Curveball, page 15
Joe and Frannie were flying east to watch Jess’s Sunday start against the Braves. Jack, Glad, and her son Dr. Stu were joining them. With fifteen games left in the regular season, the Mets had dropped two behind the Braves for first. But they remained tied with the Nats for the first and second Wild Cards, a game up on the Cards and D-backs, who were tied for the third. Not bad, Joe thought, a puncher’s chance. He looked out at the pale sky through his small window; the Mets controlled their own fate. He wished he did.
They were flying on Friday, coming in for a long weekend. They’d reach their hotel after tonight’s game started. Saturday, they had tickets for Hamilton. Jess’s start, the third and final game of the Braves’ series, had been moved to Sunday night on ESPN. Joe hoped his son didn’t feel too much pressure. If the Mets won the first two, his start would be for the division lead. If they split or, God forbid, the Braves won both, Jess could be pitching to keep the Mets alive in the Wild Card race.
No matter what, Sunday would be the biggest start of Jess’s career. Stretch run baseball, Joe mused, still looking out at the endless sky; it’s what you lived for. Unfortunately, during Joe’s career, the Mets didn’t play many meaningful September games, and just for a moment, Joe allowed himself to look back through lenses marked Regret and Sorrow, imagining how different things might have been if Sarah hadn’t slept with Nellie Perez, the first baseman. If Jack hadn’t snarled him in the scandal. If he hadn’t been suspended for refusing to answer the commissioner’s questions. If he hadn’t gotten shot and lost the last years of his career.
Then he heard Jack’s voice: If your grandma had balls, Joey, she woulda been your grandpa.
On the other hand, if he hadn’t been suspended, he wouldn’t have met Frannie. If he hadn’t met Frannie, his life would have been shit, and there’d be no Jess. Without Jess, he wouldn’t be flying to New York. If they weren’t flying to New York, he wouldn’t be seeing Avi Bernstein at Sloan Kettering Monday morning. Three days ago, Doc Perlman ordered another blood test, and instead of resuming its drop towards zero, Joe’s PSA had risen from 0.6 to 1.2.
Joe glanced at Frannie, seated on the aisle. They’d upgraded to business after the blood test. When you’re six-three and long-limbed, and your wife is almost six-two, extra leg room is worth the money. When, in the words of a song Joe couldn’t remember the title of, everyone knows your name, and not only that, some people know your face, even though it’s changed with age—and their associations with that face and name twenty-five years later combine hero worship and loathing over something they (and you) can’t recall the exact details of—the extra privacy afforded by business class was worth the money.
Joe dropped a hand on Frannie’s knee. She smiled then returned her gaze to the movie playing on the seat-back screen in front of her: car chase; rocket fire, a solitary woman shooter. Seeking peace in the blue sky outside his window, Joe offered a prayer for all he did not know.
Before starting, Jess liked to sleep in, but Sunday he woke early. Damn early, with worry whipsawing his anxious mind. The Braves’ first four batters, all tough outs. The pennant race, which was going badly. After splitting the first two games, the Mets remained two back of the Braves, with time running out. That meant the Braves would get the first round bye. Even worse, they’d dropped a game behind the Nats for the first Wild Card; the Nats had won both Friday and Saturday, while the Mets split. The Cards and D-backs had won both of their games, so the Mets were tied with them for the second and third Wild Cards. Because of head-to-head tie-breakers, if the season had ended last night, the Mets’ season would be over.
Finally, and this was the stew in which Jess had marinated half-awake the entire night, Furillo, the Mets’ regular catcher, had taken a foul tip off his right thumb yesterday. X-rays were negative, but after the game his thumb looked like a hot Italian sausage. After his postgame presser, Gallagher, who’d taken his lumps throughout the season for bonehead player moves, called Jess into his office.
“I don’t have to tell you,” Gallagher began, not looking Jess in the eye; he never did, “how important tomorrow’s game is.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Gallagher said.
Gib, the pitching coach, and Dad’s best friend, Mac, entered and stood beside Gallagher. The brain trust, Jess thought, though he wasn’t sure how brainy any of them were, except Mac.
“So, here’s the thing,” Gallagher continued, “with Fur out, you wanna throw to Fitz, or your buddy Rah? Mac says he’s ready.” The manager glanced at Mac, who nodded his approval. “I know you worked together in the minors. You might feel, I don’t know—” Gallagher looked straight at Jess for the first time since the meeting began “—more comfortable with him.”
In the gray light of dawn, Jess glanced at Rah sleeping peacefully on the next pillow. Of course, he’d picked Rah. It was Rah’s big chance. But all night Jess had fretted and sweated. What if Rah called a bad game? Threw the ball away in a big spot? Took a golden sombrero? What if he fucked up pitching to Rah, and everyone blamed Rah?
Jess rolled onto his side, scooched his naked back into Rah’s front, snuggling deeper into his feather pillow. He needed more sleep. More sleep! Release, he thought. Release point. Release.
The next thing Jess knew Rah was bent over him, shaking his shoulder.
“Sleeping Beauty.” Rah grinned. “Despiertate! ”
“What time?”
“Past ten.”
Jess remembered not sleeping half the night. Past ten?
Rah lightly kissed his lips. “I wanna get early to the park, watch video.”
Jess reached for Rah’s hand, tried to pull him back to bed.
“No way, Jess.” Rah pushed his hand away. “We gonna eat and go to Citi.”
Rah started towards the bathroom. Two steps from the door, he pulled his boxers down, wiggled his ass, and directed his million-watt smile over his shoulder at Jess. Then he disappeared behind the door and the shower started.
Jess, or maybe Mac, had left them great seats. If it were Mac, he must not have known Jack, Glad, and Stu were occupying three of the seats, because Mac hadn’t forgiven Jack for what had happened back in the day. He never would. Jack had endured twenty-six years of the Stink Eye, so on second thought, these seats must have come from Jess. Or the front office, which would prove what he’d been saying to Joey since they arrived at the ballpark. The brass is finally waking up to what they got in Two-J’s. Rookie of the Year, even if he don’t take home the hardware.
As for Mac, Jack thought. Fuck him. Jack hadn’t forgiven himself either. But lately, it burned less, his guilt balmed by Two-J’s success and Joey’s pleasure in his son’s career.
“You ready?” Jack tapped Joey’s knee. They sat four rows behind home, Joey on his left, Frannie past Joe, Glad on his right, Stu, past her.
“Ready as I’m gonna be.”
Jess blew in a heater, followed by a hook.
“He looks great, don’t he?”
Joey nodded. “I hope he’s holding something back.”
Jess delivered his last warm-up, then Rah, his friend and, Jack thought, likely his fuckbuddy—why was Rah starting today? Gallagher was an idiot—pegged a rope to second.
“Here we go,” Jack said to Glad, rigid with anticipation, ready for the first pitch.
Jess was perfect through four. Not only no hits or walks, not even a loud foul. The Braves’ starter, Strider, was nearly as good, but the Mets scratched out an unearned run in the third, so at the end of four, the good guys were up 1-0.
Joe hadn’t seen Jess pitch so dominantly since Little League, when he was so much bigger and better than the other kids, Joe would find himself silently rooting someone, anyone, on the opposing team would manage a hit to keep the entire team from being humiliated. Not today. Today their little group, and all the fans in the surrounding section, were thrilled Jess had no-hit stuff, although no one was saying anything, of course, so as not to jinx him.
What Joe and Jack were saying, to avoid mentioning the no-hitter, was that Jess seemed really focused and relaxed, effortless, right? and that he hadn’t shaken off his catcher even once.
“He did too,” Joe insisted. “The change-up in the first to Olson.”
“I don’t think so,” Jack said, never willing to admit, Joe thought, that he was right about anything. Jack wanted Jess to succeed, no ifs, ands, or buts, and he supposed his father was proud of what he’d accomplished, yet somehow, Jack made him feel like shit about himself at least half the time.
Joe looked past Jack and Glad and discovered that Glad’s son, Stu the doctor, seemed focused on Frannie and not the game. This wasn’t the first time Joe had caught him looking her way. What was that about? Then Stu directed his attention to the diamond and so did Joe, just as Jess painted the corner. Strike one.
“Two-J’s on fire,” Jack announced.
Jess struck out the first batter, induced a weak grounder to short from the second, then seemed to lose focus. He fell behind Rosario, the Braves’ veteran left-swinging outfielder, three balls, one strike.
“This guy’s a tough out,” Jack muttered.
“Bust him in,” Joe said.
Jess did, a fastball up, fouled straight back.
“Now, the Two, Jess,” Joe whispered, “outside black.”
Jess rocked into his wind-up, glove covering everything except his eyes. Their seats were so good, Joe thought, it felt like being on the field. The pitch started its journey home from far to the first base side of Rosario’s front shoulder, then broke sharply down and away, tumbling towards the outside corner. Rosario froze, and Jess’s curve sliced the black, just like his father ordered.
“Stri—riiike three!” bellowed the ump, pointing his right hand at the sky.
“Pitching 101!” Jack jumped to his feet. “High and tight, low and away.”
On the field, Jess pumped his left fist and smiled at his catcher. The Mets jogged off, Jess jumped the foul line as he always did, and the hometown crowd chanted, “Jess, Jess, Jess!”
Five perfect innings.
In the bottom of the fifth, the Mets scored three runs, so when Jess went out to pitch the sixth, he carried a four-nothing lead. Most of the season, and every start since August, he’d been pulled after five, to keep his innings down. But his pitch count was super low, sixty-two through five, and though no one had said a word in the dugout, he knew he had a perfect game going. After Pete launched a three-run bomb to the back of the second deck, and home run trotted around the bases then returned to the dugout to bump forearms with his mates, it was like, Let’s go, Jess! Get that perfecto.
He cruised through the sixth, completing his second turn through the lineup, striking out Harris on three pitches. Eighteen up, eighteen batters set aside. His pitch count rested at seventy-four; he’d struck out seven, induced six ground balls from righties, mostly off his change. He walked towards the dugout re-seeing the strikeout, Harris swinging under high heat, six inches, at least, out of the zone, up near his eyes, which was where Rah had called for it. Jess emerged briefly from the mind-forged tunnel in which he was striding alone, glanced briefly at Rah, who was walking from his position behind the plate towards the dugout. Rah was calling a great game, out-thinking the opposing batters. Their eyes met; Rah nodded. Then Jess looked down, re-entering the tunnel in which he walked alone and saw one thing only: the next pitch, the next, the sequence, then the batter after that.
Seated in the right corner of the dugout, keeping his left arm warm in his jacket, though it wasn’t cold, a few feet away from everyone, Jess wondered how long GG and Gib would leave him in. He hadn’t pitched the seventh inning in more than two months. After today, twelve games remained in the regular season; he had two more starts, and then the post-season, if they made it. But would GG really take him out, pitching a perfecto, to keep his innings down? Jess glanced to his left down the bench. Gallagher stood on the top dugout step shouting encouragement to Collins, the Mets’ right fielder, who had a sweet lefty swing. Jess didn’t believe they’d remove him if he stayed perfect. But what if he walked a batter, so he still had a no-no, but not a perfect game? As a team, the Mets had only produced one no-hitter by a starter in sixty years—Johann Santana on June 1, 2012—and Santana was never the same after throwing 134 pitches.
What was more important, individual glory or helping the team make the post-season? Dad had never thrown a no-no; the closest he came were two complete game one-hitters. On the field, Collins hit a can of corn to right. Jess removed his jacket, picked up his glove from the bench beside him, and mounted the dugout steps seeing nothing, not even the mound, just the sides of the tunnel through which he strode: the next pitch, the next, then the one after that.
Watching Jess warm up for the seventh, Joe remembered his first one-hitter. He was twenty-six, at the top of his game, and perfect through eight. Twelve strikeouts. The leadoff batter in the ninth, Winston “Winnie” Hopkins, a lifetime .240 banjo hitter, swung at an 0-2 fastball that was supposed to be two inches outside but wasn’t, and rolled it towards the hole between first and second. Benning, the slow-footed second baseman, laid out, while Perez, the first baseman who had yet to reveal himself as the backstabbing motherfucker he turned out to be, dove too, but the ball bled into right. Bye-bye no-hitter, bye-bye perfecto. All these years later, Joe could remember knowing—as the ball left his hand—that he’d missed his spot. Afterwards, while he stood behind the mound, rubbing up a new ball, the Shea Stadium crowd rose and cheered and cheered while Joe tried not to weep, not knowing then that this was the closest he’d come to perfection. Three batters later, the crowd cheered again when Joe walked off the mound, the one-hit shutout complete. But it was the first cheer, bittersweet, adoring and spontaneous, when he failed, that Joe would never forget.
He hoped Jess would do him one better and get the last nine outs. The first two batters went down quickly, but Olson, the Braves’ power-hitting first baseman, kept fouling off 3-2 pitches and finally worked out an eight-pitch walk.
“There goes the perfect game,” Jack said. “I hate that fucking Olson.”
“Great hitter,” Joe said, and watched Jess, who stood alone while the crowd cheered, just off the mound, rubbing up a new ball, just as he’d done thirty-one years ago. Don’t lose focus, Joe thought. Keep your release point, Jess. Release point. Release. And just when Joe was starting to worry about Jess, Rah quick-stepped to the mound, hid his mouth behind his catcher’s mitt, said just a few words, then patted Jess on the shoulder and returned to his spot behind the plate. Two fastballs later, Riley skied out to Collins in right.
In between innings, as the fans were being led through “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” by the organist, the Mets’ on-field reporter, Cassie Hayes, appeared in the aisle beside Frannie’s seat with a mic in her hand. Cassie Hayes: flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, button-nosed.
“Joe.” She waved her mic. “Could I ask you and Jess’s mom”—she turned the considerable brilliance of her smile towards Frannie—“a few questions?”
“On camera?” Joe hated being interviewed.
Cassie smiled. “Of course, we can get you from the camera in the—”
“Cassie,” Jack broke in. “You don’t mind if I call you Cassie, do you?”
“Not at all. Who are you?”
“Jess’s grandpa.”
Joe looked past Jack to Glad, who clamped her hand on Jack’s knee, as if holding him back.
“You know what Two-J’s is trying to do here, dontcha? What he’s in the middle of?”
“You mean the—”
Jack jumped up as if he was going to push past Joe and Frannie and beat Cassie Hayes over the head with her own mic. “Not another fucking word!”
“Maybe after the game,” Cassie said, edging away.
“That would be better,” Joe said, as Cassie fled up the aisle. He turned towards his father. “Thanks, Jack.”
“What a fucking idjit!” Jack rolled his shoulders like a boxer trying to get loose before a fight. “In the middle of you-know-what, she wants to bug Joe, ‘How does it feel? Yadda, yadda, yadda.’ Fucking idjit.”
“Enough, Jack,” Glad said.
Just then, the final strains of the seventh-inning-stretch song broke in on Joe’s consciousness. “One, two, three strikes, you’re out, at the old ball game!”
He glanced at Frannie who smiled, and everything was right as rain.
When Jess advanced through the tunnel-vision tunnel from his corner seat in the dugout to the top of the mound to commence the eighth, he had a new mantra: pitch to contact. He’d already thrown eighty-eight pitches and didn’t know which he feared more: losing the no-hitter, or not being sent out for the ninth, even if he still had the no-no going because his count was too high. Then he got lucky. Ozuna scorched a first-pitch liner to the warning track in center that Nimms ran down. Jones grounded out on the second pitch, and Menendez struck out on three pitches. The crowd cheered; it must have. But Jess was so locked in and locked down, he heard and saw nothing except the tunnel to his corner of the dugout.
The Mets’ first two batters singled. Just before going out to the on-deck circle, Rah approached Jess’s Fortress of Solitude at the dugout corner and entered his Cone of Silence. Jess surfaced from the very deep pool in which he’d been throwing pea-sized four-seamers. Rah leaned so close Jess could feel his breath. “You can do this, cariño, I know you can.”
Rah walked the length of the dugout, mounted the steps, and knelt in the on-deck circle. After Mauricio popped out, Rah strode to the plate, hit a grounder to short on the first pitch, and the Braves turned two. Inning over.
“You think Rah did that on purpose?” Frannie asked.
“Maybe,” Joe said. “I’m sure Jess is chomping at the bit to get back out there.”
