The Youngest Hero (30 page)

M
y power did not reach three hundred feet. Otherwise, I might have hit the fat pitch over the center field fence. My choice
now was to take off someone’s head. But whose? Neil seemed like a nice enough guy. He had only done what Hector told him to
do. Hector was the target. And Hector had been warned. He said he was in charge of safety, and I figured that meant his own
too.

I did not want to hurt him and would have felt terrible if I had. I lashed Neil’s letter-high, inside fastball down the third
baseline, and Hector’s eyes grew wide as he ducked.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t even look at him. I could tell Hector was glaring at me, but I wanted to hit some more.

“Are there any more balls in the bucket?” I said.

Neil looked to Hector, who shrugged.

“A half dozen or so,” Neil said.

“Bring em on!” I said.

Hector nodded to Neil again. All seven pitches were fastballs on the inner half. I swung easily, driving each on a line into
right field, almost into the same area. When the bucket was empty, I ran for my glove and waited for instructions. I had left
Hector and Neil speechless.

Coach Villagrande motioned to the balls in the outfield.
“Fetch them and loosen up your arm by tossing them easily to Neil, please.”

When I finished, I was hot and dripping, but I felt good. Surely, this strange coach had to be impressed. Could any of his
regulars have done what I did?

Neil stood at first base. Hector hit grounders to me at short. The first few were easy and right at me. I charged slow rollers,
angled back on ones away from me. My throws to first were fast and true, though each took tremendous effort. I had never played
on a field this big.

Soon Hector was smashing liners and grounders at me harder than anyone had ever hit them in practice or a game. I enjoyed
diving for them. A couple skipped off my glove. One bounced off my chest, causing me to grunt. On about fifty ground balls,
I had three bad throws, two over Neil’s head and one that pulled him off the bag. Otherwise, I was flawless. I was exhausted,
but I would have done it all day.

Hector waved me in, and as Neil and Coach Michaels loaded the equipment into his car, I sat with the coach on the first row
of the bleachers.

“You are very young,” Hector began quietly.

“Yes, sir, I know, but—”

“You are very young and gifted and impressive, and—”

“How did you like it when—”

“Señor
Woodell, I would like you to not speak until I am finished. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“Yes or no is all I need. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I want to talk about what I saw today and a little about my team. First of all, I saw a young boy, big for his age, but not
big for a high school team. You are a better-than-average fielder with a better-than-average arm, but I think your arm is
at its limit from shortstop on a regulation field. In fact, were you to play for me, I would probably not risk putting you
anywhere in the infield other than at second base.”

Better than average
? What was I supposed to do, catch everything?

“Your range and mechanics are good. You show tremendous potential as a fielder. I like the way you use your feet and your
glove. You have been well trained and coached.”

By myself, mostly
.

“You are a fine hitter, very strong for your size and age. Power will come with growth. You have a little boy’s immaturity,
and I would wonder about team spirit and attitude.”

I wanted to tell Mr. Villagrande that I had always been a team player, but the coach kept talking.

“You are full of yourself, that is clear. I say this not because you nearly hit me with batted balls. It is seen in your face,
your walk, everything. You know how good you are, and I fear you will be satisfied to remain at the level you are now. That
would be a tragedy, for you have unlimited potential.”

I wanted to argue, but I had learned not to interrupt. I wanted to tell the coach that too.

“I do not have a place for you on my team,” Hector said.

I felt paralyzed. My head buzzed; my breath came in short gasps.

“I know this is a disappointment to you, and I know also that you may not be able to play ball at all this summer. That is
not good but not all bad either.”

I was barely listening. How could this be? How could this fool have watched me and not realize what I could do for this team?
Surely I was better than half the players I had seen that day.

“Continue working out. Look for a league that will accept you. I know Mr. Lincoln was impressed enough that he would be willing
to pitch to you. I would work on humility. You are not the best ballplayer who ever lived.”

Not yet, maybe
.

“You did not see anyone congratulate himself on this field today, no matter what he did. My players encourage each other,
but there is no self-aggrandizement. Do you know what that means?”

I nodded.

“Many a player has come to me the best on his high school team. Each has his sights set on American Legion and the pros.
One player every five years gets a contract. But each comes to me thinking he is the best. Those who learn quickly what it
means to be a humble team player are the ones I keep. The others go elsewhere, and I have never seen one succeed. You have
a great advantage because of your youth, but let me warn you. You may plateau while everyone else catches up to you. If you
keep improving, you will be something special.”

I’m something special now
. It was like he could read my mind.

“If you are convinced you are already something special, you will probably be a good high school player someday. Then, because
you are not better, you will be more interested in cars and girls and money, and you will drift from the game.”

“Never,” I said. “No way, ever. I may have a lot to learn, but I will never drift from the game.”

“Well, good for you,” Villagrande said, slapping my knee and rising. “I wish you the best, and I invite you to try out for
me again next year.”

“But what if I—?”

“That’s all I can offer,
muchacho
. I am sorry.”

Sobs were dammed up in my throat. I wanted to scream, to threaten, to accuse. Who was this man who thought he knew so much?
I moved stiff-legged to the field where I picked up my glove and found my bat in the third-base dugout. I was suddenly weak
and tired. I pressed my back against the end of the dugout and slid to the ground. Without meaning to, I had hidden myself
from Hector and Neil as they chatted by their car.

As I sat there, letting the tears come, the coaches’ low tones grew louder.

“Where would Michaels have left the mask?” Neil said.

“I thought I saw it near the dugout.”

They approached.

“There it is.”

They stood on the other side of the dugout wall, apparently unaware that I was right there.

Hector sighed. “Was that kid something today, or what?”

“Good, huh?”

“Good? Neil, that was the most unbelievable hitting exhibition I’ve ever seen, especially for a kid that age.”

“Who you tellin? Almost cost me my head.”

I took my time opening the FedEx package, which bore Chaplain Wallace’s return address.

Re: Neal Lofert Woodell (092349)

Dear Mrs. Woodell:

I thought for the sake of your son that you would want to be informed of your former husband’s condition. He has suffered
acutely from a new attack of delirium tremens, apparently brought about by yet another difficult withdrawal from alcohol.
I know this comes as a shock to you, because he was not assumed by anyone, myself included, to have access to alcohol here.

As you can imagine, such substances can be smuggled in, unfortunately only by prison employees. He was supplied with vodka,
which could not be detected on his breath, though it was detected in blood and urine samples. He denied knowing how his system
could evidence signs of the same.

Apparently he ran out of whatever mode of payment he had been making, and his supply was cut off. An investigation continues
here to determine who was bringing in the liquor. Meanwhile, his condition is not good. For several days he suffered the typical
hallucinations. He now tells me they were more vivid and terrifying even than last time, which was the worst I had seen anyone
endure. He may wish to inform you of the details, but I will spare you that for now.

More important, according to the physician here, Neal suffered from profound perspiration leading to dehydration, a dangerously
elevated heart rate during convulsions,
and a blood pressure reading in the critical danger zone. He has suffered two heart attacks, one severe and the other not
so severe except for a man in his condition, and also kidney failure.

He is on heavy medication to sedate the central nervous system, is on IVs for constant hydration, along with whatever fluids
they can get him to take orally, electrolytes for salt, multivitamins, and a strict diet. Of course, his strict avoidance
of alcohol is key, but I fear he has no self-control in that area and would eagerly take a drink if he could get one.

The doctor is most concerned with the kidney and heart failures and, I must tell you, is pessimistic about Neal’s survival
regardless. Were you to elect that your son see his father again, the doctor urges that you consider a trip within the next
thirty days.

Very truly yours,

Rev. Alton Wallace, Chaplain

Alabama State Penitentiary

A
week from the following Monday, Momma and I sat on a train in Chicago that would take us all the way to Birmingham, Alabama.

“Bet you don’t like wasting your vacation like this,” I said.

My mother shrugged. “It’s for you. It’s okay.”

“Am I still going to be able to go to college?”

Momma smiled. “I didn’t take all your college money, El. I just borrowed it and will be paying it back, okay?”

“I’ll put money in that fund someday,” I said. “Soon as I get my motor paid off, maybe Mr. Harkness will start paying me.”

I had walked all the way home from Lane Tech, hiding my tears from passersby. With every step I determined to work harder
than ever to show Hector Villagrande and anyone else that I could play with anybody.

“I hate to say it,” Momma had told me, “but I have seen the same things in you lately. You used to be the sweetest, most selfless
child, but you’ve become impressed with yourself.”

“I’m impressive,” I said.

“But only until people know you’re aware of it, El. Then it’s obnoxious, and it’s only going to get you what you got today.
Let people discover you.”

From now on I would let my play do my talking. It had taken
that shot between the eyes from Hector Villagrande to make me see the light. Maybe I would still like to play for Hector
some day.

At the secondhand shop a few days before my mother and I left for Alabama, Lucky’s electrician friend showed up. We sat in
the back room, just me and the tall, skinny man with a bobbing Adam’s apple. “This here is a good motor,” he said. “It’s not
new. Fact, they hardly make ‘em this good anymore for less than several hundred dollars. My question is, what’s it from and
how did you burn it up?”

“I can’t tell you what it’s from,” I began.

“Because you don’t know, or because it’s somethin illegal?”

“Neither. I just don’t wanna tell.”

“Well, were you jammin the thing somehow?”

“Yeah.”

“With what?”

“Plastic.”

“Why?”

“I can’t say.”

“Give me a general idea what you were trying to get it to do.”

“Start and stop at different speeds without turning it off.”

“That’s all I needed to know. You probably put your resistance out here, am I right?” He pointed to the end of the spinning
shaft.

“Actually, I put it out at the axle that’s driven by a belt.”

“Even worse. Puts too much torque on the—well, you don’t need to know all that. So what you want is a heavy-duty motor, this
size, that you can turn on, get warmed up and running, and then have it change speeds, what, sort of at random?”

I nodded.

“You want a different animal,” the man said. “It’s got a clutch in it, and a cooling system, and I can build right into it
your random, spring-loaded, metal resistor. It shouldn’t ever jam or overheat or break down, as long as you let it warm up
before you start askin it to change speeds.”

“Sounds fantastic.”

“Well, it is. Industry has some uses for motors like that, mostly
for mixing food and such, needing those unpredictable changes of speed, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what a
kid would need one for. I’d sure like to see your contraption.”

“Maybe someday,” I said. “How long before I can have this one?”

“I’d say two weeks and a hundred dollars. It’ll be rebuilt, but almost indestructible.”

Now, on the train, I said, “Wouldn’t it be something if that thing was ready when we got back home?”