High Heat (25 page)

Grandison sat in one of the blue plastic chairs. I did the same. "Coach Dravus is coming to Saturday's game."

"To see me?"

"Well, he's not coming to see
me.
I've been sending him regular reports on you. Strikes, balls, hits, runs, all that sort of stuff. His team is up here for games against UW this weekend." I must have gone pale. "You just keep pitching like you've been pitching, and everything will be fine. Okay?"

"Okay."

He looked at the clock. "Now get out of here. I've got things to do."

Our first tournament game was on Monday, against Woodinville at their field. The school sat on a hill, with the playing fields spread out below. It looked more like a college than a high school.

Miguel had been our best pitcher for weeks, so Grandison had everybody shaking their heads when he picked Cory Minton to start. It made no sense. Then, watching Minton warm up just before game time, I understood. Cory was a three-year letterman. He'd stuck with the team through tough times. He deserved the start, and Grandison was right to give it to him.

On the bench before the game, we were tight. If we could just get a run in the top of the first, everybody would relax. And it looked as if we would, too. Kim Seung hit the first pitch into right field, a sinking liner that seemed like a cinch base
hit, maybe even a double. But Woodinville's right fielder made a sliding one-handed catch that brought their fans to their feet. After that, Kurt Lind and Tim McDermott went down on easy groundouts.

Minton took the mound. I watched his final warm-up tosses, but you can't really tell anything from warm-ups. I clapped my hands. "One, two, three," I shouted.

The Woodinville batter stepped in, a lefty with a short stroke. Minton threw a ball, then a strike. With the count 1–1, the hitter laid down a perfect drag bunt. Startled, Minton got a late break on the ball, and our second baseman was way too deep to come in and make the play. The Woodinville guy flew down the line, safe at first.

That bunt single rattled Minton. The next hitter was trying to bunt the runner to second, but Minton was so wild he couldn't do it. Four straight balls, none of them close, put runners at first and second.

Brian Fletcher did the right thing. He trotted in to talk to Minton. I could read his lips. "Keep the ball down," he was saying. "A ground ball, and we'll turn a double play and get out of this."

I leaned forward, hoping for just that. Minton stretched, checked the runner, delivered. A fastball, right down the middle, belt high. The Woodinville hitter swung so hard he almost came out of his shoes. The ball, hit solidly, rose in a high arc against the sky. When it came down, we were three runs behind.

It got worse. A walk, a stolen base, and a single to center brought home a fourth run. Minton struck out the next hitter for the first out of the inning, and the batter after that lined
out to third. But the following hitter blooped a double down the first base line. The runner, off on contact, scored the fifth run of the inning when Benny Gold couldn't handle the throw from the outfield. When the third out was finally made—on a comebacker—the guys trudged in, heads down.

Grandison walked up and down the bench, clapping his hands. "We've got six more innings to play, gentlemen."

Right on cue, Jim McDermott took the first pitch he saw and whistled a line drive past the pitcher's ear and into center field for a single. On the very next pitch, he took off for second. It's usually bad baseball to try to steal when you're down a bunch of runs. Get thrown out, and you look like an idiot. But even though the Woodinville catcher threw a strike, McDermott beat the throw with a headfirst slide. He made third on a groundout and scored a run on a sacrifice fly. The score was 5–1 as we took the field for the bottom of the second, but at least we'd started on the road back.

And we kept coming back. Minton settled down and retired Woodinville in order in their half of the second inning. In the third, Gold walked, took second on an infield out, and scored on Kim's double: 5–2. In the fifth Pedro Hernandez took a 2–0 pitch over the fence down the line in left: 5–3. Grandison had me warm up during our half of the sixth. "If you can hold them," he said to me, "we'll win. I can feel it."

I could too. We all could. It was a strange thing to be down two runs with one at bat left and still feel confident, but we did. Minton had held Woodinville in check with an assortment of junk pitches. Curve balls, changeups, the occasional fastball. I came in and threw nothing but heat, and they weren't ready for it. It didn't hurt that the umpire suddenly
seemed to be in a hurry to go home. Every close call went my way. I struck out the side, throwing a total of twelve pitches. When we came in for our last at bat, guys were whooping as if we were ahead.

Fletcher was first to bat. He worked the count to 2–2, then took a good swing at a fastball right down the middle. Had he hit it solidly, the ball would have gone sixty miles. But he was just a tad under it, sending a sky-high pop-up into short center. Woodinville's center fielder had to play the wind, but he stayed with it and made the putout. On the bench, guys went quiet.

But they didn't stay quiet, because on the first pitch he saw, Kim smacked a single into right. Lind followed that with another single back up the middle. The two of them then pulled off a double steal, putting the tying runs in scoring position. The game was right there, waiting for us to grab it.

Tim McDermott was at the plate. The pitcher took his time, working inside and out, until the count reached 3–2. I remembered how big the umpire's strike zone had been for me. "Be a hitter!" I screamed out, but McDermott took the pitch. "Strike three!" the umpire yelled, and we all groaned.

We were down to our last out. Woodinville's coach called time and ran out to talk with his pitcher. The guy was just about done. Drops of sweat were rolling down his face. He nodded his head up and down way too fast. Miguel punched my arm. "Shane, we're going to win this game. I can feel it."

"Play ball," the umpire called out. Woodinville's coach trotted off the field. Jim McDermott stepped in.

He was looking for a first-pitch fastball, and he got it. His swing was fast and fluid, and at the crack of the bat we all
started screaming. The ball rose high and deep in the air to straightaway center. The outfielder turned and went back on the ball, to the warning track. He stopped at the fence and leaped. A second later he was running toward the infield, holding the ball aloft, a huge smile on his face. The Woodinville players surrounded him, grabbing at his hat and jersey, delirious with joy.

It's hard to get up for practice so late in the season, especially after a loss. You've done drills so many times that they're a bore. So I wasn't looking forward to Tuesday's workout.

We stretched as usual, but instead of having us break off into our different groups, Coach Grandison called us together. "I liked the way you fought back yesterday. I was proud of you, and you should be proud of yourselves. So I don't want to see anybody with his head down. You hear me?"

We all nodded.

A smile formed on his lips. "We're going to do things differently today. Change things up. Instead of regular drills, we're going to play a game I like to call Maniac."

I can't begin to describe how the game works. All I can say is that Maniac is the right name for it, because that's what you needed to be in order to win. Grandison pulled out about two dozen rag baseballs, the kind they use with little kids. There were two teams. The guys on one team would stand in the vicinity of home plate and hammer ground balls as fast as
they could at the guys on the other team, who were all playing different infield positions. The idea was to field as many as possible and throw to the first baseman. But with so many balls flying around the infield all at once, it was total chaos.

After Maniac, we played Demon. At first this game didn't seem quite as crazy because the balls were thrown, not batted. But after a couple of minutes, balls were coming at you from two or three directions, and if you weren't looking, you'd get beaned.

Grandison kept the games going fast and furious all through the practice. The two hours flew by. Later, in the locker room, we were still laughing about balls that had bounced off somebody's head or butt.

Before heading to the bus stop, I slipped into the room with the big tournament chart hanging on the wall. Grandison had filled in the results. I saw our name in the losers' bracket. It would be a tough road from down there to make it to state.

I was about to leave when something caught my eye. I looked back and saw that Shorelake had also fallen into the losers' bracket. Kamiak had nipped them 4–3. Their name was just a couple of slots above ours. I followed the little lines as they moved to the right. Then I followed them again. I started to do it a third time but stopped myself. It was clear. If they won, and if we won, we'd play each other on Saturday.

After school on Wednesday, Coach Grandison met Miguel and me and a couple of other guys. We were playing in Marysville, and he was worried about traffic on 1–5. "I don't want to forfeit," he said, "so be ready to go." As it turned out,
we made it to the field with an hour to spare.

All through warm-ups Miguel talked loudly to anyone who would listen, a smile on his face. He did the same in the top of the first as our guys batted. But when Tim McDermott popped up to end the inning, Miguel grabbed his glove, then turned to me. "I don't think I can do this."

"You can do it, Miguel," I said. "You can do it."

As he warmed up, Grandison came and stood by me. "He's going to do great, Coach," I said. "Don't worry."

Grandison looked at me. "You sure?"

I shook my head. "No."

He smiled. "I guess that's why we play these games, isn't it?"

"Play ball!" the umpire yelled, and the Marysville batter stepped up to the plate. He tugged on his gloves, his pants, his gloves again. He took a practice swing, then another, finally, he stepped in. Miguel looked at Benny Gold, nodded, went into his wind-up, and fired. "Strike one!" the ump called, and some of the tightness went out of Miguel's face.

He struck the first batter out, getting him to swing at a two-strike pitch in the dirt. The next two hitters went down on a pop-up and a groundout. Just like that, the first inning was over, and instead of being down a bunch of runs, we were knotted in a scoreless tie.

Rather than squeeze the bat to death, guys stayed loose. And loose muscles are quick muscles. A one-out single, followed by a walk, an error, and another single brought two runs across. For the first time in the tournament, we had a lead.

Miguel shut Marysville down in the second and third, working out of trouble in both innings. In our half of the
fourth, Pedro Hernandez lifted a leadoff fly ball to right center. Both the right fielder and the center fielder broke on the ball. It should have been the center fielder's ball. I don't know if he called for it or not, but the right fielder kept coming. They collided, and both of them went down as if they'd been shot. The ball dropped between them. Hernandez lumbered around the bases as fast as he could. By the time the second baseman had retrieved the ball, Hernandez was almost to third. Grandison waved him home. The relay throw was high and wild, and we had our third run.

As soon as Hernandez scored, the umpire called time out. The Marysville coach ran out to check on his players. The right fielder was up, but the center fielder stayed down, his legs swinging side to side. They had him lie there for a good five minutes, finally he stood up and, with everyone clapping for him, walked off the field.

I looked over to Miguel, and our eyes met. You never want to see an opponent hurt. Still, the center fielder had been their cleanup hitter, strong with speed. Now he was out of the lineup.

Miguel struggled again in the fourth. The Marysville hitters were working the count, taking as many pitches as they could. And the umpire's strike zone seemed to shrink. A single and a couple of walks loaded the bases with two outs. The number-three hitter then smacked a grounder up the middle and into center field, making the score 3–2. Miguel's eyes had a wild, scared look in them.

The four spot was up, the spot that should have been filled by Marysville's center fielder. Instead, his replacement stepped to the plate. Miguel's first pitch was over the batter's
head, but he was so nervous he swung anyway. The scared look went out of Miguel's eyes; he knew he could get him.

He burned the heart of the plate for strike two, then fanned the hitter when he swung at another pitch up in his eyes. I was clapping for Miguel as he came to the bench, but his eyes went right past me. "Coach, I'm done."

Grandison turned to me. "Can you go three innings?"

As I took the mound for the bottom of the fifth, I knew I'd have to pace myself. If I went for strikeouts now, I'd be out of gas by the seventh inning. My pitches would come up in the strike zone, and the Marysville hitters would have a field day. I had to concentrate on location, not velocity. "Keep the ball down," I told myself.

My first pitch was so low it bounced up to the plate. I half smiled but then came back with a changeup about eight inches off the ground. The hitter beat it into the dirt toward third for an easy out. The next guy looped a single to right, but the batter after that bounced a one hopper back to me. I fired to second for the force-out, and the return throw was in plenty of time for the double play. I was out of the inning, and I hadn't thrown ten pitches.

"Let's get some runs," Grandison shouted as I jogged back to the bench, but we didn't manage so much as a hit.

As I trotted out for the sixth, I was tempted to bring out my fastball and try to power my way through two innings. But I had to keep pacing myself until I could see the end of the game. Only then could I cut loose.

The Marysville batters must have gotten some coaching. In the fifth they'd been up there swinging, making things
easy for me. In the sixth, the first batter took a fastball that couldn't have been more than two inches outside for ball one; then he took another that I swear was a strike but that the umpire called ball two.