Twelfth Angel (10 page)

Both teams were scoreless in the second inning, although Bob Murphy stroked a beautiful double down the right field foul line before Jeff Gaston popped up to end our threat.

“Never give up, never give up!” Timothy Noble had become our self-appointed cheerleader. Stationing himself at the far end of the dugout, he repeated his favorite words again and again as he jumped up and down, both fists clenched tightly, while his teammates urged him on, often asking for more as they joined in: “Never give up, never give up!”

Both teams were scoreless after the third inning, and
as our guys were preparing to take the field to start the fourth inning, I substituted with my other three Angels, as we had planned. Chris Lang took over for Tony Zullo at second base, Dick Andros for Bob Murphy in left field and Timothy Noble for Jeff Gaston in right. Our subs would play the fourth and fifth innings. That way we would have all our regulars back in the lineup for the final inning.

Todd seemed to be getting stronger with every inning. He struck out all three Yankees who faced him in the fourth inning, and the Yankee ace, Gerston, almost matched him pitch for pitch, striking out two of our guys and allowing the third to hit a short pop fly to first base. Four innings of our six-inning game were now in the books. Still no blood. More and more it was beginning to look like one of those contests that is often decided by a single break.

The first Yankee batter in the fifth hit a hard drive to third that Paul Taylor did a great job of knocking down, but before he could pick up the ball and throw it to first, the batter had crossed the bag safely. The next batter struck out on three pitches, but the boy who followed hit a hard smash to deep shortstop. Ben Rogers dove for the ball, speared it in his mitt, leaped to his feet and fired the ball to Justin at first. Sensational! The batter was out by inches, but the runner who had been on first slid safely into second without a challenge. Now the Yankees had a man in scoring position, with two out, and their pitcher, Gerston, who batted as he threw, left-handed, was coming to the plate.

Bill leaned toward me and said softly, “If you know any prayers, John, now is the time to say them. I remember from last year that this kid pulls every ball he hits down the right-field line and he hits them hard!”

I immediately jumped up, called “time” and walked toward the third-base foul line, waving Timothy farther back toward the fence and closer to the line in right field. Finally I held up both hands, palms facing outward, and he stopped moving. Bill nodded as I climbed back down into the dugout.

Todd’s first pitch to his mound opponent was a sizzling fast ball. Gerston wasn’t waiting. He swung and smashed a high fly ball to deep right field.

“Oh, God,” I heard Bill saying.

Timothy ran back several steps, staring up at the evening sky. Finally he turned and raised both his hands high above his head as the ball reached the top of its long arc and started its fall.

“He’s right under it,” yelled Bill as we both rose to our feet. “Come on, kid, grab that apple!”

The ball’s descent was agonizingly slow. Timothy hesitated and then took another step backward, his glove held high, but the ball seemed to bounce off the tip of the glove’s frayed fingers and landed on the grass behind him, rolling all the way to the fence. By the time Tim had retrieved the ball, one run had scored and Gerston was standing on third base, waving both hands high in the air while the crowd continued their applause. Todd struck out the next batter, but the Yankees now had a one-run lead.

As Timothy came down the dugout steps, I could see that his face was streaked with tears. I started to speak, but he just looked up at me, shook his head and hurried to the far end of the dugout. None of his teammates spoke to him or went near him, although there were a few angry glances. Sometimes kids can be so damn cruel. Bill rose and faced the bench after they had all taken their seats. He waved his scorebook and said, “Okay, men, our first three batters are Lang, Andros and Noble. We’ve got six more outs and we’re only down by one. This is anybody’s ball game, so let’s get them!”

Chris Lang hit a feeble pop fly to the pitcher, Dick Andros went down swinging and then Timothy Noble approached the plate. His teammates, who had been shouting words of encouragement to both Chris and Dick, were suddenly silent. Standing in the batters’ box, Timothy tugged at his pants, which seemed at least a size too large for his tiny frame. He dug in with his sneakers, assumed a slight crouch and waited. Gerston’s first pitch was an inside fastball that almost hit Timothy, but he never backed away. He lunged at the next two curves and then stepped out of the batter’s box, taking a deep breath and rubbing his hands in the dirt. Then he took another deep breath and stepped to the plate, his bat cocked as we had practiced. Gerston took a long and deliberate windup before he reared back and fired his fastball. Timothy’s swing was smooth, but the ball made a loud sound as it plunked into the catcher’s mitt. He walked slowly back to the dugout, placed his bat
carefully along the row of bats and returned to the far corner of the dugout, biting his lip.

The Yankees were retired in order again, in the sixth and final inning, but the Angels couldn’t do much better. Tony Zullo did hit a line-drive single directly over second base, but Justin and Paul popped up to the infield, and Todd’s long fly ball was the game’s final out.

Todd had pitched a masterpiece, allowing one scratch hit, and yet he had only a loss to show for his magnificent effort.

“Okay, guys,” Bill yelled as our team gathered in front of the dugout. “Let’s get in a single file and congratulate the Yankees for a good game. Then will you all please come back here and have seats in the dugout for a couple of minutes. I know your folks are waiting, so we won’t be very long.”

Following the compulsory shaking of hands and “nice game” exchange from players of both sides, the Angels retreated to our dugout. I had never seen them more quiet or subdued as I stood to remind them that there was another game on Thursday and we would do a lot better. However, before I said anything, Todd jumped up, zipped his warm-up jacket, turned and walked down the dugout to where Timothy was sitting, his head in his hands. The dugout was suddenly very still. Todd leaned forward, placing his hands on his tiny teammate’s shoulders and said loudly, “Hey, buddy, don’t blame yourself. Even big-league superstars make errors. This just wasn’t our day, okay? That doesn’t mean we gave up. We never give up. Right? Never! You too! Okay?”

Timothy looked up at Todd, his eyes filled with tears. He nodded his head and replied softly, “Okay.”

There wasn’t much that needed to be said by me after that. “Our next game is with the Cubs, Thursday evening at five, boys. I’d like you all here by four, please. Paul Taylor is our scheduled pitcher. See you all on Thursday.”

Driving home I replayed the game in my mind, agonizing along with Timothy as the ball bounced off the fingers of his glove and rolled to the wall. And then, suddenly, I was reliving another game, one I had played during my second year of Little League when I was only ten. I had made two errors, playing second base, and both errors had allowed a run to score. Final score had been a loss for my Angels of old, 3 to 1, because of me. Long after everyone had left the park, I walked out to the grass behind second base, slumped to the ground and bawled my eyes out. I don’t remember how long I sat there, but I was too ashamed to go home and tell my dad what had happened. Finally, when it was almost dark, I saw the shadow of an old pickup drive into the parking lot, its headlights diffused by the wire fence. Soon I heard his familiar voice, filled with love and understanding, saying to me, “John, I think it’s time to come home.”

When I was finally on my feet, I hugged him ferociously, sobbing and crying. All he said was, “It’s all right, it’s all right. Hell, we all have bad days now and then. Ain’t nobody perfect.”

Suddenly I hit my brake pedal. I was almost home,
but I pulled over to the side of the road, made a U-turn and headed back to the ballpark. Twilight was giving way to darkness when I parked, walked through the fence opening and headed toward home plate. I could hear children shouting and laughing in the neighboring playground, but our playing field was empty—almost empty. He was sitting in the shadows on the grass in deep right field, his legs folded under him, elbows on knees, head bent forward. I walked slowly toward him and paused when I was about ten feet away.

“Timothy,” I called.

His head jerked upward. “Yes?” he said, squinting in my direction.

“Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t you think its about time you headed home?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Why are you still here, Timothy?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought that if I just sat out here, where it happened, I’d be able to figure out how I messed up and lost us the game.”

“And … have you come up with an answer?”

He shook his head, and I heard a muffled sob. Suddenly I had an idea.

“Could I please see your glove?”

He frowned, then reached under his right knee and tossed me an object, the most shredded and nonserviceable baseball glove I had ever seen in my life, its old leather dry, hard and cracked in thousands of places with virtually no padding remaining in its palm
or any of the fingers. Also, the webbing between thumb and forefinger was missing and someone had replaced it with strands of clothesline cord.

I flipped it back to him and said, “That thing should be in a baseball museum. It was probably used by Joe DiMaggio when he was a boy.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Tim replied, a smile briefly flickering across his small face.

I leaned down toward him and extended my hand. He took it, and I pulled him to his feet, saying, “Don’t you think it’s about time you headed home?”

“I guess.…” He sighed.

I pointed to his old glove. “And I believe that’s your problem—that glove. It’s tough to do any job well without good tools.”

The little boy stroked the top of the glove softly. He was obviously too embarrassed to tell me what I suspected, that his single-parent mother couldn’t afford to buy him a new glove. I tugged at the visor of his new blue team baseball cap with the gold letter
A
and said, “Timothy, there’s an almost brand-new Darryl Strawberry glove at home in a closet. It belonged … to … to … my little boy … but he didn’t get many chances to use it. It’s just hanging there now. I’ll bring it for you on Thursday.”

He stared up at me intensely. “Your little boy is dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes … yes, he’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

I just nodded. “Now, maybe you had better come a
little early on Thursday so that we can play catch for a while and start getting that glove broken in, okay?”

He nodded. “Thank you. I will. I’m sorry I lost the game. I hope the kids don’t hate me too much. I feel awful, but I’ll try harder, I promise.”

“You’ll never give up, will you?”

He shook his head and grinned. “Never!”

“Very good. Now, let’s get home before it’s dark. Do you have a light on that bike of yours?”

He nodded.

“Okay, see you Thursday, early.”

“Good night, Mr. Harding.”

Just as I was opening the door to my car, Timothy pulled alongside on his bike, the tiny headlight mounted on his handlebars shining brightly in my direction. “Mr. Harding, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course. Shoot.”

“How did you know that you would still find me here at the park?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to the little guy, but finally I replied, “I don’t know, Timothy. I think maybe my dad told me you’d be here.”

“Oh.”

The bicycle turned, and its light beam began moving slowly out of the parking lot. Before it was out of sight, I heard a small voice shouting, “See you Thursday, Mr. Harding!”

X
 

W
ednesday seemed to last for a week. After breakfast I tried all the time-passers I had been using lately. I jogged for perhaps an hour, worked on my pitching wedge in the backyard until I had hit at least two hundred golf balls back and forth, and tried reading, but my mind just kept wandering. I was constantly hearing voices in the other rooms. Sally? Rick? I even turned on the television set, late in the afternoon, but ten minutes with Oprah and then Phil had me diving for the “off” button. I didn’t need any more pain.

I went to bed early, soon after the sun had set, and of course awoke before dawn on Thursday. With my eyes still closed and my head buried in my pillow, I reached across to touch Sally as I had done for so many years. Not feeling her soft body, I moved my hand gently and slowly across the width of the smooth, cool pillow before
I sat upright in bed and pounded my forehead with the palm of my hand. What are you doing, dummy? Sally isn’t lying next to you. Sally is dead. Dead. And so is your baby. So is Rick. Dead. Gone! Never to return!

I finally rose and showered. Didn’t feel much like shaving, but then I remembered our game that evening. Couldn’t let the parents of our Angels think their kids were being guided by a sloppy bum.