High Heat (26 page)

I stepped off the mound and rubbed up the baseball. If the hitter was taking, that meant I could split the heart of the plate and he wouldn't swing. Gold called for a fastball, and I threw a nothing pitch, a batting-practice fastball, right down the middle. The hitter's eyes lit up, but he let it go. "Strike one!" the ump yelled.

That was when he dug in. But he wasn't getting any more fat pitches. I threw him a hard fastball, low and outside. This time he swung, sending a sharp grounder right to first base. Hernandez fielded it and stepped on the bag. One out.

The next batter stepped in. As I started my wind-up, he went into that fake bunt routine that is supposed to distract pitchers. I put a belt-high fastball over the plate, and he was too off-balance to swing. Strike one.

Gold signaled for a changeup.
Why not?
I thought. I choked the ball in my hand and let it fly. The ball must have looked as big as the moon. The batter swung but was way out in front, sending a soft roller toward short. Brian Fletcher charged but tried to throw before he really had the ball. It rolled up his arm, then bounced off his belly. The tying run was on base. Fletcher picked up the ball. Head down, he walked over to me. "Sorry, Shane," he said.

"Forget that one," I said. "Because the next one's coming to you."

And it did. A two hopper that drew Fletcher toward second base. He fielded it on the run, stepped on the bag, and fired to
first for another inning-ending double play.

"How do you feel?" Grandison said as I took my spot on the bench. "I could put Minton in if you're tired."

"Heel great."

We didn't score in our half of the seventh, so it was up to me to get the final three outs, with only one run to work with, which is the way I wanted it.

Based on how I'd pitched, the Marysville players must have thought I was a control pitcher, that my game was working the corners and keeping the ball down. Well, they'd find out differently. They were going to see three pitches from me: fast, faster, fastest.

The first batter, a guy with thick arms, had a long swing with a hitch in it. Gold gave me a target on the outside corner. I missed with my first pitch, but I didn't miss after that. The hitter swung so hard that he would have hit the ball into outer space if he'd connected. On strike three, he corkscrewed himself into the ground and then glared at me as he walked back to the bench.

Two outs to go.

I stepped off the mound to rub up the ball. My jersey was drenched in sweat, and sweat was rolling down my forehead. The next batter, a little guy who choked up on the bat, stepped in. My arm suddenly felt tired. But I wasn't going to give in to it. If Marysville was going to beat me, they were going to have to hit my fastball. I reared back and fired pitch after pitch.

They were strikes too. One after the other. The batter just poked at them, slapping foul ball after foul ball down the first
base line, spoiling pitch after pitch. He worked the count to 1–2, then 2–2, finally 3–2. Grandison called time and came out to the mound. Gold trotted out to listen. "How about a changeup, Shane?" Grandison said. "He'd be way out in front."

I shook my head. "I'm not giving in."

"Your arm is going to fall off."

"My arm is fine. I don't want to walk this guy, Coach. I'm not sure I could throw a changeup for a strike. Not now, anyway."

"Okay, Shane. It's your game."

Gold went back behind the plate. I looked in for the sign. He showed one finger for fastball. I shook him off. He showed a fist for the changeup. I shook him off. The batter stepped out, confused, which is exactly what I wanted. When he stepped back in, Gold put down one finger again. This time I nodded.

I slowed my wind-up just a hair, but when I came over the top, I put every ounce of energy I had into the pitch. I think he must have been expecting a changeup, because he started after the pitch, then stopped. "Strike three!" the umpire yelled. My teammates on the bench were up, screaming. One more out.

Only I was done. My arm felt so tired I could barely lift it. And stepping to the plate was their number-three hitter. I don't usually take much time between pitches, but I did then. I had to.

Finally I stepped back onto the mound and looked in for the sign. Gold held down a fist for the changeup. I almost shook him off, but then I thought,
Why not
? The batter had
to be expecting the fastball. How would he know I didn't have another fastball in me?

I gathered my strength and delivered. The ball went right down the middle, but he was out in front. He tried to hold back but couldn't. The bat caught the ball, sending a lazy pop fly in foul territory down the first base side.

There was no way Jim McDermott could reach it, but he took off anyway. I half watched as he raced into foul territory. But when he dived for the ball, I was more than half watching. He was going to come up short, I was sure, and when he didn't I was certain the ball would pop out of his glove. In spite of the impact from his dive, it didn't. It stuck out of the webbing of his glove like a snowball. The umpire's thumb went up into the air.

McDermott jumped to his feet, took the ball out of his glove, and, with his arms widespread and a huge grin on his face, raced toward the infield. We met him just behind first base, clapping him on the back and shaking him so hard his cap fell off.

As soon as school ended on Thursday afternoon, I hustled over to the gym. I was the first player there. In the locker room I spotted Grandison. He was in the meeting room, a permanent marker in his hand, and was filling in the names of the teams that had advanced. When he saw me, he stopped.

"Is it Shorelake?" I asked.

"Yeah, Shane. It's Shorelake."

I wanted a tough workout at practice, but Grandison wouldn't let me pitch at all, and he stopped me when I started running hard in the outfield. "You need to be strong on Saturday. What you need is rest." He was right, if he was talking about what my body needed. But it wasn't my body I was trying to wear out.

When I opened the door to the duplex that night, Marian was on the sofa. She didn't have a book open, which was odd. She was just sitting there. "Mom at work already?" I asked.

She nodded. "How was practice?" she asked.

"It was okay."

On any other day I'd have gone into the kitchen and eaten dinner. But something made me sit down in the chair across from her. For a time she looked out the window. I didn't say anything. I just waited. Finally she looked back to me. "Do you think about Dad anymore?" she asked.

I felt my face go red. "Yeah. Sure I do." I paused. "Maybe not as much as I used to, but I think about him. How about you?"

She shrugged. "Not too much. But once in a while, when Mom's gone and you're gone, I'll pretend he's upstairs in his study like he used to be. There's nothing I really want to say to him. I just pretend he's up there with the door closed." She paused. "It makes me feel better for a while, and then I feel worse."

I picked a rubber band from the floor and played with it. "Stuff like that happens to me, too," I said at last. "As I was heading to the parking lot after our last game, one of the men
said: 'Way to go, son.' I knew he wasn't talking to me, but I still turned around."

Marian looked at me for a while, then stared out the window. "You don't think Dad was a criminal, do you?"

"I don't know, Marian. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't."

"I don't think he was," she said.

We sat still for a while, then she reached for a book. "Mom will be mad if you don't eat the food she left for you."

May weather in Seattle is hard to figure out. One day it can be as bright and sunny as a day in July, and the very next day it can be as cold and rainy as the worst days of January. Before I went to bed Friday night, I stepped outside and looked at the sky. I could pick out a few stars, which meant the clouds weren't thick. The last thing I wanted was a rainout.

Saturday morning broke cloudy and cool, but by noon the sun was peeking out. The Mariners game was on TV, which was perfect. For three hours I just stared at the tube. When the game ended, I ate half a hamburger and some fries Mom had bought at Zesto's.

Game time was six o'clock. At four-thirty we all piled into the car for the drive to West Seattle. Mom had arranged to take the night off. "I'd be thinking about you, and not the orders anyway. I won't make you more nervous, will I?"

I shook my head. "Nothing could make me more nervous."

"I think I'll take Marian to Starbucks," Mom said when
she pulled into the parking lot and let me out of the car. "But we'll be back for the game."

She drove off, and I headed to our bench. As I neared it, I spotted Coach Dravus talking with Grandison. They stopped talking when I approached.

"Good to see you again, Shane," Coach Dravus said as he shook my hand.

"Good to see you, too," I answered.

Grandison moved off to talk with Benny Gold.

"How do you feel?" Coach Dravus asked me.

"I'm nervous, but my arm feels really good."

Dravus looked toward the Shorelake players, who were beginning to warm up. "This is going to be a tough game for you. It's difficult to pitch against your former teammates."

I shrugged. "I know some of those guys, but it's been two years. Lots of them I don't know at all."

We both watched in silence for a minute. "Which one is the boy you hit?"

My throat tightened. "Number forty-four. He's warming up over by third base."

Dravus's eyes shifted in that direction. "How's he been doing?"

"Okay, I guess. But I don't think he's much of a hitter anymore."

Dravus nodded. "It takes time to come back from something like that. Well, I'll go find myself a seat in the bleachers and leave you to your game. Good luck."

Once Dravus was gone, Grandison returned. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing, really."

"How's your arm?"

"Fine. I could pitch two innings, easy."

Grandison shook his head. "Forget it. You'll pitch the seventh, but no more. The last thing Coach Dravus wants me to do is blow your arm out. Now get out there and play catch with Miguel."

As Miguel and I tossed the ball back and forth, I peeked at the bleachers behind Shorelake's bench. I spotted Greg's parents, and Cody's. I saw a few girls I'd known, only they looked more grown up. Reese's parents were in the middle of the bleachers, surrounded by other parents I half recognized. I wondered if any of them were sneaking peeks at me, pointing me out, saying, "That's Shane Hunter, the kid whose father killed himself, the one who hit Reese." Waves of heat rolled through me. My face and ears reddened, and a few seconds later I felt as if the blood were draining out of me, and I was cold as ice.

At last it was game time. Grandison called us in, and we formed a circle around him. "Just play your game. That's all." He paused. "Let's do it!" We let out a roar, and the starters raced to their positions on the field.

What we needed was a clean top of the first. Guys who'd played against Shorelake the year before remembered how they'd crushed us, and the new players had heard about it. Besides, the name
Shorelake
was just plain intimidating—you're playing both the team and the tradition behind it.

I'd vowed to stay relaxed, but after the first pitch I was up
on my feet, my fingers gripping the chainlink fence. "He's nothing," I shouted to Cory Minton. "Strike him out!"

Instead of striking out the leadoff batter, Minton walked him. Then he walked the batter after him. With two on and nobody out, he grooved a first-pitch fastball that was drilled into right center for a run-scoring double. The next hitter smacked a curve ball up the middle for a two-run single. The game wasn't five minutes old, and we were down 3–0. It was going to be just like last year. They were better than us. Plain-and-simple better. And they were going to crush us.

Grandison clapped his hands together. "Hang in there, Cory."

Greg Taylor was at the plate. He looked bigger and stronger than I remembered. Minton checked the runner, delivered. Again it was a nothing fastball, and again it was smacked, this time into right center. The runner on first took off, certain it was over Kim Seung's head.

But Kim had gotten a great jump, and the ball seemed to hold up in the wind. At the last second he stretched out, making a great running catch. Immediately he spun around and fired a two-hop strike to first base to double up the runner. The parents behind our bench rose and cheered, and they cheered again when Minton struck out Cody Miller to end the first.

Three runs.

It was bad, but not as bad as it could have been.

"Come on," I shouted as my teammates raced in. "Let's get some hits!"

I didn't know the Shorelake pitcher. He was no freshman
or sophomore, though, so he must have been a transfer. He had the stubble of a guy who needs to shave every day but hadn't for a week. He wore number thirteen, and he pulled his cap so far down that his dark eyes, hidden under the bill, were menacing. His first pitch to Kim was a fastball a foot inside. Kim jumped out of the way and then looked out. The pitcher scowled at him.

Kim stepped back in, then took a weak swing at the next pitch and sent a two hopper right to the bag at first. Kurt Lind tapped back to the mound for the second out, and Tim McDermott popped up to second to end the inning.

Minton started the second as badly as he'd pitched the first, walking the leadoff guy on four pitches. Next up was Brad Post, the player who'd taken Reese's spot in center field. I looked over to Reese. The guys around him were clapping their hands, calling out encouragement, but Reese just sat and watched.

Post was a big kid with a big swing—a pure fastball hitter. Minton threw him nothing but off-speed pitches, and Post finally struck out on a curve in the dirt. He swung so hard he nearly toppled over. That strikeout seemed to settle Minton. He went through the second inning without giving up a hit, and he gave up nothing in the third or fourth either.

If we could have scratched out a run or two, we'd have been right back in the game, but number thirteen just blew through our order. From where I sat, his pitches didn't look that fast. I thought he was as much bluff as anything, but I wasn't up there hitting against him.