Antonio stepped to the plate and took a couple of smooth practice swings. The pitcher stretched, looked back at Tory Nelson leading from second base, and delivered—a fastball right down the middle.
Hit it if you can.
And Antonio could.
He unleashed his short, powerful swing, catching the ball in the sweet spot and driving it into the left center field gap. Nelson scored easily. Antonio wanted the glory of an inside-the-park home run, but the relays from the outfielder to the shortstop and from the shortstop to the catcher were perfect. The catcher put the tag on Antonio, and the umpire’s thumb went up.
After our next hitter, Rafael Rodriguez, struck out to end the inning, the Marauders players charged in, faces set, eager to pound out a bunch of hits, score a slew of runs, and put us in our places.
Their leadoff hitter took slow, measured practice swings, but I could feel his impatience. I started him off with a changeup, and his swing was early. He tried to check, but instead tapped a slow roller toward first. Ivan Burgos, our first baseman, fielded it and stepped on the bag. One pitch; one out.
As the hitter walked back to his dugout, he shook his head, as if his out had been a fluke. His teammates on the bench nodded. But when I struck out the next batter on three pitches, I saw worry on their faces.
Ian Thurman, batting third, strode into the batter’s box. All the Marauders players and coaches were up, expectant. I took a deep breath, exhaled. The matchup I’d wanted had finally come my way.
I rubbed up the baseball as Antonio started the regular chatter: “No hitter. No hitter.” From center field Dawit, picking up on the idea, screamed, “Loser! Loser! Ugly, ugly loser!”
Dawit had had his crazy moments on the school team, so the guys on my team laughed, but the Marauders didn’t think it was funny. Thurman stepped out of the batter’s box, disbelief in his eyes. The umpire—one of the Laurelhurst coaches—came out from behind home plate and glared out to center field. Antonio motioned for Dawit to stop. Dawit shrugged and went quiet.
The weirdness of it all calmed me. I went into my wind-up and threw. Thurman swung from the heels, fouling the pitch straight back.
I thought about throwing a changeup for the second pitch, but I didn’t want to get Thurman out by fooling him. So my second pitch was another fastball; this one he popped down the first base line, out of play.
He stepped out to adjust his batting gloves. When he stepped back in, I made sure he was set, and then delivered. This fastball had late movement, jamming him. For a second I didn’t see the ball, but there it was—a soft liner toward first. Burgos made the easy catch for the third out.
Thurman slammed his helmet down. It bounced straight back up, hitting him in the face. Antonio, jogging in from shortstop, saw it and laughed. “Sweet! Do that again!”
Thurman, fuming, took a step toward Antonio, trying to intimidate him. It was a mistake because, though my brother never looks for a fight, he never backs down either. Antonio dropped his glove, his hands balling into fists, his whole body screaming Let’s go! Before anything stupid happened, their first base coach jumped between them and led Thurman back to the Marauders sideline. As he walked off the field, Thurman pretended he wanted a piece of Antonio, but you could see in his eyes it was all show.
Eleven
In the top of the second, the Marauders pitcher set us down one-two-three and then walked off the mound, with an I’m done fooling around look on this face.
He was trying to unnerve me, and so was their cleanup hitter, a kid named Jay. He smacked his bat against the outside part of the plate, pulled it back into hitting position, and glared.
I’d overpowered Ian Thurman. I had a two-run lead. Did he really think I’d toss up a fat fastball for him to drive into the gap because he pulled his cap down and furrowed his eyebrows?
I started him off by blowing a fastball right past him. He stepped out, took a couple of vicious practice swings, and stepped back in. He was geared up for another fastball, so I threw him a change. He was way out in front, lifting an easy fly to Kevin Snead in short left.
The next hitter wouldn’t expect a first pitch changeup, so I threw one. That’s how baseball is—lots of thinking about what the other guy is thinking. He didn’t swing, giving me a quick strike. Two fastballs later he was dragging his bat back to the bench. I struck out the next guy, too, though he did hit a long foul fly down the first base line.
Nothing happened in the third for either team, and we went down in order in the top of the fourth. When I took the mound for the bottom of the fourth, the Marauders coach stepped onto the field. “This is it. Last at bat.”
It wasn’t a full game, and it wasn’t a real game, but if I could get three more outs, we would have beaten the Seattle Marauders and I would have held them hitless.
I wanted the W so badly that my nerves took over. I overthrew my first pitch; it sailed inside and plunked their leadoff hitter in the back. He grimaced as he made his way to first.
The Marauders bench came alive, half of the guys screaming at me for hitting the batter and the other half screaming encouragement to their teammate as he settled in at the plate.
The wild pitch made me aim the ball instead of throwing it. My next delivery came in fat, and the Marauders hitter smacked it into right center for a double, their first hit. That put runners at second and third with nobody out and Ian Thurman stepping up to the plate.
I knew the correct baseball strategy, even if nobody else on my team did: walk Thurman to set up a force at every base.
But there was no way I was walking Ian Thurman.
Thurman took a few slow, easy practice swings.
He knew what was going to happen. Everybody on his team knew what was going to happen. Kids from North Central don’t beat kids from Laurelhurst. Not in baseball, not in anything. Thurman would drive one of my pitches over the fence. Then he’d trot around the bases as his teammates high-fived one another. We’d have lost—just like we were supposed to.
I held the ball gently, as if it were a small bird and I was feeling for its tiny, beating heart. There’d be no changeups, no sliders, no pitches in the dirt. I was coming right down the middle, trusting the ball to move late.
He swung over the top of the first pitch, a fastball that darted down and in. He stepped out, took two breaths, and stepped in. I came with pure heat again. Again he swung, a long, powerful swing. Too long. The ball was by him before his bat reached the hitting zone.
Strike two.
Ian followed his same routine, stepping out, taking his two breaths, stepping in. A strange peace came over me. Everything loose and light. Everything fluid. The zone. The ball exploded out of my hand. His bat ripped across the plate. His teammates yelled in anticipation. But all he caught was air.
Strike three.
I don’t remember pitching to the final two hitters. All I know is that my arm felt as light as air, and the ball came out of my hand like a missile. When the final hitter struck out, the guys behind me raced toward the mound, jumping around as though we’d won the World Series. Pushkin, wearing his orange shirt, barked insanely as he ran in circles.
As we walked toward Leskov’s van, the Marauders head coach came over to me. “What’s your name, son?”
“Laz Weathers.”
“That’s a helluva fastball you got, Laz. What high school do you play for?”