Painting the Black (16 page)

“You really think so?” I said, trying not to hope for too much.

Josh zipped up his bag and stood. “I know so.”

I didn't answer him. I couldn't. I felt like a tidal wave was welling up inside me. I wanted to sing out for joy, to holler—the way you holler at a rock concert.

Josh started off. “Hey,” I called out to him when he was about fifteen feet away. “You feel like doing something tonight. Pool? Or a movie?”

He shook his head. “Can't. I'm taking Missy Radburn out.”

I knew Missy from Mrs. Beck's class. She was always popping her gum and turning off the computer in the back of the room so she could use the screen to put on her lipstick. She wouldn't have been my first choice for a date.

“Well, have fun,” I said, and right away I felt stupid. I hadn't meant it like that.

But Josh only grinned. “I intend to. I intend to.”

That was a great day, and the next day was almost better. We'd had a big test in chemistry class that I'd studied long and hard for. I thought I'd done pretty well, but when I got it back with a huge “A+” written across the top in red, I was amazed. After class Mr. Woodruff walked down the hall with me. “What are your plans for next year?” he asked.

I told him about Shoreline Community College.

“That's a good school. You can get a start there. But be sure to take hard classes, university-level. Don't sell yourself short.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean you could go a long way. Have you thought about a career in medicine?”

I laughed out loud. “Me? A doctor?”

“What's funny about that? You've got real skill in the laboratory. Good hands, better hands than I've seen in a long time. And you're strong enough at the academics when you really work at them. It would take work and dedication, but you'd make a good doctor or dentist or veterinarian.” He paused. “Anyway, it's something for you to think about.”

It was the kind of thing my father and mother had said to me for as long as I can remember. I'd always just blown it off when they'd done it. But coming from Mr. Woodruff, the words sounded different. Or maybe I was different. You work hard at something you're not sure you can do—as I'd worked at baseball—and when you succeed you start thinking that maybe there are other things that had seemed out of reach, but really aren't.

“I'll think about it, Mr. Woodruff,” I said, not laughing anymore.

He nodded. “Good.”

Toward the end of practice that same afternoon it was Coach Wheatley's turn. I knew something was up when I saw him talking first to Selin and then to Curtis. Finally he called me over.

“I like your defense, Ryan. I like the way you keep the ball in front of you. In fact, I like your defense so much I've decided to move Curtis to third base permanently and make you my only backup at catcher. If we've got a lead late in a game, you're going in. You understand?”

“Yes
sir,
” I said, even though I'd never called him “sir” before.

“Good. And one more thing. Chris Selin has a lot of pride, and it's tough to be yanked out of a game. But he's a team player and a class guy. He'll do everything he can to help you. So you listen to him.”

That turned out to be true. For the rest of that practice, and during the other practices that week, Selin filled me in on Reule and Wilkerson and Smith, telling me what they liked to throw and when they liked to throw it. “They aren't like Josh,” he said, “but they're good pitchers. You handle them right and they'll get you outs.”

Thursday afternoon we played Garfield. Through the early innings I sat on the bench next to Josh. He had a big bag of sunflower seeds on the ground in front of him, and he kept stuffing his mouth and then spitting out the shells. He was watching the game, but watching it the way a fan does. He wasn't going to play and he knew it. For me it was different. I'd gotten a taste of playing. And once you get a taste, you want more.

We cruised to an early 5–0 lead. Ruben had two doubles; Selin knocked in three with a bases-loaded single and a sack fly. Our pitcher, David Reule, gave up some pretty solid hits along the way, but Garfield couldn't put anything together, and our defense, especially Curtis at third, made some great plays. It looked like an easy victory.

Then, in the top of the sixth, Reule lost his shutout to a two-out three-run home run. Randy Wilkerson came in to get the final out, but that home run woke up everybody. The game wasn't over.

As we batted in the bottom of the sixth, I kept looking over at Wheatley, hoping he'd tell me to get my gear on. Wilkerson didn't have a slider or any trick pitches, but defense is defense, and that's all that matters late in a game when you've got the lead. Finally our eyes met, and I was glad they did.

“Ward, get your gear on. You're going in.”

Josh nudged me. “Good luck,” he said.

Catching Wilkerson was entirely different from catching Josh. He had two pitches—a fastball and a curve. He had no clue whether the ball was going inside or outside, high or low.

I wanted to get ahead in the count on the first batter, so I called for a fastball. But the batter was up there swinging, and he took a cut. He must have got the barest piece of the ball, because it almost stuck in my mitt. Almost.

But instead of sticking, it glanced off my mitt and caught the thumb of my flesh hand, tearing the nail clean off. In a flash I was hopping around, shaking my hand out. Blood was flying everywhere.

Coach Wheatley came out and so did the team manager. They sprayed something on it, then bandaged it up. “Can you stay in?” Wheatley asked.

There was no way I was coming out, not even if my thumb was lying on the ground. I answered quickly. “I can play.”

He smiled. “That's the spirit.”

But my thumb was throbbing. What I wanted was a nice, easy one-two-three inning. I didn't get it.

Wilkerson gave up a solid single to the leadoff hitter. The next Garfield guy popped out to short center. We were lucky on that one, because the pitch looked to me like a batting practice fastball right down the middle.

Wilkerson didn't get lucky with the next pitch, though. It was another fat fastball, and the hitter creamed it into the alley in left center for a run-scoring triple. That cut our lead to 5–4, and put the tying run ninety feet away. It also brought Wheatley out. He took the ball from Wilkerson and motioned to the bullpen for our left-handed reliever, Darren Smith.

Smith was the only freshman on the team. In practice he was fast, but wild, and just looking in his eyes told me how nervous he was. His warm-up pitches were everywhere.

I trotted out. “Just look at my mitt,” I said. “Forget about the guy on third. Forget about the batter. Just look at my mitt. You can do it.”

I returned behind the plate, crouched, put down one ringer, and stuck my mitt belt high in the center of the strike zone. Smith needed a strike, and I was willing to risk that the Garfield guy couldn't hit his fastball even if it was over the middle.

He stretched, checked the runner, came home. The hitter swung, sending a little bloop into short right. Santos started back, then charged. He caught the ball on the dead run.

I peeked toward third. The runner was tagging. They were going to send him.

Santos's throw was a good one. It reached me on one bounce and was just a couple of feet up the first base line. I caught it, then spun back toward the plate. The Garfield guy didn't slide. I dived at him as he lowered his shoulder and hit me the way a linebacker hits a quarterback. The force of the collision bowled me over. I felt my wrist jam into the ground, but somehow I held on to the ball.

“Out!” the umpire yelled, jerking his thumb emphatically toward his ear. “Out!”

I couldn't practice Friday. My thumb was twice its normal size, my wrist was sore, and I was so stiff from the collision I could barely walk. “You take it easy,” Wheatley told me. “We need you for the game tomorrow.”

So I didn't participate in the drills. The guys razzed me pretty good, though. Curtis called me Little Jack Horner, and the football players laughed at me for being banged up after one collision. But their razzing only proved I was part of the team, so I didn't care.

Toward the end of practice Selin came over to me. “How do you handle Josh's slider so well?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don't know. Luck, I guess.”

“Come on,” he said. “What do you do?”

He was the experienced catcher, so it felt strange to be giving him tips. But that's what I did. I told him about trusting the ball to break, and actually starting to move before it broke. After that we talked about the throw down to second, and I repeated some of the things Grandpa Kevin had told me.

“Thanks a lot,” he said, when Wheatley blew the whistle.

My locker was right next to Josh's. As we dressed, he gave me a little nudge. “You better not give away too much,” he said softly. “You could end up not playing at all.”

“What are you talking about?”

He looked around. “I heard you with Selin. You teach him everything you know, and Wheatley won't need you. You'll end up on the bench for the whole game.”

“He's helped me, Josh. He's helped me a lot. And I didn't even have to ask him. Besides, we're all on the same team.”

“I know about teams and teamwork,” Josh answered, still talking low. “But you've got to look out for yourself. You don't see me showing Reule or Wilkerson or Smith how to throw sliders. And you won't, either.”

Walking home we talked about the upcoming games. But the whole time I thought about what he'd said in the locker room. I knew what he was getting at. I'd even thought of it when I'd been giving pointers to Selin. Still, I didn't regret what I'd done.

Over the next two weeks our schedule was soft. The games we played were all against the weakest teams in the league, and they were all routs. Josh beat Cleveland 8–2. The two runs scored on a fly ball Mike Nelson misplayed into a triple in left field in the last of the seventh. Josh was plenty miffed about losing the shutout. He took it out on the last two Cleveland hitters, striking both of them out on wicked sliders they only waved at. His next outing was against Chief Sealth. They barely had enough guys to field a team, and when their pitcher tired, they had to bring in their right fielder and send the pitcher out there. It was like batting practice for us. The final score was 16—1. Josh went five inning's and gave up no runs They scored the run against Wilkerson in the last inning.

The two games that Reule started weren't any closer. We jumped off to good-sized leads in both of them, and with a lead Reule was tough. He didn't walk anybody; he came right after hitters with his fastball. If they hit it, chances are our guys in the field could run it down.

It was great winning those games, great being part of a team that was 6–0 and ranked tenth in the state, great catching the last inning or two and getting an at-bat now and then. When I was with the guys at practice, at games, and at school I was on top of the world. But when I was alone I'd find myself thinking about those days back in Little League, when I'd been a star like Josh, not a late-inning defensive replacement. I'd wonder how it would feel to be a star again, and if I'd ever know.

Game seven was going to be tough. We all knew that. We had to head across Lake Washington to take on Bellevue High. Road games are always hard to win, especially against good teams. They'd come in second in the state the year before, and most of their guys were back, ready to make a run for the title. They were undefeated and were ranked number three by the
Seattle Times.
There'd be newspaper reporters at the game, and scouts for major league teams.

The bus ride across the bridge was strangely quiet. A couple of guys mentioned the 15–4 pasting Bellevue had laid on us the year before, but nobody said anything about getting even. It seemed they were getting ready to have it happen again.

Josh and I sat way in the back. “You know what I like about being a pitcher?” he said as we bounced along in that old school bus.

I laughed. “Blowing a fastball by some guy for strike three.”

But he was being serious. “No, not that. I mean that's okay and all. But what I really like is putting the ball right there on the corner of home plate, right between being a strike and a ball. Painting the black, so that nobody knows what it really is, not the umpire and not the hitter. Then I have everybody eating out of my hand. Everybody.”

He looked around the bus, and lowered his voice. “These guys don't think we can win. Wheatley doesn't think we can win. But it doesn't matter. Because when my pitches are on the black, the only guy I need is me.”

“And a catcher,” I said, ribbing him a little. “Unless you plan on catching your own pitches, too.”

He didn't laugh. “You're right, Ryan. You're right. I need a catcher.” He put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a little shake. “And I've got you, don't I?”

Bellevue is a richer city than Seattle, and their ballpark shows it. There's nothing wrong with Woodland Park, but Bellevue Field is in another world. The grass is a deep green, and it's cross-cut like a major league park. There are real dugouts, real cinder warning tracks, real signs marking the real distances on the fence. Even the bleachers are better. They're solid concrete, they're covered, and they rise steeply behind home plate so that you feel like the people watching are looking down on you.

The ballpark was so impressive it psyched me out a little. I felt that I didn't really belong, that it was too good for me. Other guys felt the same way. We didn't get looser as we warmed up, we got tighter. Everyone except Josh. It was as if the better the park was, the more at home he felt.