The Youngest Hero (44 page)

“Thatta boy!” Williams said. “Set yourself and hold steady.”

I squared my shoulders. I was no match against the big man, but I offered more resistance when I was braced.

“Unusually strong for your age,” Williams said. “Truly phenomenal. You have the body and strength of a late teen, and the
baseball knowledge—so they tell me—of an adult. Better than that. The baseball knowledge of the expert adult. Your fielding
and throwing are above average for American Legion, and you hit like a double- or even triple-A player.”

Afraid I would sound immature, still I had to ask.

“Do you really think a double-A player would hit near seven hundred in Legion ball?”

Williams stopped and stared at the ceiling, cupping his neck in his hand.

“Now that’s a good question,” he said. His mind seemed to be cataloging double-A players.

I didn’t want to look cocky. I looked the commissioner in the eyes and mouthed silently, “Seven hundred?”

I
took a call at my desk from Mr. Thatcher.

“Well, of course I want to meet with him,” I said. “But not until after work. How’s it going with Elgin?”

“Dressel and Luke are at the shop, and Elgin left for Luke’s apartment more than an hour ago.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t mind tellin you, I should have taken the day off. I am worthless.”

“Well now, you’ve got me there,” Williams said, seeming to enjoy himself. “A minor leaguer who would hit seven hundred in
Legion ball? Hm. I remember a kid played for the Cubs some years back. Black shortstop with a gun of an arm. Hit over three-fifty
two years running in triple-A. Had trouble hitting his weight his first few years in the bigs. Wound up a pretty fair hitter.
I believe he could have hit seven hundred in Legion ball. Maybe a couple of others.”

“So I’m hitting like a high minor leaguer,” I tried. “Someone on his way to the majors.”

“Course a lot more goes into making a professional ballplayer than a good bat.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“Would you stand in against the fastest pitcher in baseball and let him throw a hundred straight pitches past you?”

“No, sir.”

“I thought you said you’d do anything.”

I smiled. “Anything except let him throw them past me.”

Williams howled. “You’re somethin, kid! I gotta give you that. Would you work out with a trainer so you wouldn’t overdo it,
but build yourself up to where you can change the direction of a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball? Don’t nod so quick. You know
it takes eight thousand pounds of force to change the motion of a ball that weighs just over five ounces from coming at you
at ninety miles an hour to going the other way at over one hundred ten?”

“I’ve read that,” I said, “but I don’t understand it. I mean, how does even somebody your size, when you were playing I mean,
produce eight thousand pounds of force?”

The commissioner laughed loud. “I don’t know,” he said. “I always wondered that myself! I’m not a physics man, but I know
it has to do with more than bat speed. It’s got to be strength.”

Billy Ray Thatcher was on his cell phone in the back room at Lucky’s. He had returned the call of the general manager of the
Houston Astros.

“It’s about time, Mr. Thatcher. I’m calling about this kid who’s getting all the attention. There’s no hope of getting him
into the June draft, I suppose.”

“If that happened, would Houston be interested?”

“You never know,” the GM said. “I can’t imagine being interested in a child.”

“I hear you,” Billy Ray said. “He’s just a babe.”

The man chuckled. “With a capital
B
?”

Billy Ray smiled. “So you’re telling me what? That you’re interested or that you’re not interested?”

“Just to ask about the June draft. If you can’t get him into that, this is all academic.”

“So, let’s be academic. In fact, let’s be hypothetical. Let’s say you could be fairly certain this boy would be the Tiger
Woods of baseball. Dominate the game like no one ever has, lead the league in just about everything, win the MVP several years
in a row, lead a team to the play-offs and Series year after year.”

“I’ve seen the videos. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for all of us. I know every other team in baseball is interested,
because we have first pick and we’ve been contacted by all of them.”

“That so?”

“Personally, I’m pessimistic that the boy will be made available until he’s of age. But I wouldn’t trade his rights for anything
I can think of.”

“Not even millions?”

“No. Even though he would never pay off until the majors. But if he keeps progressing, he could be one of the youngest big
leaguers in history. He’d fill every stadium every game if he could simply compete with adults. He’d pay for a long-term deal
within a half season.”

Thatcher laughed. “Refresh me on which of us is on which side of the bargaining table, sir.”

The GM laughed. ‘Just let me congratulate you on the hottest property since the first Babe. Protect him, Thatcher. For the
good of the game and especially the boy.”

“Count on that,” Billy Ray said.

“You’re not serious!” Rafer Williams thundered. “Not even to Wrigley?”

I shook my head. “Never to one big-league game.”

“Well, we’re gonna have to see about that,” Rafer said. He looked at his watch and pulled his cell phone from a pocket.

“Rafer Williams calling for Mr. Martin—Hey, Cliff! Rafer! Good! Listen, I need four tickets to Saturday night’s game. Box
seats, best you’ve got, where you’d put me, hear? No, not a luxury box. And then for the next day, you’ve got a midafternoon
TV game, right? That’s when I want a skybox, lots of food and soft drinks, all on my office. Got it? Leave em at Will Call
for Luke Harkness.”

I smiled.

“Now, son, I want you to tell me about your daddy.”

Billy Ray Thatcher placed a call to the general manager of the Phillies.

“Give me some good news,” the GM said. ‘Just tell me what it’s going to take. What’s the floor bid?”

“Congratulations,” Billy Ray said. “You get to start the bidding.”

“You know what the rumors are.”

“Tell me.”

“That the commissioner is going to have the kid scouted independently.”

“Really?”

“That’s what I hear. What do you hear?”

“I just hear offers,” Billy Ray said.

“You think Rafer will clear the kid for the June draft?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“But do you know?”

“Of course not. I would imagine there’d be a lot of hurdles.”

“I’m not so sure,” the Philadelphia man said. “There’ll be do-gooders and social-worker types who’ll cry bloody murder. But
how can you keep a guy from doing what he wants to do and is capable of doing when he has parental consent? He can be tutored
for school, can’t he? I mean, he’s going to make millions.”

“How many millions?” Thatcher asked.

They both laughed and agreed to keep in touch.

Rafer Williams’s voice was soft. “So there was no goin back for the funeral? That’s rough. Uh-huh. That’s a rough one. Made
you a better player, though, did it? Uh-huh. Wow. How’s Momma doin now?”

I smiled, embarrassed. “Momma’s in love with Luke Harkness.”

“You don’t say!”

“By the way, Luke said to just call him and he’d bring us some burgers.”

“Burgers! Let’s call him!”

I skipped lunch at the office and began to feel faint by early afternoon. There was little I wanted more than to talk with
the commissioner and to be able to know something one way or the other about Elgin.

B
aseball commissioner Rafer Williams tried to press a twenty-dollar bill into Luke Harkness’s hand.

“No way,” Luke said. “It’s on me. Drink whatever you want from the fridge.”

As Luke left, the commissioner swept open the refrigerator to find it stocked with several different brands of soft drinks.
“What’ll you have, Elgin?”

“Diet Coke.”

“Good man. Stay away from the sugar. This is Monday, so I’ll do the same.”

Williams howled, but I didn’t get it. We sat at the tiny kitchen table in vinyl-covered chairs. He had a way of talking with
his mouth full without being offensive.