No Hitter

It was during the bottom of the eighth inning, with one out, when Coach Dixon put me in to pitch. Normally, our regular pitcher, Randy, would have pitched the whole game, but Randy was getting tired, and when Randy gets tired, his pitching gets wild. He had one strikeout but it had been pure luck; the batter swung at anything within a mile and never came close, while our catcher had to practically dive for it. So Coach Dixon called me out of center field and signaled for me to take the pitcher’s mound. I passed my teammate, Ronnie, as he ran out to take my place in center field.

“Go get’em, Tiger,” he said.

I had never pitched in a real game before. Coach had been preparing me to share the pitching duties, but this was unexpected. I had been pitching some during practices and staying late to practice on my own, but never against another team. I barely had time to be nervous as I took the mound to face my first batter.

The score was ten to seven, and it looked like my team, the Little Chiefs, might finally win a game. We had won our season opener and had gone on to lose seven straight games after that. Now, with me pitching, we were an inning away from a much-needed victory. All I had to do was not screw up.

Of all the teams in our league, we had the coolest name. All of the other teams were named after the businesses that sponsored them. The team in first place was Burger King, they were undefeated. Last week we had gotten spanked by Pizza Hut. Today we were facing Nussbaum Realty, probably the lamest-named team in the league. But we were the Little Chiefs, the only team with anything that sounded like a real name. I don’t know why. I guess it’s because we didn’t have any professional sponsors. So far, however, our cool name had failed to translate into anything like a good record.

I sized up my batter while my team shouted encouragement around me. “Strike ‘em out, John!” “Go get ‘em, Johnnie-Boy!” and, “Knock his teeth out!” from my best friend, Damien, who played third base. The batter took a couple of warm-up swings and stepped into the batter’s box. He spat and took his stance, glaring at me, daring me to throw him anything he could hit. This same batter had hit a single earlier in the game and had gone on to score. He was tall and could hit.

I went into my windup. Around me, my teammates began chanting, “Hey, batter-batter-batter.” I personally didn’t care for this little strategy. The idea was to chant batter-batter-batter until the pitch came flying in, and then yell, “Swing!” at the top of your lungs. I guess the idea was to somehow hypnotize the batter into swinging at whatever came across the plate, no matter what. I never saw any evidence that it worked, but everybody always did it. Whenever I played center field, which was most of the time, instead of going, “Batter-batter-batter,” I would just go, “Baaah,” like a sheep. Strictly for my own amusement.

As I wound up, my sight was fixed on our catcher’s glove. Coach had gone over this with me a hundred times. There was a tube that stretched from my arm straight to Carl’s glove. All I had to do was throw the ball straight down this imaginary tube without letting it touch the sides.

I let loose with my first pitch.

It went straight down the tube, into Carl’s glove with a smack!

“Strike one!” yelled the ump.

My team let out a cheer while Carl threw the ball back. I was trying to look cool but I couldn’t help smiling a little as I caught the ball. The batter leaned back and nodded toward his coach, as if to say, Just checking him out, now I know what he’s got.

The batter took his stance and I went into my windup, the team bleating their batter-batter nonsense again. I saw the tube, threw the pitch right down the center. The batter swung, there was a clink! sound from the aluminum bat that told me he had only got a piece of it. Sure enough, the ball just sort of dribbled over to Tony, our first basemen. All he had to do was scoop it up and step on the bag, which he did. I had my first out. One more to go for the inning.

The next batter was a girl. She had long red hair and had already been up to bat a few times. She was squirrelly – sometimes an easy strikeout, sometimes she would surprise you by walloping it out into deep left field. You never knew. While she took a few practice swings, I looked over at our bleachers to where Mom was sitting.

Mom came to practically all my games. I could always spot her, because she always wore these big sunglasses and sat in the top row. And the weird thing was, there was usually no one sitting with her. I mean, she always came alone, and even though she knew some of the other parents, she seemed to end up sitting by herself. I think this was by her choice. Not that she was a snob or anything. She just kind of preferred to sit alone, I guess.

Sure enough, I spotted her right away. She was wearing this flowery summer dress, and there was no one within a couple of seats of her. She was watching me through those gigantic sunglasses, her chin resting on her hand. I smiled at her, but I don’t know if she caught it.

Meanwhile, Big Red had stepped into the batter’s box. Her coach, this big fat guy who always wore MacGregor shorts, was giving her encouragement. “Don’t worry about this guy,” he told her, meaning me. “He’s a newbie. Don’t be afraid of him.”

My first pitch was right down the tube, and she didn’t even swing at it. She stood there like she thought there was no way I could possibly throw a strike. “That’s all right, let it go,” her coach shouted. “Be ready, now.”

My next pitch was low and outside, but she swung at it anyway. Nowhere close, and it was strike two. One more and the inning was over.

She swung at the next one and got a piece of it, but the ball went sailing back over the home plate ump’s head for a foul tip. Her coach came running out and gave her some secret advice while the ump fished out a new ball. She listened while the coach practically whispered in her ear, then he scampered back to the bench – or at least, tried to scamper. Like I said, he was a tub.

My next pitch went straight into Carl’s glove, but the girl made this kind of ducking move, like she was afraid the ball was going to bean her in the noggin. It didn’t fool the ump, though – he called “Strike three!” with a dramatic flourish, and the inning was over.

I trotted back to the bench – we didn’t have an actual dugout – along with the rest of my team. Several of the players slapped me on the back and said things like, “Way to go!” and, “Nice work, Johnnie,” and so on. I glance up at Mom in the top of the bleachers. She was smiling at me, and I could tell she was proud.

I sat down on the bench while Tony warmed up for our first at bat of the inning. As it turned out, Randy was sitting next to me, on the bench, kind of away from the rest of the team. So far he hadn’t said anything to me, or even looked at me, since the end of the inning. He was scratching his ankle and acting like he was all alone on the bench. I wanted to say something to him, but didn’t know what.

All of a sudden, Coach Dixon was standing in front of me.

“That was nice pitching, Johnnie,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, aware of Randy sitting a few feet away.

Coach Dixon put his meaty hand on my shoulder. “Come over here and have a little talk with me,” he said. I got up and followed him. I was hoping that if he was going to talk about pitching, he would at least walk far enough away so that Randy wouldn’t have to overhear what he said. But he didn’t. In fact, he only walked a few feet before turning to talk to me. Anyone on the bench could hear us, if they paid attention.

“Yes sir, good pitching,” he said to me. “That’s exactly what this team needs.”

I shuffled my feet and said nothing.

“Listen, Johnnie,” he said. “It looks like we’re about to win this game, and it’s about time. This team has a lot of talent, but we’ve got a lousy record. But I have a feeling all that’s about to change. And you’re going to help change it.”

I glanced over at Randy, who seemed to be intently studying a rock in the dirt at his feet.

“What this team needs is depth,” Coach was saying. “We need to be able to mix it up a little, move people around. Especially in the pitching department. That’s our weak spot. And that’s where you come in.”

I was looking at my shoes.

“Hell, anybody can play center field,” Coach went on. “You’re too good to waste out there. Your pitching has come a long way, and now it’s time for you to step up. What we need is a pitcher with consistency. How would you feel about starting the next game?”

I shrugged. “Okay, I guess,” I said, hoping Randy couldn’t hear me but sure that he could.

“Okay?!” Coach guffawed. “Well, I hope it’s okay! This is a big opportunity for you. If you can pitch an entire game without screwing it all up, then this team may just have a new starter.”

Just then our bench erupted in cheers, and for a split second, I thought they were cheering what the coach just said. Then I realized I had heard the crack of a bat. I looked up and saw Tony high-tailing it toward first base.

“ATTA-BOY, TONY!” Coach bellowed, and then immediately turned his attention back to me, the action on the field forgotten. “Yes, sir,” he went on. “I’ve seen this coming for a while now. One more inning to go, and we can finally chalk one up in the old win column. There’s only a few more games left this season, and I think we have a good chance of winning all of them. Now is the time for you to shine, Johnnie-boy. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Atta-boy!” he said, once again clapping me on the shoulder with his enormous paw and turning back to the field. “Get ready, Tony!” he yelled toward first base. “Who’s up next? Damien? Get out there and knock the cover off the ball!” He went off to get a cup of Gatorade. I returned to my place on the bench.

I don’t really remember much about the rest of the top of the ninth inning. I batted around fifth or sixth and hit a single. I was stranded on first base when we had our third out, but by then, both Damien and Ralph, our second-baseman, had scored. We were now leading twelve to seven. I just had to pitch one more inning, and then it would be ice cream time. The coach had bought the whole team ice cream after we won our first game, and had been promising to do it again, just as soon as we won another. Now it looked like it was finally going to happen.

By the time I got to the pitcher’s mound, my feelings about the conversation with the coach had been replaced by feelings of nervousness about pitching. The pressure was on. Everyone was watching me, the team was counting on me to deliver the goods. I was always nervous before a game, but not like this. This was intense.

The first batter up was this squirrelly little kid who wore a perpetual scowl and had a reputation as a fighter. No one ever saw him fight. He never had to, because his reputation was enough to make everyone steer clear. He faced me like he was ready to kick my ass for some unforgivable insult. He swung at my first pitch and missed, and I had to fight down a smile. No sense pissing him off more than he already was.

My next pitch was low and outside, but he swung and connected. It should have been an easy grounder but Ralph was picking his nose or something and bobbled it, and scowley-face ended up with a single. You would have thought that was enough to make him smile, but not this kid. He looked like getting a single was the most insulting thing that could happen to him.

The next batter was this super-tall guy who everyone on my team enjoyed making up nicknames about. My favorite was “Longshanks.” I swear, this kid was eight feet tall. Anyway, after a few pitches, the count was 3-2. I was contemplating my next pitch when I noticed that Mr. Scowley was taking a ridiculously huge lead off of first base. He was practically halfway to second. Our first baseman, Tony, was lounging around by the bag, waiting for me to notice. I peered at Carl’s glove like I was figuring out my next pitch, and with a sudden movement I flipped the ball to Tony. The runner dove for it but Tony picked him off with no problem, and all the kid got was a dusty uniform and an easy out. Surprisingly, he didn’t look as mad as I thought he would. If anything, his scowl lessened, and I wondered if his emotion switch wasn’t wired upside-down. To top it off, Longshanks swung wildly at the next pitch and struck out. We were now only one out from victory. Carl threw the ball to Tony and the team tossed it around the horn. I was smiling when I got the ball, savoring the imminent victory. When I faced my next batter, however, my smile faded.

It was Patty.

Patty had never hit the ball, and likely never would. She was one of those kids whose parents, I’m sure, signed her up for little league in order to boost her self-esteem, or something like that. This was a colossal mistake. Patty was about four feet tall, and as far as I knew, had never even swung at a pitch. She would stand at home plate, holding the bat in the stiffest manner imaginable, her eyes squinted nearly shut behind these enormous eyeglasses and this weird smile plastered on her face. It was the smile that unnerved me the most. She would stand there, squinting and smiling, never swinging the bat, until she was inevitably struck out, and then run back to the bench, still smiling. It was creepy. She seemed to be able to maintain this brainless good cheer in spite of an ever-increasing number of complete failures at the plate.

I glanced over at the opposing team’s bleachers, where Patty’s parents were sitting. It was hard to tell which parent Patty favored more, because she looked just like both of them and they looked like each other. They were both short and dumpy-looking and possessed of the same heartbreaking optimism as Patty. He was bald and had vivid red splotches on his cheeks. She wore enormous, thick-lensed eyeglasses like her daughter. They were depressing to look at, because you just knew they had ended up with each other due to the fact that they were both homely and nobody else would have them.

As usual, they were smiling and calling words of encouragement to their doomed daughter. I was amazed they were able to continue holding out hope like that. I looked at home plate and saw Patty’s coach. He was giving her some last-minute advice, kneeling in the dirt in his MacGregor shorts while she regarded nothing in particular through her squinted eyes and perpetual smile.

I glanced at my own coach. He was waving to the team, telling everyone to move closer infield. “Move in!” he bellowed, waving his arms. “No hitter!”

Around me, the team took up the chant. “No hitter! No hitter! Move in!” They dutifully moved in close, in case the impossible happened and Patty hit the ball. The outfielders were practically standing on the edge of the infield dirt. They might as well have gone and sat down on the bench.

I turned my attention back to home plate. In spite of the noise, I could hear what Patty’s coach was saying to her as he knelt in the dirt.

“Okay, Patty. Remember, just like at practice. The key is to keep your eye on the ball. Do not take your eye off the ball. Watch it all the way in. If it looks good, swing at it. But never take your eyes off of it. That’s the key, okay?” He was almost pleading.

Patty nodded her head, squinting and smiling. 

“Okay. Good girl.” The coach stood up and patted her on the shoulder before retreating out of the box.

I glanced at our bleachers. The rest of the team were shouting words of encouragement, the parents were clapping. I looked at Mom. She sat watching me through her sunglasses, her expression unreadable from where I was.

“Play ball!” yelled the ump.

I went into my windup. Around me, the team began chanting, “Hey, batter-batter-batter,” again. As if they needed this strategy to insure a foregone conclusion. I stretched back and delivered my first pitch.

Only, I didn’t put a lot of smoke on it. I mean, it was a good solid pitch, right down the pipe. I just didn’t throw it particularly hard or anything.

“Swing!” yelled my teammates.

Patty swung.

It was pathetic. The ball was practically already in Carl’s glove by the time she swung the bat. She was way too late. My teammates erupted in cheers as the umpire gave the signal for strike one. Carl was grinning as he threw the ball back at me. Everyone on our bench was jumping up and down, cheering and pantomiming eating ice cream and so on.

Everyone except Coach Dixon.

He was not happy. He had stood up and walked to the first base line. When I looked at him, he yelled at me. “What the hell are you doing?” he bellowed. “Put this game away and let’s get out of here!” He glared at me with his puffy red face.

I looked back at home plate. Patty’s coach was right back there with her again. Normally, the umpire would not have allowed this kind of coaching, but he seemed to be making an exception with Patty.

“That was great, that was really excellent,” the coach was saying to Patty. “That was a really good swing, just like at practice. Now, I want you to do it again, just like that, only a little earlier this time. You did a great job of keeping your eye on the ball and that was a great swing. Just a little earlier this time, okay?”

Patty nodded again, and the coach withdrew.

I went into my windup, intentionally ignoring the chants of my team. I let loose with my pitch. My focus was good and it was another perfect strike, straight for the glove. Only, this time, I hardly put any steam on it at all. It wasn’t exactly the fastest pitch ever recorded. I just kind of floated it across the plate.

“Batter-batter-batter-swing!”

Patty swung.

Again, she was too late and the ball thumped into Carl’s glove.

Too late. But not as late as the previous pitch.

My team was going crazy. They smelled blood and were hungry for the kill. I risked a look at Coach Dixon. He was staring at me, looking livid. I stared back. He shook his head, started to turn away and turned back.

“This is not a God-danged charity case!” he yelled between clenched teeth. Then he did turn and walk back to the bench and sat down.

Carl threw me the ball. Once again, Patty’s coach was beside her, giving her encouragement. He was really pushing the umpire’s patience.

“That was super, that was really great,” he was saying. “You were so close on that one. You woulda knocked that one out of the park. It was just a tiny bit late. I want you to do it again, okay, Patty? One more swing. Keep your eyes on the ball and swing just a little bit earlier, okay? You can do it, Patty. I believe in you.”

Again, Patty nodded.

Her coach walked out of the batter’s box. I looked at him with his fat stomach and his spandex shorts with the built-in belt and I realized I liked him a lot more than I liked my own coach.

“One more strike, Johnnie-boy!” Damien yelled from somewhere. “And then I’m going to have a triple scoop of chocolate on a waffle cone! Yippee!” The other team members began yelling out their favorite ice cream flavors as a sort of demented battle cry.

I went into the windup for my last pitch to Patty. Once again, I put it right down the pipe. Only this time, I really floated it out there. It barely had enough on it to make it across home plate. It might as well have been an underhand softball pitch.

“Batter-batter-batter-swing!”

Patty swung.

The bat went crack! as it connected with the ball.

For a stunned second, there was complete silence as the ball went sailing over my head. Then all hell broke loose.

“RUN, PATTY, RUN!” her coach was screaming. Patty, having never hit the ball before, was just standing there, as stunned as the rest of us. Then her coach’s words sunk in and she took off running toward first base, her short little legs pumping for all they were worth. Her team’s bleachers had erupted into wild, screaming cheers. Everyone was yelling at the top of their lungs. You would have thought that they had just won the World Series.

Meanwhile, behind me, the ball plopped into the dirt and bounced toward second base. Nobody was moving for it. They were all too incredulous for a moment. Finally, Mitch, our short-stop, sprang into action. He caught the ball on the second bounce and threw it wildly toward first base. Tony wasn’t covering the base like he should, having been caught off-guard, and he barely managed to knock the ball down with his glove. When he was finally able to get control of the ball, Patty was already safe at first.

Boy, you should have heard the crowd then. Our bench was silent, but theirs was going crazy. Everybody was slapping Patty’s parents on the back and congratulating them, and her team looked like they were ready to bolt onto the field and carry her away on their shoulders. There were high-fives all around.

I looked at Coach Dixon. He was standing, just looking at me, silent. His expression said plenty, though. He was regarding me with a look of pure disgust. I glanced up at Mom. She looked the same as ever, calm and unreadable.

Tony threw me the ball. The other team had managed to tone down their celebration enough to get their next batter up. He was pumped from Patty’s success and was eager to get a piece of it himself.

Meanwhile, Patty’s coach was running toward her, his fat belly jiggling like a bowl of lard. He reached her and scooped her up in a big hug before quickly depositing her back on the bag lest she get tagged out. “You did it, Patty!” he exclaimed. “You did it! I always knew you could!”

Patty looked at him with her squinty eyes and her ever-present smile. Only now, the smile was bigger and no longer looked like it was painted on. It looked real.

Her coach hung out in the first-base coach’s box, smiling and rubbing his hands together. He looked toward his next batter. “Let’s go, Dave!” he yelled. “Keep it going! This game’s not over yet!”

I went into my windup. Around me, the team forgot their batter-batter chant, or maybe they just didn’t feel like it. I delivered my next pitch amidst an unnatural silence.

The batter swung and connected. It was a line drive straight for my face. I saw the ball coming at me like a freight train on a speeding path to my head.

I stuck my glove up and caught the ball. He was out. The game was over.

For a moment, nobody reacted. Then the ump yelled, “Out!” and reality sunk in. We had won the game. As if for emphasis, I took the ball out of my glove and held it away from me at arm’s length. Then I dropped it on the ground.

Around me, my team was celebrating the win. Everyone went skipping toward our bench and congratulating each other. They were finally going to get some ice cream.

Meanwhile, Patty was still standing at first base. She seemed confused about what had happened. She turned to her coach for guidance.

“The game’s over, Patty!” he said with a huge grin. He waved toward their bench. “I think your team wants to tell you something.”

Patty looked toward her bench, where her teammates were standing and clapping in unison. Over the noise of my team and fans, I could hear them chanting, “Patt-y! Patt-y! Patt-y!”

Patty took off running toward her team. When she reached them, she was instantly buried under their outstretched arms. The whole team practically collapsed onto her. It was like an orgy. After a few moments, she emerged and ran into the arms of her smiling parents.

I walked back to the bench, my head down. At some point I looked up and saw Mom. She had come down from the top of the bleachers and was standing a little ways off, away from the other parents. She said nothing but she smiled at me in a way that made me glad.

Coach Dixon was waiting for me. 

When I reached the bench he put his giant hand on my shoulder. “Come on,” he said and steered me forcefully away from the team.

We walked a few paces and then he stopped and faced me. His look was one of contempt.

“Well, Johnnie, I guess I misjudged you,” he said. When I didn’t reply, he went on. “I really thought you had what it takes to be a winner. I really thought you had the eye of the tiger. But I guess I was wrong about you.”

He waited for me to say something. I didn’t.

“I thought you had it,” he said again. I could tell he was frustrated with my silence. “I thought you were a go-getter, not a wuss.”

That did it. I took my Little Chiefs baseball cap off and tossed it at his feet.

“Yeah, well, I’m happy to disappoint you,” I said. I turned and walked away from the coach, from the field, from my team, for good.

I walked across the parking lot to the car, where mom was waiting.