Payton Hidden Away (22 page)

Ritchie doesn’t acknowledge the
crowd. He just settles into his warm-ups, the music deafening as Guns ‘n’ Roses
bleeds over the loudspeakers, energizing the crowd. There isn’t a single soul
sitting. We’re all standing, clapping, stomping, cheering. The Rockford Rams
(or the ‘Rockford Retards’ as we like to call them) swept us in a double-header
a few weeks back. Ritchie had just pitched the night before, and despite
begging and pleading with the skipper, he was ordered to sit. Ritchie can’t
remember his multiplication tables, but he remembers losing two in a row, so
tonight is important to him. Fuck the playoffs. Tonight is personal.

“Here we
goooooooooooooo!” the PA hollers, and it’s stomping feet, pumping fists and
Styrofoam fingers waving in chaos. It’s cheers and screams. It’s flashing
lights and loud music, and even though this isn’t a big-league ballpark, the
local townsfolk have done their best to make it look like one. Everyone is
here. Everyone.

First pitch;
right down the middle for strike-one, and while there are likely 200 more
pitches to go before all is said and done, it sounds as though we just scored
the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. I can’t help but admire my friend. His
is so cool.

Ritchie reaches
back and hurls another bullet.

“Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerike!”
the ump shouts, pointing.

So cool. My
friend. My best friend.

1-2-3. Rockford goes down, and
Ritchie receives a standing ovation as he approaches the dugout. He never looks
up. He just stares at the ground, those familiar stains spreading under his
arms. I keep wishing he’d look up, scan the crowd until he finds the fourth
row, fourth seat. He’d smile and nod my way the way he does when things are
going okay. But he doesn’t, so maybe they’re not. It makes me wonder if he’s
still angry or if he’s just so locked in that he can’t think of anything other
than getting back out there. Then he’s gone, having disappeared into the dugout
and out of view until the top of the next inning.

And now Joanne
and Travis are making their way through the lineup of knees toward us. Joanne’s
grinning as she waves with one hand, the other hand locked in
his
.
Kristie stands and the two embrace as though they haven’t seen each other in
years. Jo sits next to Kristie, and Travis sits at the end. Personally, I have
nothing against him. He seems a decent enough guy—a guy’s guy, but he’s not
thinking. Neither is Joanne. This is a bad move. I nudge Kristie, lean in and
whisper. “It’s probably not a great idea that she sits here.”

“She’s my
sister.”

“I get that,
but—”

“Are you
jealous?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the
problem?’

“There’s no
problem. And I’m not arguing,” I say it only loud enough for her to hear. “But
still, Ritchie will eventually notice.”

“We’re not
talking about this again.”

“I’m not—”

“The hell with
Ritchie. She’s
my
sister. I don’t care who he is. He could be…Joe
Montana for all I care.”

“Wrong sport.”

“The only reason
any
of us even tolerate him is because he’s
your
friend. That’s
it
.”

“I get that,
but—”

“That’s
it!
”
Kristie shouts.

I sit back and
fold my arms. I hate it when she does that. That stubbornness. She gets on her
soapbox and starts talking about Ritchie as though I keep his company out of pity.
He’s my best friend. And he’s earned it. She doesn’t know half the shit he’s
done for me. Angrily, I return my attention to the game. Screw her. Her and
Joanne and Truman or Travis or whatever his name is. I know what’s coming even
if they don’t.

Our guys out on
the field can’t muster any offense, and just like that Ritchie is back on the
field. He throws seven pitches, and just like that he’s back off again—much to
the hysterical delight of the sold-out crowd.

Seven pitches.

“Let’s get
something going!” Travis says, clapping enthusiastically, which is ironic
considering he’s from Lawton.

“Like what?” I
ask, sarcasm lining my tone. “The wave?”

“Yeah!” he
shouts. “Let’s do the wave!”

“We don’t do the
wave in this ballpark,” I grumble.

Kristie frowns at
me.

Maybe Travis is
a fan. Or maybe he’s afraid. Maybe he’s oblivious. After all, anyone who wants
to do the wave is a tourist. This isn’t his town. This isn’t his team. And
she’s not his girl. And if he’s not careful, he’s going to screw with Ritchie’s
mojo.

Even so, Travis
gives the wave the ol’ heave-ho, rising to his feet and throwing his hands up
before sitting back down, rising up and doing it all over again. But no one
follows his lead. It’s not because we don’t like him. We don’t, but that’s not
the point. The point is we don’t do the wave here. The wave is for amateurs,
and this is
Pirate
baseball.

Out on the
field, a walk, a pop-out, a base-hit and a double, and the crowd is cheering an
early 2-0 lead. Under normal circumstances, a two run lead would be tenuous,
but with Hudson on the mound, the hometown crowd is actually hoping the scoring
will stop so they can see Ritchie shut them down. And just like that, the
Pirates hit into an inning-ending double-play, and just like that, we’re
heading to the third.

Another standing
ovation as Ritchie takes the field. He keeps his head dipped the way he does
when he’s in the zone. I know him. I know the way he thinks. He couldn’t care
less if he’s winning or losing. There’s only one thing on his mind, and it’s
the guy at the plate. He stretches, rotating his arms, loosening up. He cracks
his neck and finally turns to face the batter.

The crowd rises,
clapping frenetically.

Ritchie kicks
dirt from the plate, settles into his wind, rears back and hurls eight pitches.
Eight. That’s all it takes until we’re on our way to the bottom of the third.
No hits, no walks and definitely no runs. Ritchie has a perfect game through
three. That’s the way he throws. He’ll do this for four or five innings until
he tires. Then he’ll dig down and find something else.

“He’s good,”
Kristie says, and it’s the first time she’s ever complimented him. Of course,
if Ritchie was merely ‘good,’ this stadium would be half empty, there wouldn’t be
any music, and no one would really care. It would just be another baseball game
where a few parents show up to see their kid play. Ritchie isn’t ‘good.’
Ritchie’s
special
, and everyone knows it. Everyone knows the game ended
when our first run crossed home plate, so now that it’s 2-0, they’re just
sticking around to see how good Ritchie can be.

They cheer him on
with a standing ovation as he plods off the field, another inning in the bag.
Now that Joanne and Travis are here, I’m glad he’s not looking up and searching
me out. He knows I’m here, and that should be enough. As long as he knows I’m
here, he’ll be fine.

Fast forward to
the top of the sixth. We’re up 4-0. Four more runs and the umps will enforce
the mercy rule. Something tells me that would actually disappoint the hometown
faithful. I think they’d like the game to go on forever. They stopped rooting
for us to score a long time ago. They want to see all seven innings, and given
how we’ve run the base pads the previous two innings, I’m not so sure even the ballplayers
don’t feel the same. So long as Ritchie is at the plate, people want more. More
groundouts, more pop outs, more strikeouts. More.

And the crowd
gets more, because our offense dies in our half of the sixth. Heading into the
seventh, I’ve never seen him throw like this before. Through six complete, he’s
thrown only 62 pitches, 41 for strikes. No walks and only one hit. One lousy
hit. The crowd is energized and focused. Even Kristie is caught up in the
magic. She’s clapping with the music, a cute little smile on her cute little face.
It flees quickly when she looks over and sees me sweating. I’m just praying to
get through the last inning without Ritchie looking over. The last thing in the
world I want—the very last thing—is for him to see Joanne and Travis wrapped
around each other like a pretzel.

“You okay?”
Kristie asks.

“Fine.”

“You don’t look
fine. What’s wrong?”

“He’s going to
see.”

She looks over
at her sister before turning back to me. “So what?”

I watch the
field. “Never mind.”

“It’s not like
he’s going to do anything.”

“You’re probably
right.”

She doesn’t
reply, but she gives me a look as if to say that if something
does
happen then it’s my fault for not preventing it. Then she turns back to the
game.

Three more outs
is all we need, and the crowd will light this place up. Ritchie’s already
tossed six complete. By now the skipper should have called on the bullpen.
Ritchie’s pitch count is still low, but with the score out of hand, they should
be saving his arm. My guess is they talked about pulling him. They probably
even asked him how he felt, and if I were a betting man, the outcome of that
conversation was one-sided. Ritchie doesn’t sit. Period.

Three more outs.

Another standing
ovation as my best friend takes the field. It’s so loud that my ears feel like
they’re going to pop. I’m caught up in the frenzy as much as anyone, but these
people are nuts. They’re waving fists, waving sparklers, waving lighters.
They’re stomping their feet, clapping their hands, screaming at the top of
their lungs.

Ritchie finishes
his warm ups and settles in. Strike one is followed by strike two. He’s
throwing bullets, though the second pitch did look suspiciously inside.

“Steeeeeerike!”
the ump shouts, and the crowd explodes as the beleaguered batter hurtles his
bat toward the enemy bullpen and walks away. Ritchie kicks away the loose dust
on the pitcher’s plate before turning his back.

Flashbulbs.

One out.

Two to go.

Three quick
balls, and the crowd is stunned at the idea of a one-out walk, but Ritchie
rebounds with a curveball the batter chases in the dirt. Then he follows it up
with a heater that hits the catcher’s glove before the batter has a chance to
blink. At three and two, Ritchie’s a pitch away from a second out. The crowd
stands and begins clapping—making noise. Ritchie lifts his hat to wipe his
forehead with his sleeve, kicks the dirt from the mound and licks his fingers
before going into his wind.

Strike three.

Ritchie pays no
notice to the cheering crowd as he turns his back and bows his head. He cracks
his neck and loosens up before exhaling and turning back to the action. He
again kicks away the loose dirt and prepares to face the last batter. By this
point, it’s pretty obvious that the crowd isn’t here to see the Pirates.
They’re not even here to see the Pirates defeat the Rams. They’re here to see
Ritchie.

Strike one.

An enthusiastic
cheer backs him up. It’s been an amazing performance. Ritchie missed out on a
perfect game, but maybe that’s fate. Had he pitched a no-no, he’d make
headlines, and headlines would give him a way out of Payton. A one-hitter means
no one outside of our close-knit community will ever know what happened. A
one-hitter only solidifies his permanent place on a small plaque in a small
town that will someday forget his name.

Strike two.

The crowd is on
its feet—clapping, chanting and hollering. The stands are shaking beneath
stomping feet. The entire city of Payton is here. We’re all watching. All of
us. He’s one strike away from a complete-game shutout. He’s one pitch from
ending the game.

And then it
happens.

Winded, gasping,
tired but focused, he looks up. Then he looks over. Maybe he’s looking for an
encouraging nod from me, but he instead finds Joanne draped all over Travis,
her head on his shoulder, her hand under his shirt.

Ritchie’s
shoulder’s slump.

He turns back to
the mound, but I can immediately sense that something’s wrong—something’s off.
He kicks at the dust on the plate the way he normally does but misses and kicks
dirt instead. Stumbling, he rights himself and turns his back on home plate. I
can see him drawing one deep breath after another.

“Uh oh,” I hear
Kristie murmur.

“Yeah, uh oh,” I
mutter with sarcasm.

Ritchie turns
back to the game, and his eyes are blazing. For a moment I’m assured that this
renewed energy will play in his favor, but his pitch is so far outside that not
even the catcher can react fast enough, and the ball sails over his head and strikes
the backstop with fury. The crowd cheers—not at the wild pitch but at the
ferocity in which it strikes the fence. However, when the second pitch sails
over the batter’s head and into the crowd, there are some concerned mumbles.
Ritchie shakes his head and accepts a new ball. He goes into his wind and
hurtles a strike, which brings the crowd to an enthusiastic cheer. It’s when
ball three and ball four sail wildly to the backstop that they go quiet and sit
down.

The bullpen
begins to warm, but they’re five minutes away from being ready. It’s Ritchie’s
game. For better or for worse, it ends here. There’s only one out left. One
out. If he can dig deep enough, the maybe…

The first pitch
settles softly over home plate, and the batter smacks it to left field moving
runners to first and second.

Of course, even
if one or two runs cross, it’s not the end of the world. It’s just that the
crowd wants to see a shutout. They want a shutout even when at end of the day,
the win is the all that really matters. Two pitches later and the bases are
loaded. Ritchie is looking discouraged more than he’s looking tired, and he
keeps looking Joanne’s way.

“What’s happening?”
Kristie whispers.

“He can’t
process it,” I answer.

“Process what?”

 Ritchie hurtles
another ball all the way to the backstop, and the runners advance—the first Ram
crossing home plate.

“This,” I
answer.

The bullpen
still isn’t ready, and Ritchie is gassed. Another batter, and the first pitch
is sent to outer space with a bases-clearing three-run homer, tying the game at
four. It’s only the second homerun Ritchie’s given all season. He yanks his hat
down and spits before turning his back and pounding the inside of his glove.
The hometown loyal are quiet.

The pitching
coach emerges from the dugout, but Ritchie flips him off, sending him back. For
some reason, this reinvigorates the crowd, and they jump back on the Ritchie
Hudson bandwagon. Meanwhile, Ritchie looks exhausted. More than that, he looks
angry. Even more than that, he looks heartbroken. He shakes his head and digs
in. Wiping his face, I think I see tears mixing with the sweat.

I stand, but no
one sees.

Ritchie settles
into his wind and hurls every last bit of junk he has saved, the velocity
somewhere near 100 mph. If the pitch is on point, the batter won’t have a
chance. As it turns out, the batter doesn’t have a chance anyhow, but for
different reasons. The ball strikes the poor kid in the face, and he goes
down—out cold. Then the benches clear. Most pitchers would recoil or show some
kind of regret, but Ritchie just smiles, lowering himself and bracing for
impact. The first player he encounters is wasted with one punch. After that,
it’s like that old saying;
I went to a hockey fight, and a baseball game
broke out
. The umps have lost control, and as far as the crowd is
concerned, that’s okay. They’re here to see Ritchie. They don’t care if he’s
pitching or just beating the shit out of someone.