That One Pitch

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The author’s father is in the top row, to the right of the man in the hat

Marcy regained consciousness and, with dried blood matting his hair, was helped to the bench amid a chorus of cheering fans. He was finally driven to the infirmary by Pastor Long.

After an hour delay, the game resumed. All the Vipers had smug expressions, all except Jensen.

Marcy’s replacement was a fifteen-year-old, Scooter Malone.

Jimmy had great control and set the Vipers down for eight innings, scattering four hits.

However, in the top of the ninth, the first man up hit a hot shot that came at Jones like a slithering snake. The ball hit a pebble and ricocheted off the heel of his glove, bouncing over his shoulder into left field for an error.

This shook up Jimmy, who walked the next man. There were two on and no outs. All the Miners and fans were hollering at Jimmy to get some outs. The third batter, Ruiz, flew out to medium deep left field. The next man grounded to the shortstop. Mowery went to his right and fielded the ball, threw him out at first, but the runners moved up to second and third.

“Two outs and here comes that shortstop sonofabitch, Nigel Cromwell,” my father said.

Myron and coach Mackey went to the mound and talked to Jimmy about walking Cromwell intentionally, but Jimmy had listened to Cromwell’s carping for three years and wouldn’t hear it. Then the wind picked up, blowing another five knots toward right.

Coach Mackey said, “Pitch to him but don’t give him anything good to hit. Cromwell’s at bat is the ball game.”

Dey squatted behind the plate and gave the signal for a fastball away. Jimmy looked at the runners at second and third and went into a stretch motion and gave a little more.

“Strike one!”

As the ball cracked into Myron’s mitt, it raised a puff of dust. Myron slung the ball back with a little extra. Smack. Jimmy winced as it stung his hand.

Myron signaled another fastball on the inside.

“Ball one!”

Jimmy swallowed hard as Myron called for a curve, down and away. Cromwell swung and fouled it back to the chicken wire.

One ball and two strikes. Another fastball inside, “Ball two!”

Myron ran to the mound. “Jimmy, just throw him two balls, and we’ll worry about the next batter.”

Jimmy looked over Dey’s shoulder at the smirking Cromwell, who was now waving at him to throw the ball. He gestured to the crowd by doing a mock pitch, using a limp wrist, suggesting that Jimmy was a sissy, afraid to throw the next pitch. Nigel had found Jimmy’s loose screw and began to twist it.

“Fok you, Myron!” Jimmy said. “I can get this sonofabitch!”

Dey touched Jimmy’s glove with his own and said, “Okay, then let’s get him.”

Jimmy glared at Nigel. His eyes squinted into a hardened stare. The boyish innocence flashed away. A muscular nineteen-year-old man stood alone on the mound. The pain of losing for all those years emerged.

Under his breath he muttered, “Nigel foking Cromwell! I ain’t afraid. I’m gonna put this ball up your bloody, arse.”

Cromwell stared back, his pale blue eyes narrowing to the vanishing point. The mid-afternoon sun bounced off his pock-ridden cheek. A hint of black, rotting teeth, showed beneath a snarling upper lip which accented the trail of tobacco juice running to the bottom of his pointy chin.

Jimmy put his index and middle fingers across the seams and tightened with his thumb. Nigel, sensing Jimmy’s mood, relaxed his back foot.

Jimmy looked into Myron for the signal, one finger down, perfect. He checked the runners, relaxed his grip and went into the windup. Before the ball was thrown, Nigel was falling down. He knew Jimmy was going to throw at his head.

The ball sailed high and hard, right where Nigel’s head had been. Jimmy had great stuff that day.

Nigel pushed himself up with his left elbow, got to his feet, and sneered. And then with a grand gesture, he dug the cleats of his back foot into the rear of the batter’s box, showing the world he was not afraid of anything Jimmy had. Holding the bat in his right hand, he signaled with his left to throw the next pitch. Jimmy’s face eased.

Myron squatted and put down two fingers. A curve, low and away. Jimmy checked the runners, who were jeering and taunting. Hiding the ball in his glove he put his two fingers across the seams, toed the rubber, and started his windup. The ball slid out of his hand with the snap of the wrist — it had perfect spin. About ten feet from home, the ball broke down sharply. Cromwell swung and hit it off the end of his bat. The ball shot like a comet, deep into right field.

“It’s going to be over my head,” my father said. “I turned my back to the infield and sprinted to where I thought the ball was gonna land.”

Then my dad stopped me and took hold of my shoulders. I could almost hear his heart pounding.

“Running, I thought, holy shit! The strong winds were pushing it toward centerfield. But my eyes stayed on the ball, and I could see it was going to be over my left shoulder. I knew I couldn’t get my glove on it, so I flung up my bare hand, and the goddamn ball stuck in my calloused palm. I squeezed and held on. The Miners win and finally beat the Vipers.

“As I trotted in from right field, I knew what I’d just done. My chest was almost popping its buttons. I glanced toward Cromwell, who spit and gave me a slight nod. I was on top of the world. The celebrating began.

“Pa shot his big right fist into the air, and shouted, ‘That’s my boy!’ and took another pull off his bottle of Tassels.”

We were getting close to Departure Bay as his story wound down.

“That old man was Nigel Cromwell, right?” I asked.

“Him in the flesh.”

“Except for his eyes, he doesn’t look like much.”

My dad laughed. “None of us look like much anymore.” He poked my shoulder. “And if you’re lucky and live long enough, you’ll see.”

“You must have really loved the game. I mean, if our high school team ever had the shit equipment you guys had, we’d have been laughed outta town. Flour to line the field, jeez.”

“The company was a bunch of cheap bastards. We played for pride. That’s all we had, and we’d have been damned if we’d let them take that.”

“You mean the Vipers?”

“Them — the mines, the whores, Hong’s store — even the priests held us down. But when we played, we were kings. Like I said, we ruled the roost.”

I marveled at my father’s power of recollection and hoped that when I reached his age, I’d have that gift. Actually, I just hope I got the story right.

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