High Heat (22 page)

Before most baseball games, you at least exchange glances with the other team, maybe even wish some of them luck if you come near them. But the Eastgate guys never once looked at us. They acted as if playing us was a nuisance, like taking care of your little brother.

Grandison noticed their attitude. Before the game started he called us together. "Listen, gentlemen," he said. "Their coach was just asking me how bad the score has to be before we stop playing. He seems to think we're some sort of JV team." He paused. "Let's beat 'em."

Miguel started, and he was wild in the first, walking the first two batters. But Benny Gold threw out a runner trying to
steal third, and Kim Seung made a nice catch in the outfield to end the inning and save two runs.

After that, Miguel settled down, shutting down Eastgate with only a scratch hit here and there. But the Eastgate pitcher was tough, too. Tim McDermott got a hit in the second but was stranded at first. Pedro Hernandez hit a double in the fifth, but he didn't get past third. Heading into the top of the sixth, those two hits were all we'd managed.

Kim led off. He looked at a ball, then another one. "Take a pitch," I whispered, hoping that he could work a walk. The Eastgate pitcher went into his motion and fired. Kim wasn't taking. Instead, he turned on the pitch, something I'd seen him do only a couple of times. He caught the ball solid, sending a line shot down the right field line. We jumped to our feet and watched, amazed, as the ball rose against the sky. "Be fair!" I shouted, and a second later the ball landed over the fence just to the left of the foul pole. The umpire immediately started twirling his hand in the air. "Home run!"

On the bench we were jumping up and shouting, high-fiving each other. But I couldn't celebrate for long. "Hunter!" Grandison called out. "Can you go two innings?"

I hustled out and started warming up. My arm felt strong. Alex Knapp, a sophomore and our second-string catcher, noticed. "You've got it today, Shane."

I didn't say anything. Too many times last year I'd been great on the sidelines but then couldn't cut loose in the game. When I took the mound for my final warm-ups, it was eerie. I felt as if I were barely holding the ball, yet I could pinpoint
exactly where I was going to throw it.

"Batter up!" the umpire yelled, and the game was on.

For the next two innings, all I saw was Gold's glove. I didn't look at any of the batters; I didn't care about any of the calls. I threw the ball, let it move, and dared any of them to hit it. And they couldn't. I don't remember the individual outs, don't remember coming in at the end of the bottom of the sixth or going out to pitch the seventh. It was just one pitch and then the next.

I do remember coming out of it when Benny Gold hopped out of his crouch and charged the mound, his arms wide, a huge grin on his face. Seconds later my teammates were slapping me on the back and high-fiving one another. In the van, Grandison looked over at me. "You were good." Only then did he turn on the radio.

It was a Monday, so Mom didn't have to work. When I opened the door and stepped inside the duplex, she asked about the game. Usually I don't say much, but this time, once I got started, I couldn't stop. And now, strangely, I could see every hitter as if I were back on the mound again, facing them down. As I talked, Marian came out to listen. When I was finished, she started talking about a poster she'd drawn in Mr. Coleman's class and how much fun it had been. Mom asked her to describe it, and she told us how she and Kaitlin had drawn a sea serpent around the border and had used black gel pens for the writing. When she stopped talking, we looked at one another, and I think we realized at that moment that we were happy—all of us at once. Simply happy.

I went upstairs, did some schoolwork, and read until the
people we shared the duplex with came in. They were new neighbors, and the man shouted all the time, mostly about stuff he'd lost. If it wasn't his watch, it was his wallet. If it wasn't his wallet, it was his keys. This time he was hollering about the mail. He'd put it down somewhere and couldn't find it, and there was a bill he just had to pay. I don't know how his wife put up with him.

Those first two wins set the tone for our practices. Guys arrived early and stayed late. The things players usually dog—the stretches, the outfield running, the base-running drills—everyone took seriously. When Grandison told us the weight room would be open in the mornings, we showed up.

Thursday we had a game against Washington High School, way out by Enumclaw, more than an hour from Seattle. Mount Rainier loomed behind it, and the beauty of the mountain made the city—if you could call Enumclaw a city—seem more grim than it probably was. The high school was outside of town. It was another big, sprawling campus, but this one wasn't rich like Eastgate. There was something beaten down about the buildings, the field, the bleachers, everything. And there was a glare in the eyes of the guys on the Washington team. We were city kids, and they didn't like us.

Cory Minton started. His fastball wasn't all that fast, and his curve ball didn't curve much, but our defense came through for him. Everything the Washington players hit,
somebody caught. You make plays in the field, and you come into the bench ready to hit.

Kim Seung led off the third with a bloop double into short right. The Washington pitcher didn't look back at Kim, so on the first pitch to Kurt Lind, he stole third base. Lind ended up striking out, but Tim McDermott singled Kim home. His brother, batting cleanup, walked, bringing up Jason Crandle.

Crandle had been swinging terribly in batting practice, so I wasn't surprised when he swung and missed on the first two pitches. The Washington pitcher nearly struck him out on the third pitch. Crandle got the tiniest piece of it, and the ball popped out of the catcher's glove. Crandle fouled the next two pitches straight back, and his swing suddenly looked fluid. On the bench, everybody leaned forward, tense.

Had I been pitching, I would have gone to my changeup and not risked another fastball. But the Washington guy reared back and fired. Crandle's bat flashed forward, and the ball rocketed high and deep against the blue sky. Washington's left fielder backed up, then turned and watched the ball sail over the fence. We jumped around on the bench, pounding each other on the back and pounding Crandle when he finished his home-run trot.

Grandison would have thrown a fit if he'd known that any of us were thinking it, but that was the game. There was no way any team was coming back against us, not with me in the bullpen.

I pitched the seventh. By then the score was 8–2. My arm felt as strong as iron, and when I rocked and fired, it was pure smoke. I struck out the first two guys, and the last hitter—
their star—rolled a soft grounder to first base.

When the game ended, we high-fived each other, but there was more quiet confidence in those high-fives than there was triumph. We'd done what we'd expected to do—no reason to get excited.

Miguel and I loaded up the school van. Usually Grandison was in a hurry to get home, but this time he stood for five minutes in front of the truck talking with a man I'd never seen before.

It was a long ride back to Seattle. I fell asleep and didn't wake up until the van pulled to a stop in front of Miguel's apartment building. Miguel hopped out. "See you tomorrow," he said.

Grandison backed out of the driveway, then looked over his shoulder at me. "You awake?"

"Yeah."

"Did you see that man I was talking to after the game?"

It took me a second to remember, but then I got a clear picture. Gray hair, gray beard, thin. "What about him?"

"His name is Dave Wood. He's an assistant baseball coach at the University of Portland. He's here to take a look at Kim Seung." I hadn't really thought about college recruiters, but it made sense that they'd be looking at a player as good as Kim. "There'll be lots of college coaches around to see Kim," Grandison went on. "And major league scouts, too, though I think Kim's family is set on him going to college."

"Good for him," I said.

"You bet it's good for him. And it's good for you, too."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they'll see you, too. Take Wood tonight. He asked a lot of questions about Kim, but he also asked a couple about you."

"About me?"

"He wanted to know the pitches you throw, the kind of kid you are."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you've got a great fastball, a good changeup, no curve, and that you're a good kid."

Whenever my dad had said something good about me, my face flushed and my throat tightened. That's what happened to me now. I turned away and looked out the window, afraid Grandison might notice. Neither of us spoke as the van rattled up Greenwood Avenue. Finally he turned onto my block.

"Do you really think I have a chance at a baseball scholarship?" I asked as my house came into sight.

Grandison pulled up to the curb. "You'll have to pitch lights out all season, but you've got a shot. A ninety-mile-an-hour fastball is a rare thing."

I grabbed my equipment bag and stepped out. But before I closed the door, I had one more question. "Coach, does Mr. Wood know about..." I stopped, unable to finish my sentence.

Grandison looked at me. "About what?"

"Nothing," I said.

I thought about telling Mom. I knew how worried she was about money for college, not just for me, but for Marian too. A baseball scholarship would solve everything. But if I didn't get a scholarship, I'd feel as if I'd let her down. So in the end I kept my mouth shut.

It was hard to keep quiet. For the next few weeks, it seemed as if every day she was either on the phone asking about college loans or sitting at the kitchen table filling out forms. As far as she was concerned, I was headed to Western Washington University. She kept reminding me how great the school looked. I guess my replies didn't sound enthusiastic. "You still want to go there, don't you?" she finally asked.

"Oh, yeah," I said. "You bet I do."

All through those weeks, we kept winning, and I kept pitching well. During the games, I'd watch the other team, looking for any edge I might have with any hitter. I kept imagining the reports Grandison was sending down to Portland about me. I had to make sure there could be nothing but good stuff in them. Every day I wanted to ask Grandison whether he'd heard anything more, but I knew he'd tell me if anything broke.

On Tuesday night I pitched a scoreless seventh against Ingraham, and we won 7–4. After the game, Grandison asked me to meet him at the coaches' office in the gym before school on Wednesday. He was rarely there in the mornings. "What's up?" I asked.

"Just be there."

The next morning, as soon as the bus let me off, I hustled to the gym. The hallway was dark, but I saw light leaking from under Grandison's door and heard voices inside. I tapped on the door. "It's open," Grandison's voice barked. "Come right in."

I opened the door, stuck my head in. "You wanted to see me, Coach?"

"Yes, I did. There's someone here to meet you. Shane, this is Coach Dravus from the University of Portland."

My body froze. Coach Dravus, a big man with dark hair and bushy eyebrows, stuck his hand out and shook mine. "Good to meet you, Shane."

"Good to meet you, sir."

Grandison looked from me to Coach Dravus and back to me again. "Well, I'll leave you two to talk things over." And with that, he was gone.

Coach Dravus sat down in the chair behind Grandison's desk. I sat in a blue plastic chair across from him. For about five minutes, Dravus asked me about school and my grades. He was trying to get me to relax, but my mouth was so dry I could hardly talk. "Let's talk baseball," he said at last. He picked up a sheet of paper. "Coach Wood liked what he saw when he was up here earlier. And Mr. Grandison has been keeping me posted on your year. Very impressive numbers."

"I've got a great defensive team behind me. They catch everything."

He tapped the desk with his fingertips for a while, his eyes on the papers in front of him. "You quit pitching last year, didn't you? Why was that?"

I felt cold suddenly. "I don't know. I just lost my confidence. I couldn't throw strikes; I couldn't get anybody out. It seemed like the only thing to do."

He frowned. "I'm not here to play games. And I don't
want to bring up ghosts from the past. But you hit a boy in the head last year, didn't you? Sent him to the hospital. Is that what unnerved you?"

I saw Reese on the ground, his legs twitching, his helmet off to the side, the medics huddled around him.

"Yes, sir," I said. "It was."

"Hitting someone like that is a frightening thing. It takes time to get over it. And you were having a rough go of it anyway, weren't you?"

I nodded, not knowing how much he knew about me.

"But you're throwing free and easy now? No demons?"

"No demons."

His eyes honed in on me. "Do you throw to the inside part of the plate?"

I paused, not sure what to say. Then I shook my head. "No, I don't pitch inside, at least not on purpose. Basically I just aim down the middle and hope the ball moves some. Most of the time it does."

He leaned back. "You know what I like about the speed gun, Shane? It doesn't lie. I'm going to be straight with you. You've got the physical ability to pitch at the college level. No doubt about it. It's not your arm that worries me, it's your head. Nearly every player who gets a scholarship to Portland, or to any college for that matter, has at least two excellent—and I mean
excellent—
years of high school baseball behind him. Most have three or four. Plus summer league experience. All you've got is half a season. You're a risk. But I like the way you've fought back, and my baseball team needs a closer. So I'm going to give your mom a call and introduce myself, explain who I am. And I'm going to watch you pitch Saturday.
If everything works out, this time next year you'll be playing baseball for the University of Portland Pilots." He stopped and smiled. "That is, if you're interested."