Plunked (18 page)

We get a bloop single and a walk in the fifth but leave them both stranded. Once I get positioned in left, I do the math to figure out what it will take for me to get another shot at the plate. I need two of the guys in front of me to reach base.

It's possible. Woosh might be getting tired or he might not be. His pitch count isn't as high as it should be because we've been swinging at too many first pitches. We'll hear about that next week. It's tough, though. He's been around the plate, and his stuff looks hittable. He's just keeping us off balance.

Yeah, we got two base runners in the fifth, but the single was just barely over the second baseman's glove, and the walk was borderline. And then J.P. goes into his windup, and I focus on the plate.

J.P. is really battling. I gotta say: He looks a little tired himself. Even from out here, I can see that his fastball doesn't have the same pop on it. I stay ready and watch him work. Sometimes a tired pitcher means a lot of work for the left fielder. Even tired, though, J.P. is something else. He's doing what their pitcher has been doing: getting ahead in the count, keeping the batters guessing.

He strikes out the first guy with a ball in the dirt. The kid heads back to the dugout bopping himself on his helmet with the bat. Been there.

The next batter hits a slow dribbler and beats it out for an infield single. There's one on, one out, and one of their big kids coming up.

J.P. takes a little extra time, then goes into his windup and throws a pitch I didn't even know he had. Ahead 0–1, he wastes a pitch way outside. The kid doesn't chase, even though it looks like he has the reach to get to it. The count is 1–1, but it turns out it wasn't a wasted pitch after all. The big kid is looking outside now, and J.P. ties him up with junk on the inside half. It's 1–2, and now J.P. has the whole plate to play with. He reaches back for his best fastball of the last two innings and strikes him out swinging.

Two outs with a runner on first and an ace who still has something in the tank: You can almost feel the other
team deflate a little, glad they still have that 1–0 lead. The next kid chops a routine grounder to short. Katie is back in the game after being subbed early. She gobbles it up and flips it to second for the easy out.

We head in to bat. We're still down by a run, but most of our starters are back in now, and it's the top of the order. Tim is batting leadoff. In a textbook example of how not to start a rally, he pops the first pitch straight up. Their catcher throws off his mask, waits for it, and makes the play. One out.

Then Manny starts fouling off pitches. The strike zone has four edges: inside, outside, knees, and letters. Woosh is working all four and hitting more often than he misses. But Manny spoils the good ones and takes the bad ones. Nine pitches later, he trots down to first. We all cheer.

“Good eye, Manimal!” shouts Dustin.

“Radar locked!” yells Chester.

Manny just lets out a long breath. Walks like that are hard work.

Jackson steps to the plate. Just looking at him you can see that he has power, and Woosh is careful with him and falls behind in the count. Finally, he has to give him something over the plate. Jackson puts a good swing on it, and I think this might be it. But he's just underneath and lifts it to center. Manny doesn't risk tagging up, and now we're
the team with two outs and a runner on first. The difference: We don't have a lead to fall back on.

Andy steps to the plate. His first game in the cleanup spot hasn't gone well so far. He taps his cleats with the bat and stares out at the mound. It's his last shot and mine, too. If he doesn't reach base, the game is over.

“Come on, Andy!” I shout from the on-deck circle. “Come on, man!”

I can hear my pulse thundering in my ears. It started as soon as I put the batting helmet on, but at this point, I can't tell if it's fear that I'll have to bat or fear that I won't.

Over by the bench my teammates are cheering. Morgan and some of the other younger kids have their hats on inside out as rally caps. But all that matters is what Andy does at the plate. He gets a pitch to hit: pretty fast but fat. He's late on it and fouls it back. The second pitch gets a lot of the plate, too, but he doesn't take the bat off his shoulders.

He's tight, I think. It's not hard for me to recognize the signs these days. I wish there was something I could do about it.

“Come on, dingus!” I shout.

I don't know if he hears me. Sometimes you don't hear anything when you're at the plate, and sometimes you hear everything. Whatever the case, his bat comes forward
this time. With the count 0–2, you wouldn't think the pitch would be anywhere near the strike zone. But Woosh must want to get this over with, because he throws a changeup over the plate. It's a bad pitch because his fastball isn't as fast now, so there's not as much difference with the change.

Andy puts a swing on this one.

Lucky or good, which would you choose? Andy hits the lamest dying duck of a flare over the shortstop's head. It's coming down slowly but tailing away. Three different players — the shortstop, third baseman, and left fielder — look like they might have a shot at it. None of them quite get there. The thing lands in the grass between them and doesn't even bounce.

Manny was running on contact with two outs and makes it to second easily. They don't even bother with a throw to first. It's such a weird play that it takes me a few seconds to realize that I'm up. Then it hits me like a tidal wave, and all I can do is direct my feet toward the plate and hope they know the way.

There are so many things I could think about. There's the game situation: We're behind by one and down to our final out. There are faceless nightmare pitchers and nasty real ones. I don't have to look farther than the on-deck circle to see Malfoy. Woosh owned him last at-bat, so hitting me wouldn't even be such a bad play for him.

There are trips to the hospital and “maybe minor concussions” and my parents in the stands and a dozen other things. And so you know what? I decide not to think about any of them. Here's what I think: I think you've got to have a routine. I think that all the big leaguers on TV do, so I do, too.

I dig my front foot in. You know what I'm thinking about when I'm digging my foot in? I'm thinking about digging my foot in. Then I sit down on my back leg and take my practice swings.

Then the pitch comes in, and it's junk, and I don't swing at it. And even though the count's just 1–0, I know he's not going to want to fall any further behind. I know he wants this game over with. Not me. I realize this right then: I want another run. I
want
another at-bat.

Woosh takes some extra time, just like J.P. did last inning. He goes into his windup, and I feel that same panic. There's nothing I can do about it, but as a wise man once said: Get over it.

The pitch is inside half … but it's a changeup. I have time to react and put a swing on it. I don't try to do too much. I just want to make a nice level swing, and that's what I do.

It's amazing how far those can go. I feel the contact: solid and sweet. I know it's headed for deep center before I even look up. Two weeks ago, I would've stood
there and watched it for a few seconds, like they do on TV.

Not now: I bust it out of the box. I have my head down and I'm hauling. I take a quick look out to center but don't catch sight of the ball right away. As I near first, I look over and see Manny booking around third, heading for home. Andy is past second.

I look out and see the center fielder backpedaling as fast as he can. And then I see the ball and put my head back down. I've been playing outfield a long time, and as fast as their center fielder is moving, it's not going to be fast enough. Heading toward second, I see Meacham coaching third. His arm is going like a propeller: Go! Go! Go!

It's a two-run triple, and it gives us the lead. I don't even know what to do once I get to third. Triples don't grow on trees — and this one almost never happened. I feel like shouting, but I don't. I feel like passing out, but I don't do that, either. If I fell off the base, they could tag me out. I look around instead.

Katie is loosening up along the sideline. She tilts her cap up, and I see the flash of her eyes. For a second, we're looking right at each other. Then she touches the tip of her nose with one finger. I smile: Hit it on the nose.

Coach Meacham comes up and pats me on the back. He's downright friendly for about twelve seconds, which
has to be a personal record. Then his son pops out to short. “Pathetic,” he spits.

I head in to get my glove and half the team smacks me on the head before I can get my batting helmet off. It occurs to me that I could get a minor concussion just from this, but it feels great.

“YESSSS!” says Andy before smashing both of his palms down on my poor helmet.

“This is all you, man,” I shout at him.

He probably thinks I mean because his hit kept the inning alive. But that's only half of it. We both have a job to do now, though. We grab our gloves on the fly. We still have the bottom half of the inning to go.

Of course, there's one other thing we've still got. J.P. intercepts me on my way out to left. He should really be on the mound already, but he's here running alongside me. He doesn't say anything, just taps my shoulder with his glove. I smile and tap him back.

As he goes into his windup a few minutes later, his face turns toward left. The infielders are already looking in, so I'm probably the only one who sees the little smile on his face. And that smile says plenty. It says, My teammate has given me another shot at this one. My head-case, 'fraid-o'-the-ball teammate has given me another shot. And then he turns and fires. That pitch, crisp as the first inning, says something else. It says, I got this.

I allow myself to look around as the ump calls the strike. I see my parents in the bleachers, leaning in for the call. I see the sun flash off the bronze of Katie's ponytail as she takes a step to the side. And I see the green grass all around me: left field, my spot. I got this.