High Heat (3 page)

His eyes fixed on me. "Are you ashamed of me, Shane? Is that it?"

"No," I protested. "That's not it at all."

"Then why don't you want me at your game?"

"It's not that I don't want you at the game. It's only that I know you're busy. Besides, Marian doesn't want to go to my game."

"Maybe Mom could pick me up," Marian said.

"Sure she can," Dad said as he pulled up in front of the school. "All right then, it's settled. Your mom will pick you up, Marian. And Shane, I'll meet you right here at three-ten."

He was late. For twenty minutes I stood in front of the school, wondering if he was coming at all. Finally the Lexus pulled up. I hustled down the stairs and slid in. Right away I could smell the whiskey.

The Sammamish plateau is about thirty minutes from Seattle. Usually when Dad's been drinking, he talks a lot and in a loud voice. That day he didn't say anything, but when a lady in an old green Plymouth Valiant was poking along in front of him, he laid on the horn, then drove onto the shoulder and passed her on the right, nearly cutting her off.

I was the last player to arrive. I rushed out to where the pitchers and catchers were warming up, but I'd hardly had a chance to loosen up before Coach Levine motioned to us to head to the dugout.

As I ran in, I looked up into the bleachers and spotted my dad. He'd found a place in the very top row, sitting right above our bench. No parent was within five feet of him, as if he was one of those homeless people in the library who smell so bad they get a whole table to themselves.

"Play ball! "the ump yelled.

My dad is always razzing the umpires or shouting down advice to Coach Levine. I was afraid he'd be louder than usual, trying to show everybody that everything was normal. Instead, he was so quiet I kept looking around to see if he was still there. And every time I looked, it was the same: his eyes were on the field, but they weren't seeing the game.

We jumped out to a 4–0 lead in the third inning on three doubles, two walks, and an error. Scott Parino wasn't sharp on the mound—lots of balls were hard hit—but he was hanging in there. Then, in the bottom of the fourth, he gave up a single and a walk to Sammamish's first two batters. The next guy popped out to first base, but the batter after that drove in both runners with a double down the third base line.

Parino stranded him at second, but Sammamish loaded the bases in the top of the sixth. From behind me I heard parents cheering Parino, yet it was the one voice I didn't hear that made my head pound.

When the last inning finally rolled around, Levine sent me down with Bill Diggs to warm up. I thought I'd feel better once I was doing something. I threw easily to Diggs, stretching my arm and my back out. To anybody watching, everything looked normal, but I felt as if I were leaning over the Grand Canyon.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Robby Richardson ground out to end our half of the inning. Levine pointed his finger at me, then headed to home plate to tell the umpire I was coming in. "Go get 'em," Diggs said as I walked past him.

People say the mental part of being a closer is hard, but I love the challenge. I close out games by closing off everything
that isn't essential. I don't hear anything I don't need to hear; I don't see anything I don't need to see. I focus on home plate, the catcher's glove, and the ball in my hand. When that's my whole world, I'm in control.

But that day I heard the buzzing in the stands, felt the difference in the way people looked at me. I knew my dad was in the stands watching me, counting on me to show them all.

I gave myself a shake; I had to focus. I looked to Ted Hearn for the sign, then went into my wind-up and delivered. My motion was almost right, but almost doesn't cut it. "Ball one!" the umpire roared as my pitch sailed high. The ball came back to me. Seconds later I was delivering another pitch. "Ball two!" Then "Ball three!" And "Ball four!" The batter trotted to first. Levine stood and leaned against the fence. Up in the bleachers my dad stood. "Come on, Shane!" he shouted, breaking his game-long silence.

A new batter stepped in. My head was spinning. I squeezed the ball tight ... too tight. "Ball one! Ball two! Ball three! Take your base!"

Levine trotted out. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said, though the roaring inside my brain was so loud I could hardly hear him.

"All right then. Do it."

From the bleachers I heard my dad. "Throw strikes, Shane! Throw strikes!"

Hearn flashed the sign: fastball. I nodded, checked the runners, delivered. Normally the ball explodes out of my hand. But this fastball was a joke; it went right over the heart of the plate, with no speed and no movement.

The guy's bat came through the strike zone like lightning. The sound told the whole story. He got it all—a towering drive to left field. Our left fielder, Alvin Powell, just looked up and watched it fly far over the fence and onto the soccer field behind. The hitter pumped his fist in the air as he rounded first base. The Sammamish guys swarmed him as he touched home plate.

My teammates stood at their positions and watched Sammamish celebrate, too stunned to move. Finally Greg trotted in, and the others trailed behind. Only I stayed put. Levine finally came out and got me. "It happens to every closer sometime. You'll get 'em next time, Shane."

I packed my stuff quickly and cleared out. In the car, neither my dad nor I said anything as we cruised along the freeway. "Was it me, Shane?" he finally asked when we were five minutes from our home. "Tell me the truth."

"It wasn't you. I just had a bad game."

He looked straight ahead. "Because if it was me, you say the word, and I'll stay away from your games."

"It wasn't you, Dad," I repeated, my voice rising.

He turned into Sound Ridge, waving to Simon as we drove through the gate. "We may be down, Shane, but we're not out. We're going to beat them. It may take a while, but we're going to come out on top."

Our next game was at home on Saturday afternoon against Liberty, a terrible team. "Why don't you skip this one," I told Dad that morning. "We're going to kill them. There's a ninety-nine percent chance I won't even pitch."

"I'm not skipping any of your games," he said. "Besides, don't be so sure of yourself. That's how good teams lose."

All morning I watched him closely, looking to see if he was drinking. I never saw him go to the liquor cabinet, never smelled anything on his breath. But he wasn't right in the car, and he wasn't right in the stands. It was that silence again, that silence that wasn't him.

A blowout. That's what I wanted. A game where we would score twelve runs in the first three innings. Then if I pitched or didn't pitch, it wouldn't matter. I needed some time to catch my breath, to pull myself together.

But Liberty saved their best game of the year for us. In the field their guys were making one great play after another, and with each solid play you could feel their confidence soar. They scored twice in the third, and that 2–0 lead held all the way to the bottom of the sixth.

That's when their starter ran out of gas. His pitches lost velocity, and they were all belt high. Two singles and a passed ball brought our right fielder, Beanie Cutler, to the plate with a chance to tie the game. "Just give us a little hit!" guys shouted from the bench.

Cutler stepped in, then drove the first pitch he saw off the center-field wall on a bounce. Both base runners scored easily. When the Liberty center fielder couldn't find the handle on the ball, Cutler took off for third. The relay from the shortstop was wild, sailing into the fence. "Go!" Coach Levine shouted, and Cutler was off for home. He slid home ahead of the throw, and just like that we were up one run.

"Shane!" Levine called to me. "Get warmed up."

I didn't have much time. Our next two batters hit the ball hard, but right at their shortstop. I'd thrown only about ten pitches along the sideline when I found myself heading out to the mound to protect a one-run lead.

As I took my warm-up tosses, I told myself that the last game had been a fluke, that I was the same pitcher I always was, and that I was better than the Liberty batters—a lot better. But when the first hitter stepped in, there was a roaring inside my brain, like a 747 taking off.

The inning was a nightmare. I walked the first batter on four pitches—none of them close to the plate. I hit the next batter in the foot with a fastball. Levine came out and said something—I don't know what. Liberty's DH ripped the second pitch he saw into the rightfield corner for a triple. After that I don't remember much. I know that there were at least two more doubles, and four more runs scored, and the last out was a fly ball to center that missed being a grand slam by about ten feet.

The ride home was eerie. In the past when I'd screwed up, my dad rode me hard, going over every little thing I'd done wrong. I never liked being yelled at, but now I wanted him to chew me out. I wanted him to be him. I should have said something. If not to him, then to Mom. I knew something was wrong, but I just stayed quiet.

That night Marian had her first nightmare. Her screams woke me up. I hurried to her room, but Mom was already there, holding her tight, rocking her back and forth. "Hush, hush," Mom whispered, "I'm right here."

Monday morning I thought I was the first one up, but when I went downstairs I saw Dad in the sun-room overlooking our backyard, the
Seattle Times
spread in front of him. When he noticed me, he quickly folded the local section of the paper and stuffed it into the pocket of his robe. "You're up early, Shane."

"A little."

"Sit down. I'll make you some hot chocolate."

"You don't have to."

"I want to," he said, and he went through the double glass doors into the kitchen.

In my whole life he'd never made me hot chocolate, and I wasn't sure he knew how to do it, but he managed okay. "It's good," I said, after taking a sip of the steaming cup he placed in front of me.

He stood watching me drink as if he'd never seen me before.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Of course everything is okay. What wouldn't be okay?"

"I don't know. Nothing."

A minute ticked away. Another. In the yard a robin was hunting worms.

"You like Shorelake?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Did you ever think about going to another school? Maybe Whitman?"

For a moment I didn't understand. Whitman was the closest public high school, but Dad hated the public schools. He insisted they were full of drugs and guns and kids who didn't
know how to read but got straight A's anyway.

Then I understood.

Money.

"I guess it would be okay. I just don't know anybody who goes to Whitman."

He tilted his head. "You could make friends anywhere, Shane." He paused. "But if you want to stay at Shorelake, you'll stay at Shorelake."

"No, Dad," I said. "I don't have to stay at Shorelake. I'll go to Whitman. Really."

He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. "We'll put it on the back burner for now. Nothing has to be decided right away." He paused. "Don't mention anything about changing schools to your mother or sister, okay?"

At school that morning, I headed straight to the library. The
Times
was on a rack right by the front door. You're not supposed to take newspapers away from the periodicals section, but I waited until Mrs. Johnson, the librarian, wasn't looking, tucked it under my coat, and headed to the back corner.

I pulled the local section out. On the front page was a photograph of the big billboard in front of my dad's Lexus dealership. His face was grinning out. To the side, in big bold letters, was the headline: "Car Dealer Linked to Drug Lords." And then in smaller type: "Accountant Cooperating with Police."

I read through the article slowly, but all I could take in were phrases. "Mexican drug kingpins ... phony transactions ... racketeering charges ... prison."

"I have a meeting today," Dad said when he came downstairs the next morning. "I might be able to make it to the game, but I'll be late. You'll have to get a ride from somebody else." His face was a pasty white; his voice quavered.

I was in the breakfast nook with Marian and my mother. All of us were halfheartedly eating microwaved waffles. "Don't worry about it, Dad," I said. "Coach can take me."

He turned and went through the kitchen, into the small library off the living room. Mom excused herself and followed. I couldn't see them, but I heard them talking in low tones. I poked at my waffle. Marian's face was long; her brown eyes were sad. I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be okay, but I couldn't say the words.

A few minutes later Dad came back, without Mom. He crouched next to Marian and took her hands in his. "I want you to know," he said softly, "that I love you." He looked at me. "That I love both of you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," Marian said.

I nodded.

He stood to his full height. "Good luck with your game." Then he went through the door leading to the garage. A couple of minutes later I heard his car race down the block.

By then Mom had returned. Marian looked at her. "What's happening?"

"Your dad has a meeting, honey. That's all."

"Is something bad going to happen to him?"

"Remember what your dad said. As long as we stick by one another, nothing really bad can happen to any of us. Right?"

***

Our game was against Inglemoor High, a big suburban school on the north shore of Lake Washington. I thought about telling Coach Levine I was feeling sick and skipping the game. What difference would it make to anybody? He'd given me two chances, and I'd blown them both. He wouldn't give me a third. Besides, it didn't seem right to be playing a baseball game with my dad in trouble.

But I didn't want to go home to Mom with her cigarettes and Marian with her sad face, so when school ended I made my way to Coach Levine's office. "Can you give me a ride to the game?" I asked.

"Anytime." He pointed to a duffel bag filled with baseballs and catcher's gear. "Give me a hand with that?"