Beanball Read online

But that’s not enough.

  I need to work on my off-speed pitches

  and my control.

  Playing college ball will give me a chance to do that.

  I gave free passes to way too many batters last year.

  Heck, I walked guys who couldn’t have hit my heater

  if they’d swung all day.

  I’m probably the main reason that what’s left

  of Coach Bradington’s hair is turning white.

  Luke “Wizard” Wallace, Oak Grove center fielder

  I picked the worst time to get sick.

  I don’t know if it’s the flu or something I ate,

  but I was up half the night puking my guts out.

  I tried hard to keep Mom and Dad

  from hearing me in the bathroom.

  Have you ever tried to puke

  without making any noise?

  It’s not easy, let me tell you.

  If they’d known I was sick,

  they might have made me stay home.

  And if you’re not at school

  on the day of a game, you can’t play.

  Not even the flu is going to keep me

  out of a game against Compton.

  Roland Zachary, baseball scout

  I wasn’t wrong about Dawkins.

  He’s got the goods.

  He’s wild, but most kids his age are.

  Time—and someone working with him

  on his mechanics—will straighten him out.

  It’s easy to separate the pro prospects

  from the others just by the way they move.

  Two that really stand out

  are a couple of Oak Grove outfielders.

  The way their left fielder swings the bat

  is a thing of beauty.

  And their center fielder—

  he’s fast and graceful, and he’s got a rifle for an arm.

  It’s fun watching Dawkins compete against those two.

  Luke “Wizard” Wallace, Oak Grove center fielder

  A ballfield’s the best medicine I know.

  I’ve been sick as a dog since last night.

  I had to run out of class third period.

  I didn’t even stop to get the teacher’s permission,

  because I thought I was going to throw up

  right there at my desk.

  Talk about embarrassing!

  Luckily, I didn’t.

  Anyway, the minute I stepped onto the field this afternoon,

  I felt a lot better.

  Almost normal.

  And now this. This is what I live for:

  bottom of the seventh, our last at-bats.

  Tying run on third, winning run on second.

  Hitting against Kyle Dawkins,

  the hardest thrower in our conference.

  He’s a senior now. He’s fast but wild.

  Last year as a sophomore, I swung against him,

  and I couldn’t touch his heat.

  I might as well have been batting with a toothpick.

  The Compton coach just came out to talk to Dawkins.

  I can guess what he told him.

  They don’t want to risk walking me.

  Dawkins’s control is shaky; the last thing they want

  is to have the bases loaded.

  I’ve already pulled an inside pitch for a double,

  so the smart play is for him to curve me outside.

  I’ll be ready for it.

  I’ll poke it to right, and the game will be ours.

  Last week we won a game with defense in the final inning.

  Today we’ve got a chance to win with our bats.

  Andy Keller, Oak Grove backup infielder

  The Wizard’s the guy you want up in a situation like this.

  Gordie’s on deck. He’s our best hitter,

  both for average and power.

  But in a clutch situation, Luke’s the guy I want up there.

  He’s amazing.

  For some reason—I can’t explain it—

  the pressure never seems to bother him.

  You might think I’m biased, since Luke’s my best friend.

  But I could fill a book with all the times

  he’s come through in the clutch.

  In fact, I can hardly remember a time he’s failed.

  Sure, Dawkins might get him out; he’s got the stuff to do it.

  But if I were going to bet, I’d put my money

  on the Wizard.

  Dalton Overmire, Compton shortstop

  We’ve got to get him out. Come on, Dawkins.

  We can’t lose to Oak Grove.

  But if we have to lose, I sure don’t want

  Wallace to be the one to beat us.

  I hate that guy.

  I went to school in Oak Grove for two years,

  back in seventh and eighth grades.

  Wallace was in most of my classes. Teacher’s pet.

  Couldn’t do nothing wrong.

  He’d pass notes or talk in class,

  teachers would look the other way.

  Me? Detention every time.

  Back in eighth grade,

  I should’ve gotten a starting guard spot

  on the basketball team.

  Instead, the coach picked Wallace, the cocky brownnose.

  He got the glory; I got splinters on the bench.

  The best thing about living in Compton:

  I don’t have to be around that guy.

  Dawkins better get him out.

  If he lets Wallace beat us, he’d better not sit near me

  on the bus ride back home.

  Red Bradington, Compton coach

  This is one hell of a situation to be in.

  Their best hitter’s on deck, so we can’t walk Wallace.

  Wallace has already hammered Dawkins’s fastball,

  so the best bet is to bust him inside one time.

  That’ll move him off the plate.

  Then we’ll curve him away.

  Dawkins’s wildness doesn’t give us much margin for error.

  I wish I could bring somebody else in,

  but he’s still the best I’ve got.

  Pete Preston, Compton catcher

  Coach just told Kyle to brush Wallace back.

  You kidding me?

  Kyle’s already walked two this inning.

  We can’t afford another walk.

  Coach wants us to waste a pitch?

  He’s an idiot.

  But we’re still ahead, 3–2, in spite of him.

  I just hope Kyle has enough sense

  to ignore anything Bradington says.

  I’m going to give him a target in the middle of the plate.

  I hope he tries to hit it.

  Even right down the gut,

  Kyle’s got good enough stuff to get anybody out.

  Even Wallace.

  Tim Burchard, umpire

  It’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard

  in all my years of umping.

  Oh, I’ve heard plenty of pitches hit a helmet.

  But this . . . this fastball, up and in.

  This one hit bone, right in the face.

  Not even a scream or grunt from the kid.

  He went down like he was shot.

  I know him.

  I’ve umped and reffed

  maybe a dozen of his games.

  Not just baseball—

  football and basketball, too.

  The kid’s a great athlete, a natural.

  That’s why it was such a shock to see him go down like that.

  The screams come from everywhere:

  bleachers, dugouts, infield, mound.

  Even from me.

  Blood. Lots of it. It looks like Luke’s dead.

  “Jesus!” I yell. “Call 911!”

  Then I shout to the bleachers: “We got a doctor here?”

  A woman runs out to home plate.

  The mother, I think, of one of the Oak Grove players.<
br />
  Says she’s a nurse.

  Lucky for me.

  Lucky for Luke.

  I’m just an ump, not a doc.

  I might do the wrong thing and make a bad situation worse.

  It’s plenty bad already.

  The best I can do is hold Luke’s mother,

  when she runs onto the field,

  try to keep her calm until the ambulance arrives.

  Part Two

  Sally Anderson, spectator and nurse

  After Luke got hit, I ran out to him.

  The way he went down and lay so still,

  eyes closed,

  I feared the worst.

  Coach Hucklebee and the umpires

  were already there, but luckily no one

  had tried to move him.

  Someone came running from Oak Grove’s dugout

  with a first-aid kit.

  I grabbed a pair of rubber gloves

  and searched for a pulse with one hand

  while trying to stop the bleeding with the other.

  I was afraid Luke might choke on his own blood.

  He was unconscious, so my biggest concern

  was to monitor his breathing until the ambulance arrived.

  Someone brought ice for his face and a jacket to cover him.

  We moved people away to give him breathing room.

  There was no time to think, only to react.

  It wasn’t until later that I remembered

  my son, Gordie, was due up after Luke.

  It could just as easily have been him.

  Willard Kominski, longtime Oak Grove baseball fan

  I’ve read about career-threatening and career-ending injuries

  to big league players hit by pitches or batted balls:

  Herb Score, Dickie Thon, Tony Conigliaro,

  Don Zimmer, Bryce Florie—and worst of all,

  Ray Chapman, killed by a pitch.

  And I saw a kid break his leg once sliding into second.

  It was a compound fracture—the bone sticking right out,

  pinpoint sharp and glistening in the sun.

  That was the worst thing I ever saw on a ball field.

  Until now.

  I still see it all in slow motion,

  hear the sounds:

  The pitcher shouting.

  A crack, but not like when ball hits bat or helmet.

  The sound of bone shattering.

  Then silence. I know it lasts only for a split second,

  but with Luke lying there, it seems more like an eternity

  before screams come from everywhere.

  Probably even from me,

  but I don’t remember that.

  Kyle Dawkins, Compton pitcher

  Oh, God! I didn’t mean to hit him.

  I’d walked two guys,

  and Oak Grove bunted them to second and third.

  That’s when Coach came out

  and told me to throw inside.

  “Move him off the plate.

  Then you can work him outside,” he said.

  Sure.

  Like I can spot the ball wherever I want.

  I should have followed Pete’s lead.

  He set up the target right down the middle,

  and I should have thrown it there.

  Not many can hit my good fastball.

  Instead, I listened to Coach.

  The pitch got away from me. Too far in.

  I tried to shout, but there wasn’t time.

  I still can’t believe it.

  The sound.

  The blood.

  Wallace in the dirt.

  The ambulance is gone, but I still hear the siren.

  I still see Wallace’s bloody face.

  And look . . . my hands.

  I can’t stop them from shaking.

  Roland Zachary, baseball scout

  You always hate to see a kid get hit in the head.

  You especially hate to see

  a prospect like Dawkins bean someone.

  Some young pitchers never recover from it.

  They’re afraid to pitch inside again—

  and they’re done.

  I wonder how Dawkins will deal with it.

  Michelle Wallace, Luke’s mother

  Somebody told me later

  it took six minutes from the time Luke got hit

  till the ambulance arrived.

  It seemed longer.

  I ran toward him.

  I wanted to lift him up, hold him,

  do something to help.

  There was so much blood.

  I remember somebody grabbing me,

  holding me back, keeping me from my son.

  I remember Sally bending down over Luke

  for the longest time.

  I remember thinking it should be me

  by his side, making his pain all better,

  because I’m his mother and that’s what mothers are for.

  But it was somebody else’s mother,

  and I knew I was failing him.

  My little boy was covered with his own blood,

  lying in the dirt in pain,

  and I couldn’t do a single thing to help him.

  Sarah Edgerton, Oak Grove student

  Luke’s the only reason I came to the game.

  And then to see that happen . . .

  Oh, Luke!

  When I moved to Oak Grove three weeks ago,

  he was the first person who talked to me.

  That was even before I entered the building.

  “Hi,” he said. “You’re new, right?”

  “I am,” I said. “Are you the official greeter?”

  I smiled at him, and he smiled back.

  “Unofficial. But I keep my eyes open

  for anyone who’ll make our school even better

  than it already is.”

  He looked right at me with his beautiful blue eyes.

  He made me feel as if I’d already found a friend.

  I hoped we’d be in some of the same classes, and we are.

  The bad thing is, he’s already dating someone.

  A girl named Melody. She’s so . . .

  Well, maybe I’d like her if I knew her better.

  I admit, I’m probably a little jealous.

  The good thing is, last week in English

  Mrs. Trucelli told us to pair up for a research project,

  and Luke asked me to be his partner.

  I couldn’t believe it. I said yes, of course.

  He didn’t invite me to the baseball game,

  but I’d heard kids talking about what a good player he is.

  I just had to come see.

  How could something like this happen?

  Red Bradington, Compton coach

  It’s a hell of a thing,

  a boy getting hit in the head like that.

  But that’s baseball.

  Some people might blame me

  for telling Dawkins to pitch him inside,

  but that’s part of the game.

  Did I want Dawkins to hit the kid?

  Hell, no.

  But I’d make the same call again

  in that situation.

  It was a fluke, the ball getting away

  from Dawkins like that.

  A damn shame.

  But that’s baseball.

  You have to play it straight

  Aggressive.

  You can’t back off.

  A couple inches higher,

  the ball hits the helmet—

  maybe a harmless, glancing blow,

  or, at worst, the kid gets a mild concussion.

  It’s a damn shame this happened,

  but it’s nobody’s fault.

  Daryl Hucklebee, Oak Grove coach

  As a coach, you want nine players like the Wizard.

  He can pluck a ball out of the air

  the way a magician plucks a coin from someone’s ear.

  You see it, but you don’t
believe your eyes.

  He could patrol big league outfields right now,

  the way he handles the glove.

  And hustle, attitude, desire . . .

  the Wizard’s got it all.

  That’s why it’s a mystery,

  him freezing on that inside pitch.

  I replay it in my mind over and over—in slow motion—

  the ball coming at him, and me wanting to shout,

  “Look out!”

  But there isn’t time.

  Luke doesn’t move.

  He just stands there

  and lets the pitch take him down.

  Every time I run that replay in my mind,

  it turns out the exact same way.

  No matter how many times I yell,

  “Look out!”

  I can’t change the ending.