Out of Control (6 page)

“I know what you're thinking, Trip,” Pop said. “There's still your dad. He's very proud of you, you know?

“He thinks that pushing you is his duty. Heck,” Pop laughed, “he thinks that pushing
everyone
is his duty. But you're growing up into your own person. Julio's going to have some trouble with that. I did. I was not happy with idea of my youngest daughter—who was a very talented softball player, by the way—I was not happy with her deciding she wanted to be a shrink. Today I'm very proud of her.”

All in time, maybe. But right now the idea of seeing Dad at practice, with his current Yankee obsession, made me a little sick. If I had known what would happen in a few hours, I would have felt even worse.

CHAPTER
17

I
drove home and got my stuff, then drove to the field. I was hardly out of the car when I heard Dad's voice calling me from across the lot. He was all smiles.

“This is going to be a tough practice,” he said. “You'll all need to be at the top of your game in San Diego.”

He was right about that. The Beach Blowout was an invitational, and the best teams from the United States, Mexico, and the Caribbean would be there. Just to be included was special.

We ran a few laps, stretched, and started our various warm-ups. We usually had a few spectators at our workouts. Some were parents of team members. Sometimes there were college scouts. And always there were a few kids or old people with time on their hands who just wanted to see some good players. Hardcore guys like Dad and Pop Mancini came whenever they could.

When my brothers and I were little, Dad actually helped coach some of our teams. Unfortunately, as we grew up, he never completely kicked the habit. It was pretty common for him to wander down on the field and ask the coaches questions—or even offer advice. Mostly Coach and Wash humored him; he did know baseball, and he cared about the team's success.

I was waiting my turn for batting practice when I noticed him jawing with Wash down by the dugout. He had on a glove, and he was demonstrating something with it while Wash nodded his head and smiled tolerantly.

Shotaro was throwing B.P. when my turn came. I started slow, trying to get down my timing. When I started hitting line drives I picked up the power a little. We always had a little fun seeing who could hit the farthest or put the most pitches over fence. The little kids would hang out on the other side with their gloves, shagging the balls that left the park.

I was just about at the end of my turn, so I thought I'd try to rip one really hard. That's something any batting coach from Pee Wees up will tell you is counterproductive. But I didn't care. I jumped on Shotaro's pitch way too soon and hooked a screaming liner right at the third-base dugout. I heard a shout and turned just in time to see the ball hit Dad in the head right above his left eye.

He dropped straight to the ground as Wash tried to break his fall. People, including me, came running from all directions. Somebody was yelling, “Call 911!”

The next twenty minutes seemed like hours. Dad was on his back, completely unconscious. He was breathing, you could see that, but blood was coming from a nasty gash on his temple and his face was starting to swell. Wash knelt beside him with a damp towel and wiped away some of the blood. I got down next to him and said, “Dad! Can you hear me?” But he didn't move.

At some point I began hearing sirens in the distance, and before long paramedics were bent over him, attaching wires and pushing open his eyelids to check his pupils.

“I'm his son,” I said to one of the medics. “How is he?”

“His heart and breathing are good,” he said. “He's got a head injury, pretty obviously. No telling how serious. We need to get him to the hospital.”

“I'll follow you,” I said.

“I'll go with you,” someone said. I looked around. It was Pop Mancini.

“Me too,” Nellie said.

They put Dad on a gurney and wheeled him out to the ambulance in the parking lot. With their siren screaming, they pulled out into traffic with the three of us right behind.

“I can't believe this,” I said. “What if I killed him?”

“Don't start down that road, Trip,” Pop said. “It wasn't your fault.”

“Yeah,” Nellie chimed in, “it was an accident. It could have hit anyone. Or no one.”

I pulled into the emergency room entrance behind the ambulance. “You can get out here,” Pop said. “We'll park the car and find you.”

I jumped out and almost ran into a blonde woman with a microphone. Behind her was a guy with a video camera. “KLAS Channel 8,” she said. “Is Julio Costas in that ambulance? What happened? Is it true he's in a coma?”

They were wheeling Dad into the hospital when the KTNV truck pulled up. I just followed the gurney, ignoring voices behind calling, “Mr. Costas! Wait!”

Wait is what I would do for the next six hours.

CHAPTER
18

P
op and Nellie caught up with me in the waiting room.

“So this is what it's like to be a celebrity!” Nellie said. “There were cops at the door to keep the TV guys from crashing the hospital.”

A half hour later Lisa came through the doors. “Hey, Trip,” she said and gave me a hug. “How are you doing?”

“I guess the question is ‘How is
he
doing?'” I said.

“Not to me,” Lisa shot back and put an arm on my shoulder.

We had probably been there about two hours when a guy in blue scrubs with blood all over them came out of the ER. His nametag said
Chris Williams, M.D.,
and underneath that
Neurosurgery
.

“Costas?” he said, looking around. I waved.

“Is Julio Costas your father?”

“That's right.”

“I'm Dr. Williams. The EMT said your father was hit by a baseball, right?”

I nodded.

“He's still unconscious, but his vital signs are good. We x-rayed his skull, and he doesn't seem to have any fractures. So right now he's up in radiology getting a CT scan, so we'll know what's happening with his brain. I'll check back as soon as I have something more to tell you. Okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Is he going to live?”

“So far I don't see why not. What we'd be worried about is any bleeding or swelling in his brain. The CT will give us a lot more information.”

After another hour I finally said, “Guys, Lisa, this could be a long time. You don't have to. . .”

They just looked at me and shook their heads. “Forget it,” Lisa said.

 

. . .

Around hour four Dr. Williams reappeared. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “This place is crazy tonight. The CT scan on your father was negative. He probably has a concussion, but with rest he'll be better in a while as long as he takes it easy.”

“So he's conscious?”

“Getting there. He's coming to very slowly.”

“Can I see him?”

The doctor looked at his watch. “Give him about two more hours. He's in a private room and resting comfortably, but we want to keep an eye on him a little bit longer.”

Exactly two hours later I was at Dad's bedside. He reached his arms up as far as he could without straining the IV tube, and we hugged. He had a bandage on his forehead where he'd been hit and the beginnings of a black eye. But he was smiling.

“How are you feeling, Dad?” I asked.

“I'm fine,” he said. “No one should know better than you what a hard head I have. You know, the last thing I remember was standing by the dugout talking to Wash. What really happened?”

I told him that someone at batting practice had pulled the ball and it had hit him.

“Do you know who hit it?” he asked.

“It was me, Dad.”

He looked at me for a moment, and then suddenly laughed so hard I was afraid he'd hurt himself.

“Isn't that something?” he said. “After all we've been through lately?” Then he got serious. “Look, son, I need to tell you I'm sorry.”

“Why? I was the one who—”

He held up a hand. “When I started to get my senses back, I don't know, instead of being in a fog it was like I was seeing more clearly than ever. And I saw an old man who was trying to turn his son into himself.”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

“Trip, you told me over and over that you were tired of baseball. And I just wouldn't hear it. It was my way or the highway, right?”

“It's okay, I . . .”

“I was not respecting you, Trip. You are old enough now to make some decisions about your life, your future. I'm proud of you, Trip, baseball or not.”

I didn't know what to say. But he went on.

“So I'll keep supporting the Runners. Coach Harris knows what he's doing. Between the two of you, you can decide whether you play.”

“Thanks, Dad. I'm proud of you too, you know.” We hugged again.

“You know,” he said with a smile, “you're a pretty good singer.”

CHAPTER
19

D
ad wasn't going to make the trip to San Diego. He would be two more days in the hospital and had strict orders to rest at home for at least a week after that. No shows. No strenuous exercise. I felt sort of guilty leaving Dad behind, but Lisa promised to keep an eye on him. Turns out the two of them got along pretty well.

On Wednesday the Runners got on a bus and headed to the coast for the Beach Blowout. We were about halfway there when Coach Harris came back to where I was sitting.

“What do you think, Trip? Do you want me to start Dave Teller at short?”

“I know you probably think I'm nuts, Coach,” I said. “But I want to play.” Lisa had been right. I didn't hate baseball. I just hated the expectation that baseball was my one and only future. As long as I was playing for the fun of it, and for the team, it was great.

Coach raised his eyebrows a little. “You're sure?”

I was.

As usual, the Runners had the classiest accommodations available. We were staying at a resort on the ocean in La Jolla, on San Diego's north side. We opened Wednesday night against the Phoenix Desert Eagles, an old rival. We were the designated home team in that first game.

Standing at shortstop, with the weight of Dad's dreams off my shoulders, I felt my focus return. My mind was sharp, my body felt fit, and I was excited to play.

 

. . .

We cleaned out the Eagles. There are times, for all teams, when everything seems to be working. You hope those times will happen when they matter most. This was the biggest tournament we'd played all year. There would be only one bigger contest, the Elite Series at the end of August, and a good showing at the Blowout would probably get us invited to that one. And that first night, we were stellar. Every one of us. Nellie homered twice; Nick threw out three runners at second; Danny was so spectacular in center that he didn't look like a show-off; Sammy doubled twice and stole a base; Carson struck out ten; and I was three for four and made one stab that had people standing up to cheer.

The Force was with us as the week went on. By Saturday we had only one game to win in order to reach the championship on Sunday. We played Los Lobos de Guadalajara, a Mexican team that boasted four alumni of a Little League World Series Champion team.

A big variable at our level, where guys are still teenagers, is physical development. We've all got skills, but we're still growing, so the guys who've developed more have an advantage. Los Lobos—that's The Wolves—looked, most of them, like adults. Not tall, necessarily, but bearded and muscular. Nick joked that half of them were probably married with children. And they played like they were earning their living at baseball.

Coach was resting Carson for the finals, if we made them, so he started Travis Melko. Travis pitched relief sometimes and started sometimes. He had three good pitches, none of them overpowering, but he had mad control and was a smart pitcher.

Travis's strength was also his weakness, though. The control that made him so effective sometimes deserted him. But I shouldn't have worried. That semifinal night, Travis pitched like a champ. The Runners homered three times—one was mine—and Travis shut out the Wolves on five hits.

CHAPTER
20

T
he final on Sunday night was carried by local TV stations on the West Coast, including Vegas.
Great!
I thought, because I hoped Dad would be able to watch. But Sunday morning he called me to say he was on his way to San Diego.

“Dad, you're supposed to rest!”

“I am resting, Trip. I'm using the chauffeur, and Pop Mancini's granddaughter is riding down with me. We're on the road right now.”

“Lisa? Can she talk?”

“Yo, Trip! Can't wait to see you!”

“You amaze me, Lisa. Is Dad okay?”

“Now there's a question with a complicated answer,” she laughed. “But healthwise, he's doing great.”

“All right. See you tonight. Thanks!”

The final pitted the Roadrunners of Las Vegas against the Seattle Tide. Not a team we knew, and they didn't know us.

In the bus on the way to the ballpark, Coach gave us his usual scouting report: “These guys have power, and they have speed. It doesn't always show up. But when it does, look out. We have the same stuff, but you know I talk all the time about consistency. I'm almost a little worried about how easy we've had it this week.

“If it's tough tonight, don't be surprised. Don't panic. Dig deeper. Their pitcher has probably the best—no, not the best, but the fastest—fastball round. I'm talking ninety-five on a good day. His change is almost impossible to identify. But he has a tendency to lean on that pitch when he's behind in the count. So on the first pitch think fastball, then watch the count. Once in a while he'll try a curve. He shouldn't, though. If you are fortunate enough to see that pitch, chances are it's a hanger and killable.”