The Youngest Hero (48 page)

“Now, before you get all hot and sweaty, and before you have to dress in the coat and slacks your mother selected for the
press conference, I want to give you a slightly belated birthday present.”

“You already got me a birthday present, Mr. Thatcher. What’s this?”

“Well, it’s not really from me,” Thatcher said, handing me the package. “It’s from your employers.”

I removed the strings and tore away the brown paper, revealing the new home and away Brave uniforms. There is nothing like
the real thing. I had worn leftover, football-numbered, hand-me-down jerseys in the minors that sometimes didn’t even match
the pants. Here were beautiful whites and grays with shiny red numbers and letters, red piping, logos in place.

“Turn that one over, honey,” Momma said. “The away jersey should have your name on it.”

I turned the gray Atlanta jersey over and gasped. I bit my lip hard but lost the battle against tears. Under the crisp, perfect
lettering that read WOODELL were two huge and beautiful digits: 16.

My face contorted and the tears came. “Daddy’s number,” I said. “How did they know?”

Mr. Thatcher put a hand on my shoulder. “I wonder,” he said.

I was still dabbing my eyes when Elgin emerged wearing the away uniform. He padded around in stocking feet, looking in the
mirror and tugging at the cap. I still couldn’t believe it. Elgin looked like a long, lanky teenager, maybe four years older
than he was, but he still looked small in that uniform. Had it
been that long ago that he begged to play on a team that had both shirts and pants?

“Sure beats that old T-shirt, doesn’t it, El?”

“I can’t believe this,” he said, turning to show me the back again. “I’ll always think of the name on there as Dad’s, not
mine.”

It was sad Neal wasn’t here to see this.

Elgin tried on the uniform he would wear that night. Somehow, in the pure white, he looked even smaller.
He’s a child, a baby, playing a man’s game
. If people ever wondered what they came to the ballpark for, they’d know after they saw my son play.

He would hustle on and off the field, would run out every grounder, encourage every teammate, know every situation. He played
ball the way it was meant to be played, and he enjoyed it as no one ever had or ever would again.

There would be those who thought no one so young and inexperienced deserved the break Elgin was getting. But I knew better
than anyone that his life had been hard. He had seen his daddy beat me, and he had lost a sister. He had seen his daddy ruin
his own life with drink and lies. Elgin had lived in poverty and had gone without in a society that treated lower-middle-class
people like scum.

If anybody deserved this, Elgin did. He had taken no shortcuts, never got discouraged, always bounced back. What other kid
on earth would have spent as much time with that crazy machine that flung those rock-like balls at him from so many different
directions at blinding speed? Gifted? Sure he was, but he had begun honing his gifts from the first day.

Mr. Thatcher and Luke and I would be in a private box with Brave executives when Elgin was introduced to the standing-room-only
crowd for the first time. I would be good for nothing, probably not even able to clap for him. I stuffed two packets of tissue
in my purse and dressed in a way I hoped would make Elgin, and Lucas, proud.

I wished I could have been invisible. This was Elgin’s moment. I didn’t need or want the spotlight. Let him have it. He’d
know what to do with it. I would have less and less influence on him
as the season went by and as his career continued, but I felt good about that. I would stay close enough to keep him humble,
to remind him who he was and who he wasn’t. But tonight he would become a baseball legend, and I wouldn’t get in the way of
that for anything.

I stood at the rim of the crowd of reporters and cameramen at the late-afternoon press conference. I couldn’t have imagined
Elgin looking smaller or younger, with the manager on one side of him, the GM on the other, and the president and owner’s
representative behind.

“Gentlemen,” the GM intoned, “I know this is a historic day, but we’ll have to move it along, because this young man has to
be on the field soon. He has a job.”

There were the usual photos of handshakes and holding up uniforms. Then Elgin asked for the away jersey.

“This is the one I’m proudest of,” he said. “My dad’s number was sixteen, and of course his name was Woodell. I’ve learned
a lot from all the coaches I’ve had, but I’m here because of my dad. He’s gone now, but he was the one who taught me the game
and made me love it and work at it. Thank you, Daddy.”

T
he Turner Field scoreboard flashed that the youngest player in the history of baseball would start at first base that night,
as if it was news to anyone. When I ran out for the top of the first inning, having been announced as batting eighth, I received
a huge ovation from the standing-room-only crowd.

I had always dreamed of playing before a packed stadium. But now, with at least five times the people who had ever seen me
play riveted on me alone, I was embarrassed and self-conscious. I had heard of having butterflies. Mine were moths.

I had taken a ball with me to warm up the infielders. How strange, throwing grounders to someone like Luis Sanchez, the shortstop
I’d idolized and had met only in spring training. I was aware of every move, and nothing seemed natural. Did I look as awkward
as I felt?

That nervousness subsided when Brave starter Roger Densing threw his last warm-up toss and Ken Clark rifled the ball to second.
I rolled my ball toward the dugout and watched the others throw the game ball around before delivering it back to the mound.

Clark had reminded me that I should care as much about the signal as the pitcher, “because you’ll start to learn where the
ball is going off the bat if you know what we’re throwing the guy.”

I found myself hoping for a routine grounder to second so I could receive a nice, easy throw. That was the wrong attitude.
I should hope for a big-league line drive right at my feet, and I should be prepared to go on automatic pilot and prove I
belonged.

Maybe it had all been a fluke. What if I made a fool of myself?

Big, bearded Roger Densing was the oldest Brave, a veteran of eleven years. He’d won a Cy Young, and though his fastball had
slowed into the high eighties, he was still intimidating, even to me.

Clark called for a fastball in, and the leadoff hitter skied a high pop to third. I was relieved I had not been in on the
play but wished the Braves used a throw-around routine after the out that included the first baseman. I needed something to
get my mind off myself and into the game. Clark jogged to the mound and motioned me to join him.

I sprinted over, embarrassed, knowing I looked like a Little Leaguer doing that. I looked expectantly at Clark, but he was
looking at Densing, who turned and glared at me. He didn’t make it obvious to the crowd or the TV cameras, but when he spoke
softly in a gravelly voice, I heard him well.

“Who was coverin first on that play?” he said.

I didn’t know what to say. “Well, I—”

“Runner was doggin it to first base. That ball drops, we still get him if our first baseman’s covering. You were five feet
away and watchin the play. He drops it, you try to get back, you’re a small target anyway, he throws it away, and they’d have
a guy in scoring position.”

Wow, he thought of all that just now
?

The ump started toward us to tell us to move it along. Clark backed away, slowing him. Densing continued.

“How do you think I’ve lasted this long? I don’t care if you’re three years old and the best thing that’s come along since
quiche on a stick. Do the little things right. We’re throwin this guy low and away four straight times if we have to. He hates
to walk so he’s gonna put one of those in play, and it’s probably
gonna come to the right side. You’re gonna be in on a play, Rook, so get your butt in the game.”

My face burned as I hurried back. Now I was too close to the grass. Clark was waving me back. But what if they bunted? I didn’t
care. I would just obey. Roger Densing had blamed me for having a runner in scoring position, and nobody had reached base!
Guys were sure hard to please at this level.

First pitch, hard and down, off the outside corner. Batter swings. Ball is between first and second. I had broken to my right
on the swing, aware of shrill young people in the crowd, watching their youngest hero going after the ball. From the corner
of my eye I see the second baseman won’t reach it.

I bend and reach, still on the dead run. The ball is in my glove. Densing is all arms and belly, angling to cover first. Just
like him to do it right. I pivot, plant, and fire, leading Densing by a step. The big pitcher catches up to the throw as he
draws parallel with the bag and beats the runner.

I’m smacked hard on the seat by the second baseman and suddenly become aware of the delirious standing crowd. This was a play
they had seen the left-handed Gerry Snyder make in his sleep. But who knew the rookie would be up to it?

Ken Clark had followed the runner down the line, and as he took the ball from Densing they both stopped and jabbed index fingers
at me as if to say, “That play was yours, buddy, and it was big-league!” I could have done a cartwheel.

With two outs the third hitter sent a grounder to short. Luis looked the ball into his glove, then came up searching not for
my glove but my eyes. It was as if the shortstop were saying, “See how easy we make it for you here,” and I knew the joy of
taking a long, hard throw straight to the glove. This was going to be fun!

I tossed the ball to the first-base umpire, who said, “Nice inning, Rook.”

The Braves didn’t fare much better against Leverance, the best pitcher in baseball, so I didn’t come up until I led off the
bottom of the third. The self-consciousness and nervousness came back in the on-deck circle as I watched the heavy, hard
strikes popping the catcher’s glove. As my name was announced I heard the thunderous applause, but when I stepped in left-handed,
I was on automatic again.

I ran through my mind the cadence and pace and sheer, unpredictable speed of the machine I had faced that afternoon. Leverance’s
first pitch was a straight fastball I should have jumped on. Strike one. Would this guy dare another, just like that one?
Of course he would. He wouldn’t suspect a kid could hit his best pitch.

It was on the outside corner and I sent my third-base coach diving out of the way. The crowd laughed, then cheered. Was that
the wild, lucky swing of a child? They could think that only until the next one came inside and I did the same to my first-base
coach.

Impressive or not, I was down oh-and-two and would not likely see another hittable fastball. I waited, patient, reaching to
foul off pitches close enough to be called strikes but not fat enough to drive. Eventually I ran the count full. When Leverance
lost me on a pitch at chin level, the crowd was merciless to him.

Densing pushed me to second on a hit-and-run ground out, and Leverance nearly threw the ball into center on a pickoff play
that might have caught me. Leadoff man Mike Martinez followed with a double in the gap, and I ran so hard I nearly stumbled
twice. How sweet to feel my spikes dig into that plate and score my first big-league run.

When I got to the dugout, no one looked at me. It was as if they hadn’t realized I was back.

“Well,” I said, “one to nothing, huh?”

“Yup,” someone said.

“Yeah?” someone else said. “How’d we score?”

“How’d we score?” I said. “Well, I just did when Martin—“ but then I realized what was going on. Only then did the guys on
the bench take turns shaking my hand.

I popped out in the fifth, again to a huge ovation from people who were probably impressed that I was brave enough to even
get in the box. When I came to the plate batting righty
against a fireballing lefty reliever in the seventh, I was welcomed by the crowd as a new friend.

“All heat,” the previous hitter told me as he trudged to the bench after a strikeout. ‘Just try to get wood on it.”

It had been years since I had simply tried to get my bat on a ball. I wasn’t going to reach out and hope for the best. I was
going up there to drive the ball. The first pitch was hard and tight, just off the inside corner. Ball one.

The next should be a fastball on the outside corner. If I was wrong, I might get plunked. If I was right, I would take the
pitch to the opposite field.

As I slid into second ahead of the throw from right center-field, I couldn’t remember having rounded first or looking to the
third-base coach. I had my first major-league hit. The crowd was up and roaring. Instead of stepping to the plate to resume
the game, Roger Densing stood leaning on his bat and let me have my moment.

That one was for you, Dad
, I thought, and I knew my dad would be telling me to keep my head in the game. The Braves were up by three, and it was time
to try to put this thing away.