One Shot at Forever (30 page)

So when Hollstein sent a bunt trickling down the third base line, it normally wouldn't have been effective. But now not only did the big Waukegan kid own the element of surprise, but Shartzer was hobbled by a bad glove hand. Charging the ball, Steve knew his only play was at first, and another run scored. Now it was 2–0 Waukegan.

An inning later, it got worse. Uncharacteristically, Shartzer lost control of a fastball and plunked a batter. A stolen base and a passed ball later, Waukegan had another run. Macon was in a 3–0 hole.

Meanwhile, just as in the early innings of the Lane Tech game, the Ironmen were listless at the plate. Unlike against Lane, however, there was no midgame rally. One Ironman batter after another hit weak grounders, due in part to the sinking motion on Waidzunas' pitches. Making matters worse, Macon received no help from the Waukegan defense. Without many walks or errors, the Ironmen couldn't get on base, and without base runners they couldn't create havoc. When they did have one opportunity to run, Uremovich had unholstered that howitzer and gunned down the would-be thief with ease. It wasn't until the fourth inning that Mark Miller singled for the Ironmen's first base hit, but his teammates couldn't bring him home.

Then, in the top of the sixth, Waukegan struck again. Uremovich singled to right for his sixth hit in ten tournament at-bats, a two-day hot streak he later called “The best hitting days of my life.” A wild pitch sent Uremovich to second and then Shartzer, to his amazement, was called for a balk. No one called balks in the Meridian conference. With Uremovich on third, all it took was a lazy sacrifice fly to bring him home. The scoreboard now read Waukegan 4, Macon 0.

In the stands, the Macon fans sat looking glum. They'd used up so much energy earlier in the day, and it was so hot, that the slightest exertion was draining. Even Cliff Brown, with the giant flag, was listless. Only one inning remained in Macon's fairy-tale season and this was how it would end?

And then, in the bottom of the seventh, a glimmer of hope: Shartzer crushed a pitch to deep left that barely curled foul, and then, unfazed, he stepped back up and stroked a single. An error, a wild pitch, and a groundout later, Shartzer tore home to score Macon's first run. Moments later, Wells singled to drive in another, prompting Mallory to yank Waidzunas in favor of Rick Haapanen. Wells greeted him by stealing second. Now the Ironmen were down only 4–2 with one out. Better yet, Jeff Glan, who was leading the Ironmen in batting average during the tournament, walked to the plate.

In the bleachers the Macon fans rose. The purple flag whipped through the heat. As it did, it was joined by an unusual but familiar sound:
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Shirt unbuttoned to his navel, shades on, muttonchops thick with sweat, the Lane Tech drummer was now on the Macon side of the bleachers. He'd been so impressed with the Ironmen in the morning that he'd decided to stick around. Maybe they'd need his help. So now he slammed on the drum as, around him, parents and students and little kids roared with him. All afternoon this is what they'd waited for: one more shot.

In center field, senior Joe Mirretti readied himself. He knew Glan didn't have a ton of power, so he played in a bit. During long summers of American Legion ball, Mirretti had played on plenty of impressive fields but Meinen was the finest he'd ever set foot on. The grass was perfectly groomed, like a warm green carpet. He crept in even farther, knowing the ball wouldn't take any strange bounces. Then, on the third pitch to Glan, he heard a crack.

Standing off second base, Wells heard the same noise and saw enough to know Glan had muscled an inside fastball and that it was headed toward left center. Head down, Wells took off for third. Tall and lanky, he was one of the fastest players on the team. As he approached third he looked up, unaware of where the ball was. All he saw was Sweet waving him home.

Down the first base line, Glan rounded the bag in time to look up and see two things happen at once: Wells tear around third and the center fielder field the ball cleanly. It would take a good throw, Glan thought, but he could get him.

Seeing the ball soaring toward him, Mirretti had charged it hard. After scooping it up, he did what he'd been taught to do for so many years: Don't think, just react. So he came up firing, aiming to throw the ball right through the chest of the cutoff man, as Mallory taught all his outfielders.

Behind the plate, Mike Uremovich watched it all play out. The soft liner, the big kid taking off from second, Mirretti scooping it up. When he saw the Macon kid round third, Uremovich gauged the distance to Mirretti and began yelling at his shortstop. “DON'T CUT IT! DON'T CUT IT!” This one needed to come all the way home.

In center, Mirretti heaved the ball and watched it soar. Back in Waukegan, the school's field sloped downward from home plate toward the outfield, so he was accustomed to throwing slightly uphill. At Meinen, however, because of the way the field's drainage was planned, it was the opposite—now he was throwing down toward the plate. Mirretti knew it would give him a touch more power on his throw. Once he'd released the ball, all he could do was watch.

From the stands, Jack Heneberry followed the arc of the ball, his breath wedged in his throat. Outfield throws at the high school level were a risky proposition, especially without a cutoff man. Often enough, they ended up off line, or skidded to the backstop. Surely, Heneberry thought, the kid must be feeling the pressure.

Decades later, when the local paper ran a story about the greatest moments in Waukegan High sports history, number two on the list would be “Mirretti's great throw.” Those on hand say they've seen few better. The ball came in, straight and true, bouncing once between the rubber and home. Later, Sweet would say: “It had to be on the money. If the kid had to do it ten times, we're going to score seven or eight times.” As it was, Uremovich caught the ball a few feet up the third base line. Seeing Wells coming in standing up, he did what he'd been taught: He hid the ball behind the glove, reached up with both arms, and leveled his opponent in midstride. Wells went down and the ball stayed with Uremovich. The umpire looked, paused, and then yanked back his fist. “He's OUT!”

And just like that, the Macon magic evaporated. Had Wells scored, it would have been 4–3 with one out and a runner in scoring position. Instead, it was 4–2 with two outs. The Macon fans settled back into the bleachers in disbelief.

It seemed a formality when the next batter, Brian Snitker, sent a chopper down the third base line for the final out.

The Ironmen
didn't have much time to grieve
. No sooner had they finished shaking hands with the Waukegan players than the boys began receiving congratulations. Moments later, they were summoned to the infield.

There, IHSA executive secretary Harry Fitzhugh held aloft the second-place trophy. It wasn't as large as Waukegan's and was silver rather than gold. A shiny miniature batter crouched on top, frozen in midswing. “And now,” Fitzhugh said into a corded PA system, “I give the second-place trophy to Coach Smith and the Ironmen!”

If Fitzhugh noticed that Coach “Smith” was trying to stifle laughter as he accepted the trophy, he didn't let on. Immediately, Sweet passed the trophy to the players, who gathered around him in dirty uniforms, sweat streaked down their faces. One by one they raised the trophy over their heads, to the cheers of the Macon faithful.

The crowd was still going when, a few minutes later, Waukegan was honored. Mallory complimented the Ironmen players and then said, “I would like to commend those fans seated right over there.” Then he pointed toward the Macon horde, hundreds of whom had stayed and continued to cheer.

Off to the side, a wide, powerful man stood taking it all in. Itchy Jones, the SIU coach, hadn't come to see Steve Shartzer, but he sure as hell was glad he had. To Jones, Shartzer looked like a kid who could play at the big-time Division One level.

Shartzer wasn't the only one being scouted. Lakeland College coach Gene Creek was also on hand, attending his sixth straight state tournament. Creek was different from many of the old-school coaches of the day; he was younger and sported his own set of bushy sideburns. After the game, he sidled up to Joe Cook. “Does Sweet have a master's degree?” Creek asked. Cook said he didn't know. Creek nodded. “If Sweet can inspire the kids to play that well, I should hire him as an assistant. I'm serious.”

A few minutes later, when Cook mentioned this to Sweet, the coach smiled. “Nice of the man to say,” Sweet said, but he couldn't talk right now.

A night like no other awaited him.

20

Had you walked past Route 51 on the evening of June 4, 1971, you would have been forgiven for thinking Macon had won the state title.

The caravan began in Peoria, fifteen or twenty cars long. After dinner, the Ironmen stopped at Millikin University in Decatur, honoring a pregame promise Sweet made to a local radio station and the parking lot turned into an impromptu pep rally. The asphalt was clogged with friends and family, as well as kids from local high schools and small-town people who, as Trusner says, “just wanted to be part of something.” The players streamed out of the bus, accepting the hugs and high fives.

All except one, that is. During the ride from Peoria, as his teammates peered out the windows of the bus, soaking in the sight of the caravan of cars, Shartzer had hunched in the back, lost in himself. The guy who'd pitched two games with one good hand—who'd vowed to pick up that damn flag, who'd spent all season galvanizing his teammates—blamed himself.
How can we have this celebration when we just lost?
he wondered. When the bus reached Millikin, Shartzer remained on it, wedged into his seat.

Finally Bob Shartzer climbed the bus stairs and walked to the back. He didn't say anything at first, just sat there for a moment. All those games of checkers that Bob wouldn't let Steve win, all those lessons taught on the living room rug, all those years of repeating his mantra of “Concentrate, goddammit”—now he needed to impart a different lesson.

“Son, did you do your best?”

Steve looked up. “Yeah, I did.” He paused. “Well, no, I didn't. I made some mistakes, and it hurts.”

The father looked at his son. He put a hand on Steve's shoulder.

“Whether you're happy with it or not, you've got to learn to live with the good and the bad,” Bob said. “Now it's time to come on out. There's a whole damn town out here that thinks you're a hero.”

Slowly, Steve Shartzer rose and walked down the stairs, out into the madness that awaited.

Millikin was only a warm-up, as it turned out. By the time the team hit Elwin, five miles north of Macon, fire engines joined the caravan. Soon enough, a police escort arrived to lead the bus and what the paper later estimated was three miles of cars. Horns honked, townspeople ran out of their houses to wave, kids who'd been allowed to stay up late whistled and screamed.

The bus rolled into town, past the Arrowhead Tavern and the grain elevator, rumbling by churches and homes, then finally came to a stop in front of Macon High. Since it was close to 11
P.M
., many of the players expected to go to bed. Instead, they were directed to the school auditorium, on the double.

There, waiting in the thick summer heat, were the rest of their classmates. Senior graduation had been set for 8
P.M
. Perhaps the most formal event in Macon, it included a processional, an invocation, a clarinet solo, and a presentation of awards. Pre- and postgraduation parties were planned at the houses of parents around the town. When word came that the team would be arriving late, some of the parents had urged the school to get on with it. The senior class, however, had voted to wait.

So for three hours on a humid 90-degree day in a gym without air conditioning, dozens of boys and girls, many of whom had rushed back from Peoria to shower and change, waited in their finest. And when the Ironmen finally burst into the gym just after 11
P.M
. with robes thrown on over their uniforms and cleats still on their feet, there was a roar that could be heard for miles, across 51 and out past all those cornfields. The five seniors on the team tore down the aisle carrying Sweet on their shoulders as he hoisted the second-place trophy for all to see. McClard thought of stopping them, of trying to retain a shred of formality to the occasion. But as he told the newspaper, “I would have been trampled to death if I had tried.”