One Shot at Forever (19 page)

13

The boys talked about it all the time. They talked about it while hunting doves, while drinking covert beers down at Mile Corner, and on nights they snuck an extra friend into the drive-in movie theater in Decatur by stashing him in the trunk of Otta's blue Impala. Theirs was a singular, unifying goal: Return to regionals and advance. Despite all the caveats—a thin roster, a young team, a weak conference—the boys were remarkably confident about their chances. “Maybe,” as Shartzer says, “we were just too dumb to know better.”

For the third year in a row the Ironmen had won the Meridian and now boasted a twenty-three-game conference winning streak that dated back three seasons. In truth, there was only one team in the area that worried them. As luck would have it, though, it was their first-round opponent in the district playoffs: Mt. Zion. Two of Macon's three losses had come at the hands of its rival, which seemed to grow stronger by the year. Buoyed by an influx of students from Decatur, Mt. Zion's enrollment now topped 500, and its sports teams were so dominant that it no longer played Macon in football and basketball.

Even so, the Ironmen were surprised to learn that Mt. Zion coach Ed Neighbors intended to start
arguably his team's third-best pitcher
in the district opener. Only twenty-three, Neighbors was a cocky, by-the-book coach who'd been named team MVP as a first baseman at Millikin University. He was young enough to think he knew it all and talented and smart enough to back it up most of the time. He ran a tight program and didn't hesitate to lecture his players.

The contrast between the two teams could scarcely have been starker. Come game day, as Neighbors led his team through drills down the right field line, yelling to be heard over the Macon music, he looked over at the Ironmen bench and saw an entire lineup that wouldn't cut it at his school, beginning with the coach, who lounged in a chair wearing sunglasses and a bemused expression. From the stands, Neighbors heard the Mt. Zion fans. “Hey you hippies,” they yelled, “turn off that damn music.”

It was only the beginning of the pleasantries that were exchanged that day. Separated by only ten miles, Macon and Mt. Zion overlapped in many respects, giving the rivalry an internecine feel—had Jeff Glan lived one house to the east, for example, he would have attended Mt. Zion. The players knew each other from summer ball or working the crops; the fans knew each other from church or the taverns; and relatives sometimes split based on school allegiance. Fistfights were known to break out in the stands and, always, the animosity was palpable. As Jeff Brueggemann, the sophomore ace for Mt. Zion, put it: “If the Macon game was the only game you won in a year, that was OK for a lot of people.”

Considering this, it was something of a risk for Neighbors to start lefty Gary Jones despite the fact that sophomore Jeff Brueggemann had better numbers and junior Rod Jones was equally if not more talented. Still, the move allowed Neighbors to save his best pitcher for the final and gave him the element of surprise, as both Brueggemann and Rod Jones had already faced—and, it should be noted, beaten—Macon that season.

It didn't take Neighbors long to regret his decision. By the fourth inning, Macon led 4–0. By the seventh, it was 8–2. Shartzer finished off the win in dominant fashion, then raised his hands to the sky. Most everyone was surprised.
Their players are bigger and badder
, Brian Snitker thought as he jogged in from right field.
We had no business winning a game like this
. Meanwhile, Neighbors and the Mt. Zion boys slumped off, dejected. They'd wanted to not only beat Macon but destroy them. As Craig Brueggemann says, “We thought we were better, plain and simple.”

That Macon crushed Blue Mound 10–0 the next day behind a Heneberry one-hitter to take the district title and advance to the regionals for the second time in two years didn't change Neighbors' opinion of the Ironmen. Macon had just gotten lucky. Small-town teams like that never went that far.

One of the umpires from the Blue Mound game, however, disagreed. After the Ironmen's win, as the team prepared to leave, he walked over and, after asking Sweet's permission, poked his head into the Macon bus. “Boys,” he said. “I've umpired all year and you all are the best team I've seen by far. I'm amazed I hadn't heard anything about you.” The boys tried not to look shocked. “Of all the teams at regionals,” the ump continued, “I haven't seen any that should beat you. I'll be following you guys.”

Four days later, Macon proved the umpire right and advanced again,
routing Decatur Eisenhower
, a big-city power and one-time state champion that had knocked off unbeaten MacArthur in the previous round.

A year later and against the odds, the Ironmen had returned to the regional finals. This time, there would be no disqualifications.

For the people of Macon, just this was enough. For years, the town's football team had played second fiddle to conference rival Illiopolis. The basketball team had lodged four straight losing seasons. When the Ironmen track team challenged for the conference crown in 1970 it ended up having to share the honor with Stonington. For the baseball team to not only win three straight conference titles but take down a big Decatur school at regionals? It was unimaginable.

Of course, the boys saw it from a different perspective. Every game was an elimination game now. Every game meant the end of the season and, for the seniors, the end of their high school careers. That the Ironmen were one win away from sectionals, and three from state, was never discussed. This was about doing what they'd pledged to do.

Sweet was of a similar mind. The night before the final, he sat at the table in his trailer, talking with Jeanne. Slowly, over the months, she'd become part of the fabric of the team. She came to nearly every game and spent weekend nights hanging out with the baseball parents at pig roasts and house parties. On occasion, she and Sweet hosted card games for the players at the trailer.

Now, she understood the stakes. After all, it was only a year earlier that McClard had called the boys into his office and ended their season, and only nine months since Sweet had been fired as baseball coach for being deemed a bad influence on the boys. Now, after all the anger and disappointment, followed by the resolve and preparation, the team—and Sweet—was getting a second chance, this time against Mt. Pulaski. Win and they'd advance further than any team in Macon history.

It was more than that, though. Win and the Ironmen would put Macon on the map. Win and they'd prove McClard and all those anachronistic parents wrong. Win and they'd create a legacy, the kind that can't be overvalued in a town as small and close-knit as Macon, where collective memory lives forever.

For a game of this magnitude, any sane coach would certainly want his best pitcher on the mound.

Instead, Lynn Sweet planned to send out John Heneberry.

The men were easy to spot on Wednesday afternoon at Warrensburg-Latham High, the site of the regional final. They came toting chair cushions and notebooks. They stood against the fence with fingers hooked through the wire. Older, with sun-wrinkled faces and leathery hands, they'd spent the bulk of their lives in search of hidden gems. They spoke the language of bat speed and sinking fastballs. Now they'd come to see the kid from Mt. Pulaski.

His name was Dennis Werth and he was a special talent. Three years later, he would be drafted by the Yankees, becoming the pride of Mt. Pulaski for generations to come. He would go on to play parts of three seasons in the Bronx. Decades later his stepson, a tall, fast boy by the name of Jayson, would be an All-Star for the Philadelphia Phillies and win a World Series ring.

For now, though, Dennis Werth was merely the baddest high school player in central Illinois. A senior, he'd started every game at catcher since he was a freshman, and opponents ran on him at their own peril. Teammates swear Werth gunned down three out of every four would-be thieves and, ten times a season or so, picked a runner off first with a snap throw, an exceedingly difficult thing to do. At the plate, Werth possessed the kind of natural power that can't be taught. As a skinny freshman playing in the regional finals against Lincoln High, he'd won the game by blasting a home run off a pitcher who was said to have entered the game with a 0.71 ERA. From that moment forward, Werth seemed destined for success. It didn't take long for the scouts to materialize.