One Shot at Forever, page 19
In the eyes of the pro scouts, Uremovich was one of two or three surefire prospects at the state tournament, and his teammates had long since grown accustomed to seeing up to a dozen scouts at their games. These men loved Mike’s size and power, and what Journal Star columnist Phil Theobald described as “the howitzer hanging from his right shoulder.” They also loved his attitude—not just the leadership but the intensity. In the conference playoffs, Uremovich had broken a bat with his bare hands after striking out.
Mentally, Uremovich had prepared for the chance to play Lane Tech. Then, on Friday morning, one of the coaches came into to his room, where he and a few teammates were watching TV. “I’ve got some news,” the coach announced. “Lane Tech lost to Macon.” The boys were shocked.
All Uremovich knew about Macon was that they were a tiny school and their team had “speed in centerfield, the big hitter, and the pitcher.” He’d learned long ago never to take an opponent for granted, though. There would be no giggling about peace signs so long as he was on the Waukegan bench.
By the time Macon and Waukegan took to the field at 4:30 P.M. for the state final, the Ironmen had gone national. Charles Chamberlain of the Associated Press filed a story entitled, “At Macon High School Baseball’s a Happening.”
Chamberlain referred to Macon as a “dot in Central Illinois,” noted that they became the smallest school ever to reach the finals in thirty-two years of Illinois high school baseball, and described the boys as “a bunch of rock music lovers with long hair.” He also mentioned Barb Jesse, the team’s official scorer, “who sits on the bench wearing a ponytail.”
While Chamberlain was preparing his story, the Macon fans had continued celebrating. With five hours to kill before the final, the teachers and parents did what any sane Maconite would do on such a heady day. They made straight for the cool interior of a bar.
By the time they returned to Meinen Field, they discovered that the 4 P.M. heat was even worse than the 11 A.M. heat. Keeping their energy up was going to be a challenge. Even so, most of the fans were alert enough to notice that, with only half an hour to go before game time, Macon’s coach and star player were nowhere to be found.
Not far away, Sweet and Shartzer fidgeted in Bradley University’s training room. That morning’s trip to wrap Shartzer’s wrist had been a snap. This time, however, not only had the duo showed up late, but the process was taking longer.
Still, Shartzer wasn’t too concerned. He didn’t need long to get warmed up. As the minutes ticked by, though, he began to worry about how the delay would affect the perception of Sweet. As the season went on, Shartzer had begun to feel protective of his coach. Sweet could laugh it off when people mocked him, but Shartzer took it personally. He knew everything Sweet did to help the team. How he understood which players to boost up and which to take down a peg with a well-placed joke. How he invited the team over to play cards at his trailer, and how he took them hunting and fishing, making them feel not like boys but men. How when one of the freshmen got scared on an overnight trip and came to Sweet’s door, the coach had invited him in to sleep in his room even though Jeanne was there and it was probably the last thing he wanted to do.
When together, Shartzer and Sweet never talked of bigger picture topics. Still, slowly and subtly, Sweet pushed the boy. When Shartzer had gotten sick of basketball and decided he didn’t want to play, it was Sweet who took him for a walk, leading him down to the gym, where he pointed at Arnold and Glan and the others. “These are your teammates, Shark. They need you. Now get out there.” Peer pressure didn’t work on Shartzer but this was different. This he understood. He rejoined the team that day.
Over time, Sweet and Shartzer had become closer than most in Macon knew. Now they had a chance to do something special. Just so long as the doctors finished the damn tape job.
At Meinen Field, the minutes ticked by. Now it was 4:10. Now 4:15. And still, the Area Player of the Year and Coach of the Year were nowhere to be seen. What’s more, Sweet had all the gear in his car. With no other choice, the Macon boys borrowed a couple of baseballs from a kid who lived nearby. Finally, fearing the worst, Jack Heneberry walked over and told his son he should probably start getting loose. John’s arm was shot from that morning’s game, and he doubted he could get the ball over the plate with any snap, but he dutifully started preparing. Dale Otta, the most organized and conscientious of the boys, became particularly agitated. This was the state finals, where was their coach? Behind the bench, the parents fretted. It was decided that Bob Shartzer would take over as coach if necessary.
Finally, with only five minutes to spare, Sweet pulled up outside the field in the school van. Next to him, Steve Shartzer jumped out of the passenger seat carrying a crumpled-up ball of athletic tape, the remnants of the trainer’s work.
With a quick hop, Shartzer made for the mound. Around him, the Macon fans rose by the hundreds in the heat and began cheering. Their hero had arrived.
From the press seating, Joe Cook watched and wondered if he’d been wrong. What if this kid could do it? By this point, Shartzer had pitched four consecutive shutouts in tournament play. Granted, he’d thrown seven innings only a day earlier and his left hand appeared to be bothering him, but Cook had learned not to underestimate the boy.
Then again, Waukegan had an ace of its own on the mound. Tall and with dark, Hollywood looks, Paul Waidzunas had pitched a five-hitter in the tournament opener and was 7–0 on the season. Though not overpowering, the junior reminded teammates of Orioles ace Jim Palmer, a pitcher who could move the ball around and hit his spots. He had a good fastball, a curve, a slider, and a changeup.
As Cook began to jot down the lineup, he got word that one of the Waukegan players, a boy named Frank Gaziano, wasn’t playing due to heat stroke. It was going to be a rough one.
When Cook finished, the lineups for the thirty-second Illinois High School State Baseball Championship looked like this:
WAUKEGAN
MACON
Jim Davila
LF
Mark Miller
2B
Joe Rajcevich
1B
Dale Otta
SS
Mike Uremovich
C
Steve Shartzer
P
Hal Hollstein
3B
Stu Arnold
CF
Bert Bereczky
SS
Dean Otta
C
Jack White
RF
David Wells
LF
Jim Dietmeyer
2B
Jeff Glan
1B
Joe Mirretti
CF
Brian Snitker
RF
Paul Waidzunas
P
John Heneberry
3B
The game began and Shartzer felt it from the first pitch: Something was off. He walked the leadoff hitter, who then stole second base. The next batter, Rajcevich, singled and stole second as well. The Ironmen weren’t accustomed to this. Usually they were the ones stealing bases. Behind the plate, Dean Otta smacked his glove in anger. On the mound, Shartzer, usually so proud of his pick-off move, stewed. Then Uremovich drove in a run with a ground ball: 1–0, Waukegan.
Up stepped third baseman Harold Hollstein. A dead pull hitter, Hollstein was a big, lumbering boy—“slow as the devil on the basepaths,” according to teammate Joe Mirretti—who could hit it a mile. Even so, he proceeded to do the most unexpected thing: He squared to bunt. Heneberry and Glan were playing a mile back at the corners and Shartzer was caught off guard. Who puts on the suicide squeeze with their cleanup hitter?
What Shartzer didn’t know was that, unlike so many teams that had taken Macon for granted, Waukegan had scouted the Ironmen. After the semifinal that morning, Waukegan assistants Rick Mowen and an old coaching friend of Mallory’s, Tommy Correll, returned with two pieces of advice: You can run on them, and you can bunt on them.
This wasn’t a big surprise. At the time, bunting was a common tactic in Illinois high school ball, and often an effective one. Given uneven diamonds, pitchers who were unsure fielders, and third basemen unaccustomed to making throws on the run, just getting the ball down often led to an error or a base hit. Whereas this was indeed a good strategy against Heneberry, who had limited fielding range (and who had pitched the semi that Waukegan had scouted), Shartzer was another matter. Not only did his fastball tend to rise, making it difficult to get down a good bunt, but his defensive range was such that when he played third, as Mt. Zion coach Ed Neighbors says, “It was like the kid was also playing short.” Put Shartzer on the mound and he could cover the whole middle of the infield.
So when Hollstein sent a bunt trickling down the third base line, it normally wouldn’t have been effective. But now not only did the big Waukegan kid own the element of surprise, but Shartzer was hobbled by a bad glove hand. Charging the ball, Steve knew his only play was at first, and another run scored. Now it was 2–0 Waukegan.
An inning later, it got worse. Uncharacteristically, Shartzer lost control of a fastball and plunked a batter. A stolen base and a passed ball later, Waukegan had another run. Macon was in a 3–0 hole.
Meanwhile, just as in the early innings of the Lane Tech game, the Ironmen were listless at the plate. Unlike against Lane, however, there was no midgame rally. One Ironman batter after another hit weak grounders, due in part to the sinking motion on Waidzunas’ pitches. Making matters worse, Macon received no help from the Waukegan defense. Without many walks or errors, the Ironmen couldn’t get on base, and without base runners they couldn’t create havoc. When they did have one opportunity to run, Uremovich had unholstered that howitzer and gunned down the would-be thief with ease. It wasn’t until the fourth inning that Mark Miller singled for the Ironmen’s first base hit, but his teammates couldn’t bring him home.
Then, in the top of the sixth, Waukegan struck again. Uremovich singled to right for his sixth hit in ten tournament at-bats, a two-day hot streak he later called “The best hitting days of my life.” A wild pitch sent Uremovich to second and then Shartzer, to his amazement, was called for a balk. No one called balks in the Meridian conference. With Uremovich on third, all it took was a lazy sacrifice fly to bring him home. The scoreboard now read Waukegan 4, Macon 0.
In the stands, the Macon fans sat looking glum. They’d used up so much energy earlier in the day, and it was so hot, that the slightest exertion was draining. Even Cliff Brown, with the giant flag, was listless. Only one inning remained in Macon’s fairy-tale season and this was how it would end?
And then, in the bottom of the seventh, a glimmer of hope: Shartzer crushed a pitch to deep left that barely curled foul, and then, unfazed, he stepped back up and stroked a single. An error, a wild pitch, and a groundout later, Shartzer tore home to score Macon’s first run. Moments later, Wells singled to drive in another, prompting Mallory to yank Waidzunas in favor of Rick Haapanen. Wells greeted him by stealing second. Now the Ironmen were down only 4–2 with one out. Better yet, Jeff Glan, who was leading the Ironmen in batting average during the tournament, walked to the plate.
In the bleachers the Macon fans rose. The purple flag whipped through the heat. As it did, it was joined by an unusual but familiar sound: BANG! BANG! BANG! Shirt unbuttoned to his navel, shades on, muttonchops thick with sweat, the Lane Tech drummer was now on the Macon side of the bleachers. He’d been so impressed with the Ironmen in the morning that he’d decided to stick around. Maybe they’d need his help. So now he slammed on the drum as, around him, parents and students and little kids roared with him. All afternoon this is what they’d waited for: one more shot.
In center field, senior Joe Mirretti readied himself. He knew Glan didn’t have a ton of power, so he played in a bit. During long summers of American Legion ball, Mirretti had played on plenty of impressive fields but Meinen was the finest he’d ever set foot on. The grass was perfectly groomed, like a warm green carpet. He crept in even farther, knowing the ball wouldn’t take any strange bounces. Then, on the third pitch to Glan, he heard a crack.
Standing off second base, Wells heard the same noise and saw enough to know Glan had muscled an inside fastball and that it was headed toward left center. Head down, Wells took off for third. Tall and lanky, he was one of the fastest players on the team. As he approached third he looked up, unaware of where the ball was. All he saw was Sweet waving him home.
Down the first base line, Glan rounded the bag in time to look up and see two things happen at once: Wells tear around third and the center fielder field the ball cleanly. It would take a good throw, Glan thought, but he could get him.
Seeing the ball soaring toward him, Mirretti had charged it hard. After scooping it up, he did what he’d been taught to do for so many years: Don’t think, just react. So he came up firing, aiming to throw the ball right through the chest of the cutoff man, as Mallory taught all his outfielders.
Behind the plate, Mike Uremovich watched it all play out. The soft liner, the big kid taking off from second, Mirretti scooping it up. When he saw the Macon kid round third, Uremovich gauged the distance to Mirretti and began yelling at his shortstop. “DON’T CUT IT! DON’T CUT IT!” This one needed to come all the way home.
In center, Mirretti heaved the ball and watched it soar. Back in Waukegan, the school’s field sloped downward from home plate toward the outfield, so he was accustomed to throwing slightly uphill. At Meinen, however, because of the way the field’s drainage was planned, it was the opposite—now he was throwing down toward the plate. Mirretti knew it would give him a touch more power on his throw. Once he’d released the ball, all he could do was watch.
From the stands, Jack Heneberry followed the arc of the ball, his breath wedged in his throat. Outfield throws at the high school level were a risky proposition, especially without a cutoff man. Often enough, they ended up off line, or skidded to the backstop. Surely, Heneberry thought, the kid must be feeling the pressure.
Decades later, when the local paper ran a story about the greatest moments in Waukegan High sports history, number two on the list would be “Mirretti’s great throw.” Those on hand say they’ve seen few better. The ball came in, straight and true, bouncing once between the rubber and home. Later, Sweet would say: “It had to be on the money. If the kid had to do it ten times, we’re going to score seven or eight times.” As it was, Uremovich caught the ball a few feet up the third base line. Seeing Wells coming in standing up, he did what he’d been taught: He hid the ball behind the glove, reached up with both arms, and leveled his opponent in midstride. Wells went down and the ball stayed with Uremovich. The umpire looked, paused, and then yanked back his fist. “He’s OUT!”
And just like that, the Macon magic evaporated. Had Wells scored, it would have been 4–3 with one out and a runner in scoring position. Instead, it was 4–2 with two outs. The Macon fans settled back into the bleachers in disbelief.
It seemed a formality when the next batter, Brian Snitker, sent a chopper down the third base line for the final out.
The Ironmen didn’t have much time to grieve. No sooner had they finished shaking hands with the Waukegan players than the boys began receiving congratulations. Moments later, they were summoned to the infield.
There, IHSA executive secretary Harry Fitzhugh held aloft the second-place trophy. It wasn’t as large as Waukegan’s and was silver rather than gold. A shiny miniature batter crouched on top, frozen in midswing. “And now,” Fitzhugh said into a corded PA system, “I give the second-place trophy to Coach Smith and the Ironmen!”
If Fitzhugh noticed that Coach “Smith” was trying to stifle laughter as he accepted the trophy, he didn’t let on. Immediately, Sweet passed the trophy to the players, who gathered around him in dirty uniforms, sweat streaked down their faces. One by one they raised the trophy over their heads, to the cheers of the Macon faithful.
The crowd was still going when, a few minutes later, Waukegan was honored. Mallory complimented the Ironmen players and then said, “I would like to commend those fans seated right over there.” Then he pointed toward the Macon horde, hundreds of whom had stayed and continued to cheer.
Off to the side, a wide, powerful man stood taking it all in. Itchy Jones, the SIU coach, hadn’t come to see Steve Shartzer, but he sure as hell was glad he had. To Jones, Shartzer looked like a kid who could play at the big-time Division One level.
Shartzer wasn’t the only one being scouted. Lakeland College coach Gene Creek was also on hand, attending his sixth straight state tournament. Creek was different from many of the old-school coaches of the day; he was younger and sported his own set of bushy sideburns. After the game, he sidled up to Joe Cook. “Does Sweet have a master’s degree?” Creek asked. Cook said he didn’t know. Creek nodded. “If Sweet can inspire the kids to play that well, I should hire him as an assistant. I’m serious.”
A few minutes later, when Cook mentioned this to Sweet, the coach smiled. “Nice of the man to say,” Sweet said, but he couldn’t talk right now.
