High Heat (27 page)

Minton started the fifth strong, getting the first two batters
easily, but the third hitter smacked a grounder right back up the middle and into center field. That brought up Post again.

All Minton had to do was throw off-speed stuff, little curves and changeups, and Post would get himself out. Instead Minton tried to sneak a first-pitch fastball by him. Post took that huge swing of his and connected, sending a deep drive into left center. For a second I thought the wind would hold it in the park, but then Tim McDermott looked up, the Shorelake fans screamed with joy, and we were behind 5–0.

The guys around me were pawing the ground with their cleats. We'd worked for months, won a bunch of games, and made the tournament. If we had to go out, at least we wanted to go out fighting. But this game was slipping away from us.

When the Shorelake players took their defensive positions for the bottom of the fifth, Post was on the bench and Reese out in center field. It didn't take long before he got into the action. With one out, Kim laced a line drive into center. If Post had still been out there, it would have dropped for a hit, but Reese raced in and made a beautiful shoestring catch. As he tossed the ball back to the infield, fans on both sides gave him an ovation.

That play mattered, too, because Lind doubled on the next pitch, and McDermott followed that with another single, bringing across our first run. All the guys were up and cheering, but the rally ended on a deep fly to right. "It's okay," Grandison called out as the inning ended. "We got one back. We'll get more."

Miguel pitched the top of the sixth. He was fresh, and the Shorelake batters were up there swinging, so he breezed
through them one, two, three. I didn't know whether I was imagining it, but as the guys came in for the bottom of the sixth, there seemed to be a little hop in their step, a little fire in their eyes.

The top of the seventh was mine. As I headed out to warm up along the sideline, I glanced at number thirteen on the mound. His cap wasn't pulled down so far over his eyes; the scowl wasn't so set on his face. I looked at the Shorelake bench. Coach Levine was pacing back and forth in the dugout, but he had no relief pitcher up and throwing.

Pedro Hernandez stepped to the plate. Like all tired pitchers, number thirteen wanted to get ahead in the count. He started with a fastball, hoping Hernandez was taking, but Hernandez ripped it into left center for a standup double. I looked over to the Shorelake side. Still no sign of a relief pitcher.

Benny Gold was our next hitter. In his earlier at bats, he'd been overmatched. But not now, not with a tired pitcher on the mound and a runner leading off second base. Gold took a ball, then another, then lined a single into right field. Hernandez scored easily, and we were down three.

Dirk Becker batted next. He hit a sizzling ground ball down the first base line. I was sure it would skip into right field for another double, but the first baseman made a backhand stab and beat him to the bag for the first out. The Shorelake fans cheered, and our bench went quiet. But only for a moment, because Jason Crandle laced a 2–2 pitch into right field for an RBI single. Now the sweat was pouring down number thirteen's face.

I stopped throwing to watch Fletcher's at bat. If he made
an out, then the Shorelake pitcher might just be able to suck it up and finish off the inning. But if Fletcher reached base, we'd have Kim at the plate representing the winning run.

Thirteen checked on Crandle, then delivered. Ball one. The crowd quieted. Another pitch ... another ball. "Get a walk," I whispered. Number thirteen took his stretch, came to the plate. Fletcher ran up on the ball and laid down a beautiful drag bunt. It dribbled past the pitcher, toward the second baseman. He raced in, but by the time he reached the ball, Fletcher was flying across first, Crandle was standing safely at second, and Kim was knocking the dirt out of his shoes on his way toward the plate.

"Strike him out!" someone shouted from the Shorelake side. I nearly laughed out loud. You never know what's going to happen in baseball. You can cream the ball and hit it right at somebody for an out. But I knew one thing wasn't going to happen—Kim wouldn't strike out.

He looked totally in control, even after he fouled off the first two pitches. It was as if he was waiting for
his
pitch, and on the 1–2 count he got it: a fastball, off the plate about three inches. Kim reached out and slapped it over the third baseman's head into the left field corner. Two runs scored easily, and Kim slid into third headfirst with a triple.

The game was tied.

Everybody was up on both benches as Lind stepped to the plate. Number thirteen's arm must have seemed as if it weighed one hundred pounds. He checked Kim dancing down third, delivered.

Lind should have been taking. He should have made the
guy pitch and pitch. Instead, he swung and lifted an easy pop-up to first for the second out.

Coach Levine called time and ran out to talk to his pitcher. He was buying him time, trying to get him a few minutes of rest so he could get that one final out. At last the umpire had had enough. "Let's play ball," he shouted, and Levine walked slowly back to the bench.

"Come on, McDermott!" I yelled. "Get a hit!"

The rest seemed to help number thirteen. He threw a fastball right down the middle that had some zip to it. "Strike one!" the ump yelled. McDermott backed out, then stepped back in. Another good fastball. "Strike two!" This time McDermott didn't back out. Number thirteen went into his wind-up. He came straight over the top with all he had.

Only it was too much. He overthrew the fastball, bouncing it about three feet in front of the plate. It skipped past the catcher and all the way to the screen. Kim flew down the base line and slid across home plate. We were ahead 6–5. On the next pitch, McDermott struck out swinging to end the inning. I threw a final warm-up pitch along the sideline and headed to the mound.

Every coach will tell you that with the game on the line, you've got to block everything out and concentrate on what you're trying to do. But there was too much for me to block out. So I gave up and let it all in. My dad ... my mom ... Grandison ... Kraybill ... Dravus. Somehow I
was aware of all of them. But most of all I felt Reese, down at the end of the Shorelake bench, a bat in his hand, staring at me. I made my last warm-up toss from the mound; the Shorelake batter stepped in.

This was it.

I blew out some air and got the sign from Gold. Changeup. Not a bad call to start a big inning. The hitter would be expecting a fastball, and the Shorelake team knew I had a good one. I nodded, then came to the plate. The ball must have looked like a watermelon to the batter. His eyes were as big as saucers, and he swung from the heels. Only he was way out in front. He tried to hold back but the ball squibbed out between the mound and third base. Becker charged in, trying to bare hand the ball and throw to first all in one motion. He almost pulled it off, but his throw sailed just over the top of Hernandez's outstretched glove and down the line into right field. The hitter hustled safely into second base before Jim McDermott could get the ball back to the infield. One pitch into the inning, and Shorelake had the tying run in scoring position.

Greg Taylor was up next. As he left the on-deck circle, he nodded to me, and I nodded back, and that was that. Once he stepped into the batter's box, he had one job: moving the runner to third base. I had one job: stopping him.

Greg was a decent hitter, but it had always seemed to me that he was overanxious. I threw him a fastball that was at least a foot outside, but he swung at it anyway, just like I thought he might. Gold, thinking along with me, put down the sign for a changeup. I nodded, then threw the best changeup of my life. Greg lifted a little pop-up toward third base. "I've got it," Becker called out. A second later he
squeezed it for the first out of the inning.

Up next was a little guy I didn't know. He had an exaggerated crouch, choked way up on the bat, and waved it around slowly. It seemed as if his strike zone was about two inches by two inches. I was outside on the first pitch, high with the second, and then outside with the third and the fourth. He trotted down to first, and Shorelake had both the tying and winning runs on base.

"Throw strikes!" Grandison shouted.

I'd faced only three batters, but I was sweating as much as number thirteen had in six full innings.

Before stepping in, the next hitter took five vicious practice swings off to the side. I don't know what tipped me off. Maybe it was what Fletcher had done in the top of the inning or something in the way this batter held his bat; or maybe it was those exaggerated swings. But as soon as I delivered the pitch, I knew he was going to try to bunt his way to first.

It wasn't a bad bunt, but I pounced on it. I might have had a play at third, only I didn't want to risk making a bad throw, so I lobbed the ball to Hernandez at first.

Two outs ... but now the tying run was at third—only ninety feet from home plate—and the winning run was standing at second.

It had been loud throughout the inning. Loud the way a baseball game is supposed to be loud. People screaming out advice and encouragement or just plain screaming. But as I walked back onto the mound, the cheering changed to a murmur, then a hush. I looked in at home plate and understood why.

Reese Robertson was walking toward home plate.

From our sideline I heard Grandison yell for time. A second later he trotted out to the mound. "Let's walk this guy," he said. "If we load the bases, we'll set up a force at every base. It's the smart play. Okay?"

He was trying to make it seem as if it was strictly baseball, as if he hadn't even noticed Reese. I wanted to nod and say, "Sure, Coach." But that would have been the coward's way.

I shook my head. "I have to pitch to him, Coach."

Grandison looked me in the eye. "All right. Then pitch to him." And with that, he trotted back to the bench. Reese took a final practice swing and stepped in.

Gold knew who was up. He called for a changeup on the outside part of the plate, but I shook him off. I had to go after Reese with my best fastball. That's what he'd want, so that's what I was going to do.

I checked the runners, paused, then fired. I was trying to put the fastball right down the middle of the plate, but the pitch sailed inside. Reese jumped back and out of the way, his helmet coming off in the process. "Ball one!" the umpire cried, and from the Shorelake side I heard a chorus of boos. "Watch your pitches, kid!" somebody yelled.

I took off my glove, rubbed up the baseball, and stepped back onto the pitching rubber. Gold put down one finger, but this time he set up on the outside corner. I stretched, my eyes focused on his glove, and I delivered. Reese let it go by. "Strike one!" the umpire yelled.

Gold tossed the ball back to me. I looked in for the next sign, but I also watched Reese's feet. He didn't move up in the batter's box. Gold called for another fastball on the outside
corner. Again, I stretched, checked the runners, delivered. My arm felt strong; the ball rocketed to home plate. "Strike two!" the umpire called.

"That was outside!" some parent on the Shorelake side yelled.

"One more strike!" Grandison called.

Reese stepped out of the batter's box, adjusted his batting gloves, then stepped back in. Only this time, he moved closer to home plate.

I knew what was going through his mind. He was hoping I'd lay another fastball on the outside corner. If I did, he would try to poke it into right field.

I looked in for the sign. Gold called for another fastball. I nodded, but I wasn't going outside this time. I'd set him up for the fastball inside, set him up to strike him out. So that's what I had to do. I went into my stretch, checked the runners, and delivered. The ball flew out of my hand: a letter-high fastball that painted the inside corner. Reese jumped back as if it were close to hitting him. For a long second the umpire said nothing. At last, he brought up his right hand. "Strike three!"

A few seconds later guys were all around the mound, pounding me on the back and pumping my hand up and down. "Great game!" they said. "Way to go!" And I said the same things back to them. Grandison was in the middle of us, a huge smile on his face. I was turned this way and that, but I did manage to spot my mom by the fence waving excitedly, her eyes shining. Standing next to her was Coach Dravus.

After that we formed a line and shook hands with the Shorelake guys. They were classy, wishing us good luck in the
tournament, telling us we could go all the way. When I reached Reese, I didn't know what to say. All I managed was "Good game."

"You too," he said.

I found my mother and started with her to the car. We were about halfway to the parking lot when Grandison's voice boomed across the field. "Whitman players, get back here!"

"What's he want?" Mom asked.

"I don't know," I said. "But he doesn't sound happy."

I put my equipment bag down and jogged back to the infield. Grandison was pointing to our bench area. "This is a mess," he said as a bunch of us approached. "I want you to clean up this garbage."

We'd been so excited about the victory that we'd left water bottles, towels, and half-eaten bags of sunflower seeds strewn around. In a few minutes we had cleaned it up. "All right," he said. "That's better. You can go now."

On the ride home, Mom talked about how exciting the game had been and how well I'd pitched. I did my best to hold up my part, but I suddenly felt so tired and the game seemed so long ago that it was hard. I was glad to get home, head upstairs, and take a shower.

When I came out of the shower, Mom called me downstairs. Her eyes were beaming. "Coach Dravus called. He's coming over in a few minutes to talk to both of us. Shane, I think you're going to get that scholarship."

My stomach turned over. "It might not be that."

"You're going to get it," Marian said. "You know you are."

"It's not for sure," I snapped.

My mother put up her hands. "Stop it. Both of you. We should be happy, not bickering." She turned to me. "Why don't you go upstairs and read or something. It won't be long."