Say It Ain't So (24 page)

Byron responded with a sweet series of fastballs to record the strikeout and end the inning. He looked pretty happy as he walked off the mound. But also pretty tired.

We couldn't get anything going in the bottom of the sixth. We were heading to the final frame with a one-run lead.

Coach Moyer, Other Mike, and Byron huddled for a discussion before the top of the seventh. From where I sat at the end of the bench, I couldn't hear a word. But it was clear: they were taking him out. He was tired. His arm was shot. The Griffins were hitting him hard and the lead was down to one run. I felt a knot in my stomach. They weren't going to bring
me
in, were they?

They were.

“All right, Len,” Coach Moyer said, walking down toward the end of the bench. “My assistant here says you're the man for the job, and he's a heck of a lot smarter than I am. So you're the man for the job. Get in there and get us some outs.”

I couldn't believe it. For a second I thought I was dreaming. But I still had all my teeth, so it
couldn't be a dream. I was really getting into the game. In the last inning. With a one-run lead. For the championship.

I walked—more like floated—out to the mound. Mike came over and said a few words to me. I had no idea what they were. It was like I knew his mouth was moving, but I could not recognize the words. It was all
muh-muh-muh-muh-muh-muh
. I nodded, wondering what I had agreed to.

I took my warm-up pitches and they were terrible. I was announcing my own warm-ups in my head.

He has less control than a toddler in potty training. He's firing warm-up tosses like a blind monkey playing darts
.

Finally I got one over the plate and it was time to start the game. I had no idea who the first batter was. He was just a green blur. My eyes could barely focus. Somehow, shockingly, this worked to my advantage. My first pitch was a ball, but the next three were fast ones right down the middle. I struck him out!

The crowd goes wild as Norbeck strikes out the first batter he faces. He's on his way to getting a win for his team. He's totally psyched up to the max
.

The next batter stepped in. I had calmed down a little, which somehow did not work to my advantage. I walked him on four pitches. The next batter I did recognize. It was Robert Fenner. I thought he'd be up there being patient since I just walked a guy with four very wild ones, but he was swinging first pitch. And he laced that first pitch into left-center field. The guy from first made it all the way to third. Uh-oh. It was runners on first and third with just one out. Not an ideal situation. But a double play would get us through the inning.

Norbeck is going to try to throw some low ones here, to try to get a ground ball and a double play. Of course, if he throws it too low and it's a wild pitch, a run will score and tie the game. Good thing his personal catcher, the great backstop Mike DiNuzzio, is over there. Newts settles in, and here's the pitch.… The runner breaks for second! That's a stolen base. Not even a throw. Newts has had some arm troubles over the years and the Griffins take advantage of it. Now we're really in a pickle. Runners on second and third with one out. No chance for the double play
.

Coach Moyer stepped out of the dugout, calling time. Was he taking me out of the game already? I gave up one walk and one single! That's it! Didn't he see that awesome strikeout? I knew I
could find the plate if I had to. Then I saw Other Mike following along behind him.

“What's up?” I said. “I'm feeling good. Feeling good.” It was a lie.

“I don't know if I agree,” Coach Moyer said. “But my assistant here has an idea.”

“Yeah,” Other Mike said. He paused. “So, well, we got runners on second and third here with one out. That means that there is no force play and no chance to double them up.”

I knew all this, of course, but I was shocked to hear Other Mike say it. It was like suddenly finding out that your dog was fluent in French. Usually it's just barking and licking itself and then all of a sudden it comes out with
“Bonjour, madame, je suis un chien.”
Focus, Lenny!

Other Mike continued. “So I say we walk this guy. I've scouted the on-deck hitter, Trebor Fenner. He has a severe chop of a swing. He has no patience and he always hits the ball on the ground. Load the bases, pitch to Fenner, get the doubleplay ball, go home champions. Got it?” He slapped me on the butt, just like a big-league manager would do.

“Other Mike?” I said. “Is that you?”

“Don't look at me like I'm a French-speaking dog,” he said. “You don't spend a few million hours with you dorks and not pick up some baseball. So you gonna do it or not?” By then Mike had joined our conference on the mound, walking up from behind the plate. He lifted his mask.

“What's the plan, gentlemen?” he asked. His face was sweating.

“Let's walk this guy,” I said. “Load the bases. Load 'em up nice.”

“You're the boss,” he said.

“Hey, Coach,” I yelled at Other Mike as he walked toward the bench. “If we win this thing, I owe it all to you.”

Mike went back behind the plate and held out his arm to the side, giving the sign for an intentional walk. I heard a gasp from the crowd, but maybe that was just my imagination. Maybe not. Because while Other Mike's plan did make sense, there was of course a downside. With the bases loaded, there was nowhere to put Trebor. If I walked him, the tying run would score. If I hit him with a pitch, the tying run would score. If I threw a wild pitch, the tying run would score. If he got a hit, the tying run would score. There were so many ways
the tying run would score!
But no, Lenny. Don't think negative thoughts. Believe in yourself. Put your thumb through that board!

This was a dandy little pep talk I was giving myself. The only problem was that I accidentally said the last part out loud. Pretty much everyone looked at me like I was nuts. I decided to just go with it. It was all part of my persona as the Lunatic. I repeated it loudly. “Put your thumb through that board!” I hoped it would catch on. Maybe start a chant. I could hear the crowd. “Put your thumb through that board! Put your thumb through that board!” No such luck. It was quiet. Too quiet.

And it all came down to me and Trebor. Trebor Fenner. The bases were loaded, with his brother Robert on second base. Everyone on the Griffith side was yelling and cheering and screaming for Trebor. The ninjas! They were the ones who punched me in the face! I wanted to throw the ball through Trebor's stupid head. But of course I couldn't. A hit batter would force in a run and tie the game. Mike's words echoed through my head:
“The way to get back at them,”
he had said,
“is to do it on the field.”

I took a deep breath. I went into my windup. I
pitched. And it was about fifteen feet outside. Mike caught it, somehow, saving a run. He pointed his glove at me in that catcher's gesture that means “Settle down.” I wasn't sure if I could. I took a deep breath and fired another one, this time right across the plate for a strike. Trebor smiled. He apparently wasn't going to swing. He was going to make me throw strikes. No problem, I thought, and threw another perfect one. Only the stupid blind ump called it a ball! Okay, maybe it was a
little
high. Still, he could have given it to me.

It didn't matter. You can't dwell on a bad call. You have to throw the next pitch. My heart felt like it was punching me in the face. That doesn't make sense, but somehow explains it. I was losing it. I took a deep breath and threw this one right down the middle. The count was two balls and two strikes. They always say that's an “even count,” but it favors the pitcher. I only needed one more strike.

I wound up and fired, a high fastball. This time Trebor did swing. And he did miss. Strike three! I leapt off the mound, throwing my glove up into the air! I was waiting for my team to rush me, to hug me, to carry me off on their shoulders victorious! I
was
the Great Imperial Lenny the Lunatic,
Destroyer of Worlds! “Yeeeee-hah!” I screamed as my glove soared toward the sky. “We win!”

It was then that I realized there were only two outs. Everyone was looking at me like I was the proverbial French-speaking dog. I kind of wished I was. I wished I was anyone or anything else at that moment. How embarrassing! To celebrate the victory with just two outs! I felt like such an idiot. My glove fell back to earth with a sad plop.

“Just kidding!” I said.
Good one, Lenny
.

Even through his mask I could see that Mike was laughing.

There was one batter left. Jaxon Sadler was coming up to hit for Griffith. Stupid Jaxon. My heart started to beat faster as I realized he
would
be the last batter, for me anyway. I'd get him out and we'd go home champions. Or he'd get on base and the tying run would score. Maybe even the go-ahead run. Moyer would take me out for sure. Other Mike couldn't stop him. It was really amazing that he learned so much about baseball. But if he knew so much, why would he choose to use me in this situation? He must believe in me. Which meant I could believe in myself.

I settled in against Jaxon. The bases were still loaded. There was no room for error. You can only
have one coach's conference on the mound per inning, so I couldn't ask Other Mike for the scouting report. I seemed to remember from earlier in the year that Jaxon was a free swinger. Not the kind of guy likely to take a walk. He was going to take his hacks. He was going to swing. I'd have to make sure he missed.

The first pitch was a little bit inside, and sure enough, Jaxon took a rip. He blasted the ball, but foul. It went about five hundred feet down the left-field line. “Don't worry, Lenny,” I heard a voice say from the bleachers. It was my dad. “Just a long strike.” Always the optimist, that guy. At least I had the count in my favor. I threw another one hard and Jaxon swung right through it. I was feeling it. The count was no balls and two strikes. One more strike could win it. I went into my windup and fired. It bounced about six feet in front of home plate. But true to form, Mike blocked it. Just a ball. One ball and two strikes. Still in my favor. The next pitch was about six feet high. Mike caught that one too. Two balls and two strikes. Time to focus in. I threw a fastball right down the middle, but Jaxon fouled that one off too. He was a pesky hitter. I kept firing good pitches and he kept fouling them off.

“Come on, Lenny.” I heard Dad from the bleachers again. “You got this.” I looked over at him. And had the greatest idea ever. The Vulcan change. Of course! It was the secret family pitch, passed through the generations. Never mind that I had never practiced it. It was a sign. It
had
to work. I stepped off the mound and motioned for Mike to come for a conference. The Griffith side groaned. They were tired of these conferences. I didn't care!

“What's up?” Mike said.

I put my glove over my mouth in case there were lip-readers or spies anywhere. We hadn't been using signs because I only had one pitch. But this was different. “I'm going to rear back like I'm throwing the cheese, but it'll be a slow one. The Vulcan change.”

“Are you sure this is the time to try a pitch you've never done before?” Mike asked.

“It has to work,” I said. “Nothing else is.”

“Well, make it a good one,” he said.

Mike snapped his mask back down and took his place behind the plate. All I needed was one strike to win. I slid the ball into my fingers, Vulcan-style. I went into the windup and let it rip like I was throwing the fastest fastball in the world. The ball
sort of fluttered out of my hand, very slowly. And also not very accurately. It bounced way in front of the plate and took a wild hop.

Mike threw his mask off and began frantically looking around behind him. Oh no! It was a wild pitch! The ball was on its way to the backstop! The tying run was crossing the plate! The Griffith fans were going wild! Then Mike stepped in front of the plate and tagged the runner with his empty glove. Only it wasn't empty. He showed the glove to the umpire. The umpire yelled, “You're out!”

I was confused. Everyone was confused. What had just happened? “The ball was in my glove the whole time!” Mike yelled. “I pretended it got past me. Nothing gets past me! You should know better! I'm a Bench!”

“You certainly are!” I yelled. “Does this mean we won?”

“Yes!” he hollered.

“Why isn't anyone celebrating?” I asked.

“Good question. Let's celebrate!”

This time I wasn't the only one who threw my glove up in the air. Everyone did. We won! Kyle screamed into the microphone. People were swarming everywhere, running and hugging. And I mean everyone. The team, the fans, kids from
school, Maria, my parents, everyone. There was lots of hugging and so much high-fiving that my palm hurt. It was kind of weird that I won the game on a wild pitch, but kind of right. That's the way the Lunatic does things.