Beanball (2 page)

isn't worth the extra effort it would take to earn the A.

He'd rather spend his time and energy on sports.

 

He's such fun to be around, though.

He always has a smile and a pleasant word.

He has a knack for making people feel he likes them,

and I think he truly does.

 

I remember during football season last fall

he kept putting off projects,

not turning in assignments on time.

I had to call his parents in for a conference,

because he was in danger of failing for the quarter.

I told them I'd never failed a student

I liked as much as I like Luke.

But if he gave me no choice, fail he would.

“Classroom obligations must be met,” I told them.

Fortunately for us all, he heeded the warning.

I'm one lucky fellow, to be able to coach at Oak Grove.

Not only do they have a great baseball tradition,

but I've got a great bunch of kids to work with.

There's not one I wouldn't be proud to call my son.

 

Bunker Toomer was baseball coach here for nineteen years

before I took the job.

I'd coached against him and had tons of respect for him.

When he retired, he phoned me—

said I should interview here.

It's the best phone call I ever got.

I didn't know how people would react to me,

the new guy taking over for someone so loved and trusted.

But it's my third year here,

and I can't say enough about the way I've been accepted.

 

Maybe it's because Bunker and I

are so much alike in our coaching philosophy:

we try to make the game fun.

And if you truly
like
the kids on your team,

teach them sound, fundamental baseball,

get them to play hard,

and let them have fun,

it's a lot more likely

your team will win.

It's too early in the season to call it a must-win game,

but, by God, it is.

It's one we have to win, just to prove to ourselves we can.

 

The last two years it's been Oak Grove in first place

and us in second,

and it looks like it'll be the two of us battling it out

for the conference title again this year.

 

By God, I'm tired of losing to Hucklebee.

He gets all the breaks, the lucky bastard.

Every call goes his way.

His players make lucky catches, get lucky hits.

Mine can hit the snot out of the ball

and it'll be right at somebody.

We're snakebit.

 

I'm going to throw Dawkins at them.

He's the best pitcher I've got.

We have to whip their butts,

beat that damn Hucklebee.

We just have to.

It's time for things to go our way.

I phoned Red Bradington, the Compton coach.

I asked him when I could see Kyle Dawkins pitch.

Dawkins is number one on my list

of high school prospects

in this part of the state.

The kid's got a big league fastball right now.

I saw him pitch twice last year,

and I had a long talk with him.

He's got the arm.

Not only that, he's got the kind of attitude

you want in a player in your organization.

Pro scouts came to some of my games last year.

I started getting letters from colleges, too,

wanting me to play for them.

 

Coach thinks I might get drafted this year

by a big league team.

I won't turn pro, though.

Not until after college.

I want that degree.

Besides, I'm not ready for pro ball.

I know that.

 

They tell me I've already got a big league fastball.

But that's not enough.

I need to work on my off-speed pitches

and my control.

Playing college ball will give me a chance to do that.

I gave free passes to way too many batters last year.

Heck, I walked guys who couldn't have hit my heater

if they'd swung all day.

I'm probably the main reason that what's left

of Coach Bradington's hair is turning white.

I picked the worst time to get sick.

I don't know if it's the flu or something I ate,

but I was up half the night puking my guts out.

 

I tried hard to keep Mom and Dad

from hearing me in the bathroom.

Have you ever tried to puke

without making any noise?

 

It's not easy, let me tell you.

 

If they'd known I was sick,

they might have made me stay home.

And if you're not at school

on the day of a game, you can't play.

 

Not even the flu is going to keep me

out of a game against Compton.

I wasn't wrong about Dawkins.

He's got the goods.

He's wild, but most kids his age are.

Time—and someone working with him

on his mechanics—will straighten him out.

 

It's easy to separate the pro prospects

from the others just by the way they move.

Two that really stand out

are a couple of Oak Grove outfielders.

The way their left fielder swings the bat

is a thing of beauty.

And their center fielder—

he's fast and graceful, and he's got a rifle for an arm.

 

It's fun watching Dawkins compete against those two.

A ballfield's the best medicine I know.

I've been sick as a dog since last night.

I had to run out of class third period.

I didn't even stop to get the teacher's permission,

because I thought I was going to throw up

right there at my desk.

Talk about embarrassing!

Luckily, I didn't.

 

Anyway, the minute I stepped onto the field this afternoon,

I felt a lot better.

Almost normal.

 

And now this. This is what I live for:

bottom of the seventh, our last at-bats.

Tying run on third, winning run on second.

Hitting against Kyle Dawkins,

the hardest thrower in our conference.

He's a senior now. He's fast but wild.

Last year as a sophomore, I swung against him,

and I couldn't touch his heat.

I might as well have been batting with a toothpick.

 

The Compton coach just came out to talk to Dawkins.

I can guess what he told him.

They don't want to risk walking me.

Dawkins's control is shaky; the last thing they want

is to have the bases loaded.

I've already pulled an inside pitch for a double,

so the smart play is for him to curve me outside.

I'll be ready for it.

I'll poke it to right, and the game will be ours.

Last week we won a game with defense in the final inning.

Today we've got a chance to win with our bats.

The Wizard's the guy you want up in a situation like this.

Gordie's on deck. He's our best hitter,

both for average and power.

But in a clutch situation, Luke's the guy I want up there.

 

He's amazing.

For some reason—I can't explain it—

the pressure never seems to bother him.

 

You might think I'm biased, since Luke's my best friend.

But I could fill a book with all the times

he's come through in the clutch.

In fact, I can hardly remember a time he's failed.

 

Sure, Dawkins might get him out; he's got the stuff to do it.

But if I were going to bet, I'd put my money

on the Wizard.

We've got to get him out. Come on, Dawkins.

We can't lose to Oak Grove.

But if we have to lose, I sure don't want

Wallace to be the one to beat us.

 

I hate that guy.

 

I went to school in Oak Grove for two years,

back in seventh and eighth grades.

Wallace was in most of my classes. Teacher's pet.

Couldn't do nothing wrong.

He'd pass notes or talk in class,

teachers would look the other way.

 

Me? Detention every time.

Back in eighth grade,

I should've gotten a starting guard spot

on the basketball team.

Instead, the coach picked Wallace, the cocky brownnose.

He got the glory; I got splinters on the bench.

 

The best thing about living in Compton:

I don't have to be around that guy.

Dawkins better get him out.

If he lets Wallace beat us, he'd better not sit near me

on the bus ride back home.

This is one hell of a situation to be in.

Their best hitter's on deck, so we can't walk Wallace.

Wallace has already hammered Dawkins's fastball,

so the best bet is to bust him inside one time.

That'll move him off the plate.

Then we'll curve him away.

 

Dawkins's wildness doesn't give us much margin for error.

I wish I could bring somebody else in,

but he's still the best I've got.

Coach just told Kyle to brush Wallace back.

You kidding me?

Kyle's already walked two this inning.

We can't afford another walk.

Coach wants us to waste a pitch?

He's an idiot.

But we're still ahead, 3–2, in spite of him.

 

I just hope Kyle has enough sense

to ignore anything Bradington says.

I'm going to give him a target in the middle of the plate.

I hope he tries to hit it.

 

Even right down the gut,

Kyle's got good enough stuff to get anybody out.

Even Wallace.

It's the worst sound I've ever heard

in all my years of umping.

Oh, I've heard plenty of pitches hit a helmet.

But this . . . this fastball, up and in.

This one hit bone, right in the face.

Not even a scream or grunt from the kid.

He went down like he was shot.

 

I know him.

I've umped and reffed

maybe a dozen of his games.

Not just baseball—

football and basketball, too.

The kid's a great athlete, a natural.

That's why it was such a shock to see him go down like that.

 

The screams come from everywhere:

bleachers, dugouts, infield, mound.

Even from me.

 

Blood. Lots of it. It looks like Luke's dead.

“Jesus!” I yell. “Call 911!”

Then I shout to the bleachers: “We got a doctor here?”

 

A woman runs out to home plate.

The mother, I think, of one of the Oak Grove players.

Says she's a nurse.

 

Lucky for me.

Lucky for Luke.

I'm just an ump, not a doc.

I might do the wrong thing and make a bad situation worse.

It's plenty bad already.

 

The best I can do is hold Luke's mother,

when she runs onto the field,

try to keep her calm until the ambulance arrives.

 

 

 

 

After Luke got hit, I ran out to him.

The way he went down and lay so still,

eyes closed,

I feared the worst.

Coach Hucklebee and the umpires

were already there, but luckily no one

had tried to move him.

 

Someone came running from Oak Grove's dugout

with a first-aid kit.

I grabbed a pair of rubber gloves

and searched for a pulse with one hand

while trying to stop the bleeding with the other.

I was afraid Luke might choke on his own blood.

 

He was unconscious, so my biggest concern

was to monitor his breathing until the ambulance arrived.

Someone brought ice for his face and a jacket to cover him.

We moved people away to give him breathing room.

There was no time to think, only to react.