standing up, which drove Benny Gold crazy. He played center field, and he ran down every fly ball that was near him. Try to take an extra base on him and he'd throw you out. I kept waiting to spot some flaw in his game, or at least something ordinary, but I never did.

Kim was so good the McDermott twins nearly got lost, but they were solid players too. They both had compact swings, yet still generated enough power to drive the ball into the alleys. And they ran well, too. Grandison put them in left and right field, and whatever fly balls Kim didn't catch, one of them did. As a pitcher, you see outfielders cover ground like that, and you know that if you get behind in the count, you can just fire the ball down the middle because even if the batter hits the ball hard, there's a good chance it will be caught.

Those three guys were impact players, starters anywhere, but a couple of other guys from the football team, Dirk Becker and Jason Crandle, were in the mix too. Both were black guys, seniors who had nothing to do, since they didn't have spring football. Grandison had collared them one day after school. "No more excuses," he'd said. "I want both of you on my baseball team."

They showed up, but I could tell they were feeling out of place. And with their muscles bulging, they
looked
out of place too. "What position do you want to play?" Grandison asked them. Becker looked at Crandle; Crandle looked at Becker.

"What's open?" Becker finally answered, bringing a laugh from everybody.

But nobody laughed when the two of them took batting practice. There were more than a few swings and misses, but there were also some long home runs. There was a fearlessness about them, too. They didn't care how bad they looked when they swung, and it made them doubly dangerous. Grandison ended up sticking Becker at third base. He was no Scott Rolen, but he made the routine plays. Crandle was terrible as a fielder, so Grandison made him our designated hitter.

On the last day of tryouts we played a simulated game. I pitched two innings, and I blew the first five hitters away. With two outs in my last inning, Kim came up. I got a quick first strike on him too, but on the next pitch he laid down a bunt. I charged off and fielded the ball between third and home. I should have just held the ball, but I wanted a perfect outing. I turned and threw to first ... wildly. By the time Jim McDermott ran the ball down, Kim was standing at third. On my next pitch he faked down the line as if he were going to steal home. My concentration broken, I bounced the ball about ten feet in front of the plate. It skipped past Gold, and Kim trotted in. I did a slow burn, then struck out Crandle to end the inning. It wasn't until I was back on the bench that it occurred to me that Kim would be doing to other teams what he'd just done to me—creating a run out of thin air.

At the end of tryouts Grandison had to cut a half dozen players. It killed him to do it. He went on and on about how he wished there were more uniforms or that there was a junior varsity team. He told the guys he'd cut that they could be equipment managers or scorekeepers if they wanted.

I felt for them, but they'd never really worked at baseball. Besides, getting cut happens to everyone sometime. Even major leaguers reach a point when the competition is too tough and they have to hang them up.

The guys who were left were solid. We had speed and power. Pedro Hernandez had batted cleanup the year before. Now he'd probably bat sixth or seventh. Cory Minton was back, and he'd be our top starter. Hank Fowler had graduated, but Miguel was as good as Fowler had been. Top to bottom, we were deeper and stronger. If I could close out the games and keep the starters fresh, we'd be good.

The team picnic was on a Saturday. Gray skies, a chill wind, and drizzle—but every single player showed up. I brought Marian with me. "I have heard about you many times," Grandison said, his eyes on me as he shook her hand. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Perplexed, Marian turned to me. I looked away.

That was the first time I'd gotten a good look at Grandison's daughter. She had glowing skin and friendly eyes, and she wore her hair in cornrows. I smiled at her, and she smiled back, a bright smile. Since my father's death, I hadn't thought about dating. I noticed girls all the time, but I didn't have the energy to get anything going. I thought about talking to her. While I was working up my courage, Kim tossed a Frisbee in her direction. She caught it, then gave him a smile. "You must be Kim Seung," she said. He made a little bow. She threw the Frisbee back. So much for my chances.

Gold, who usually kept to himself, came over. "He was player of the year in Portland last year."

"What?"

"Kim. He was player of the year. I was at a minimart on Aurora and saw a newspaper clipping of him on the wall."

"What was a picture of him doing on the wall of a mini-mart?"

"I don't know. Maybe his parents own it. Anyway, he hit way over .400 and led the league in runs scored and stolen bases."

Marian came up to me, Frisbee in hand. "Will you play with me?"

"Sure," I said. "Why not?"

High school baseball games don't get the attention of football or basketball, but there's a certain electricity that comes with every opening day, even if the bleachers are half empty. Everybody's even—anything can happen. We opened on the road, playing Bellarmine High of Tacoma. They were a big, Catholic powerhouse school, always near the top in their league.

Kim Seung led off. He took a couple of pitches, then smacked a routine two hopper to short. Bellarmine's shortstop stayed back on the ball and took his time with the throw. Kim was safe by two steps. From our bench we could see the Bellarmine infielders' shocked eyes.

Kim wasn't done. On the first pitch to Kurt Lind, he took off for second. He had such a huge jump that their catcher didn't bother to throw. Two pitches later Lind poked a grounder to the first baseman, moving Kim to third. Tim McDermott
then lifted a little pop into short right field. I thought Kim would bluff down the line, but he tagged up and then came flying toward home plate, challenging Bellarmine's right fielder to throw him out. The right fielder's throw was twenty feet over the catcher's head, and Kim scored standing up. We all high-fived him, but he acted as if it were routine. As we sat back down, Benny Gold nudged me. "You think anybody's ever been player of the year in two years in two different cities?"

The score was still 1–0 in the bottom of the second inning when with one on and one out, Bellarmine's catcher belted a deep drive into the alley in right center. The runner on first, certain it was a hit, was rounding second on his way to third when Jim McDermott stretched out to make a beautiful running catch. McDermott turned, fired the ball to Lind, who fired it to Pedro Hernandez for the inning-ending double play.
Pitching and defense win games.
My father had said that many times.

On the bench, guys were still buzzing about McDermott's catch as Kim came up for his second at bat. He faked a bunt on the first pitch, forcing the first baseman to creep forward a few yards. On the next pitch, Kim smacked a line drive right over the first baseman's head. By the time the right fielder tracked it down in the corner and threw it into the infield, Kim was sliding into third. "Did you see that?" Miguel said, looking up and down the bench. "You don't think he had that all planned, do you? The guy can't be that good, can he?"

Lind brought Kim home with a soft liner into short right that fell for a base hit. We scored again in the fourth, and then Jason Crandle smacked a two-run double in the top of the
seventh. That's how I came to be standing on the mound with a 5–0 lead in the bottom of the seventh.

Gold put down one finger for a fastball; I nodded and went into my motion. My release was fluid, and the ball exploded out of my hand. It dipped a little to the right as it neared the plate, but the batter was so late with his swing that he wouldn't have hit my pitch had it been dead straight.

Gold put down one finger again; again I rocked and threw. Another late swing. Strike two. Gold tossed the ball back, then called for a changeup. I almost nodded, but I stopped. This guy couldn't hit my fastball, so why mess around? I shook Gold off. He put down one finger again, and a few seconds later the Bellarmine batter was headed to the bench, dragging his bat behind him.

The next guy was craftier. He didn't swing at the first pitch, and it dipped out of the strike zone for a ball. The second pitch did the same thing. With a 2–0 count, I stepped off the rubber and looked back at my fielders, poised and ready.

I stepped back up onto the rubber and delivered another fastball, only this time I took something off to make sure it was a strike. The Bellarmine hitter swung and sent a high fly to right center. He'd hit it well, but not well enough. Jim McDermott was off with the crack of the bat and ran it down easily for the second out.

The third batter was Bellarmine's best hitter, and he was up there swinging. Again I threw a fastball. Not my best, but a decent pitch. It tied him up, and all he managed was a ground ball to Lind. Lind pounced on it and fired to first; we were high-fiving one another on the infield while the Bellarmine guys packed their gear and headed to their waiting cars.

On the ride home, I kept waiting for Grandison to tell me how well I'd done. But he tuned the radio to a jazz station and tapped the wheel as the miles clicked away, finally, he pulled up in front of my house. "Thanks for the ride," I said as I opened the door.

"Sure. See you at practice. Oh, and nice game."

Our next game was against Eastgate, at their field on the east side of Lake Washington. Grandison took me, Miguel, and the McDermott twins.

None of us could believe how big the campus was. We saw the sign for the school and then drove and drove. The baseball diamonds were behind the soccer fields, which were behind the football fields, which were behind the gym. All of Whitman could have fit in one corner of Eastgate.