Wild Pitch, page 14
Last night, Robbie had been so psyched to face the Yankees that he had tossed and turned in bed for hours. Today he was raring to go. So were the rest of the Orioles. He could read it in their faces. Last game, nothing to lose, let’s do this.
“Throwing strikes now!” his dad yelled. “Just like the old days!”
When the Yankees leadoff hitter stepped in against him, Robbie couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He wasn’t trying to show the kid up. He was just amazed at how relaxed and confident he felt.
Joey put down one finger. Fastball. Robbie nodded and went into his windup. Today, he thought, you’ll taste the real Robbie Hammond heater.
The batter never had a chance.
The ball was on him before he could react. It was belt-high and tantalizing—if you could actually see it. But the kid was just moving the bat off his shoulder—probably thinking: Uh-oh, here it is, do I swing?—when the ball slammed into Joey’s glove for strike one.
The next two pitches were similar. Robbie reared back and fired, and the batter flailed away at two straight blistering fastballs. He was already walking back to the dugout, shaking his head as Joey whipped the ball down to Carlos at third.
“Whoa!” said a voice behind Robbie. He turned to see Willie staring at him in astonishment.
“Robert William Hammond,” Willie said, “that is some serious cheese you’re throwing!”
Robbie nodded and tugged the brim of his cap down low. This was his all-business look. You don’t need a game face, he thought, when you’re throwing serious—what did Willie call it?—cheese. But a game face doesn’t hurt, either.
The next batter went down on four pitches, managing to foul off the second before Robbie finished him off with two letter-high fastballs. Now he could hear a buzz coming from the Yankees dugout. Who is this kid? was the gist of the murmured conversation. The Yankees were seeing a completely different pitcher than the timid, erratic soul they’d seen last time. And they didn’t seem thrilled.
The Orioles, on the other hand, seemed totally energized by their pitcher’s performance. When Robbie got the next batter on a weak dribbler to the mound to retire the side, the Orioles sprinted off the field, hooting and slapping gloves, more excited than Robbie had seen them all season. He looked over at his dad, who gave him a big smile and a thumbs-up as he headed out to coach third base.
“Keep pounding that fastball,” Ben said. “Throw as hard as you can for as long as you can. If you get tired, we’ll bring in Mike.”
“Yeah,” Marty added. “Remember what Plato said: ‘Better a little which is well done, than a great deal imperfectly.’”
Ben shot him a look. “Unless Plato was a pitching coach,” he said dryly, “we probably don’t need to be quoting him right at this moment.”
“Whatever,” Marty said, sulking. “That’s what I get for trying to help people.”
The Orioles’ sense of elation didn’t last long. Big Red was on the mound for the Yankees, and he was throwing almost as hard as Robbie. Willie drew a leadoff walk on a 3–2 count, but Big Red settled down after that to strike out Joey and Jordy and get Connor on a foul pop to the third baseman.
Robbie was about to take the mound again when Joey shuffled over, his shin guards flapping.
“You know who leads off for them this inning, right?”
Robbie grinned. “Lemme guess,” he said. “Big kid? Red hair? Big muscles?”
Joey grunted. “Fits the general description. ’Cept you forgot to add big mouth.”
“My bad,” Robbie said. “Think we can close that yap for him?”
The catcher looked at him, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “You know,” he said as the two bumped fists, “I believe we can.”
As Robbie warmed up, Big Red glared at him from the on-deck circle before swaggering to the plate. Robbie had to give him credit: the kid didn’t lack for confidence. The rest of the Yankees already seemed intimidated about facing Robbie and his heater. But not Big Red. As he dug in, he wore the same smirk he’d had that day at the batting cages, the same smirk he’d worn the last time the two teams met.
“PITCHER’S GOT NUTHIN’, HONEY!” a shrill female voice yelled from the stands. “TOTAL RAG ARM! TAKE HIM DEEP! JUST LIKE LAST TIME!”
Ah, Robbie thought, that must be Big Red’s mom. Sounds as pleasant as her kid. For an instant, he wondered where Big Red’s dad was. Probably back home, yelling at little kids to stay off his lawn.
Robbie was amped. Since seeing Stevie Altman, all he had thought about was Big Red and striking him out. But maybe he was a little too amped now. He rocked, kicked, and fired a chin-high fastball that Joey had to leap to corral.
Ball one.
Big Red stepped out and sneered. “Wild thing,” he sang, “you make my heart sing.…”
“Knock it off, batter,” the ump barked.
“Sure, Mr. Umpire,” Big Red said sarcastically. “You’re totally the boss.”
Robbie was livid. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest. He took a deep breath and remembered Ben’s advice: Don’t overthrow. This is what you’ve been waiting for, he told himself. Don’t blow it. Go get the big jerk.
Just like that, he felt an eerie calm come over him again. His next pitch was a laser on the outside corner. Big Red swung from his heels. His bat caught nothing but air.
Strike one.
Joey put down one finger again. Robbie nodded, went into his windup, and fired. Fastball, inside. Big Red swung even harder this time, grunting from the effort. The muscles in his forearms seemed to ripple. But the ball popped harmlessly into Joey’s glove.
Strike two.
Behind him, Robbie could hear the Orioles pounding their gloves and yelling encouragement, their cheers getting louder with each pitch.
Big Red stepped out. Now the smirk was gone, replaced by a look of…well, Robbie wasn’t sure. Confusion? Uncertainty? Shaking his head and muttering to himself, Big Red seemed to take forever before he stepped back in.
“THAT’S OKAY, YOU STILL GOT HIM, HONEY!” the voice from the stands yelled. “SHOW THAT LITTLE LOSER WHAT YOU GOT!”
This time Robbie made Big Red wait. He stared in at the big guy for what seemed like ten seconds. Finally he reared back and fired, a high fastball that seemed to dart and rise on its way to the plate.
Big Red swung so hard he fell down, ending up sprawled in the dirt as players from both teams giggled uncontrollably.
“Strike three!” the ump cried.
Which is when Big Red had a meltdown.
First he swung the bat high over his head and brought it crashing down on the plate. Then he yanked off his batting helmet and fired it into the Yankees dugout, scattering a few teammates.
In a flash, the umpire whipped off his mask. Robbie could see it was the same ump who had worked the first Orioles-Yankees game, the same ump Big Red had jawed at after homering off Robbie.
His face contorted with anger, the ump started to raise his right hand, his thumb jutting upward.
Which was when Robbie said another silent prayer.
No, please don’t toss him, ump! I want to do that again.
A figure popped out of the Yankees dugout and sprinted to the plate. It was their coach. Before the ticked-off umpire could react, the coach grabbed Big Red by the shoulders and hustled him off the field, murmuring apologetically, “Heh-heh, no need for any ejections, ump. The boy just got a little excited. He’s very sorry for his behavior, aren’t you, son?”
“Not really,” Big Red snarled, squirming to escape the coach’s grasp.
Now a woman dressed in a Yankees satin jacket and skinny jeans, with flaming red hair piled high on her head, tottered onto the field in high heels.
“STOP MANHANDLING MY SON, YOU BIG OX!” she screeched, advancing on the startled Yankees coach.
“Mom, you’re embarrassing me!” Big Red shouted, a look of alarm on his face.
As the umpire and the two coaches attempted to calm the irate woman and restore order, Robbie and Joey huddled with the Orioles infielders near the mound. They held their gloves to their faces so no one could see them laughing.
“Win or lose,” Willie said, “this is the greatest game ever!”
“Yeah, well guess what? We ain’t losing,” Joey growled.
“You’re right,” Willie said. “Let’s win this sucker. Assuming the game ever continues, that is.”
They looked over near the Yankees dugout, where Big Red’s mom was still carrying on, her decibel level nearing that of a chain saw roaring to life.
“No wonder Big Red’s got so many, um, issues,” Willie said, shaking his head.
Now Ben walked out to join them.
“Guys,” he said, “don’t let Big Red and his crazy mom distract you. Stay loose. Throw the ball around. Focus on the game. None of this other stuff matters.”
The Orioles nodded. They broke up the mound conference and played catch to keep their arms warm. Still, it took another five minutes for Big Red’s enraged mom to be coaxed off the field. And this happened only after the ump waved his cell phone in front of her like it was pepper spray and threatened to call the police and forfeit the game to the Orioles if she didn’t leave immediately.
“YOU WOULDN’T DARE!” Big Red’s mom shouted.
“Try me,” the ump said calmly. “And by the way? You are to leave the premises altogether.”
When he began dialing 9-1-1 with one beefy finger, Big Red’s mom stamped her high heels in frustration and stalked out to the parking lot.
When the game finally resumed, the low rumble of thunder could be heard off in the distance. Robbie looked up anxiously. The storm was getting closer. He found himself working even more quickly now, striking out the next batter on four pitches before getting the Yankees number six hitter to ground out to Jordy to end the inning.
“Need some runs!” Ben said as the Orioles hustled off the field, high-fiving Robbie. “Can’t win if we don’t score.”
But from there, the game settled into a classic pitchers’ duel. The two teams were still locked in a scoreless tie in the bottom of the fourth inning. Big Red was just as dominating on the mound as Robbie was—by league rules, both boys could pitch the full six innings, since neither team had played another game that week.
In the Orioles dugout, the tension was increasing. Here they were, so close to their only win of the season, finally getting a dominating performance from their own pitcher—yet they seemed as helpless at the plate against Big Red as the Yankees were against Robbie.
As Big Red warmed up to start the fourth, the Orioles saw Ben walk up to Coach in the dugout and whisper in his ear. Coach nodded and said, “Good idea.” He clapped his hands and gathered the Orioles around him.
“I think we can agree Big Red’s pitching a heck of a game,” he began.
“Gee, what makes you say that, Coach?” Marty said. “Just ’cause the kid’s got, like, eight strikeouts? And looks like Tim Lincecum out there?”
Coach ignored the sarcasm. “So we’re playing ‘small ball’ this inning,” he continued. “Which means everyone’s up there bunting. Let’s see if Big Red can field as well as he pitches. See how good the catcher and corner infielders are, too.”
The Orioles looked at each other and shrugged. Why not? Nothing else was working.
Joey led off and pushed a bunt down the first base line that he beat out when Big Red was slow getting off the mound. Jordy sacrificed the runner to second with another bunt right back to the pitcher. Then Connor’s bunt in front of the plate was pounced on by the Yankees catcher, who made a nice throw to first for the second out.
But now Joey was at third. The Orioles’ first run was a mere sixty feet away. And the Yankees seemed shaken by what was happening.
When Carlos popped up yet another bunt attempt, the third baseman was so rattled that he stumbled, breaking in on the ball, and dropped it. And there was Carlos, safe at first as Joey crossed the plate with the game’s first run.
Big Red stared daggers at the third baseman, who hung his head and kicked at the dirt.
“Be nice if someone could catch the freakin’ ball!” the pitcher said loudly. He grabbed the rosin bag and slammed it down in disgust as the Yankees infielders glanced at each other and shook their heads.
The next batter, Riley, also popped up his bunt attempt, but this time it was gloved by the catcher for the third out. Still, the Orioles’ strategy had worked to perfection.
Orioles 1, Yankees 0.
If they could hang on for two more innings…
As Robbie warmed up, the sky looked even more ominous. But he knew that if the weather held up, the game was far from over. He had seen too many other teams get overconfident and blow the lead with careless play. And how many times had he watched a pitcher ease up in the late innings and get hammered?
No way I’m easing up, he thought. Not now. Not with a chance to finally get a win for these guys after the crappy season I helped put them through.
He struck out the first Yankees batter on three straight letter-high fastballs. The next kid was clearly trying to draw a walk, crouching so low it was comical. But Robbie didn’t care how small the strike zone was now—he didn’t care if it was the size of a party napkin. He blew three straight fastballs by that kid, too.
Two outs. The thunder was getting louder now. It was getting darker. The air smelled thick with rain.
And coming to bat for the Yankees was none other than Big Red.
“TIME!” a voice cried, and Ben bounded out of the Orioles dugout.
When he reached the mound, he said, “Coach sent me out here. Says he’s too nervous to come out and talk to you himself.”
Robbie nodded. “Dad gets like that sometimes.”
Ben looked in at the plate, where Big Red was scowling and taking vicious practice cuts, his big black bat whistling through the air.
“You knew it would come down to this, right?” Ben said. “You against him? Probably for the game?”
Robbie grinned. “Actually, I didn’t,” he said. “But I kinda hoped it would.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Ben warned. “Be careful with him. The kid’s a tool, sure. But he’s a dangerous hitter, too. One swing and the game could be tied.”
Robbie nodded. “I have a plan,” he said quietly.
Ben studied him. “A plan, huh?” he said. “Any chance of sharing it with the rest of your team?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Robbie said. “That way if it doesn’t work, it’s all on me.”
Ben rolled his eyes and turned to go. “Great,” he said. “That ought to really make your dad feel better.”
Actually, Robbie did have a plan. It was something he’d been thinking about since he struck out Big Red in the second inning, a plan for how to pitch the big slugger so he didn’t get lucky and catch up to a fastball and launch it into lunar orbit like last game.
As Big Red dug in, Robbie peered in for the sign. Joey put down one finger. Robbie shook him off.
He could almost hear his catcher thinking: Whaa? What are you doing?
Joey put down one finger again, more emphatically this time.
Again, Robbie shook him off. He could see Joey’s puzzled look behind the thick face mask, but this was no time for explanations.
Finally, Joey shrugged and put down two fingers.
Curveball.
Robbie nodded.
Perfect.
Just as he’d expected, Big Red was waiting on the fastball, all keyed up to get the bat started early after his humiliating strikeout in the second inning. The big, slow curve took him completely by surprise. He stood frozen, the bat still on his shoulder, while the ball dipped over the plate at the last minute for strike one.
Now a lightbulb seemed to switch on in Joey’s brain, just like in the cartoons.
Ohhh, I get it.
He put down two fingers again. Robbie nodded and went into his windup. This time the ball seemed headed straight for Big Red’s left shoulder. But just as he leaped back to avoid it, it broke sharply across the plate for strike two.
“HOO-EE!” Joey cried, firing the ball back to Robbie. “That’s one sick hook!”
Big Red stepped out, muttering to himself. Robbie felt a raindrop hit his arm. Then he felt a few more, and a few more after that. He looked up at the sky, almost black now. It was going to pour any minute.
This time, he didn’t wait for a sign. As soon as Big Red stepped back in, Robbie went into his windup. He kicked, rocked, and delivered, snapping his wrist hard. The ball was on its way, spinning mesmerizingly toward the plate.
Only…Big Red was ready for a breaking ball this time. But not this breaking ball. As he swung, the ball seemed to swerve and drop straight down, landing in Joey’s mitt with a soft WHUMP!
Strike three.
“NO-O-O!” Big Red screamed, tomahawking the plate with his bat again. Now lightning streaked across the sky and the loud crack of thunder made them all jump. The rain started gushing in thick, gray sheets.
The ump whipped off his mask and waved his hands high in the air.
Ball game over.
Final score: Orioles 1, Yankees 0.
The rest of the Orioles came sprinting toward Robbie, ignoring the downpour. Marty was the first to reach him, whooping and jumping on his back. Robbie saw his dad and Ben coming toward him, too.
“Never been prouder of you, son!” Coach said.
“Do you even remember what a win feels like?” Ben yelled, draping his arm around Robbie’s neck as they all ran for cover.
Robbie beamed, the raindrops bouncing off his face like tiny clear pebbles.
“Tell you the truth,” he said, “I almost forgot.”
It was a lazy Monday afternoon, and Robbie, Marty, and Ben were back at Eddie Murray Field. The big thunderstorm of two days ago had left everything looking fresh and green and shiny. The cinnamon-colored base paths had been raked smooth, and the smell of new-mown grass filled the air.
The end of baseball season always made Robbie sad. But there was no place on earth he’d rather be today, throwing the ball around with his buds.
