It's a tender moment. Rachel grimaces and stands up, throwing the Stanford papers at me.
"You piece of shit."
Huh?
She looms over me. "Don't put this on me, Josh! Don't throw away your dreams and your future just to stick around here with me! God!"
"But ... but, Rache, I thought that—"
"You didn't think at all. You idiot. If you miss out on the chance to go to Stanford just for me, I'll kick your ass. I'll never speak to you again. Worse than that, I'll tell everyone I struck you out."
As usual, I don't know what to say.
"Look." She sits next to me again and gathers up the papers that she scattered. "Here's my proposal: If your parents really can't afford it, if the money doesn't come through, then fine. You go to College Park and I go to College Park and we're right next to each other. But don't make plans until you know everything. Stanford's your dream, right? Don't give it up. Not for me. I don't deserve to carry all that guilt around."
I nod and let her kiss me. We suck face for a little while until we hit the edge of my comfort level and she backs off as though she's getting used to it.
Chapter 21
Even Cal Ripken Sat Down
In the morning, I haul myself out of bed, groggy and stupefied and bleary-eyed. These late nights are going to kill me, bit by bit, minute by minute.
Classes are a formality at this point—I know which colleges I'm in and which ones I'm not in, and the odds of my grades deteriorating to the point that anyone would change their minds at this point are precisely zero. But I can't help myself. I can't just slack off and get B's. I've been Iron Man too long—I kill myself for these last A's like I killed myself for the hundred or so that came before.
At home, Dad goes over the financial aid papers with me one more time.
"Stanford is doable," he says. "An athletic scholarship will make it work. otherwise, you'd have to take out loans. Get a job, probably, at least a few hours a week."
"And what if I go to Stanford and break my leg in the first week and lose my scholarship?"
Dad sighs as if he was hoping I wouldn't think of that. "Everything's a risk, Josh. There are no guarantees. It's your decision. Your mother and I will help as much as we can, but that scholarship means no loans. You walk out at the end free and clear. I don't even see why it's a decision, honestly. You love baseball. This is a no-brainer."
I think about that all night. I lie on my bed and turn the options over and over in my mind. Every single one is like a floor laid with trapdoors that open into deadly pits. There's no clear-cut option. It's not a no-brainer, no matter how bad Dad wants it to be.
Because, yeah, I love baseball. But is it something I want to have to do? All my life, baseball has been something I did on my terms. And that's how I like it. Going to Stanford only seems like a no-brainer because it assumes I'm not using my brain at all. It assumes that I can play ball someone else's way, and keep at it for four years no matter what.
Or College Park, a free ride, where I'd be a big fish in a small baseball pond. But I'd be compromising baseball and math.
I guess that's what it comes down to: Which one am I willing to compromise? Which one means more to me?
Rachel calls just before Mom and Dad go to bed.
"I want to see you, but I know you're weak and pathetic and need your beauty sleep," she says. "So get some rest so that you can kill the Sledgehammers tomorrow, OK?"
But I lie awake, tossing and turning most of the night. Thinking of Zik. Thinking of Rachel. Thinking of college.
Thinking of Eve. Eve, who used to come to my Little League practices and games.
Eve, who's haunting me still.
And the day arrives: Last game of the season. South Brook Bobcats vs. the Canterstown Sledgehammers. Unreal.
"Where do you think you're going, Mendel?"
I'm halfway out to the field when Coach Kaltenbach stops me. I turn back to him in time to see Jerry Springfield trotting out to my "usual" position at shortstop.
"What the hell, Coach?"
"I don't want you out there yet. You could get hurt playing defense—you're back as DH."
Well, that's good news.
"But I'm not playing you for a couple of innings."
Which isn't good news.
"I want you to get a feel for this kid. Watch him from the sidelines for a little bit. Then we'll put you in and let you kick his ass all over town." Coach slaps a hand to my back and pulls me toward him like I'm a favorite nephew or something. "You're gonna make that scout shit in his pants, Mendel."
A plan that, I hate to admit, actually makes some sort of sense.
I get my first glimpse of the Heat soon enough, at the bottom of the first. The kid's a shrimp. If you saw him standing by the side of the road or huddled over a book in the library, you'd never in a million years think that this is the kid with the golden arm, the kid who makes hitters across the state weep with anxiety.
I watch him, checking his poise, his pose, his movements. It seems almost impossible that a frame so small could generate such powerful pitches, but the evidence is right in front of me.
At ninety miles an hour, it takes less than half a second for a ball to get from the mound to the plate. Your reaction time has to be shaved down to less than three-tenths of a second to have even the slightest chance of hitting the ball. That three-tenths has to comprise acquisition, assignment, adjustment, and action—the "quad-A cocktail" as my Little League coach used to put it.
Restraint is the name of the game. Ted Williams was probably the best batter in the history of the game, when you break batting down into all of its component parts. No one understood the mechanics of a bat and a ball like Williams. But he also knew when not to swing. The result? Twofold: Decades after he stopped playing the game and years after his death, Williams still holds the record for bases on balls, with a .208 walk average. And his career on-base percentage is a brain-numbing .483 in the majors. No one else is even close; the next closest guys are Babe Ruth at .474 and John McGraw at .466. That's not even in the same neighborhood as Williams.
Our first two guys strike out. Then Zik steps up to the plate, 29 for 75 on the season, with a .420 slugging average.
Zik spits into the dirt in front of home plate, his own little ritual. He digs in and grits his teeth, snarling at the Heat. Psychology. Baseball's all about psychology.
Zik swings at the first pitch. In retrospect (retrospect for a batter happens in the second after contact), he probably wishes he hadn't. He gets a piece of the ball, but that's all. It would have been a strike, but right now it's an out—the ball pops up and the first baseman jogs onto the grass to make an easy play.
Three up, three down. Seven pitches. I hate to admit it, but Coach was right to keep me out for now. I need to watch this kid.
I watch the first two innings go by. Canterstown scores four runs. In the bottom of the second, the Heat once again shuts us down 1-2-3, though our guys do manage to eke out a couple of foul tips and pop-ups. At least they're getting the bat on the ball.
I talk to the guys who come back from the plate and get their read on him. The kid's not human, and none of us has experience hitting against aliens or robots.
Here's the thing that gets me, too—he shows absolutely no emotion. No sneer when he fans you. No raised eyebrow when you let a good pitch go by. No concern if you pop up. He isn't human. It's like he's just a pitching machine. A flawless one.
Two innings is enough time for me to watch; our games are only seven innings, not nine. I usually bat as one of the first three in the rotation, but Coach has had to rejigger the lineup to accommodate Jerry Springfield at shortstop.
Pat Franklin strikes out, and then it's my turn.
No reaction from the Heat as I step into the batter's box in the third inning. He's just an impassive, immovable object. He doesn't care that the lineup's been shaken up a little bit. Doesn't care that there's an unknown factor standing in front of him. I'm
just another target to him.
I go through my usual batting ritual—step out of the box, knock dirt off my left shoe with the bat, step forward, knock dirt off the other shoe, step into the box, turn my bat a quarter-turn in my hands. I tug my helmet's brim once, then push it back up into position.
I can hit the first pitch. I realize this in less time than it takes to think it, which is the only way to realize it. It's a fastball, emphasis on the fast, giving me less than a fifth of a second to
Acquire: recognize that the thing hurtling toward me at close to a hundred miles an hour is, in fact, a baseball and not a trick of the light.
Assign: determine the path the ball is taking and is most likely to continue taking.
Adjust: determine when, how, and whether to swing.
Act: I swing.
The bat vibrates in my hands and shakes my entire torso, shock waves radiating up my arms to my shoulders and across my back. The sound of the ball contacting the bat is deafening, a solid, whining THWACK! that rings and stings my ears.
The ball spins like mad and drills over the Heat's left shoulder, sending him dodging to the right and throwing up his glove in a belated attempt to shield himself. I don't think anyone's ever taken one of his pitches right back to the mound before—that icy exterior cracks in an instant and for a split second there's just a terrified kid there.
I run like hell for first base, kicking up dust. No time to watch the ball; that's the mistake rookies make. You don't watch the ball. Not when you're heading to first. There's no point. You either make it or you don't.
And then I'm on the bag and then I'm off the bag, tearing out into right from sheer momentum, waiting to hear the ump cry, "Out!" but the cry doesn't come.
I made it.
I turn around, breathing hard, and jog back to the bag. The Brookdale crowd is going insanely wild, as if I've just hit a grand slam in the World Series or something. It's just a base hit, people. It means nothing unless we put a string of them together.
The Heat gives me a dirty look over his shoulder as Chris Weintraub steps into the batter's box. Just a dart of You prick, but it's there and I love it. I rattled him. Psychology.
With one hit, my season average goes from .550 to .557! My on-base percentage goes to .625, my slugging average to 1.082.
Chris takes two strikes and a ball before swinging at an absolutely beautiful slider. It should be strike three, but someone is looking out for him and he catches a piece of the ball with the top of the bat and pops it up to deep left. No one's there because we haven't hit deep all day. I'm a couple of steps toward second, but I tag up to be safe. The left fielder is running backwards, doing a damn good job keeping his balance. At the last possible second, he jumps sideways, his arm extended. The ball drops into his glove and he crashes to the ground...
And the ball pops out.
I run. I'm already on second by the time the fielder has found the ball and grabbed it. Chris is racing past first and headed to second right behind me, so the fielder has to waste another tenth of a second on an important decision—throw for second and the easier out, or get the man who's headed to third?
Ahead of me, the third baseman has stepped right into the base path, waving his glove, shouting for the ball. I shoulder-check him out of the way and throw myself down on the ground, my hand slapping the bag.
At almost the same moment, I hear the slap of the ball in the third baseman's glove. He tags me, but I've got my hand on the bag.
Chris is safe back on second and I'm trying to figure out the odds of someone actually sending me home with the Heat on the mound.
Now it's Ash Heggelman in the batter's box. He takes a strike, gets a piece of a breaking ball for strike two, then exercises rare good judgment and lets the next ball go by high and outside.
Ash manages to get a chunk of the next pitch and knock it down onto the ground, which looks like the absolute weakest bunt I've ever seen in my life.
And then Ash does something sort of amazing in its stupidity and even more amazing in the fact that it seems to work: He takes two steps toward first and stops.
He just stops right there and looks at the ball, which has rolled close to the foul line on the third base side.
I doubt it's intentional, but it's a great little piece of psychological trickery. The catcher, who had been headed for the ball, pauses for just a second. After all, Ash isn't moving, right? Maybe there was a call from the ump. Maybe the ball's still moving and could roll foul. Maybe—
Maybe a lot of things, but it doesn't matter, because I'm running pell-mell from third and I need that extra second. While the catcher's distracted looking over at Ash (who now is taking an additional, doubtful step toward first), I'm halfway home.
The catcher looks up just in time to see me coming. He dives for the ball and I deliberately run right into him, knocking him down. I keep going and I cross the plate and that's it. That's it. I'm home.
A second later, the catcher spins up on one knee and rifles the ball to first, where Ash has no chance and is called out five feet from the bag. The next guy pops up to center. Inning's over, but we scored.
***
Somehow, our defense keeps the Sledgehammers from scoring in the top of the fourth. It's not easy, though—they rock our pitcher from start to finish, taking him deep every time. They get three men on and strand them all.
Zik's up first in the bottom of the fourth. He does something amazing. He takes the Heat's first pitch of the inning and he hits a home run.
I can't believe what I've just seen. I keep blinking, as if there's something wrong with my eyesight and the ball will reappear if I just keep blinking.
The bench goes absolutely insane, hooting, hollering, stomping, shouting. The Brookdale crowd's berserk. And Zik takes a leisurely jog around the bases, blowing kisses to the fans as he goes.
I don't move from my seat. I watch the Heat. He doesn't seem too upset. Maybe it's because he's never lost. Maybe he can't even imagine such a possibility. I used to be like that, a long time ago, when I first started to get my batting chops and I was playing against pitchers who just weren't ready for a hitter of my caliber. Every time I stepped up to the plate, I hit the damn ball. Every freakin' time. It was easy. And when one day I didn't hit the ball, I figured it was a fluke, an accident, a goof. It never occurred to me that the pitchers were catching up, getting better. Not until I started getting struck out. Then it hit home.
Zik pauses in front of home plate, turning to observe his worshipful public. The crowd obliges his showmanship by going even wilder, a thunderous, endless stomp of feet on the bleachers that rattles my bones. Just step on the goddamn base, Zik. Stop showing off.
Batting average: .390. Slugging average shoots up to 1.078. And the Zik Lorenz IPA towers over the world at .688, higher than when he started the game. All on one pitch.
With a flourish and a bow, Zik finally goes home—he jumps up in the air and lands on the plate with both feet, as if crushing a huge rat.
The Heat stretches a little bit, then proceeds to strike out the next three batters with pitches that get progressively faster as he delivers them. The crowd shuts the hell up and you could hear a mouse fart in the sudden silence.
Top of the fifth goes pretty well for us, all things considered. We keep them to two men on base and while the last out is a tough one, we eventually get it. In the bottom of the fifth, as if in revenge for Zik's homer, the Heat takes us out 1-2-3. I manage to get on base, but no one else can find the ball and I'm stranded there.
In the top of the sixth, the Sledghammers load the bases with their best batter coming up. I figure this is all she wrote, but we get lucky and he drills a line drive to Jerry at short, who plucks it out of the air lightning fast.
The Heat retakes the mound for the bottom of the sixth. Is he going to pitch the whole damn game? No relief?
He doesn't need relief, it turns out. His defense lets him down and allows Jerry Springfield to take first on an error bef
ore Zik pops up to center. In a moment of comedy we desperately need at this point, the catcher drops the ball on a third strike to let a second man on, but it doesn't matter. The Heat still manages to retire us in short order.
Our bench has gone as quiet as a funeral home. We're two runs down, but it might as well be a million against the Heat.
Entering the final inning, we kill ourselves to keep them scoreless again. Coming back from a one-run deficit against this kid is bad enough; we can't let Canterstown pull any further away.
Pat Franklin leads off for Brookdale in the bottom of the seventh. Unbelievably, he gets walked. The Heat's first and only walk of the game. Even machinery breaks down every now and then, I guess. The Heat looks at his pitching hand like it's broken or something. I could swear I see his lips move, as if he's scolding it.
So now it's my turn at the plate.
Coach grabs me and now our faces are inches apart. His eyes are wide with anger, desperation, fear. I can smell his sweat—stale, anxious. "This is it, you understand? You're a guaranteed hit. You're the tying run." He licks his lips and looks over his shoulder into the stands. That must be where the scout is sitting. I look, too, though I wouldn't recognize the scout if he bit me.
I shake Coach off me. The ump's going to call us for delay of game any second now. "I know how to fucking play baseball, Coach. OK?"
He snarls. "Pick it up, Mendel," he says, his voice low. Pick it up. It's his favorite phrase. The one he uses when he's serious, when he wants you to pay attention, when he figures you're not bothering to listen.
Pick it up, Mendel. You never slept with me, so I ain't about to take it easy on you!
I hustle to the batter's box. The ump gives me a look that says, About time.
"Batter up!" he cries.
Out of the box. Knock dirt off my left shoe with the bat. Forward. Knock my right shoe. Back into the box. Turn my bat a quarter-turn. Tug helmet brim down. Push it back up.