Welcome back for another chapter. Disclaimers still hold. Please, please donate to Nifty. Be safe, always.
The Mustangs are in the State Regionals. Two wins takes them to Safeco Field in Seattle. The dream is there, but they have to do more than dream—they have show they are worthy of it.
Douglas thehakaanen@hotmail.com
CHAPTER 57 ICE
<Wednesday, May 15>
[ERIC]
Intensity. Concentration. Execution. Those are the words of Coach Sanders. As the season wore on they have become our watch words. The words aren't anything new; we've been practicing them since sixth grade when Coach Sanders was our JV coach in middle school. But back then, we heard "play hard, play smart, be fundamentally sound." I like the new version better—we simply remember them as ICE.
The last two days have been interesting. With us going to the State Regionals, how could they be anything different? I am lying on my bed, which is a lonely place without Noah sharing it. We both know we can't spend every night together. Well, we can, I suppose, but it wouldn't be fair to our families. Next year we'll be off to college. Both of us are going to be small town rubes going to Stanford University, courtesy of excellent grades, top of the line SATs, and Robert (Espowyes) putting in some good words for us with the right people.
My parents will have an empty house and Noah's will have only Nicky left of their five kids. Noah and I both know we were blessed to have great parents and great families, and we feel we owe them some of our time. I know most kids don't feel that way, some for good reason. But when you are given a good life, it pays to be thankful for what you have.
Coach Sanders gave us yesterday off. Today was a full practice and tomorrow will be a light practice. Coach held a meeting after practice today to go over the plan for the weekend. He and Coach Fitzsimmons had gone to Seattle yesterday for the tournament draw and to go over the rules and policies.
There were four teams in the Region 2 tournament. There are us, Mountain Ridge Christian, Elwa Valley, and Bartonville High Schools. We drew Bartonville for our first game. They are in the southwest corner of the state, near the mouth of the Columbia River. So far, Coach Sanders knows nothing about them, but he has been busy on the phone getting information. Our game is the second game of the day, so we won't be playing until 8:30. I was slated to start that game and, if we win, Scott will pitch the Saturday game. All Regional games are loser out.
The draw was also made for the State finals at Safeco Field. The Region 2 winner would be playing the Region 3 winner in the second game. Region 3 covered the central part of the state. Region 1, which was the northwest corner, would play Region 4, which was the eastern part. We all knew that North Lake Prep, which is the school Jin now plays for, was in the Region 1 tournament. It would be kind of cool if we played each other in the finals.
Damn, here I am future tripping again. That is not a good thing—the focus has to be on Friday. We know this much about Bartonville: they are the Dolphins, they won the Southwest League title, and they beat both Lakeshore and Harborview in non-league games. In other words, they're pretty good. We all knew that Coach Sanders was busy picking the brains of the coaches of the two teams in our league. They might be our rivals on the field, but now their loyalty is with the Seamount League. Actually, I was surprised Coach doesn't just ask Noah about them. He is the one with the infinite number of sources.
I had my baseball in bed with me and was tossing it up and catching it with my left hand. I thought about a chat the team had at lunch today and also about our practice this afternoon. Both made me feel really good about the weekend.
We sat in our usual corner at lunch, the infamous "baseball corner". We are the only sport where most of the team sits together every lunch. Sometimes guys sit with their girlfriends, sometimes somebody has other commitments at lunch, like ASB meetings, but usually we sit together.
"The albatross is gone," Kevin said. "It's flown away."
"What are you talking about?" Blaine asked. "What fucking albatross?"
"The one that held us back last summer and at the start of the year. We kept thinking we weren't good enough to repeat, that we won because of last year's seniors. Well, if anybody thinks we're not good enough to go all the way, they can go fuck themselves."
"I thought we agreed not to future trip," Hunter said.
"That might have worked when we were having problems, but that bullshit doesn't cut it any more."
Kevin's tirade made me think that I was listening to the second coming of Marty and Connor. That's the kind of rant they'd go off on, one filled with lots of bleeps. Some said those two were the ones who gave us the edge that we were lacking this year. There were those who said we were soft because we didn't have somebody with a sharp tongue cussing us out. Blaine tried some, but he was a junior and his words didn't have the clout a senior had. But now Kevin had a hair up his ass.
"We made our dream work against us," Kevin said. "We acted like we were failures if we didn't live up to it. That's the attitude that got Eric into trouble in the first State Tournament last year."
"Thanks a lot for making me your example," I said.
"It's true, and you know it's true. Think about this, guys. The other three teams are coming into Regionals thinking they want to win as much as we do."
"Well, they do want to win as badly," Noah said. "But, I think I know where you're going."
"That's because you're our resident genius," Kevin said. "But what's the difference between us and those two other teams?"
I could see that Noah was right on top of what Kevin was saying, and for that matter, so was I. We both held our tongues to allow somebody else to answer, but nobody did. Noah took the silence as his invitation to answer Kevin's question. But before he could answer, Danny dove in.
"The big difference is we're the defending State Champions," he said.
"And why are we the defending champions?" Kevin asked.
"Um...because we won the championship game last year?" Gavin asked.
"I'll answer Kevin's question," Noah said.
"Why is it that this lunch is feeling an awful lot like some sort of class?" Hunter asked no one in particular.
Noah ignored his question and went on. "I am willing to bet that none of those teams got together when they were eleven and twelve years old and built an organization—none of them! I bet no team in this state has ever done what we've done. When we were in the sixth grade we had our diamond dream and we didn't let a bunch of adults tell us how to fulfill it. Yeah, we asked for their help, but the dream was ours, the Go to State Team was ours, and the Falcons were ours. That is what makes us different."
"Only Noah could give that long an answer and make it interesting," Danny said.
"He's right," I said. "And when Kevin speaks of the albatross, he means that we started working that dream against us. We quit talking about it, we quit thinking about it, hell, we quit dreaming about it. The one game at a time thing worked, because it was what we needed then. But now, there are sixteen teams left in the state, and they all have their dreams and goals and they all talk about them. They all want what we want. Guys, it's time to make that dream work for us."
"You know," Kevin said, "without that dream we aren't sitting here together thinking of playing baseball this weekend. Without the Go to State Team, without the Falcons, without all of the things we did, Coach Collins would still be the head coach sitting on his ass thinking how great he was because he once upon a time won a State Championship based on the work done by the coach before him."
"And we'd still have Coach Gardner as the JV coach, busy being an asshole," Carl said.
"The dream is ours," Kevin said. "Six years worth of dreaming, and more important, six years of working our asses off. With the help of our friends and teammates who graduated, the dream is about us winning two in a row. Starting at practice today we live for that dream. We don't bury it, we don't pretend it doesn't exist, we live for it, we talk about it, we...umm..."
"Embrace it," I said.
"...right, we embrace it, because that dream puts us ahead of the other fifteen teams."
I have to say that impromptu meeting in the lunch room was as good or better than the planned meeting in Coach's classroom. Kevin and I are co-captains. He was the one who stepped up today. None of us could disagree with him.
Practice that afternoon was sharp and crisp. It was intense as we cut out the side talk and kidding around. We talked about and concentrated solely on baseball. And in the end we executed the drills to near perfection. If we'd had any doubts about ourselves at times during the season, they were gone now.
<Thursday, May 16>
[NOAH]
Coach promised a light practice today, the kind meant to keep us sharp. No matter, we worked hard and practiced ICE. Between classes and in the locker room, we talked about what Kevin had said at lunch, yesterday. He had been right in what he said, and we all knew it. We weren't just a team with a goal; we were a team on a six year mission. While we all agreed that the world would not stop turning on its axis if we should happen to lose a game, we also agreed that we would no longer ignore what it was we'd been working toward for six years.
After we showered, Coach called Eric and Kevin into the gym office. Since I was going with Eric to his house, I decided to join the crowd. If they didn't want me there, they could kick me out. Coach Sanders acknowledged me and didn't send me away, so I stayed.
Coach talked to us about having official batboys for our Regional games. Except a few home games when Coach Fitzsimmons's son, Jordan, was the batboy, we policed our bats ourselves. The ten-year old did a good job on the days he was there.
"I was thinking of having some players off of the middle school team doing the honors," Coach Sanders said. "Jordan was great when he could help us, but Coach Fitz agrees that allowing some of the Titans to be in the dugout would be good for the program."
We discussed ideas of who those players would be. I was more than pleased to be included in the discussion. We finally decided on four boys, who not only played for the Titans, but had other ties to the program as well. They would pair up and work every other game. Nicky, who is my brother, Jeffrey, Alex, who is Lars's brother, and Gavin's brother, Tanner.
Eric and I walked to his house after the meeting. We both liked the picks for the batboys. All four of them had ties to the high school program.
Since it was the night before Eric would be the starting pitcher, we needed to go through his routines. Rituals are important to baseball players as we are a very superstitious lot, a fact we would all deny if asked. No matter how intelligent we think we are, we all believe that staying with our regular rituals will help us perform better on the field, while getting away from our habits will have a deleterious effect on our play.
Eric's mom had dinner almost ready when we entered the house and it smelled wonderful. We'd showered at school, so all we had to do was to get rid of our books and we were prepared to eat. Mom wasn't ready to serve, however, at least not until dad came home. Yes, I call them mom and dad; after all they would be my in-laws some day, so why not?
Dinner was ready to go a half hour later, a delicious pot roast meal. Both of our moms are master cooks. The four of us spent a lot of time during and after dinner discussing the upcoming weekend. The parents, being parents, made sure we understood that losing would not be the end of the world. While we didn't actually, physically, roll our eyes, we did make sure they knew that we understood that.
"You boys put in a lot of time and energy over the years," Dennis Simmons said. "I would call it almost a miracle that a group of preteens and teens could carry the things you boys have accomplished. But you boys simply have a lot of heart and guts— much more than most."
"It doesn't mean we won't cry and be disappointed," I said. "But life goes on. We talked about that at lunch today."
"Everybody agreed that without the six years of work we put in we wouldn't have last year's State Championship trophy and we wouldn't be playing this weekend. We have no doubt that what we did was worth every minute no matter what happens from here," Eric said.
"There were a lot of up and downs," I said. "It wasn't always smooth going."
"Nothing like this ever is. But you didn't let the bad times rip you apart, even if they came close to doing so at times. You kept things going when the outlook was bleak," Dennis said.
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," I said. What I said wasn't original or profound, but it was true. Nobody had mentioned the hard times during the lunch discussion, but we all knew they had been a part of our group. All of us understood that without that meeting in the dining car of the "Coast Starlight" we may never have made it through those tough times. We were at rock bottom, the entire organization close to going under, when Marty reamed us new assholes.
When we retired to Eric's room, we stripped down to our underwear. We have no problem being naked around each other—that is our usual attire when we are alone. But, on Eric's pitching nights we don't get naked until we're ready to sit and meditate. Don't ask why, that's just the way he likes it. Remember, one never messes with the mind of a pitcher. After Eric's near meltdown last spring at the State Tourney, I always remember that adage. Tonight, Eric decided he wanted to discuss philosophy.
"We all keep calling baseball the perfect game," Eric said.
"That's because it is."
"But why? Hardly anything is perfect. Sure, sometimes I have a perfect day hitting, like I did against Meadow Park when I was four- for-four."
Eric left me an opening and it was so wide I had to leap right into it. "That wasn't so perfect. A double, a homer, and two singles. That last at bat, we were so rooting for you to get a triple and hit for the cycle."
"And you know I was so sorry to disappoint you all with a mere single."
"No disappointment—we loved that last hit just as much as the first three. Besides, there was no way you could top that home run."
Eric got himself back on target. "My point is, in baseball you can get four hits one day and none the next. In the end it all evens out. I was a .360 hitter before my four hit game, and two games later I was hitting .414—nice numbers, but far from perfect."
"Baseball is the perfect game just because of that. It's a game where you never know what's going to happen. Anything can happen in any game."
"This is why we don't know, even after six years of working toward it, if we're going to end up in the State Tournament finals—anything can happen."
I knew he was going to say more and I sat patiently waiting for him to finish.
"When I'm pitching, I can have a perfect inning and put the side down in order. The next inning, I might be pitching out of trouble all inning. I could be really perfect and strike out the side, although Scott is more likely to do that."
"Or, you can be absolutely and totally perfect and get three outs on three pitches."
"Like the pitcher who is the Donkey's cult hero managed to do?" I asked.
"You mean Hippo Vaughn?"
"Who else? The second American League pitcher to have a three pitch inning."
"POWER TO THE HIPPO! Oh, how the Donkey loves saying that."
"I can top you," I said after we stopped laughing. "What about an immaculate inning? Nine pitches, nine strikes, three outs."
"But nobody is perfect for all seven innings—or all nine in pro ball."
"Twenty-three pitchers have thrown perfect games in the Majors."
"Viva King Felix." Eric was referring to the perfect game thrown by Mariner star Felix Hernandez, known as King Felix.
"So, what's your point in all this?"
"I guess my point is, we call baseball the perfect game, but we're not really sure why. None of those perfect games involved nine immaculate innings, yet they are still perfect games in their own imperfect way."
"We call it perfect because it just is," I said. "Some things you just accept on faith."
"What you're saying is that some things are perfect simply because we say they are perfect."
"You summed that up succinctly."
He scooted over and gave me a huge hug and a long kiss. "God, I do so love you, Noah."
"The feeling is oh, so mutual."
We undressed and got into position to meditate: legs crossed, arms on each other's shoulders, heads together. We knew the things to say, the breaths to take, the parts to touch, until we left this world and found our inner beings alone in our own world. We listened to what our inner voice had to say. We maintained our state as long as we could, coming out of ourselves with a sense of satisfaction and love. When we finished, we moved into Eric's bed, but on these occasions there was never any sex, even though we often sported erections. This was a time for being philosophical and contemplative. It was a time to listen to our spiritual selves. It was a time to love each other and to love ourselves. We never talked between our meditation and our falling asleep, and yet every time we went through this ritual it was as if we had communicated perfectly.
<Friday, May 17>
The Mustangs arrived at the Lacey field just after 7pm. They were in uniform since the complex had no locker room, which was the case with all of the baseball complexes. Because of the late game, Eric took a nap at home after school. On the bus ride to Lacey, he sat alone, as usual, eyes closed, listening to his I-pod. For all of the postseason games the boys had the bus to themselves; the doubling up with the girls was only for regular season games.
There was an attitude about the Mustangs that everyone could sense. Once Kevin had showed them that their six years of work was all about what they had built rather than winning a certain game, it was as if a twenty ton weight had been lifted from their shoulders. All they had to do was play the game with a good helping of ICE. No matter what happened they were a success.
The Go to State Team was very much a going concern, with a lot of participation by the underclassmen. Eric had postponed the May meeting until after the postseason. That was when the elections would be held, but in reality Justin was running the operation. The founding class was leaving a legacy behind. There was a lot of talent in the classes behind them. That talent would have great coaching, a solid organization, and the money for some incredible road trips and tournaments.
With the burden of feeling like they had to win released from them, the high schoolers walked off of the school bus with an incredible air of confidence about them. All of them, but Eric, sat in the middle of the bleachers just behind third base. Eric found a spot at the top corner of the bleachers and sat in his own world, pondering whatever was on his I-pod. His teammates saw parallels between him and Rodney the year before. But they knew that what was going through Eric's mind was all baseball, while there had been much speculation about what Rodney thought about before his starts.
They watched Mountain Ridge Christian beat up on Elwa Valley until it was time to start warming up. By the time they'd finished with their stretching and throwing, Mountain Ridge had hammered out a 15-4 win over the overmatched Ospreys.
The Mustangs and the Dolphins were each given five minutes for infield, which didn't bother the Mustangs. They had three different infield drills depending on the time available. Their five minute drill involved two coaches and two balls, and they managed to execute it without anyone getting beaned.
Nicky and Jeffrey were the batboys for the first Regional game. To say they were excited was an understatement. The two livewires had both been warned by their fathers to keep their mouths shut and do their jobs. They each rewarded their father with a young adolescent eye roll, then proceeded to do a perfect job of taking care of the bats, helmets, and other equipment—with their mouths closed except for their enthusiastic cheering.
The confidence and the intensity of the Mustangs were such that nothing seemed to phase them. They knew they were capable of success no matter what happened on the field, and as such they knew they could overcome any setback. The Bartonville captain won the flip, and the Dolphins were the home team.
Eric had another game in which he wasn't completely in sync. That had upset him in Districts when he began to doubt if he was good enough for the task at hand, but this time he eliminated his negative feelings, concentrating only on the task at hand. He ended up throwing six innings. Only one inning three up and three down, in one he allowed a two-out solo home run, but the other four saw him having to work his way out of trouble.
As long as he limited the damage in his tough innings, Eric was confident that his teammates would have his back. In the third, he uncharacteristically walked two batters and gave up two hits. But a well executed double play by Noah and Justin limited the damage to two runs.
For their part, Eric's teammates were confident that their pitcher would pitch out of any jams he got into, and were ready to execute behind him. They knew their defense was first rate and each one of them wanted the next play to come to him, no matter how difficult.
Although the Dolphins were outhitting them, the Mustangs came up with the big hits. Two RBI doubles by Carl, a long solo home run to right center by Scott to break a 4-4 tie in the top of the sixth, a key single and a superb sacrifice bunt by Noah were the clutch offensive plays executed by the Mayfield nine.
Lars relieved Eric in the seventh and put the Dolphins down in order. Eric hadn't pitched one of his better games, but he gave his teammates a chance to win, which was what his role was as a starting pitcher. The Mustangs played a good game against a tough opponent. They played hard, they played smart, and they executed in the clutch. The result was a 5-4 win. At 1:00 the next afternoon they would be facing the Mountain Ridge Christian Knights, the team they'd defeated the year before in the Regional finals.
<Saturday, May 18>
[MARTY]
Talking with Sparky on the phone could make me angrier than talking with him face-to-face. At least he waited until after eight in the morning to call me. On weekdays it could be two hours earlier.
"I would have called you," I told him. "I told you I'd call you this weekend."
"You have a game this afternoon and your alma mater has a game this afternoon. Who knows what we'll be doing afterwards," he told me.
"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Sparky. You can make and receive phone calls anywhere, anytime."
"Show an old dude some respect. I can only deal with one mouthy teen at a time."
"Tell the Hurricane to behave or I'll kick his ass when I come home next weekend."
"We'll all be looking forward to that, especially your little brother, who needs a big brother fix."
"Well, I know you didn't call me at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to wish me good luck in my game. You usually have deeper motives than that."
"The sun rose at 5:30 in case all of that light streaming through your window escaped you."
"Tell that to Rich, who has rolled over and gone back to sleep."
"While I do wish you good luck in your last two games, I did call about the topic we've been discussing."
I sighed, knowing exactly what it was Sparky wanted to hear. The good news was, I could honestly tell him that I tried to do what he asked. "Yes, I've done it every day for over a week now."
"Did you mean it?"
"Probably not."
"Well, it says in the book you don't have to mean it. You just have to do it, and eventually you might just believe it."
He was talking about me praying for my father every day. I was supposed to pray that he got everything that I wanted. I was supposed to do this for at least two weeks. Sparky and I have discussed this before, but ever since he talked to my dad at the Husky game, he's had a giant hair up his ass about it. Yes, I prayed because he told me it was a good idea. Since he is usually right about this kind of shit, I've learned to listen to him and do what he tells me to do, no matter how much I hated doing it. He is my sponsor after all, as well as my mentor, and, as far as I was concerned, my dad.
"You're going to be back in Mayfield for most of the summer," he said. "Unless you avoid going to meetings entirely, which I know you're not going to do, the chances are you will run into him."
"Maybe he'll have a relapse," I said. The one person in the world I did not want to run into anywhere was Lewis Carlson. But, I lived in a small town in a small county, so there was a good chance it would happen.
"He won't relapse with you praying for him to have the kind of sobriety you desire. You do want to be happy, joyous, and free, don't you?"
"Ever since you told me it was a benefit of being sober. I think I was thirteen at the time."
"Do you feel free right now?"
I took my phone away from my ear and looked at it. The bastard always has a way of asking the one question he knows I do not want to answer. I stared at the phone, thinking of how to answer the question best and get him off of my ass. I knew that while I was thinking he was probably sitting patiently at his desk sipping coffee and reading the morning paper, already knowing what my answer was going to be before he asked the question. That's the way he was. He behaved like a lawyer all the way.
After mulling several possible answers, I did what he had trained me to do since he dragged me out of the park after I'd puked on his shoes—I gave him an honest answer. "No, I don't. I don't feel free at all."
"Then keep praying for your father to get what you want. Pray for him to become free of his burdens. Pray for it each day until you come home. You are still suffering the burden of self as far as your father is concerned. Until you sincerely mean you want him to have the freedom you desire, until you express your love for him, you will not be free."
I did not want to do any of that. The problem was that I knew he was right. And because I knew he was right, I would someday end up doing what he asked even though I had no desire to do it. Now you can understand why the man could piss me off.
"I'll do it."
"And maybe on one of the upcoming days you'll mean what you say in your prayers."
"Maybe, but I doubt it." It was time to change the subject. "Tell any of those fucking Mustangs you see to kick some serious ass. I want to see them play at Safeco next weekend."
"I will pass on the word. Will you be starting any games today or tomorrow?"
"I will today. Coach wants the upperclassman to start the last game."
"Good luck. Right now a soon to be teenager is eager to talk to you. I will see you on Friday."
"I love you, Sparky."
"I love you, too, son."
There was barely a pause before Hurricane Jeffrey was on the phone, babbling about the middle school JV team, his straight A's, his new role as the Mustangs' batboy ,and how he couldn't wait to see me next weekend. I didn't have much chance to get a word in, but I didn't care. Even though he was less than a month from being thirteen, he was still the bubbly, eager, non-stop Hurricane whom I've loved since he was seven.
++++++++++++
<Saturday, May 18>
The Mountain View Christian Knights were 21-1. Their lone loss was a 7-5 loss to a Class 3-A team. The Mayfield Mustangs were 20-4 and had played no in-state teams higher than their own Class A. Multnomah High School, the team they'd played in the Nooner, would probably be considered a 2-A team in Washington.
The Mustang game the night before had ended around 10:30. By the time they got their bus loaded it was 11:00, and it was 12:30 when they reached Mayfield High School. None of the players got to bed before 1:30 in the morning. With a one in the afternoon starting time, the players had to be at the school by 10:00 am. They were a tired lot as they loaded the school bus. The only boys who appeared to be awake were Alex and Tanner, the two bat boys. The two sixth graders knew each other as classmates and as teammates, as well as competitors, in sports, but had never been close friends. Their time together as bat boys was going to change their relationship entirely.
There was no chatter on the way to Lacey, just fifteen players, each in his individual seat, trying to catch some much wanted sleep. The Knights, with their earlier game, were all in bed by eleven.
"I'll bet none of those assholes will fall asleep on the bench," Blaine said.
"A two o'clock start would have made a great deal more sense," Hunter said. "I mean, look at the dudes we beat last night. I bet they're at least another hour's drive away than ours. What if they'd won their game?"
"My understanding is they are enough miles away that the state paid for hotel accommodations last night," Noah said.
"Noah, how do you find out all of this shit?" Hunter asked.
"I have many sources."
"I've never seen one of them," Kraig said.
"But you have experienced the wonders of modern communication."
"I have, but I'm not as smart as you are at finding stuff."
"It has nothing to do with being smart. It has everything to do with being persistent."
"Whatever," Kevin said. "All I know is we're lucky to have a smart, persistent genius like you on this team."
"Not to mention a pretty decent second baseman," Lars added.
The players started gathering their stuff as the bus came to its final stop in the parking lot. Most of the gear was in the baggage area under the bus. A lot of them brought a small carryon bag with snacks, drinks, and other small sundry items. Before they could disembark Eric stopped them. He had told the coaches he wanted a quick players' only meeting before they got off the bus and they left the bus first.
"We're tired," Eric said after everyone had settled down.
"Damn straight we are," Danny said. "We need our beauty sleep."
"That's what your comfy bed is for tonight."
"It will be a lot more comfy than the seats on this fucking bus," Blaine said.
"The Knights are pretty good," Eric said.
"Not as good as us on a good day," Kraig said almost automatically.
"Well, look outside. It's sunny, it's going to be seventy, and it looks like a really good day. Over the last six years those church boys haven't had near the experiences we've had. There is no way they are as close to each other as we are, no way they know each other inside out like we know each other. Forget the good day stuff; we're better than them any fucking day of the week, including Sunday."
"Holy shit," Hunter said. "Eric said `fucking'. Is that what's known as a wakeup call?"
"It means our captain is ready to kick some ass," Kevin said. "I guess we'd better follow him."
That got the players to cheering and talking and laughing and making general noise for the first time all morning. In his own, mostly understated way, Eric did give them a friendly wake up call. They stepped down off of the bus ready to play the game. Nobody needed to talk about ICE—whether they were starting or coming off the bench, all fifteen players knew what was expected.
The players already knew who was starting. But they still liked to look at the written lineup posted on the dugout wall.
- Justin-SS 2. Eric-2B 3. Scott-P 4. Carl-DH hitting for Lars-CF 5. Kevin-C 6. Danny-3B 7. Kraig-RF 8. Hunter-LF 9. Gavin-1B
There were no surprises in the lineup. This time of the year was not the time for surprises.
[SCOTT]
I had to agree with the guys who thought the game should have started at two and not at one. Maybe they should have made it a night game. But going to bed at one-thirty in the morning and getting up at eight just didn't cut it. Not that I don't sometimes get six or seven hours of sleep on some school nights. But this wasn't a school night—it was the night before a huge game, the biggest of the season so far.
But once I began warming my arm up with Blaine, I started to forget the short night or the uncomfortable nap on the bus. The adrenaline was starting to flow, and suddenly I didn't feel quite so sleepy.
When I went to the bullpen mound on the first base side with Kevin, I probably would have felt wide awake without any sleep at all since I was getting so stoked. As I did my pitching warm-ups, I could tell I had good stuff. When we finished, Kevin and Coach Hart, who was watching me warm-up, agreed.
"Your fast ball is filthy," Kevin said. "It's moving all over the place."
When my fastball moves like that. it's kind of a good news/bad news thing. The good news is it's hard to hit. The bad news is it's also hard to control. I usually throw harder than Eric, but Eric's fastball usually moves more than mine. The big difference is that he can control that moving fastball and throw it for strikes. Sometimes I never know where it's going to go. My slider was pretty sharp too, but the changeup I've been working on all year still sucked. I doubted we would use it much, but I liked to throw it sometimes to keep a hitter from sitting on my fastball. The way my fastball was moving, I didn't think that would be a problem.
We were standing on the first base line listening to some lame recording of the National Anthem. The Mountain View Knights were lined up on the third base line.
Since we traveled the farthest, we got to call the flip at the pregame. Eric listened to me for once and called tails, which did not fail. That made us the home team, and my first pitch would start the game.
That pitch was a fastball at the letters for a strike, and the game was on. Kevin and Coach Hart were right about my stuff—it was maybe the best I've ever had. I struck out the side in the first inning, got an easy fly to center in the second, followed by a walk and two strikeouts.
When we got to the top of the third we could all see that this game was going to be exactly like we thought: close and low scoring. The first two innings were scoreless.
In the third I got a strikeout and an easy ground out to Eric at second. That brought their leadoff hitter up. He wasn't biting at my slider and my fastball was moving off the plate. I got three quick balls on him, then grooved a fastball for a strike. He fouled off my next fastball and the count was full. Kevin called for a slider, but I shook him off. Then he wanted a fastball low and inside and I shook him off again. He asked the ump for time and came out to the mound.
"You don't want to throw a slider and you don't want to throw a fastball. There's not much left."
"Changeup," I said, "on the inside corner."
"Your changeup sucks."
"I haven't thrown it the whole game. He's not expecting it."
"It better be a good one, because the rest of your stuff is so filthy you really don't need it."
"I'll have him swinging way in front of it," I assured Kevin.
Kevin surprised me by letting me throw it. Kevin is a great catcher, but he can be a stubborn asshole at times. It's like you throw his pitch or else. Eric doesn't shake him off much, but I do it a lot. He just doesn't listen to me very often. Maybe it was the lack of sleep last night that made him so agreeable.
Well, my changeup was up and in, only it was too up and too far in, giving the batter a walk. That made me mad, but I know I had to forget it and concentrate on the next batter. I threw him a fastball that started on the inside part of the plate and moved right to the middle. The bastard seemed to like it because he hit it hard to left center. I turned and watch Lars and Hunter chasing after it.
If it had been Jerome out there in center I would have said there was a chance it would be caught. While Lars is a better than decent center fielder, he is not Jerome. Hunter is a great fielder, but he was simply too far way. I decided I'd better back up third because this hit looked like it could go for a triple.
Lars might not be Jerome, but that doesn't mean he can't run down a ball. He's got those long legs and arms, and while it looks like he's not moving them fast, he actually is. He caught up to the ball and laid himself out, the ball coming over his shoulder and into his glove just before he landed on the ground. Let me tell you, that play woke us all up; it was one of the best of our season.
We got a double from Hunter in the third, but couldn't get him in so we went into the fourth still in a scoreless tie.
[KEVIN]
When I said Scott's stuff was filthy, I meant it. That hard hit ball that Lars caught was off of a good pitch. And the stupid changeup was my fault; I should have told him to throw what I tell him to throw. My mind felt all mushy, but that catch by Lars woke me up. It woke us all up. All of a sudden we all remembered why we were here and that nobody gave a fuck that we didn't all get our beauty sleep last night.
Scott got through the fourth with two strikeouts and a pop up to short, and still hadn't given up a hit. After four innings, he had eight strikeouts and two walks. Like I said, I'll take the blame for one of those walks. Blaine walked and Justin singled in the bottom of the inning, but Eric and Scott couldn't get them in. We went to the top of the fifth, still scoreless.
The first batter up walked on a 3-1 count. Scott had some trouble locating his fastball again. I went out and talked to him, just to give him a moment to catch his breath, then headed back behind the plate. Whatever I said must have helped because his next two fastballs were over the plate at the knees for a quick 0-2 count. I had him bury a curve, then called for another fastball, this one up a little. It ended up being in the batter's eyes and he went fishing for it. That was strikeout number nine.
I couldn't help but think no-hitter. I know that was dumb of me. My job is to think about winning, winning, and only winning. But I'd never caught a no-hitter, and to do it in the State Regionals, in one of my last high school games ever, well, I couldn't help but think about it.
Scott missed with a slider and then with a fastball on the next hitter, who was their number five hitter. I called for a fastball on the outside. Scott's fastballs were moving from inside to outside on a right handed hitter, so I wanted to give it a chance to move in over the plate. Of course, it could move in too much and get hammered like the ball Lars caught earlier. I gave him the signal and he shook me off. I gave him the same signal and he shook me off again. I love Scott, but damn he can be a stubborn bastard sometimes.
I walked out to the mound. "We aren't throwing a slider on two-and- oh," I said.
"I wasn't going to. Let's try the change again."
"Your changeup sucks," I said for the second time in the game. "It sucked in warm-ups and the one you threw earlier in the game sucked even worse."
"You know he's going to be sitting on fastball."
"We'll throw the change down. If you miss, miss low. I'd rather have a three-oh count than give him a fat pitch."
"It won't be fat, I guarantee it."
I think I was thinking more about catching a no-hitter and about us being big heroes than I was about maybe doing what was needed to win the game. Big mistake. Here I was, eighteen years old, a senior, a full-time starting catcher since I was ten, the catcher on a State Championship team, and all I could think about was bullshit. I dunno, maybe it was the weird night's sleep we had last night. There was something not working right in my brain. But for the second time that afternoon, I gave in.
I called for the change, he threw it too high and too hard, like he had earlier, and the hitter treated it like an off-speed fastball rather than a nice slow changeup. In other words, he got around on it, got all of it, and deposited it over the left field fence—Mountain View 2, Mayfield zero. End of no-hitter, end of shutout, and end of tie score.
Scott didn't go crazy after giving up the dong. He came right back and struck out the next hitter for his tenth K. That's what our team was all about. We didn't panic when things started going badly. Instead, we increased the ICE factor and made ourselves tougher.
As we walked off the field, I said quietly to Scott, "If you ask to throw one more changeup, I'm going to stick the ball right up your friggen ass."
"I thought it would work this time."
I gave him my "catchers know more than pitchers" look as we entered the dugout. He took a spot on the bench away from me. I really shouldn't blame him, since in the end I called the pitch, even if he was the one who suggested it. However, as a catcher, I'm supposed to take charge.
Well, no matter, the damage was done. Now we needed to get some runs. We had four hits to the one for the Knights, and a lot of our outs were on hard hit balls. We had nothing to show for all of that. The chatter in the dugout was simple. Scott was pitching a hell of a game and it was time for us to have his back.
[SCOTT]
Kevin was really pissed about that changeup. I should never have suggested it. He was right about it sucking, but I really felt I'd be able to uncork a good one. There were two things about the situation. First, he is just about always right when he calls a pitch, and I should just not think and let him call the game. Eric keeps trying to tell me that thinking is a dangerous thing for pitchers to do.
Second, when Kevin said he'd stick the ball right up my ass the next time I asked for a changeup, I knew he wasn't fucking around. He'd do it, right there on the pitcher's mound. He might be one of my best friends, but don't mess with him on the baseball diamond. He won't put up with much shit from anybody, and I think I'd given him all he was going to take. Right now he was as pissed with himself as he was with me, and that was not a good thing.
[CARL]
See the ball, hit the ball. That was what I wasn't doing early in the spring. But now, everything has fallen right into place. Today, I was seeing the ball great. We might have gotten to bed late with an early wakeup time, but I slept like a baby during the time I had.
In both my at-bats I hit the ball hard, but both hits found leather. I knew I could hit the Knights' pitcher, and this time, when I did, I wasn't going to hit an at `em ball.
The first pitch to me looked like a giant cantaloupe coming in, and it sure looked nice sailing out into the grass beyond the center field fence. I knew what it was going to do as soon as I hit it. So did everybody else. Now we were only down by a run.
[NOAH]
We all knew how good Scott was today. He was close to unhittable and that didn't change in the sixth. A strikeout, a nice play at second by my fabulous lover as he went to his right, snagged the ball, and just nipped the batter at first, a walk, and another strikeout. That was twelve strikeouts in six innings, three walks, and only one hit. Unfortunately, the one hit mixed with a walk for a two-run homer and we were down by a run.
We were all up along the screen when Kevin came up. He didn't let us down as he singled between third and short to lead off the inning. Korey was his designated runner and took over at first.
Danny hit a dribbler to short. The shortstop made a good play on it. Since Korey had taken off on the pitch, the only play was to first and they got the out. But we had the tying run at second.
Kraig got hold of a 2-0 pitch and sent a liner into the left-center gap. By the time their left fielder got to it, Korey was steaming for home and Kraig hoofed into second with a stand-up double. The score was tied and we were one excited bunch of ballplayers.
The Knights coach changed pitchers. Hunter hit a bullet right back to the new pitcher on his second pitch. The pitcher snagged it, turned, and got the ball to second before Kraig could get back. It was a "look what I found" play, but it got them two outs. It all happened so fast, it wasn't really Kraig's fault. It was a really tough way to end the inning.
Scott gave up a lead-off single in the top of the seventh, only the second hit by the Knights. After his thirteenth strikeout, he gave up a long double, scoring the runner. After tying the score in the sixth, we were back to being a run down. Coach Sanders went out to the mound. We all knew that Scott was out of gas and weren't surprised when he brought Lars in to pitch. He moved Scott to first, and Gavin went to center.
The first thing Lars did was give up a triple. Now the score was 4-2 Knights and they had a runner on third. The Knights were obviously pretty pumped. They had to be thinking that they'd knocked out our best pitcher and were home free. What they knew is that they were three outs away from playing at Safeco Field. What they didn't know is that we were the Mayfield Mustangs and we knew exactly who belonged at Safeco next week.
Lars got the next batter to hit one up the chute, a foul behind the plate, which Kevin caught near the screen. Two outs, the runner still on third. The next ball was a hard hit drive to left that Hunter only had to move a couple of steps to catch. It was the bottom of the seventh, we were down by two, and nobody was panicking. We'd been here before.
"Think seventh grade," Kevin said as we entered the dugout.
"Why seventh grade?" Blaine asked.
"Boner rallies," Chandler replied. "I remember those. We can't do one, but we can sure think one."
"Sometimes I swear this whole team is nuts," Blaine said.
"Are you including yourself?" I asked.
"I wouldn't belong here if I didn't include me."
Coach had me pinch hit for Gavin. I won't give you all the details of my at bat, but I will say that I got a hard single to center on a 3-1 pitch. I won't say I stole second base, because I didn't. But I did make it to third base on a single by Justin. We had the tying run on first and the winning run at the plate in the form of Eric.
Eric quickly saw to it that the winning run was on first as he singled me in and moved Justin to second. It was now 4-3 and we were hitting this pitcher hard, including Hunter's out in the sixth.
Scott hit him hard, too, but his line drive was snagged by the third baseman. The runners froze and we had one out. That brought Carl to the plate. You could almost hear the electricity coming from the crowd. Last year this is the kind of excitement Marty brought to his at bats. While Marty was a much better all-around hitter than Carl, Carl's awesome power brought a sense of expectation every time he stepped up to the plate.
The Knights' coach went to the mound. He, the pitcher, the catcher, and the shortstop all had chatted until the umpire came out to tell them to play ball. That was when the coach made an interesting, if unorthodox move. He told the umpire he was putting Carl on first, even though it wasn't an open base. As a result he moved the tying run to third and the winning run into scoring position at second. That brought Kevin to the plate with the bases loaded.
[ERIC]
I was as surprised as everybody when the ump told me to go to second because Carl was being given an intentional walk. In high school baseball, the pitcher doesn't need to throw four wide ones on an intentional walk. The coach merely tells the ump that he is putting the batter on base.
Carl is a big time power hitter. He certainly showed it when he went yard in his last at bat. The ball he hit might still be in orbit. But giving him a walk that put the tying run on third and the winning run on second just didn't seem smart to me. Justin was on third and could score in a lot of ways other than hits: a wild pitch, a passed ball, a sacrifice fly, a squeeze bunt, an infield grounder, even a walk—lots of stuff could happen.
For a moment things had looked glum, but every one of us knew we were capable of coming back. We'd done it, and done it a lot. We'd done it with our backs to the wall, like they were right now. It didn't matter. We knew how good we were and we knew the other team better be ready to play all twenty-one outs if they were going to beat us.
Kevin looked confident as he walked to the plate. It was as if he had no doubt what the outcome of this at bat would be. I thought the coach might change pitchers since this pitcher hadn't looked all that good. But he didn't make a move to do so, making me wonder if he had anybody left to pitch. There had to be somebody since you don't go 22-1 without being deep in pitching. Yet, the pitcher ready to face Kevin with the game, and the season, on the line, had yet to get an easy out in the inning.
One-and-oh to Kevin. Two-and-oh. Fouled back, two-and-one. I wondered if we might squeeze, but no sign from Coach Sanders.
I stood there on second, the winning run, the run that would send us to Seattle. As had happened to us so many times in the last six years, we were down, but not defeated. Our horrible eighth grade season, the near collapse of our organization, the meeting in the dining car, the sexual bonding of last summer, the sudden loss of confidence and focus this year, the meeting in Coach's classroom, and Kevin's speech in the lunchroom, all seemed to focus on this upcoming pitch. I could feel it, we all could feel it.
You could see the intensity in Kevin's eyes, even from second base. You could see the concentration on his face. And you could for sure see the execution as he unleashed a picture perfect swing, the ball sailing over the head of the left fielder as Justin almost danced across home plate. He turned to let me know what to do, but I could see it wouldn't make any difference. The left fielder was just getting rid of the ball. I could almost crawl home from where I was. The winning run touched the plate. That winning run was me. I yelled, I screamed, I jumped on Justin, or he jumped on me, I don't remember.
I remember Kevin yelling at Scott, "I'm still shoving the next changeup request up your ass." I remember shaking hands with the Knights. I remember somebody dumping water on me. I remember I was happy, very happy, beyond happy.
Half the team was at the plate, the other half was chasing Kevin around the field until they tackled him to the ground. Once more we showed what we were made of. Six years of work had taken us to the State A Finals for the second straight year. Next Friday, we would be standing on a Major League baseball field, ready to defend our title.
After we made our line to shake hands, we entered the dugout to pack up our bats and gloves and jackets and whatever else we had there. Alex and Tanner had already organized a lot of the stuff, making our jobs easier. Between them and the Nicky/Jeffrey pair we had picked some first-rate bat boys.
I swore I didn't want to do it, I swore I wasn't going to do it, but I did it anyway. I left something behind in the dugout. I left a huge package of emotions behind. I think everybody understood what was happening when they saw the tears flowing down my cheeks. We were going to live our diamond dreams in the greatest possible place.
Next: The Go to State Team