Twelfth Angel (15 page)

Standing behind third, in the coach’s box, I was beginning to feel a little desperate. Gerston was pitching a great game, and he showed no sign of weakening. We needed to force a break of some kind. As our lead-off batter, Chris Lang, walked toward the plate, I flashed him the bunt sign when he looked my way. He let the first pitch go, for a called strike, then dropped a near-perfect bunt down the third-base line, but it wasn’t good enough. He was out—by just a half step. Justin Nurnberg was our next batter. I was tempted to flash another bunt sign but didn’t. He hit a slow dribbler to the pitcher’s right which Gerston fielded smoothly in time to catch Justin, again by no more than a half step. Paul Taylor glanced in my direction anxiously as he stepped into the batter’s box. I flashed him no signs. Good thing. He caught Gerston’s second pitch, an inside fastball, and drilled it high over the left-field fence for a home run! Now we were only down by one run. Todd
was the next batter, and he hit a drive to center, but it wasn’t long enough, and the inning was over with the Yankees still leading us, two to one.

In the fourth inning Todd seemed to be throwing even harder than in the early innings. No Yankee hitter got the ball out of the infield. Three up, three down.

“Kimball, Barrio and Andros,” Bill said loudly, announcing our first three scheduled batters as the Angels came into the dugout. “Let’s get ’em guys! Now! Big inning!” he shouted as he walked up and down the dugout floor, tapping each Angel lightly on top of his cap.

“Never give up!” shouted Timothy, and the others immediately joined in. “Never give up, never give up!”

Tank led off by drawing a walk. If it had been anyone but Tank, I would have tried to move him along with a sacrifice bunt, but the big guy was just too slow, so I had Charles Barrio hit away. He hit a hard grounder to the shortstop, who fielded it cleanly, flipped the ball to the second-baseman, who then turned and threw to first. Double play! Dick Andros followed with a swinging strikeout, and we were still trailing by a single run going into the fifth inning.

As the first Yankee scheduled to bat, in the fifth, was selecting his bat from the rack, Sid jogged by, close to our dugout, on his way to the third-base coaching box.

“Hey, John!” he yelled.

“Yes, Sid?”

“It doesn’t get much better than this, does it? Great kids! Both teams!”

I smiled and nodded.

The first Yankee batter attempted a bunt, but he popped the ball into the air, and Todd caught it easily. The next batter, a short and very muscular left-hander who played first base for Sid’s team, took two called strikes before he swung at an inside pitch and smashed a hard line drive to right field, directly at Timothy.

“Oh, no!” I heard Bill cry, but Timothy raised his glove above his head, turned his feet slightly so that his right foot was a brace for his small frame, and the sound of the ball popping into his new glove could be heard throughout the entire park, which had momentarily grown very quiet. When the crowd realized that Timothy had caught the ball, they rose to their feet, cheering. Timothy just smiled and nodded as he flipped the ball back in to Justin at first base. The next Yankee struck out, and now the Angels were coming to bat. The first three batters, according to Bill’s announcement, would be Rogers, Noble and Lang.

Glenn Gerston showed no signs of tiring, and he was still throwing strikes for the Yankees. But our Ben Rogers surprised us. He managed to work the count to two balls and two strikes before he caught a waist-high fastball and hit a smash into left-center between outfielders. Although I knew the play would be close, since the centerfielder had already retrieved the ball, I waved Ben toward me as he raced around second, and held my breath as both runner and ball converged at third base, Ben made a perfect hook slide, and the sweep of the third-baseman’s glove, holding the ball, just missed his right foot. “Safe!” yelled the umpire, and the stands
erupted in a crescendo of noise and whistles as Timothy Noble walked slowly to the plate with the tying run only sixty feet away!

The little guy paused, perhaps ten feet from the batter’s box, scooped up a handful of dirt and rubbed his hands in it. He turned and looked toward me. I flashed the “hit away” sign. He nodded. Then he stepped into the box very slowly, pulled up his pants, tugged on the visor of his cap and assumed his batting stance. It was then that both Bill West and I witnessed something we had never seen before, even back in our own playing days. All the Angels were now standing and leaning forward, their elbows on top of the dugout wall, staring intently out at Timothy. In silence! In complete silence, almost as if they were all praying! Suddenly the entire grandstand also grew very still, so still that one could even hear a train whistle in distant Concord.

Timothy cocked his bat several times, waiting. Gerston glanced over at Ben, standing on third base, before he went into an elaborate windup and tossed a slow ball to Timothy that almost floated on its way to the catcher. Timothy grinned and stepped out of the batter’s box. Ball one!

Back in the box Timothy cocked his bat, crouched and waited. Gerston’s next pitch was a fastball, right down the middle. Timothy let it go. Strike one! The next pitch was another fastball. Strike two! I turned and stole a glance at Mrs. Noble and Doc. Both were staring down at their hands as if they were unable to bring themselves to watch the action at home plate. The next
pitch was another slow ball that Timothy ignored. He stepped out of the batter’s box. Ball two. Now the count was two and two! Timothy moved slowly back into the box, tapped his bat on the plate, cocked it behind his shoulder and waited. Gerston’s pitch, after another long windup, was belt-high and across the center of the plate. Timothy swung. His bat made solid contact! The ball bounced on the grass once, to Gerston’s left, then it dribbled across the unseeded surface between first and second, barely eluding the first-baseman’s sweeping glove as it rolled slower and slower toward the right-fielder, who was racing in to field the ball. Ben Rogers scored the tying run easily, from third, and Timothy was standing proudly with both his feet on first base! There was a look on his face that I shall never forget as he flashed a wide smile and raised his cap triumphantly above his head. He looked over at me and waved, then he turned and waved toward his mother and Doc, who were both standing and applauding along with everyone else in the park.

Now the top of our batting order was coming up, the score was tied and there were no outs! Sid Marx called time and walked slowly out to the pitcher’s mound to talk with Glenn and his infield. While waiting, I walked back to our dugout from my coaching spot at third. Our next batter, Chris Lang, was waiting to move into the batter’s box, but he ran back to join Nurnberg, Taylor and Stevenson as they gathered around me.

“Guys,” I said, “I think this is it. Swing those bats nice and loose, just as you’ve been doing all year, and something
tells me you’ll win yourself a championship. Then you can have the rest of the summer off, okay? No lawn mowing. No weeding the family garden. No chores. How’s that?”

They all grinned and nodded as the tall home-plate umpire exclaimed, “Let’s play ball, gentlemen, what do you say?”

Sid patted his pitcher on the shoulder and jogged back to the dugout.

Chris Lang took his place in the batter’s box as the umpire pulled on his face mask and yelled, “Play ball!”

Lang swung at the first pitch, hitting a high fly ball to left field that was caught on the run. One out. Timothy Noble, our go-ahead run, was still standing on first base.

Justin Nurnberg appeared overeager. He swung at the first two pitches even though they were well below his knees, but the third pitch was up around his chin, and he punched it into right field for a single, advancing Timothy to second base. The next batter, Paul Taylor, worked the count to a full three balls and two strikes before hitting a hard grounder to second base, but the only play was to first, so Timothy advanced to third, and Justin slid into second, bringing Todd Stevenson to the plate with two out.

Todd took hard rips at the first two pitches and missed both. Then he stepped out of the batter’s box, inhaled deeply several times, stepped back in and stroked Gerston’s next pitch over second base for a single, scoring Timothy with the go-ahead run and advancing
Justin to third. Unfortunately Tank flied out to right to end the fifth inning, but now we were ahead for the first time, we were just three outs away from winning the league championship, and Timothy Noble had driven in the tying run plus scored the go-ahead run!

As our team took the field, I accompanied Todd out to the pitcher’s mound. “How’s the arm, big guy?” I asked, trying not to sound concerned.

He nodded, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “It’s okay. Okay.”

I rubbed his right shoulder gently. “Does it have three more outs in there?”

He nodded again, unsmiling. “It’s okay. Honest.”

The first Yankee batter worked the count to three and two before hitting a high fly ball to left field. One out! Todd then walked the following batter on four pitches. The next went down swinging. We needed only one more out—but the top of the Yankee lineup was coming up. Their leadoff man stroked four line-drive foul balls down the left-field line before finally working Todd for a base on balls. Now the Yankees had the tying run on second and the winning run on first!

Bill West, sitting at my right, said quietly, “Boss, I think you ought to go out there and have a little chat with our man, right now.”

I jumped to my feet, called “time” and walked slowly out to the mound. Todd, with his back to the plate, was staring down at the ground, pounding his glove incessantly against his right thigh.

“How are you feeling, buddy?” I asked.

“Fine. Fine.”

“A little weary, maybe?”

“Nope. I’m okay. Honest.”

“This guy coming up is pretty good with the stick. Can you get him?”

He just nodded. I patted him on the shoulder and jogged back to the dugout.

Todd stepped to the rubber, turned, took a fleeting look at the runner on second and quickly threw a belt-high fastball across the center of the plate.

“Strike one!”

Tank plucked the ball from his catcher’s mitt, waved it above his head and tossed it back to Todd. With no windup, Todd immediately planted his left foot and fired the second pitch to a very surprised batter and catcher.

“Strike two!”

Bill turned to me, smiling. “See what Todd is doing, John? He’s afraid you might take him out of the game, so he’s working as fast as he can to get the Yankees out before you can get your duff off this bench and replace him.”

Tank, now also sensing what his battery mate was up to, this time settled down into his catching position before flipping the ball back to Todd. Again Todd quickly reared back, with no windup, and fired his fastball across the heart of the plate.

“Strike three!”

We win!

Whistling and screaming, our kids dashed for the
pitcher’s mound, where Todd was raised on small shoulders and proudly paraded around the bases as the Angels chanted, “We never gave up, we never gave up!” The entire crowd was now on its feet and applauding. Then, as the team approached third base, another figure was suddenly lifted on high to join Todd—Timothy! With both fists clenched, he pumped his small arms up and down while his teammates raised his small body as high as they could.

When the Angels finally arrived at home plate, they returned their two game heroes to earth while the standing crowd continued to cheer and whistle and clap their hands for what seemed like forever.

Eventually both teams lined up to receive their trophies. First the Yankees, then the Angels, as the loudspeakers delivered “The Impossible Dream.” Standing at the end of the Angel line to receive the obligatory handshake of congratulations from Stewart Rand, I suddenly remembered where and when I had last heard that song: while facing the microphone on the bandstand of the Boland town common, waiting to address the huge crowd that had gathered to welcome Sally and Rick and me.

Later, as the shadows were lengthening and I was preparing to leave the field, Timothy came racing over to me, still carrying his trophy. “Mr. Harding, thank you again for everything. My bike. My glove. All your help. I really mean it.”

I reached down and picked him up, burying my head in his tiny chest. Shouldn’t have done it because I began
to sob. “You don’t have to thank me, Timothy. I thank you. You’ve done so much more for me than I’ve done for you.”

“I have?” he asked, obviously puzzled.

“Yes, you have, and I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mr. Harding.” He held up his trophy. “Thanks to you, I’m now a real champion.”

I kissed his cheek and lowered him to the ground. “You’ve always been a champion, Timothy. Always.”

XIV
 

A
lthough I was still on a high from our victory, I had no difficulty falling asleep once my head hit the pillow on Saturday night. Certainly I had no plans at all for Sunday, yet on the following morning I awoke shortly after sunrise, showered, shaved, dressed, had a light breakfast and then drove to Maplewood Cemetery, parking the car on a narrow hardtop road just a short walk to Sally and Rick’s grave. Fresh grass, recently mowed, already covered their resting-place, but only a short distance away, as a stabbing reminder, was a narrow rectangle of loose gray soil on a fresh gravesite, covered with several faded floral wreaths and baskets containing withered flowers.