Satch & Me

We were at Dunn Field playing the Exterminators, probably the weirdest team in the Louisville Little League. Most of the teams in our league are sponsored by doctors, hardware stores, or banks.
Normal
businesses, you know? But these guys are sponsored by an
exterminator
. Whoever heard of a Little League team sponsored by a company that kills bugs?

On the front of their uniforms, the Exterminators have their logo (a squashed ant) and on the back they have their phone number (1-800-GOT-BUGS). It looks really stupid. They even have their own cheer, which they insist on rapping along with a drum machine before they take the field. It goes like thisâ¦

Stomp 'em! Spray 'em!

That's the way we play 'em!

We send the pests back to their nests!

When we turn the lights on,

It's lights out for YOUUUUUUUU!

Man, I'd be embarrassed if I had to play on that team.

The Exterminators even have a mascot. Before each game, some little kid dressed up like a roach runs out on the field. They call him Buggy. The whole team chases Buggy around the infield. When they catch him, they pretend to beat the crap out of him. Or at least it
looks
like they're pretending. The mascot is probably the little brother of one of the kids on the team.

It's all very entertaining, and the moms and dads in the bleachers get a big kick out of it. I must admit, even I get a kick out of it.

The thing about the Exterminators, though, is that these guys can flat out
play
. Usually when a team has a dumb gimmick, that's
all
they have. They can't hit, can't pitch, can't run, and they can't field. They put on a show because they're no good. But the Exterminators won the Louisville Little League championship last season, and they really know the fundamentals of baseball. They always throw to the right base. They always hit the cutoff man. Their coach must know what he's talking about.

But we're pretty good too. Our team, Flip's Fan
Club, is sponsored by a local baseball card shop that's owned by our coach, Flip Valentini. Sponsors don't usually get involved with the team, other than paying for the uniforms and bats and stuff. But to Flip, owning our team is like owning the Yankees. He lives and breathes for us. He's our owner, manager, third base coach, and even our chauffeur if our moms are late or their cars break down.

Our team doesn't do any silly rap songs. But we can play solid baseball, because Flip taught us everything he knows. And believe me, Flip Valentini has forgotten more about baseball than most people ever learn.

Our problem is that the Exterminators have this one kid named Kyle who we nicknamed Mutant Man. Kyle must be some kind of genetic freak. He's only thirteen, like most of us, but he's six feet tall and he's got these long arms. Mutant arms. His arms are so long, it's like he's a different species or something.

Mutant Man doesn't bother with a curveball. He doesn't have a changeup or any other kind of trick pitches. All he's got is his fastball. But he just lets loose and
brings it
with every pitch. He's a lefty, and when Kyle lets go of the ball, watch out. With those arms, you feel like he's releasing the ball right in front of your face.

It's especially hard for a left-handed batter like me, because the pitch seems like it's coming at you from the first base dugout.
Scary
. It's almost impossible to stay in the batter's box because the ball
looks like it's going to take your head off. Then, while you're bailing out, it shoots across the plate, and the next thing you know the ump is yelling, “Strike three!”

One dominating pitcher can take a team a long way. Kyle the Mutant Man has struck me out a whole bunch of times. He's struck us
all
out a bunch of times. In fact, we've never beaten the guy. Once, he struck out fifteen of us in six innings. That's just about
impossible
.

But this time, we had Mutant Man in trouble. It was the bottom of the sixth inning, which is the last inning in our league. The Mutant was shutting us out as usual, but our pitcher, Jason Shounick, had pitched a pretty good game too. He had given up only two runs.

Blake Butler grounded out to second base to start the inning. Tanner Havens fouled off a bunch of pitches, and he finally worked out a walk. I was up, and I represented the tying run.

In case you're not a big baseball fan, when you “represent the tying run,” it means that if you can find a way to score, the game will be tied. A homer would be the quickest, simplest way to do it.

But I wasn't even thinking about hitting a homer. No way I was going to take Kyle the Mutant over the wall. I just wanted to get the bat on the ball. If I could push it past one of the infielders and get on base, one of our other guys might be able to drive me and Tanner in. That's all I hoped for. Make
something happen. Just make contact.

As I stepped into the batter's box, I was giving myself advice. “Don't bail out,” I said. “Don't bail out. Even if it looks like it's going to hit you, stay in there.”

I decided not to swing at the first pitch no matter how good it looked. If I could just stay in the batter's box without stepping backward, it would be a small victory.

Mutant Man looked in for a sign, even though everybody on the field knew he only had one pitch. I tried to relax my grip on the bat.

“You can do it, Stosh!” Ryan Younghans shouted from our bench.

“He's a whiffer, Kyle!” somebody called from the bleachers.

The Mutant glared at me, and I glared right back. Then he went into that big windup. I stood there and let the ball go by. Tanner took off from first. The catcher jumped up and whipped the ball to second. Tanner slid in and the ump called him safe.

It was strike one on me, but now we had a guy at second. A single could score him and make it 2-1.

Mutant Man turned around and looked at the base runner. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment. Maybe Mutant Man was a little nervous now. He wasn't used to worrying about base runners. I decided to swing if the next pitch looked hittable.

I don't even know if I ever saw the pitch, to tell you the truth. I just tried to get my bat out there the way Flip taught us. Somehow, I got lucky and hit something. It wasn't pretty, but the ball went dribbling down the first base line.

Hey, I didn't care. I was digging for first. The first baseman dove to his left, but the ball snuck between his glove and the first base bag. It was fair by inches.

The ball skipped down the right field line and suddenly everybody was yelling. People were yelling for me to run (like I didn't know that!). People were yelling for Tanner to score. People were yelling for the right fielder to get the ball. People were yelling for the third baseman to get ready for the throw.

That's where I was heading. No way I was going to stop at second. I knew the right fielder was the worst kid on their team and he probably wouldn't be able to throw me out at third. I didn't even look up for a sign from Flip, who was coaching over there. I slid in and kicked up a spray of dirt, partly to make it hard for the third baseman to tag me and partly, I must admit, because kicking up a spray of dirt is fun and looks way cool.

I got up and dusted myself off while everybody went crazy. Tanner had scored. I was on third. Flip clapped me on the back. The guys on the Exterminators were looking anxious for the first time all day. We had finally scored a run, and I was on third with a good chance of scoring another one.

We were only down by one run.

I scanned the bleachers to see if I could find my mom anywhere. It was pretty easy. She was behind first base, jumping up and down and screaming. “Did you see my Joey? Did you see that hit?”

I wished she would calm down a little. It's embarrassing, and it's not cool. When she's jumping up and down and going crazy, it looks like I must totally suck most of the time and I got lucky for a change. If she would be calm after I hit a triple, it would look like I'm a good player and she
expected
me to hit a triple. As it was, it was a dinky little hit. Nothing to write home about.

Besides, it wouldn't mean a thing if we lost the game. I turned my attention back to the field. Flip leaned over to me and whispered in my ear.

“Run on anything, Stosh. On the crack of the bat, burn rubber.”

Flip grew up in Brooklyn, New York, and he talks sort of like those guys you see in old black-and-white movies.

“You sure, Flip?” I asked.

“Never been more sure.”

I didn't get it. There was one out. Baseball wis
dom says that you run on anything when there are
two
outs. Everybody knows that.

Running on anything with two outs makes sense, because if the batter makes an out, it's three outs and the side is retired. But if the batter gets a hit and you were off with the crack of the bat, you get a big jump toward the next base, or home plate in my case.

The reason why you don't run on anything when there are
less
than two outs is because if the batter makes an out, your team will still have one or two chances to drive you in. So you don't want to risk getting tagged out and kill a rally.

If that didn't make any sense to you, don't worry about it. It doesn't matter. Baseball is a complicated game. But that's why I like it. The point is, Flip ordered me to run on anything with one out.

Maybe Flip knew something I didn't know, I figured. The guy is really old, somewhere in his seventies. Wisdom comes with age, isn't that what they say? Maybe Flip spotted something I didn't see. Maybe that's why he told me to run on anything even though there was only one out.

Anyway, I'm not the kind of guy who questions his coach's judgment. If Flip tells me to run on anything, I run.

“Whatever you say, Flip.”

Mike Baugh, our second baseman, was up. He likes to swing at the first pitch. I took a short lead off third. The last thing I wanted was to get picked off by Mutant Man. He looked over at me, then at
Mike. He let the ball fly, and as expected, Mike took a rip at it.

“Go!” Flip ordered me when we heard the crack of the bat.

When I say “the crack of the bat,” I don't just mean the sound of the bat hitting the ball. Mike's bat actually cracked! It broke in half!

Now, I've seen wooden bats break plenty of times. But Mike was swinging a metal bat. The thing broke in two, and the fat part was flying right at me. I didn't even see where the ball went. I ducked under the flying bat head and tore home.

The catcher didn't look like he was ready for a play at the plate. But I didn't trust him. He might be trying to deke me. I slid into home headfirst, which looks really cool. Tie game.

But almost immediately, I sensed something was wrong.

“Go back!” everybody on our bench was screaming at me. “It's a pop-up! Get
back
!”

I jumped up and dashed back toward third. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the shortstop backpedaling onto the outfield grass. I was running as fast as I could. The shortstop caught the pop-up and whipped the ball to third base. I slid in, but the third baseman stuck his glove with the ball in it between my foot and the third base bag.

“You're out!” hollered the ump. “That's the ball game, boys.”

I was exhausted. I lay there in the dirt. Everybody
started yelling at me.

“You bonehead!” Jason yelled. “You cost us the game, Stosh!”

“What are you, a moron?” yelled Tanner. “There was only one out!”

The kids on the Exterminators were laughing their heads off. “Nice slide, Stoshack,” one of them yelled. “Maybe you oughta learn how to count!”

I looked up at Flip. He was counting on his fingers, looking more confused than ever.