Three hours later, Alex gritted his teeth as the Giants’ trainer shot cortisone into his wrist.
“All fixed up, Tavonesi?” Walsh’s voice as he walked up to Alex wasn’t as gruff as usual.
“If I survive Dave’s needles, I will be.”
Walsh had managed enough players to know as well as Alex did that it was foolish to play on such an injury so soon. But the man also knew that a good swing of Alex’s bat would not only give the team what it needed to win, it could also lock in the Triple Crown for Alex. Duarte had struck out twice in New York the previous day, then pulled a walk and hit a double with no one on base. Molino and Hamilton, the two players on their heels for the RBI record, had both pulled ahead by one RBI in great at-bats during last night's games. If Alex hit a homer and managed to bat in two runs, he’d best Duarte, Molino and Hamilton, and the title would be his. But even for a healthy player, it was a tall order.
“Skip batting practice,” Walsh said.
“You’re all heart,” Alex grimaced. But he accepted the favor.
Walsh’s break was the only one Alex got.
Nothing went as planned. Certainly not the game.
In the bottom of the fifth, Alex struck out for the third time. To their credit, the Dodgers’ pitchers hadn’t walked him intentionally, but the heat of their starter’s fastball was escaping his bat. He, along with the rest of the guys, watched as one batter after another struck out in the sixth and seventh. With the game tied two all after the seventh and the Giants unable to even get on base, they needed more than a good swing.
In the top of the eighth, the Dodgers batted in a run. The Giants’ manager brought in Romaro, and he managed to hold them to that one run and end the inning.
In the bottom of the eighth, Felipe doubled and then Zack was up. Madden, the Dodgers’ pitcher, threw a wild pitch and Felipe stole third, jolting the crowd and the dugout into wild cheers. Then Zack drew a walk. With runners on first and third, the table was set for Alex.
The crowd, so sure of a Giants victory, roared as Alex approached the plate.
Before he stepped into the batter’s box, he paused and ran the pitch sequence in his mind. A double would do it for the team—Zack was fast enough to make it home on a double.
But as Alex closed his eyes and ran the sequence again, he knew what he wanted. To get it, he’d have to ignore the waves of nausea seeping through him at every move of his wrist. And he’d have to keep the pain out of his eyes; the Dodgers’ pitcher would exploit it. It was the guy’s job, after all. If the Dodgers lost today, they’d be hanging their jerseys up for the season. This game was their last shot at a wild card spot in the playoffs. In some ways Madden had more at stake than he did.
Alex stepped up to the plate. Madden was a first-pitch fastball pitcher. Alex saw it coming and swung, even and hard. The ball tipped foul into the stands. He doubled over with blistering pain. Walsh started out of the dugout, but Alex waved him off, nodding that he was okay. And he was. As long as the nausea stayed down.
Walsh stared at him, reading what he could, then shook his head and stepped back into the dugout.
Alex tapped the dirt from his cleats, dug his back foot in and took his stance. He stared out at the pitcher and registered the answering look in the young pitcher’s eyes—the boy thought he had him. That look was all Alex needed to see. There were times when experience trumped talent and this was one of them. He’d be throwing one over the plate.
Madden started into his stretch, then pivoted and fired the ball to first. Zack dove back to the base, barely beating the throw.
Alex called time and stepped out of the box. He ran the pitch sequence and visualization again. Satisfied, he stepped back into the box.
Madden looked to the catcher, shook him off, then nodded.
Alex locked him in his gaze.
When Madden released the ball, Alex saw it come toward him as if it moved in slow motion; he saw the seams, saw the curve. He adjusted his body and slammed into the ball with the heart of his bat. When he made contact, he wasn’t sure if the sound he heard was the ball on the wood or the splitting of his wrist. He ignored the jolt of excruciating pain, dropped the bat and jogged toward first, watching the arc of the ball as he ran. When it dropped five rows into the center field bleachers, the crowd leaped to their feet. He felt, more than heard, their roar.
It wasn’t until he rounded third base and slowed his jog toward home that he realized they were screaming “Triple Crown! Triple Crown!” He looked over his shoulder at the scoreboard, where the words were flashing, big as trucks. Five of his teammates rushed up the steps of the dugout and high-fived him. More guys poured out and mobbed him and then lifted him onto their shoulders and carried him down into the dugout. Embarrassment flooded through his elation—the game still had an inning to go.
The crowd roared and clapped, stamping their feet and calling his name. He stepped up onto the field and tipped his cap. As he did, he scanned the seats for Jackie. He found her standing near the stairs at the side of the dugout. He smiled, feeling as if all the pieces of his life were snugly joined together. She shot him an okay sign.
Then she pressed her fingers to her heart.
He tipped his cap at her and turned. The emotion washing through him was too powerful to show in public, too precious. He knew the cameras were zoomed in on him and did his best to pull up his game face. He stepped down into the dugout and collapsed on the bench. Walsh prodded him to head to the clubhouse but knew even before he made the effort that Alex wasn’t going to budge.