The Catch (4 page)

CHAPTER
8

P
layers and coaches from the dugout and the field converged on the plate. It was a clean play, no question. But Nick was the brains of our team on the field, besides being one of the best-liked guys on the roster.

By the time I got to the plate Nick was already sitting up, but he was only half there. The trainers took off his mask and helmet, wiped his forehead with some wet towels, and felt his head. They let him rest where he was for maybe five minutes, and then they gently helped him up and led him into the clubhouse.

Our guys—Darius, Gus Toomey, and Nellie—went down in order in the bottom of the eighth. In the ninth, Shotaro looked lost. He walked the first batter, who promptly stole second. The second batter doubled in the run. The next guy at the plate was their cleanup hitter, a lefty, and he drove Sammy to the wall in right. Sammy made the catch, but the tying run was on third.

The next play was almost identical, except this time the tag-up tied the game. Shotaro was really unnerved, and Nick wasn't there to calm him down. On the first pitch, the next batter ripped a line drive down the third baseline, but somehow Nellie snagged it for the last out.

It was the bottom of the ninth inning and the score was tied at 6. Sammy was at the plate, Trip was on deck, and I was in the circle. Sammy got to 3–2 quickly, and then he fouled off three pitches before he connected. Their left fielder played it well off the fence, but Sammy's speed got him to second standing up.

You could make an argument that Sammy is the best player on our team. He'll probably go pro some day. But once in a while he'll get overconfident. Like this time. With no one out and Trip at the plate, Sammy decided to steal third base on the first pitch. I heard Wash swear. The element of surprise was no match for their catcher's arm. Sammy was out, and he hung his head on the way back to the dugout.

Trip worked the count to 3–2 like Sammy had done but then got called out on a pitch that looked like it was around his ankles. He looked at the umpire in disbelief and then said something quietly that got him thrown out of the game in record time. Whatever Trip had said, it couldn't have been as bad as the stuff his dad, Julio, was yelling from the stands. Maybe the ump didn't hear him.

Now I was up with two out. I'd been watching the pitcher—a reliever now—and he had thrown a fastball on the first pitch to almost every batter he'd faced. So I was dug in dead red when the ump called time and the Bombers' coach motioned to the bullpen for a new guy. Man!

I watched him warm up, but that was no help. He was an average-sized guy—even a little chubby. He didn't look overpowering. While I was waiting, Wash came over.

“Junk,” he said. “Wait on the pitch as long as you can.”

“Junk” was right. The first pitch was a floating curve that had
yard
written all over it. But I waited like Wash said, and just as it got to me it jumped up about six inches. Ball one, high. The second one moved late, too, in on my hands. I fought it off foul. One and one. On the third pitch he made a mistake. It was a floater like the first one, but I waited and it just stayed right there. So I pulled the trigger.

I didn't even look to see where it went. I knew from the feel of the ball on the bat and the noise of the fans that it was gone. When I got to home, the team was waiting for me. My team, the Roadrunners, and little Team Ocelot in those spotted shirts. And Kayla, with a long, hard hug. It was a moment, I have to say.

I made plans to watch the final with Kayla in the evening. It was a good game: Phoenix beat the Mexican team, winning the way they usually did: bunts, stolen bases, timely singles, and stingy pitching.

After the game they gave out the trophies. The Runners were third overall, and we all ran up together to get the cup. Then came the surprise that ended the day. They called my name on the loudspeaker. I was voted MVP of the tournament! The noise, the excitement, and the people pounding me on the back put me in a kind of daze as I went up to accept the plaque.

Before the Palm, I hadn't experienced the hero thing. Now I was discovering that I liked it—a lot.

CHAPTER
9

A
s I walked through the hotel lobby with the rest of the Runners on the way to our bus to the airport, I felt a firm, sweaty grip on my shoulder.

“Danny! Just a minute!”

I turned, startled, to see Mr. Strauss towering next to me. I wondered how I possibly could have missed him.

“Mr. Strauss?”

“I know you're on your way home, Danny. I just wanted to give this to you before you left.” Mr. Strauss handed me a sheet of paper with something typed on it.

“It's your commercial!”

I couldn't believe it. My own
commercial
! Ocelot was obviously the best thing that had ever happened to me.

“We've already got it made. It will be posted on the Internet today. Next week you'll see it on TV!”

I didn't know what to say, so I just yelled, “Awesome, Mr. Strauss!” and raced to catch up with the team.

On the bus, I read the screenplay for the commercial:

Intro: Faint guitar instrumental.

Young blond boy in spotted shirt, Ocelot logo on black cap: “Danny, will you sign my baseball?”

Suddenly, whole team of kids similarly attired: “Danny! Danny!”

Cut to Danny and crack of the bat.

Cut to cheering Ocelot-clothed kids waving towels.

Cut to Danny crossing the plate, crowd crazy.

Cut to Danny in interview: “Just, you know, get it.”

Cut to video: The Catch.

Voiceover: “There's no way. The Eagles win. No, wait! Oh. My. Gosh! Did you see that?”

Danny interview: “Just, you know, get it.”

Cut to video of MVP Award.

Voiceover: “And the MVP of the Palm Springs Invitational Amateur Baseball Series: the Las Vegas Roadrunners' Danny Manuel.”

Danny: “Thank you. I feel like Superman today.”

Zoom in on logo.

Silent slow-motion of The Catch.

Danny voice over: “Just, you know, get it.”

Ocelot logo to Fade Out.

It was awesome. I couldn't wait for everyone to see it.

 

 

When I got back home Dad and Sal were there to welcome me. A week later, Mel stopped by. Her season was over and school was out, but she was going to play in Japan and Europe over the summer. She was here just for me, and knowing that made me feel great.

“So,” she said when we finally got a chance to talk alone, “how is all this hitting you?”

“I like it a lot,” I said. “It's kind of cool to think of little kids looking up to me and stuff. Did you see the commercial?”

She looked at me a little funny when I said that, but she went on. “Yeah, it's cool. But what do you think of this ‘arrangement' with Ocelot? Dad seems happy.”

“You know, since the TV stuff I've been getting mail. Last week some girl proposed.”

Mel laughed. “Are you going to accept?”

“No, I'll wait a while. Consider my options, ya know?”

“Where is all this going, then, little brother?”

“Well, I talked to Mr. Strauss. We're doing some more commercials. And figuring out how to make the logo more visible during games. That footage is really valuable for promos if we can show the brand.”

“Wow, Danny, you are growing your marketing vocabulary.”

“Thank you,” I laughed. “I think. The deal is our team has a verbal contract with Pop's Stars Sporting Goods—”

“Love that place!”

“Yeah. So we wear their logo on our gear. But the lawyers think—”

“Lawyers?”

“Licensing guys. They think that as long as Pop's logo is visible, there's no problem showing other brands as well. Pop's is a retailer, not a manufacturer. So we won't touch his stars, but we'll use other opportunities for visibility.”

“Hey, if you decide to leave baseball, maybe you can go into law.”

“Well,” I grinned, “if I do, law school is paid for.”

 

 

With all the marketing stuff and our next series of games, I had a big couple of weeks.

It was crazy busy. With practices and Ocelot stuff I didn't have much down time. I texted with Kayla in my spare moments. We had a tournament in LA in a few weeks, and I was starting to think about her—to think about us—a lot. Maybe we had a future.

Future. That was the biggest thing on my mind then.

“You make your future now,” Mr. Strauss told me. “Perception is reality. You want to play in the pros, get the media talking about you. This is the foundation. People learn who you are, they see you play, and doors open. These days it's not enough to be good. You need to be . . . attractive.”

CHAPTER
10

S
ince the Palm, the Runners had good news. Nick, our catcher, was back in action. Apparently he was only shaken up in the collision in Palm Springs. We had a couple of practices in Vegas. Then we went up by bus to a weekend series in Carson City. The Carson City Capitals are a good team, especially at home. The plan was we'd play them both Saturday and Sunday afternoon, with a Sunday-night game if necessary.

On the highway, we were a caravan. The team bus was followed by team family vehicles, some of them big RVs that probably cost more than the bus. Carson's folks had one the size of a yacht, with a satellite dish on top and a name painted on the back:
Ship of the Desert
. Once we actually had a team party—you're talking thirty-some people—inside that RV.

This trip one of the floats in our parade was a leopard-spotted van with an Ocelot logo on the side.

I think it was when we pulled up to the field on Saturday that it really hit me: I was a star. When I got off the bus there were kids chanting, “Dan-ee! Dan-ee!” Of course a certain sports gear company was on the scene handing out free T-shirts to everyone: leopard spots and the Ocelot logo, like the one I was wearing under my jersey. They also had balloons with the same spots and logo, and every little kid seemed to be holding one. Last but not least, they had 8x10 glossy photos of me making The Catch. They all wanted me to sign their photos.

On Saturday things went our way. Carson was in a groove, our power guys were hitting, and I handled a lot of business—in more ways than one—in center field. Mr. Strauss and I had worked out that I'd unbutton my jersey a little when I was in the field so the Ocelot T-shirt would show for the fans—and the cameras, of which the company now had four placed at different spots around the field.

With one out in the sixth, the Capitals' catcher drove one hard to the fence in center. I caught up with it, though, and grabbed it over my head. The crowd yelled and waved the spotted balloons, and I just held up the ball for a minute and grinned, showing the shirt, before I remembered there was a runner on second.

Sure enough, he had tagged up and was streaking for third. I gunned it in towards third, but Trip cut it off. Even if the throw had gone to the base, Nellie would have had to handle it on two hops. Better to let the guy take third.

Uh-oh, my bad. As it happened, the next guy grounded out, so the runner was stranded. Still I could feel the glares of my teammates and Wash as I returned to the dugout. All Wash said as I passed him was, “Your shirt's unbuttoned,” but his tone said a lot more.

Whatever. I drove in a run that inning, and we eventually beat the Caps 5–2. No one spoke to me on the bus ride back to the hotel. Nellie stopped for a minute on the way to his seat and looked at me like he was going to say something, but then he just raised his eyebrows and passed by. Shotaro was in the seat next to me, hooked up to his earplugs and iPod.

“Is it a little chilly in here?” I said to him, but of course he didn't hear.

Baseball—heck, all sports—is funny. One day you're totally, effortlessly focused; the next day you're flat. You'd think, since a baseball team carries a couple of dozen different players, that the individual ups and downs would even out. But it doesn't always work that way; sometimes the whole team bottoms out at once.