The Youngest Hero (10 page)

“Hope you get an ovation for that!” I said. “If you can’t catch a big old floppy glove thrown by an old woman—”

“You don’t look that old to me,” a man said from behind me.

I hated myself for turning to look, but it had been instinct.

“Good morning,” the man said.

He looked younger than I, no wedding band.

“Good morning,” I said lifelessly, turning back as if to watch the tryout.

“My son is just starting,” he said. “Your boy?”

“Second year,” I said, turning only enough so he could hear. “He’s almost eleven.”

“Go on! I’m talking about the one who was just here.”

“So am I,” I said, my hands in my pockets, one fingering a copy of Elgin’s birth certificate. Would it always be this way?

“That boy’s eleven?”

“Almost,” I said, unable to mask the sarcasm. “Almost eleven is ten.”

“Well, it sure is, isn’t it?” he said, scooting down to my row. I looked the other way, frustrated and disappointed. I wasn’t
that lonely. And I wanted to watch Elgin play. The field where he
was trying out was to my left, and when the man noticed I was looking that way, he moved to that side of me. Now I was angry
and would not look at him. I answered him in the least cordial ways I could think of, short of rudeness.

The man kept trying to get me to watch his Robin. Robin! Who would name a boy Robin?

“What’s your boy’s name?”

“Elgin.”

“Elgin! Now there’s a name for you! I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a person named Elgin before! I mean, there’s Elgin Watches,
and the city of Elgin. Oh, course there was the basketball player, Elgin Baylor, but I think that’s the only other one I’ve
heard of.”

“Really?” I said, as if I didn’t care.

“Yeah! How bout you?”

“Me?” I didn’t want to tell him my name.

“Yeah! Have you heard of any other Elgins, or is he named after somebody?”

“He’s named after one of my husband’s great-uncles.”

I hadn’t meant to refer to Neal as my husband; I really hadn’t. I was glad for the slip, though, because I heard the life
die in the voice of this new “friend.”

“Do you have an unusual name too?”

“No, sir. I’m Mrs. Neal Woodell.”

That time it was intentional.

“What does your husband do?”

Oh, please! Would he really like to know? Should I tell him that he serves time? That he beats women, kills babies, runs over
old men on three-wheeled bikes
?

“He’s a professional racecar driver.”

“Have I heard of him?”

“How would I know that?”

“What did you say his name was?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You said you were Mrs.—”

“That’s my name.”

“Well, then, without the ‘Mrs.’ that’s his name too, isn’t it? Now what was it?”

“Jeff Gordon.”

“You’re putting me on!”

“Yes, I am. Now, do you mind? I just want to watch my son.”

“Well, sor-
ry
! I just wanted to make sure you didn’t really see yourself as an old woman, like you said to the boy there. Elgin. I mean,
someone as lovely as you—”

I stood and moved five rows down where I stared straight at Elgin. I was relieved to hear the man behind me get up and move
back to where he had come from.

The other kids and I had been told to find a partner and warm up. I hooked up with a kid who couldn’t throw or catch. I had
to toss the ball easily so the boy could grab it. And I had to chase just about every one of his throws.

A coach noticed and paired me with a better player. But even he stepped out of the way and took my throws out to the side,
away from his body.

They had us run a lap around the goalposts. I beat everybody by a long way.

“You get to hit first,” a coach called to me. “Pick out a bat.”

I stood waiting while a teenager strapped on the catcher’s gear and an adult warmed up from the pitcher’s rubber.

“All right,” the man said. “Step in there and take six cuts. Hey! You’re only eleven now, right?”

“Ten,” I said. “Well, officially eleven. Almost eleven.”

The pitcher looked at another coach and shook his head. Then he stepped and threw. The ball was a foot over my head. The next
one was outside. The next low.

“I’m still getting loose,” the man said. “But let’s not be too picky in there.”

What was I supposed to do? The next pitch was inside and high, but hittable. I ripped it to right field on a line, about two
hundred feet.

“That woulda been a homer in this league,” the pitcher said, grunting as he released another.

It was a fat pitch, a little faster than the last. I hit it in the same spot, maybe twenty feet farther. The pitcher spun
to watch it go. “I must not be as loose as I thought,” he said.

He went into an exaggerated windup and I knew his best, fastest pitch was coming. I crushed it, driving it high and deep to
center, at least two hundred and fifty feet.

The pitcher turned his back on me to watch the flight of the ball. He stayed facing that direction until all the balls had
been tossed back. He cradled six in his big glove and turned back around. “All right, son, listen up. I want you to take six
more swings. I’m gonna throw you my best stuff, sliders, curves, changes, fastballs. As soon as you’ve swung, I’m comin with
the next one, so be prepared. Ready?”

I dug in and stole a glance at my mother in the stands. I had to search for an extra second, because she had moved. She raised
a fist to me, and I turned back to face the first of six quick pitches.

I fouled the first pitch straight back, then hit the next five solid, every one a line drive to the outfield. People had stopped
to watch. I was embarrassed because the other kids were waiting to hit and the coach asked me to stay in there. I had already
taken more swings than they had planned for, and now they were bringing in another pitcher, an older teenager, a friend of
the catcher.

“Can you hit breaking balls?” the coach asked as the new pitcher warmed up.

“You said you were going to throw me some,” I said. “Did you?”

“You trying to be smart?”

“No, sir. I just never had anybody throw me anything but straight pitches except my daddy, and I don’t remember what breaking
balls looked like.”

“Well, the last three I threw you were half-decent sliders for one of my vintage. I pitched at Purdue and was in the White
Sox organization for a couple of years.”

“Did you know my dad? He was with the Pirates in the minors. Neal Woodell?”

The man shook his head. “Don’t think I ever ran across him. He probably came along later.” He turned to the pitcher. “You
ready, James?”

“Yeah!”

“Now, son, this guy’s a lefty, so be careful not to bail out.”

“I never bail out,” I said. “I switch.”

“You switch! Now ain’t that somethin! Go ahead, then. Hit righty for a half dozen pitches. If you can hit this guy like you
hit me, we’re gonna hafta have a look at that birth certificate.”

“My mother has it.”

“And is she here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where you from, boy?”

“Hattiesburg, Mississippi.”

“You play ball down there?”

“Not much. A few games before we moved last year.”

“I sure coulda used you then.”

“Can’t you use me now?”

“Oh, I believe we’ll find a spot for you, son. Yes, sir, I believe we will. Right now we’re just trying to figure out where.”

I moved to the other side of the plate and stood about ten feet away, watching the rangy Jim, a tall, powerfully built left-hander,
throw his last two warm-up pitches. I finally felt afraid. This guy threw hard enough to hurt somebody. Maybe I
would
be bailing out.

I don’t think my dad had ever thrown that hard to me. The coach certainly hadn’t. This kid could fire. I wondered who he was.

“Get in there, Woodell,” the coach hollered.

The first pitch popped the glove before I could react, except that my lead foot had stepped toward third base, seemingly on
its own. “Strike one!” the coach yelled. “Right down the pipe! Where you goin?”

The next pitch was inside, and though I was determined not to step in the bucket, I almost fell down trying to get out of
the
way. But the pitch was not really close to me. It caught the inside corner.

“Strike two! You were a flash in the pan, son. You were hitting off a broken-down old pitcher. C’mon, show me what you got!”

The young pitcher came straight over the top and the ball appeared to be spinning vertically. It dropped through the strike
zone and I swung and missed. The coach laughed. The pitcher smiled. The catcher said, “Would you like to see that one again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m callin for the same pitch. Trust me.”

Sure enough, the motion was the same. I reacted without thinking and shot the ball right back at the pitcher. He caught it
but it spun him around. I stepped out of the box, shaking my top hand.

“That’s a heavy ball,” the coach said. “The harder it’s thrown, the heavier it feels on the bat. Did you feel the resistance
when you hit it? Did it feel like it was drivin your bat back at you?”

I nodded.

“Okay, listen, Elgin. Jim here is the ace of the local American Legion team. He’s already been scouted by the pros. Has a
promising future. I’ve seen him pitch three games where nobody got that much bat on one of his pitches. Was that luck, a fluke?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Try three more.”

“What’s he throwing this time?” I asked the catcher.

“Huh-uh. I’m already gonna hafta answer for tipping you off on that one. You’re on your own now, buddy.”

The next pitch was a sinking fastball, down and in. I got around late and hit it to where a second baseman would have been.
The bat was solid on the ball.

Jim pumped another fastball, this one with more on it, and I couldn’t catch up with it. Swing and a miss.

I stepped out and pretended to be getting a better grip. “Do me a favor,” I said quietly to the catcher. “Call for the same
pitch.”

The catcher did, and I drove the ball deep to the opposite field. Jim stood on the rubber, eyebrows raised. The catcher grabbed
me and pulled me close.

“That was nice,” he said. “Even I don’t hit him like that. But remember, your two best shots came when you knew what was coming.
Nobody ever knows what’s coming.”

I nodded. The coach asked someone else to take over the try-out while he asked me to bring my mother to the registration table
in the hallway of the school.

When we got there he introduced himself as Mr. Morrison. “This is your mother?” he said. “Maybe you
are
as young as you say. Ma’am, do you have proof of the boy’s age?”

She showed him.

“Uh-huh. Ma’am, we have a little problem, which could be an opportunity for your boy if you approve of it.”

“A problem?”

“Well, yes. One of my jobs as league commissioner, in fact my most important job, is to ensure the safety of everybody on
the field. We spare no expense for the best helmets, and we hire the best umpires—who also look out for the boys. I have to
make difficult decisions about individual players, and I’ve made one about your son as it relates to the safety of other kids
in this program. I confess this is the first time I have outlawed a boy under twelve, and I’m still finding it hard to believe
this boy is only nearly eleven, but—”

“What more proof do you need?”

“Oh, I’m taking your word for it, ma’am. But I need to tell you from the perspective of a parent, a commissioner, and as one
who pitched to this boy, he does not belong at this level of baseball.”

“But he’s only—”

“I know. And we go up to twelve, and we have some twelve-year-olds who might give him a run for his money. You know we have
a boy in our program, well, he’ll be in the thirteen- to fifteen-year-old league this year, but he got his picture in
Sports Illustrated
last year when he hit five straight homers.”

“In one game?” I said.

“Well, no, in two games, but it was five straight. And son, not one of those homers was hit as hard as three of them I saw
you hit today. Don’t get me wrong. His were impressive. They all cleared the fence, four of them by a good margin. But when
he hits a ball, it’s not of any danger to anyone on the field. The in-fielders back up and a couple have taken his hard grounders
off their chests. But I don’t think I’d ask anybody to stand in there when you’re hitting. Mrs. Woodell, I’m going to have
to ask you to let me try him out for the next level. He’ll be eleven by the time the season starts. I know that doesn’t seem
to make much difference, but—”

Momma glanced at me. I think she could tell I was so excited I could hardly stand it.

“I don’t know,” she said. “If those kids are as big as the ones who pitched and caught today—”

Mr. Morrison laughed. “Oh, no, ma’am. Those were both eighteen-year-old American Legion players. He won’t be facing anything
like that.”

“Well, I don’t want him pitching or catching or playing the infield with kids too much older and bigger than he is, for the
same reason you don’t want kids in the infield while Elgin is hitting.”