When I walked out to the mound in the bottom of the third inning, the boys had already given me a 2-0 lead to work with, but for some reason, I did a double take and noticed the three zeros running down the Mt. Verdant line. No runs, no hits, no errors. It took a minute to register and when I thought back through all the batters I’d faced in the first two innings, I realized that we hadn’t given up a hit. No matter, I told myself. There was still a lot of baseball left to be played.
In the bottom of the fourth, when I walked out to pitch, I checked the scoreboard again and still saw no runs, no hits. The same was true in the fifth and the sixth. By then, we were up 5-0 and the catcher and third basemen met me at the mound.
“You okay Davidson?” the catcher, Ryan Jefferies asked.
“Yep,” I shrugged my shoulders. “Never better.”
“Okay,” Jefferies responded. “Keep it down and low.” Not a word about the potential no-hitter. This is how it goes in baseball. No one says a word for fear of goosing fate right in the ribs.
And with that brief conference, we resumed the game. The first Mt. Verdant batter of the sixth was their first basemen, the number four hitter and the one guy on their team who could really smack the ball. I showed him the fastball, a four-seamer down low and gave it to him as hard as I could throw it.
“Ball one!” the umpire signaled.
Jefferies gave the sign for the curve, but I shook my head, wanting to try another fastball. This time, I backed off just a little and sent my two-seam fastball high and inside, jamming the batter right on the hands.
It worked. He took a cut and splintered his bat issuing a soft rolling foul just outside the first base line.
This time, when Jefferies called for the curve, I nodded.
“Strike two!” A swing and a miss.
Now for the slider. I waited for the call from the catcher, came to a set position, then wound up and snapped the slider about as perfectly as I had ever thrown the pitch. “Strike three!” Another swing and miss.
But Mt. Verdant had the luxury of having another guy, their third baseman who could also jack the ball pretty hard. They had him in the number five spot, and while he couldn’t hit as hard or as far as their first baseman, he was a much smarter hitter, one who was more than willing to sit back and wait for his pitch.
In fact, he watched a nice fastball sail by for strike one to begin the at bat. I didn’t want him to think that I was scared of throwing it again; so I worked it just a little lower and out on the corner.
“Ball!” The batter just stood there watching the second pitch rush by on its way to the catcher’s mitt.
Time for the curve, but he was on to that as well, ball two. Then I missed with another fastball, for ball three. Jefferies was asking for the slider, but I shook him off and waited for the sign to bring the fastball again. Instead, he repeated the signal for the slider.
“Trust your catcher,” Mantle had said. “He’s calling the game for a reason.”
I rolled the ball in my fingertips, positioning it for the slider, wound up and fired it towards home, snapping it perfectly without coming around on it.
“Strike!” the umpire called. The Mt. Verdant third baseman shook his head in disbelief. He’d expected a curve. More specifically, he’d expected me to miss with a curve, but the slider caught the corner of the plate. Full count.
The third baseman fouled the next two pitches off. Fastballs, both of them, one at seven, one just between where the seven and the eight would have been. The count was still three and two, and my humble bid for a no hitter seemed like it had met its match. But without a pause, Jefferies called for the slider again. We had the batter on the ropes. He was swinging just to stay alive, anything to keep the at bat going. So why not try to get him out with a slider?
With a heavy sigh, I came to a standstill before starting my wind up, then took a moment to stare past the batter and into the catcher’s open glove. If anything, I willed the next pitch by the batter, forced it to be the thing I wanted it to be in my mind. Then I stepped into my throwing motion, raising my left leg and cradling the ball in my glove. All of that momentum coiled into a jagged scar upon the mound. Opening up my stance, I pressed forward with my left leg, brought my arm out and over my body, snapping the ball out of my fingertips and sending it down range like some revolving projectile, breaking laterally and floating softly down, down and down.
I missed it, but not by much, and the hitter, already thinking he needed to swing to stay alive, did exactly what his instincts told him to do. He unfurled his arms and stroked the very place where he thought that ball was going to be.
Except it wasn’t. The slider faded just as the third baseman’s bat moved through it. There was a grunt and a whoosh and strike three call! Two down. The sixth inning was mine!
The next batter grounded out on an early fastball. It was time to start thinking seriously about what was happening. Mt. Verdant sent the bottom of its order out in the seventh, and we sent them back to the dugout, one, two and three. At this point, Ramblewood was up 7-0 and there were only six outs remaining. I took the mound and opened the eighth inning with a driving four-seam fastball, hard and down low for ball one. That’s when the trouble started.
The next pitch, one of my erratic curves grounded out in the dirt between the catcher’s mitt and the back of the batter’s box. Ball two. Jefferies called for another slider after that, and while it missed horribly, hanging out over the plate like a ball on a tee, the batter swung under it for a strike. After another fast ball low and a second missed curve, the leadoff hitter for the Mt. Verdant Broncos flipped his bat towards the bat boy and trotted down the line for a charity trip to first base.
The second man up in the eighth inning grounded out to short. The ball skipped and wobbled just enough to rob the chance at a double play. And then for some reason, the shortstop rifled the ball over to first rather than flipping it to second to get the runner moving into scoring position.
The third batter pounced on my fastball for a double down the third base line, advancing the runner on second to third. Two men in scoring position and the Mt. Verdant first baseman, their “clean-up” hitter was headed to the plate again.
I knew this guy would bite on my slider; so I gave him one of those first. He swung so hard that I swear I almost felt the breeze out on the mound. Immediately, the catcher, Jefferies called for another one. Stepping back, I tried to settle down and focus on delivering the pitch.
It missed, but just barely and his swing grazed the side of the ball chopping it down and foul for strike two. This time, the catcher called for a curve. The first baseman watched it sail by for a called strike, the ball catching the corner of the plate and bottom inch of the strike zone. Strike three!
Two outs, two men on and the one person I feared most in the Mt. Verdant line-up stepped into the batter’s box.
Their third baseman smiled as he choked the bat and came to a ready position. Jefferies gave the sign for another slider, but I shook my head. I wanted this guy to see my fastball. I wanted this guy to see the very best fastball I ever threw. Waiting for the sign, I took a deep breath, leaned forward and stretched the right side of my back. After the catcher relented on my choice for a pitch, I positioned my fingers on the ball, brought the glove up to my chin and started my wind up.
Something caught my attention in the stands. A guy who looked an awful lot like Roberto Clemente was sitting on the home side, next to a fellow who very closely resembled Mickey Mantle. Finishing my leg kick, I brought my arm through the pitch, down and hard, the ball sailing from my fingers and rolling through the air towards the waiting third baseman.
Almost immediately, I saw the sides of his dark green jersey come to life. He was swinging and he was doing so with a confidence that let me know right away that he knew what pitch was coming to him.
Crack! The bat hit the ball right in the middle of the barrel, a sound both solid and full of meaning. When a bat makes good solid contact with a ball like that, then the little round chunk of leather is going to go a long way before coming back down again. This time, it was over the fence and out of the park. Ramblewood 7, Mt. Verdant 3.
Mr. Peterson pulled me after the home run. He didn’t say much, other than it was time. I’d given up the no-hitter and pitched way too far into the game. In one sense, I agreed, but I still threw my glove against the back wall of the dugout and said several words that I normally try not to use. Mt. Verdant only scored one more run. We won 7-4 and advanced to the regional playoffs. The rest of the team celebrated with high fives and fizzing sodas, splashing 7-Up and ginger ale all over each other like they saw the major leaguers do with champagne.
That night, when I got home, Mantle and Gehrig, Clemente and a guy who looked a lot like Don Drysdale were waiting for me out by the barn.
“Good game, kid,” Mantle said, offering an outstretched hand.
I shook it and shrugged my shoulders. “Would’ve been nice to get the no-hitter.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “But a win’s a win.”
“But you don’t understand,” I countered. “This is my only chance to do all of this. The team’s get better and better from here on out. Most likely, I won’t ever get a shot at a no-hitter again.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Gehrig said. “Only one game matters.”
I tried to avoid his eyes, because I knew he was right.
“Only one game matters,” he repeated, “And that’s the next one.”
I thought he was going to say the last one, or maybe even the championship game, something like that. I was wrong and that made the understanding hit me harder than it would have otherwise. I kicked at the dirt and scuffed my shoe in the grass.
“So you missed a few pitches today,” Drysdale said. “We all have. That’s what tomorrow’s for.”
“You’ve got to get back out there and go again,” Clemente added in his thick Hispanic accent.
“Before we’re done,” Mantle said, slapping me on the shoulder, “You’re going to play in the best game on earth.”
“Now knock it off with that hang dog look,” Gehrig concluded.
They were all clichés, and yet every single one of them was right.
CONTINUED...
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