Super-sized Slugger (14 page)

A satellite TV truck
was parked at the fence when Cody arrived at Eddie Murray Field for the championship game against the White Sox. And there behind the backstop was a man in a navy-blue blazer, holding a microphone, standing next to a guy with a big camera on his shoulder.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Cody said as he joined the rest of the Orioles for warm-ups. He pointed at the news crew. “Is this about the crime wave at York Middle?”

“Nope,” said Coach, grinning. “This is about the big game. Channel Thirteen will be showing highlights on the eleven o'clock news. You guys are big-time now. Me, I'm due in makeup in five minutes.”

“We'll be on the news? Sweet,” Willie said, gazing at the reporter and cameraman. He took off his cap and carefully patted his hair. “I want the cameras to get my best side. Not that I have a bad side, kid as good-looking as me.”

Cody shook his head in disbelief. We're definitely not in Milwaukee anymore, he thought as he paired off with Jordy to loosen his arm. Heck, in Milwaukee, it seemed like even the Brewers' highlights didn't make the late news half the time.

Cody was glad the entire Orioles game wasn't being televised, because that would have really slowed things down. You saw it these days whenever youth league tournaments were televised. All of a sudden, every kid was doing his best major league impersonation, tapping the dirt off his spikes with his bat each time he came to the plate, or stepping out of the batter's box on every pitch to tighten his batting gloves.

It was all about getting more face time in front of the TV cameras. And it was amazing how many extra mound conferences there were between pitchers and catchers when a game was televised too.

Looking up in the stands, Cody spotted his mom and dad, who had gotten off work early to see the game. Then he heard “CO-DY! CO-DY!” and saw Jessica and five of her softball teammates sitting in the first row, all of them wearing Orioles caps and smiling and waving.

“Dude, you have
groupies
?!” Marty said, staring at the girls. “That's awesome!”

Cody didn't want to spoil the image by pointing out that one of those groupies, the tall, pretty blonde with blue eyes, could probably put her foot through Marty's sternum with a flying 180-degree dropkick, if you got her mad enough.

The pregame festivities were mercifully brief. The league commissioner read a short proclamation extolling the virtues of youth sports, and a six-piece band from a local drum and bugle corps played a snappy—and off-key—rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Coach didn't waste any words, either, when he gathered them together before they took the field. “We don't care about TV cameras,” he said quietly. “We don't care about highlights at eleven.”

At this, Willie looked at Cody and silently mouthed, “We don't?”

“We just want to play our best baseball tonight,” Coach continued. “And if we do that?”

He looked around at his players, some of whom were already nodding their heads, knowing where this was going.

“If we do that,” Coach continued, “I have no doubt which team is going to win this game. Think of the goal we've had all season. All right, hands in the middle. Now let's go.”

Trotting out to third base, Cody thought about how weird it was not to see Dante heading out to left field at the same time. But Dante wouldn't be playing any more ball for the Orioles this season—that much was certain. Not after he and his brothers were arrested. Now it was Marty sprinting out to left, smiling broadly and almost vibrating with excitement over his starting role.

Thinking of the powerful White Sox lineup, Cody said a silent prayer: Please don't let them hit it to Marty. Then he caught himself. What a hypocrite I am, he thought. Didn't I always think the coaches were saying that about me when they stuck me in right field?

He pounded his glove and smiled as Robbie finished his warm-up throws and the umpire cried, “Play ball!” “Go ahead, hit the ball to Marty,” Cody murmured under his breath. “He'll be fine. The little nerd will come through for us. Somehow, he always does—even if it's only with his brain.”

Four pitches later, the score was White Sox 2, Orioles 0. The leadoff hitter blasted Robbie's third pitch over the right-field fence. The second batter took Robbie's first pitch and golfed a rainbow shot that cleared the left-field fence by thirty feet. Pacing the mound now, Robbie looked like he was about to throw up.

Coach called time and trudged out to talk to his shaken pitcher. Jordy, Willie, Connor, and Cody joined him.

“Okay, you got that out of your system,” Coach said.

“They don't all hit like that, do they?” Robbie said, peering anxiously over his dad's shoulder at the White Sox dugout.

“They do when you lob in belt-high softballs,” Coach said. “I think the International Space Station is still tracking that last shot.”

Robbie managed a shaky grin.

“I should probably throw a little harder, huh?” he said.

Coach nodded. So did all four Orioles infielders.

“I just have to trust my stuff, right?” Robbie said.

Again, they all nodded.

“Take a deep breath, settle down, right?” Robbie said.

Okay, Cody thought, we're starting to look like five bobbleheads with all this nodding.

Coach gave Robbie an encouraging smack on the butt and went back to the dugout. Returning to third, Cody put a glove over his face to keep from grinning. Robbie was still the only pitcher in the league who could script his own pep talks beforehand.

But as it had so many other times, the pep talk worked. Robbie seemed to settle down immediately. He went back to rearing back and throwing hard, and retired the next three White Sox batters to end the inning.

Unfortunately for the Orioles, Murderers' Row failed to murder anything that the White Sox starter threw for the first two innings. Their pitcher was a tricky right-hander named Bobby Greenwell, with a big, sweeping curveball, and he held the Orioles hitless, although they managed to draw two walks.

Nevertheless, Cody could see there was no panic as the Orioles came up to bat in the third inning, still trailing 2–0. They had been through too much, faced too many good pitchers and hitters all season long, found too many different ways to win, to be intimidated now. When he looked up and down the dugout now, all he saw were guys chomping hard on their bubble gum and sunflower seeds, and yelling encouragement to each other, totally focused on getting some runs.

Best team I ever played for, Cody thought. Whether we win or lose tonight.

On the other hand, the game was almost halfway over. They had to figure out a way to get some hits off Bobby, who would end up looking like a young Cliff Lee on the eleven o'clock news if this kept up.

Suddenly a high-pitched voice in the on-deck circle said, “I got it!”

Everyone turned to look. Marty was rubbing his hands together and grinning like a mad scientist as he studied Bobby's warm-up tosses. Then Marty pushed his batting helmet low on his head, took one last practice swing, and headed for the batter's box.

“Watch and learn, fellas,” he said. “Watch and learn.”

It was almost painful
to watch the Orioles' skinny number-nine hitter at the plate. Shoulders hunched, head swaying back and forth, jittery feet jiggling, Marty looked like someone trying to stamp out a campfire. As he toed the rubber, Bobby looked in at this pitiful creature and smiled, thinking: fresh meat.

Bobby went into his windup, kicked high with his left leg, and threw another big looping curveball. Then it happened. Marty turned on it perfectly and ripped a clean single to left field. The rest of the Orioles gasped. In the third-base coaching box, Coach looked like he was in shock.

As soon as he crossed the bag at first, Marty called time. Then he strolled nonchalantly to the edge of the Orioles' dugout.

“It's not rocket science,” he said to his stunned teammates. “The kid's throwing a serious curveball, right? So all you do is stand way up in the batter's box. That way you're hitting the ball before it has a chance to really break.”

The Orioles looked at each other, then back at Marty. It was the first time any of them had seen him hit a ball with authority—ever.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Finally, in a hushed voice, Willie said, “Are you, like, some kind of wizard?”

“Yeah,” Joey said. “Like a baseball Harry Potter?”

Marty grinned and put a bony finger to his temple. “It's the Loopus Factor, boys,” he said. “Sometimes it's better than being a wizard.”

Then he turned and sauntered back to first base.

Moving to the on-deck circle, Willie shrugged and looked back at his teammates. He knocked the weighted doughnut off his bat and headed to the plate saying, “Might as well try it. What do we have to lose?”

Digging in, Willie stood so far up in the batter's box, it appeared he could shake Bobby's hand. He took a fastball down the middle for strike one. Then he smacked Bobby's second pitch, a slow curveball, into right field for a single, sending Marty to third. The Orioles looked at one another again. Marty Loopus, ace batting instructor—how spooky was that? The next batter, Robbie, grounded out to the pitcher. But Jordy roped another slow curve from Bobby into center field to score Marty and trim the White Sox lead to 2–1.

On the mound, Bobby wore a puzzled look. He kept asking the umpire for a different ball, looking suspiciously at each one as if it were the ball itself that was somehow tipping off his pitches to the Orioles.

“The secret of how to beat the boy is out,” Yancy whispered, “and he doesn't even know it!”

The Orioles continued to tee off on Bobby. Connor followed with another sharp single to center to score Willie and tie the game at 2–2. Now it was the White Sox coach popping out of the dugout to talk to his pitcher and do some damage control. In the Orioles' dugout, Marty sat back on the bench with his arms folded and a knowing smile, holding court like some kind of benevolent, if underfed, baseball Yoda.

“People make this game more complicated than it has to be,” Marty said as Willie and Joey, his new disciples, sat listening with rapt attention.

Now Cody was up, runners on first and second, a chance to break the game wide open. Digging in, he used his left spike to scrape away the lime at the front of the batter's box, so he could stand even closer to Bobby. Sometimes the umpire would yell at you if you did that, but this time he didn't. Only instead of throwing another curve, Bobby started Cody off with a fastball down the middle. And followed that with another fastball, high, to run the count to 1–1.

Right away, Cody knew Bobby was abandoning his curveball for the evening, probably on the advice of his coach. This would be fine if the boy had an overpowering fastball, or a wicked changeup, but he didn't. Which was why Cody was convinced that Bobby was about to throw him the mother of all meatballs, a pitch he could crush into the next area code if he didn't get overanxious.

He didn't have to wait long. Bobby's next pitch came in thigh-high, a sixty-mile-per-hour fastball right over the plate that may as well have come with flashing lights that spelled:
THIS IS THE ONE
!
TAKE IT DEEP
! And Cody did. His bat was a blur, his swing a quick, compact stroke right out of a hitting instruction manual. There was a loud
PING!
and then the ball was soaring over the left-field fence for a three-run homer, the left fielder staring at it with his mouth frozen open.

The Orioles' dugout exploded with noise. Just like that, it was 5–2, Orioles. Cody didn't want to show up Bobby on his home-run trot. But he took his time rounding the bases, soaking in the moment. And when he touched the plate, his teammates engulfed him, whooping and pounding him on the batting helmet.

The next two innings seemed to fly by. Coach kept reminding them there was plenty of baseball to be played. He even broke out the corny old adage about not counting your chickens until they hatched. Whatever. Robbie pitched a scoreless fourth inning and Mike Cutko mowed down the White Sox in the fifth, and the excitement in the Orioles' dugout was building steadily.

Now it was the top of the sixth inning. It was all the Orioles could think about as they took the field: three more outs and we're champions.
Undefeated
champions too.

Which was exactly when Mike proceeded to walk the White Sox's leadoff batter on four pitches. Before Coach could leap from the dugout, Willie called time and jogged to the mound. The rest of the infielders joined him. Mike held up a hand as if to say, “I'm fine.”

“Don't blow it,” Willie said. “If you blow it, I swear to God I'll—”

“That's how you settle him down?!” Jordy said incredulously.
“‘Don't blow it'?”

Willie shrugged. “I like to come right to the point.”

“Leave. You're giving me a headache,” Mike said, looking at each of them. “The adrenaline got to me with the first batter, that's all. But I'm okay now.”

True to his word, Mike stopped overthrowing and found the strike zone again. But on a 2–2 pitch, the next batter lifted a towering fly ball to left field. As Marty staggered under the ball, the Orioles held their breath. He circled right, then left, then back to the right. Cody felt himself getting dizzy just watching. But finally Marty stuck out his glove and the ball dropped into the webbing with a soft thud. Beaming, he held the glove high in the air for all to see.

One out.

The Orioles couldn't help grinning. Marty acted as if he'd just caught the final out of the World Series. But when Cody looked over at Willie, the little second baseman was tapping his chest in a pitter-patter motion like, “Almost had a heart attack on that one.” Cody nodded. His heart had skipped a couple of beats too.

It skipped a few more when the next batter, the kid who had led off the game with a homer off Robbie, singled sharply up the middle, putting runners on first and second and bringing the tying run to the plate. Mike hung his head for a moment as Yancy fired the ball back in.

Jordy shot Willie a warning look that said,
Do not, under any circumstances, go talk to Mike, or I will pound you into the ground
. Willie nodded and murmured, “Okay, okay.” But Mike composed himself and threw a nasty changeup on a 2–1 count to the next batter, who hit a harmless bouncer to Jordy at first base.

Two outs.

But they hadn't nailed it down yet. The White Sox had runners on second and third. And their number-two hitter, the kid who had golfed the towering home run in the first inning, was coming to the plate.

Now the noise from the stands was deafening. The White Sox family members and friends were up on their feet, screaming for a miracle. The Orioles supporters were jumping up and down and shrieking for Mike to close it out. Jessica and her friends were cheering so hard their faces were red.

Nope, we're not in Milwaukee anymore, Cody thought, as he pounded his glove and got down in his stance.

Mike toed the rubber and peered in at Joey for the sign. He nodded and came to the stretch. Cody saw the White Sox batter take a deep breath, holding the bat high and waving it in tiny circles.

Now the pitch was on the way, a belt-high fastball that the kid waited on perfectly, hitting a soaring drive into the gap in left-center field. Cody gulped. He watched Marty break to his left as Yancy broke to his right. They were closing in on the ball, Marty with his lumbering gait, Yancy with his smooth strides, but it was hard to tell if either would be able to catch it before it hit the ground and skipped all the way to the fence.

“Please,” Cody whispered, “don't let it be Marty.” He didn't feel guilty wishing this, either. Marty already had his catch.

The ball seemed to hang in the air forever as both outfielders neared it. Finally, at the last second, Marty peeled off and Yancy lunged, making a terrific backhand grab by the tips of his shoes.

Game over. Final score: Orioles 5, White Sox 2. The Orioles were the undefeated champions of the league.

Now they were sprinting toward the middle of the infield, cheering and flinging their hats in the air. And when they finished jumping on one another and rolling around in the cool grass and hugging Coach, they lifted Marty on their shoulders and paraded him around the bases.

Cody looked up in the stands. There were his mom and dad, clapping wildly and pointing at him and giving him the thumbs-up sign. And there were Jessica and her friends, dancing behind the backstop and screaming his name over and over. Now he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned to see the TV reporter in the navy blazer standing next to him, the cameraman setting up in front of him, the camera's red light winking on.

The reporter stuck the microphone in his face and said in his best reporter baritone, “We're talking with Cody Parker, star of today's 5–2 Orioles win over the White Sox for the Dulaney Babe Ruth League. Cody, you guys just finished a magnificent undefeated season. How does it feel?”

Cody tried not to laugh. It reminded him of all the crazy fake interviews he and Willie had done all season. Only this one was real. For the late news, no less.

“How does it feel?” he repeated.

He looked out at the wild scene around him: a dozen of his teammates, dirty and sweaty and exhilarated, screaming into the twilight and joyfully parading a skinny, nerdy-looking kid around on their shoulders.

Then he looked into the camera and said, “It feels awesome. Absolutely awesome.”