Force Out (5 page)

Barrett glanced at the Pirates dugout. “Okay, but you gotta get us through this inning, Joey. We're at the bottom of their order, so you should be fine. Just lob them over the plate. Our defense can handle these guys, even if they hit it.”

Joey glanced at Leah and then at his parents in the stands. He didn't want to look bad lobbing in pitches for kids to hit, but he wasn't the kind of player to argue with his coach, so he winced and nodded and took the mound. He needed only one more out, so he tried to throw through the discomfort and give the next batter some heat, but the pain in his elbow made his throws wild and he walked the kid.

Joey took a deep breath and started trying to lob them in like Coach said, but that didn't work either. He walked a second batter. He grew so frustrated and overanxious that he walked a third man.

“Come on, Joey Riordon. You can do it!” It was the coach's son, yelling to him from second. Butch Barrett trying to coach him was worse to Joey than if his own mother had booed him from behind the backstop.

Joey looked up into the stands, a big mistake. Leah caught his eye and looked away, embarrassed for him.

Embarrassed? How awful was that? It didn't get any worse. He had to get an out, get through this inning, and do his thing on first base.

Full-out panic set in. His mouth went dry as cotton. With the bases loaded, he walked one in—
walked one in—
it was humiliating, especially with Butch Barrett shouting that he could do it.

“Just
focus
, Joey!” the coach's son shouted.

There was only one way out of this nightmare. He
had
to put the next batter down. He couldn't give up another run. He might already have cost them the game, but he
had
to finish this inning.

His eyes strayed to the next batter. Price. His mind did a quick calculation of what would be worse—giving up a grand-slam home run or being yanked from the game. Why couldn't Coach just let him off the mound when he felt his arm going and he was still on top? He looked good four batters ago. Joey wanted to scream, but now, he knew, it was all or nothing. He'd certainly rather give up the grand slam than get yanked like a panic-stricken loser.

Joey looked over at Coach Barrett and offered a thumbs-up.

“I got him, Coach! This is the one.”

But to Joey's horror, Coach Barrett called time-out and headed for the mound.

The coach took long strides. The tilt of his head and the brim of his hat kept his expression hidden from Joey's view until he reached the mound. Coach Barrett scuffed his feet, and a little cloud of dirt settled on Joey's cleats. The coach opened his mouth to speak, and Joey prayed for all he was worth not to get pulled.

“It's okay. You did good.” Coach Barrett's words shared a smile with his face, but dark clouds rolled across his eyes. “Go take first. Keep your head up.”

Coach called Zach to the mound. Joey felt sick and jittery. He kept his eyes away from the stands.

“Good effort, Joey. Good effort!” Butch's words made Joey cringe.

His pulse finally began to slow as he watched his best friend warm up. The good news was that they could still win this, and he and Zach would be locked into the all-stars. If Zach could put Price down, they'd go into the fourth only behind by two. Price couldn't have too many more pitches left in his arm either, not the way he'd been throwing that fastball. If Joey got up next inning, maybe he could be the one to hit a grand slam and redeem himself.

He got into a ready stance and waited. Zach went into his windup and threw a high fastball.

Price swung.

Strike one.

Zach threw the next one low and equally fast. Price went for it.

Strike two.

With the bases loaded, Price was going for it all, the grand slam.

Zach didn't look nervous in the least. An airplane soared high above, and he stopped to follow it with his head tilted skyward, almost seeming to forget he was playing baseball with the game practically on the line. The plane disappeared. Only then did Zach set his feet and go into his windup.

Zach's arm was a blur, a whip that stung. The fastball went right down the middle, a crazy place to put a pitch on an 0–2 count, but it was like Zach had an angel perched on his shoulder telling him what to do.

Strike three.

Price pounded the dirt with his bat and tossed his helmet against the dugout wall. The Blue Jays cheered for Zach all the way to the dugout, but Zach told them to save it.

“We got to win this thing, boys.” Zach's dark eyes showed just an instant of intensity before the fire went out and he flashed his easygoing smile.

Whether he was still frustrated at striking out, or his arm was fading, Price started to slow down on the mound. His first pitch to Zach didn't have the same sauce on it as before, but Zach hit it foul. That's when Price brought out his curveball. Zach hit two more foul balls before Price tried to bring back the heat and Zach pounded it deep into right field. A fumbled ball by the outfielder and Zach's lightning speed left him with a triple.

The next two batters didn't stand a chance. They swung and missed Price's curves without coming close. Joey knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help the small smile when Butch Barrett stomped away from the plate and threw his helmet down inside the dugout.

Joey turned his back on their coach, who was chewing out his son for poor sportsmanship, stepped up to the plate, and took a deep breath. Seeing Zach on third made him itch. If he knocked one out, he could tie the score. That's what he planned on doing, knocking one out.

Price licked his lips and went into his windup.

Joey recognized the curve, but too late. He swung big and only nicked it foul.

The next pitch, he was ready for the curve, but Price threw what heat he had. It was low and inside. Joey tried to shift back and swing big again. He pulled it outside the third base line. With an 0–2 count, he had to protect the plate. The next two pitches were close, so he had to swing and they went foul as well. Jittery but still determined, he wiggled down into his shoes, ready to blast the next one.

Price licked his lips, wound up, and threw.

Right down the middle.

Josh reared back ready to uncork everything he had.

At the last second, the ball curved down and out. Joey swung and missed. The ball slapped the catcher's mitt, and the catcher jumped up out of his stance with a hoot. Price grinned and headed for the dugout. Joey ground his teeth until they hurt.

The defensive battle continued, and while there were plenty of hits, no runs scored. Zach slung fastballs all over the place, tempting the top of the Pirates lineup to swing, but not giving anyone a clean shot so that the Blue Jays infield could do its thing. Joey was proud of his sure-handed glove on first, even though he didn't have to do anything spectacular. When Barrett caught an easy pop fly, he held the ball up like he'd won the World Series. Joey wanted to puke.

Price continued to fade on the mound—while no one could hit his curveball, his pitches ran wild in spurts and he gave up a handful of walks. Going into the last inning, Joey wondered if they'd pull him from the mound, even though his team was up 2–0.

The sixth inning brought the Blue Jays back again to the tail end of their lineup. Price struck out the first batter, but walked the last man on the roster, bringing Zach to the plate with a runner on. Before heading to the plate, Zach left the on-deck circle and put a hand on Joey's shoulder, pulling him close to say something private.

“I'm not sure, but I've been watching Price. I think he licks his lips when he's going to throw the curve.”

Joey gave Zach a puzzled look, trying to remember.

“It's not one hundred percent. I'm going to keep watching, but if I get on and you get up, I'll give you a thumbs-up if you can count on it, okay?”

Joey looked into Zach's dark eyes and returned the smile. “You're the best, bro.”

“
V
for victory.” Zach showed him the
V
and walked away.

At the plate, Zach swung his bat in a one-handed arc, like a drum major might handle his baton. He stepped into the box and grinned at Price. Joey didn't see the pitcher lick his lips, but he was looking. The pitch came. Easy as pie, Zach drilled a line drive over the second baseman's head and ended up on second with the other runner at third.

The next batter struck out, swinging and missing as Price threw one curveball after another. The pitcher did lick his lips, but Joey had no idea if it was because his mouth was dry or it meant a curve. He looked at Zach, but his friend gave no thumbs-up. The third batter in the lineup, Butch Barrett, stepped into the box. Price threw curves, many of them into the dirt. Butch swung at a couple, nicking foul balls. With a 3–2 count, Price didn't lick his lips.

The pitcher threw a fastball too high to even think about swinging at and Butch walked to first.

Bases loaded. Two outs.

From second base, Zach gave Joey a thumbs-up, confirmation that Price would give away a curve.

With the championship and a certain spot with the all-stars on the line, Joey stepped up to the plate.

Joey liked to read books with happy endings because that's how he thought life should be, a happy ending. His own life, though, seemed to veer off the road at regular intervals. When bad things happened—like the time he got his hand stuck in a soda machine and they missed their flight and had to cancel their whole vacation to Disney World—Joey could almost taste it coming.

He knew from reading words of wisdom written in books about baseball greats like A-Rod and Nolan Ryan that the formula for success always included positive thinking. Still, as he stepped up to the plate, he couldn't shake that taste he got in his mouth, the sharp, metallic bitterness of something ready to go wrong. While most people would write an imaginary scene for themselves with bases loaded and two outs at the bottom of the sixth in the championship game, that wasn't the headline in Joey's mind. His headline read FORCE-OUT.

While loaded bases gave Joey the chance to blast in the winning runs, it was also a distinct
dis
advantage. Loaded bases made a defensive play easy. There was a force-out at every base. All a defender had to do was get the ball to the closest base, a short throw wherever it went, unless you blasted a good one. He clenched his jaw and did all he could to push the negativity from his mind, wedging in the image of him smacking the ball and it taking off for the fence.

He stepped to the plate, and the positive image flickered out like a blown birthday candle. The pitcher went into his windup without licking his lips. The taste flooded Joey's mouth, and he wondered if he could spit it out before the pitch got there. In the moment of indecision, a fastball streaked by him.

“Strike!”

He stepped out of the box to settle his nerves. It was as if Price had saved a couple pitches in his spent arm just for Joey. A glance up at Leah didn't help.

Three of five fingertips were planted between her teeth. Panic filled her eyes—nice that she cared, but no vote of confidence from the peanut gallery.

“Let's go, batter.” The ump seemed to snarl from behind the grille of his mask. His black chest protector gave him the look of an angry zoo animal.

Joey squinted his eyes and stepped back up to the plate. Price wasted not a second. After a quick windup, the pitch rocketed toward Joey. He swung and missed.

“Strike two!”

Sweat bled from his armpits and upper lip. His nerves jangled like a string of tin cans.

Zach shouted from third base, “Come on, Joey! You can do it!”

Coach Barrett bellowed encouragement from the dugout, as did the entire team, now on their feet. The crowd got into it as well, cheering either Joey or Price, depending on their loyalties.

Joey stepped into the box and the floodgates of negative energy flew open. He
saw
himself, not hitting it over the fence but swinging and missing, and it scared him so bad his arms trembled as they raised the bat. He stared at Price, who licked his lips.

Licked his lips!

In the swamp of confusion, Joey automatically changed his stance, shifting just a bit to prepare for the curve. He could hit a curve. He was a skilled and powerful hitter and now he knew the pitch that was coming at him. Or did he? The windup, the snap of Price's wrist, the ball spinning toward him, ready to drop and fade, it all happened in the same instant.

Joey swung.

He didn't miss it.

That was the best you could say for it, really.

Truth is, he nicked it, and it dribbled into the dirt directly in front of him. Joey knew enough to take off, to
try
. You had to try. Always. Because you never know, do you?

Sometimes you do know, though, and run as he might, the bitter taste of things going wrong didn't disappoint. Price surged forward from the mound. Joey couldn't help looking back to see the pitcher scoop up the ball and underhand toss it to the catcher at home plate. The simplicity of the act, a childlike toss—something you'd do with a beanbag or a set of car keys—somehow made the whole thing worse. The ump popped a thumb from his fist and jagged it into the air.

FORCE-OUT.

Game over.

The Pirates players exploded from their dugout and out onto the field, where they could raise Price up and parade him around the infield.

Joey hung his head. His stomach swelled with dread until he staggered, bloated, and unable to speak. Coach Barrett gathered them up like a hen, clucking softly but unable to keep from scolding them for coming up short.

“You let that get away from you, boys.” His voice carried the sadness of a tragedy they'd each have to live with for the rest of their lives. “Those championship trophies
belonged
to you.”

Joey wasn't certain where that notion came from. He didn't see how the trophies could
belong
to anyone but the team that won them. He was so disappointed and enraged at his own failure, he nearly pointed out the absurdity of Coach Barrett's statement. He thought better of it, though, knowing no good could come from being a wise guy and also knowing the blame for losing sat squarely on his own shoulders.