Sophomore Campaign (32 page)

An eerie hush fell across the ballpark like a burial shroud. All around, people sat in their seats zombie-like, some with hands covering their eyes, others with their heads hung in front of them so low that there was no chance of witnessing the unspeakable. The sounds alone would tell the story. Others, those who possessed a sort of masochistic need to see the tragedy through to the end, stared straight ahead, their bodies tense and stiff, bracing for the final, fatal blow.

Lester was still composed, although his heart beat with more purpose now, almost as if it were suddenly too big for his chest. He had no fear of failure, for he had done his part all year. But now, looking out at Lefty's smugness, and the premature celebration that had begun in the Rangers' dugout, he decided that he would not yield, in any way, to this hopelessness.

Lester always thought like a catcher, even when he had a bat in his hands. He knew, all too well, that the pitcher-batter show down most often had nothing to do with physical skill and musculature; that it was really about cerebral dexterity, the ability to be a student of the game, a tactician, one who despite physical gifts, approached his work with the methodical maneuverings of a chess champion.
Lefty had been in the game long enough to recognize this as well. He stood on the mound, ruminating over what was brewing in Lester's mind. 0–2 count. He was probably expecting him to follow the same sequence he had employed the last time he had him in this position. Climb the ladder with a fastball, just to get him thinking. Then, take advantage of his keyed-up bat and drop a slow, sweeping hammer on the poor bastard. Yeah, Lester was definitely thinking that way. Lefty knew what he had to do. The lanky southpaw spun the ball behind his back as he peered in for his sign. He shook off the first one, then did the same with the second, mindful that his ostensible indecision would add to the mystery of what was really coming. He loved the power, that feeling of control, and toyed briefly with the idea of making Lester wait even longer. But he was ready to pop the champagne corks now. It was time. So when the Ranger catcher placed down two fingers, and pointed to his inner thigh, Lefty nodded in agreement.

The ball came out of his hand effortlessly. It was a clean pitch, one that rolled out of Lefty's hand with a tight spin. It was the perfect pitch for the occasion—the perfect pitch to dispose of a batter who was looking fastball. Oh, how the beauty of the choreography thrilled Lefty as he watched his handiwork unfurl. Yes, it looked like a fastball up and out of the zone, but soon it would dive down, into the strike zone, freezing Lester Sledge and leaving nothing left to do except hurl his glove into the air and wait for the pile-on at the mound.

Yes, it would have been the perfect plan had Lester not been one move ahead of Lefty. He knew that the cocky southpaw would be expecting him to look fastball, followed by the breaking stuff. It had worked so well, why change? Unless, of course, you were trying to out-guess your opponent. Then all bets were off. Lefty liked to be cute. And Lester knew that he wanted to end the game with
a strikeout. So he made the adjustment, kept his hands back, and watched dutifully, waiting for the true orbit of the tiny white sphere to reveal itself.

The moment the ball began its descent into the hitting zone, Lester loaded his hands and thrust his front foot forward. He caught the pitch with the sweet spot of the bat, lofting a high, majestic streak of white somewhere far into the night. In the seconds that followed, Lefty's face melted away like it was made of wax. He could only watch, and dream about what could have been, as the ball landed well beyond the centerfield fence, sending Lester around the bases for a game tying trot and igniting a brush fire of tearful exultations and raucous chants all around the ballpark.

Sledge Hammer! Sledge Hammer! Sledge Hammer!

The crowd was roaring its approval. It was complete pandemonium. The emotional tide had swept away everyone, but none as violently as Murph.

“Hey, how ‘bout that McNally!” he screamed, the veins in his neck threatening to burst right through his skin. “Yeah baby! Yeah!”

His was pumping his fist wildly, first in the direction of the opposing dugout, then toward first base.

“Let's see you call
that
friggin' one foul, you friggin' snake.”

They were all overwhelmed by the sudden turn of fortune. The entire Brewer dugout, lead by Jimmy Llamas, who was waving his cap like a victory flag, erupted explosively, jumping and hollering and laughing like a band of school boys, stomping their feet and clapping their hands as Lester finished his jaunt, finally touching home plate before jogging back to the bench, where he was assaulted by a barrage of bear hugs and slaps on the back.

Danvers, who had been on deck at the time of the fortuitous blow, was the first to peel off the mob and stood now just outside the batter's box, waiting for the insanity to subside. The tiny ballpark
continued to rock, unable to regain its composure for several minutes. He watched with amused absurdity, his heart now aflutter with visions of replicating Lester's heroic feat; stood there, savoring the pain on Lefty's face and the jubilation rioting through the crowd until the frenzy slowly dissipated to a level that would now allow the game to continue.

Danvers took Lefty's first pitch for strike one. The second pitch was also called a strike. Recognizing the familiarity of this development, and believing it to be some sort of omen, the throng of Brew Crew stalwarts rose to their feet, ready to lose themselves in what would no doubt be the most exciting game ever played at Borchert Field. Lefty was enraged by the static and bore down now even harder. Deep inside his brain was something like a grain of sand that would not go away—would not let him be.

His mouth was dry but everywhere else were signs of nervous moisture. He took a long, deliberate breath, set his feet carefully on the rubber, accepted his sign, wound up, and fired.

This time, he was the victor. The pitch was well placed, a cut fastball that slipped past the tardy bat of Danvers, dashing everyone's hopes of a walk-off pennant party. Sure, there was a little disappointment, but in the wake of Lester's eleventh-hour miracle, nobody could feel too bad about having to go to an extra frame to determine a winner. Mickey trotted out happily for the tenth. Even though he was a little fatigued, the swell of excitement was just too much to resist. The Brewer brain trust was happy to have him on the hill, but their decision to stick with the young ace was not made without some trepidation. He had never gone this long in one game before and it was cause for a little concern.

“Are you sure you're not tired, kid?” Matheson asked him before he went out. “It's okay to be gassed. Only natural ya know. You've thrown quite a gem today.”

“Mickey is not gassed, Coach,” he said to Matheson. “A little hungry, and thirsty, and my arms are sweaty, and I would like to go home and pet my rabbits, and maybe—”

“Okay, okay, kid,” Matheson said, pushing the boy in the direction of the field. “I get it. I get it. Geez, just get out there.”

Mickey picked up right where he had left off; he fanned first two batters with relative ease, running his total for the game to a staggering fifteen. Now the hungry crowd rose to its feet, lead by the Baby Bazooka Brigade, with Mickey placards in hand, waving them so that all that was visible from section to section was an undulating sea of white. They wanted more and were trying desperately to will their favorite son to complete the mission.

Here comes sixteen! Here comes sixteen! Here comes sixteen!

Mickey heard the chant and was happy, mostly because he thought that only
he
had been counting. He knew all his stats for the day: 15 strikeouts, 1 walk, 2 hits, 98 strikes, and 27 balls. It was quite a line score. He was pleased, although the number fifteen bothered him too. He much preferred to end the game, or at least his outing, with one more punch out.

If he was going to accomplish the feat, however, he was going to have to do it against the Rangers' cleanup hitter. No easy task by any means. With the yellow windows from neighboring houses looming out in the still, black distance like hopeful eyes, a disorderly house of rabid fans hung on Mickey's every last movement. It was an anxious waiting, the kind you feel right before Christmas or the birth of your first child.

The kid did not disappoint, revving the crowd's collective engine even further when he jumped out in front on a fastball that the batter fouled straight back. Mickey's second toss missed just outside, but the one after that caught the inner half of the dish, placing the Rangers' slugger in a 1–2 hole.

Sensing the kill, the legion of Mickey worshippers roared even louder.

Here comes sixteen! Here comes sixteen! Here comes sixteen!

They screamed and stomped and twisted themselves into all sorts of pre-celebratory positions. They were about to witness something truly amazing. Sixteen strikeouts. And then, after that, one final at-bat to capture the long anticipated pennant.

When Mickey rolled his arms and lifted his leg, it set off a flurry of popping flashbulbs, courtesy of the local press who were determined to capture the fantastic achievement and preserve it forever. The display was indeed magical, and imbued the moment with an ethereal air, but seemed to disrupt Mickey's normal routine, causing him to stumble a bit and let go of the ball prematurely. Fortunately, the flight of the pitch was still true, and everyone followed its path with mouths open and hearts afire, certain that this was the moment they had all waited for.

So when they heard the thunderous sound, something like dynamite in a canyon, nobody flinched. It just did not seem possible. The pitch was perfect. Uncharacteristically up in the zone, but perfect nonetheless.

Even when they saw Jimmy Llamas turn, drop his head and race back to the wall, they still refused to believe that Mickey had been tagged that way. The ball just kept going, rising like a some sort of ground to air missile, destined for touch down somewhere deep into the night.

Llamas was swift in his pursuit, continuing the chase with his head turned and tilted skyward, his eyes wedded to the spinning sphere. With each step, he gained more and more ground on the ball, and in doing so, roused the stunned spectators from their momentary stupor and captured their imaginations once again. It was the ultimate race, man against ball. And with so much riding on the
show down, the chase became that much more compelling. The only concern for all who watched with arrested breath was whether or not Llamas would run out of real estate before he could snatch the potential heart-breaker. The fleet footed centerfielder was now one step ahead of the ball, and appeared to be lined up and in perfect position to make the grab. But then the great green wall that had been looming in the distance emerged, and threatened to put a violent end to the dramatic pursuit.

Llamas was so focused that when he began his leap, he did not even notice how close he was to the eight-foot wooden barrier. He just bounced off the ground, as if the warning track were made of foam rubber, and used his free hand to grab the top of the wall, balancing long enough to position himself so that he could extend his other hand, the glove hand, just past the wall, a tiny stretch of no man's land, the forbidden zone, the place where leather webbing and ball arrived simultaneously.

The last thing the crowd saw, before Llamas' arm disappeared momentarily behind the highest of the wooden slats, was the ball peeking out from the centerfielder's glove. It was the most amazing feat any of them had ever seen. It was highway robbery at its finest. Then gravity reasserted itself, and a winded and slightly bruised Llamas fell, collapsed in a heap, hat askew, glove closed. Everyone in attendance broke into thunderous applause as the second base umpire, still trailing the play, raised his thumb high in the air and made the call.

“Out!”

The batter, however, refused to relent. He continued to run the bases, even as the Brewer players began jogging off the field, insisting that the powers that be check Llamas glove for the ball. They all laughed at him, but Llamas, sitting with his back up against the wall and his legs outstretched, wilted now, like the last
rose of summer. “Show me the ball,” the umpire called. “Hold it up for me.”

An odd sensation flowed through Llamas. He hesitated for a moment, an arresting feeling seizing his will to move. He just sat there, lifeless, until the umpire asked again for the ball. Then Llamas held up his glove, opened it, and exposed the barren pocket, much to the dismay of thousands of Brewer hopefuls.

“No catch!” the umpire yelled. Then he held his index finger high in the air and drew several imaginary circles in the air, signaling a homerun.

The Rangers celebrated wildly, while Mickey went white with the staggering realization that he had surrendered the lead. His stomach hurt and he was feeling increasingly uneasy. It had been so long since he had faced any sort of adversity that he was scarcely able to handle the swell of anxiety that was now suffocating him.

“It's okay, Mick,” Murph called from the bench. “Not a problem. Just get the last out. We're the home team. We got the hammer here. Then we score and go home.”

Mickey liked what he heard. Home sounded alright to him. He breathed rapidly through partially opened lips, and his legs labored a bit, but managed to compose himself with the help of Lester's prodding and the raucous cheering that began to rise again in recognition of the boy's stellar effort. They were all still calling for that last K. One more strikeout, and then they could go to work, trying to produce yet another miracle. Mickey made sure he did not disappoint this time, disposing of the next batter with three straight fastballs.

Once inside the dugout, all of the players rallied around Murph. The scene resembled something like a going away party. All around Murph were faces, long and bloodless, desperate for something to cling to.