This Side of Salvation

CHAPTER 8

ROUGHLY ELEVEN MONTHS BEFORE THE RUSH

Just as the high school baseball season ended, communityleague play began. When I was in middle school, my parents would send me to expensive “travel league” camps and tournaments so I could get maximum experience against the best players. That stopped the summer before my freshman year, when Dad declared the Sabbath sacred. No Sunday baseball meant no camps or tournaments, so it was community league or nothing.

I missed the challenge of travel-league play, but not the pressure. Besides, giving one day a week back to God didn’t seem too much to ask.

My local league team featured most of the same players as the Middle Merion High team. We had the same coach and mascot, making for a mostly seamless transition from spring to summer.

Our opening game took place on a brutally hot June day, the first Saturday after school had finished for the year. I felt sorry for my best friend, Kane, saddled with a heavy chest protector, shin guards, and catcher’s mask on top of his uniform. But I wouldn’t have traded him for anyone, not even legendary Phillies catcher Tim McCarver himself. Kane knew me better than I knew myself, which is what a pitcher needs in a catcher: someone to calm him down when he’s wound too tight, or fire him up when he’s discouraged.

Except for my graffiti days—as an aspiring law-enforcement officer, Kane was as straightedge as they come—we’d been inseparable since the age of six, when we met during a T-ball pickup game. Our moms got to talking and realized that not only did we go to the same church (at the time) but our houses backed up to each other on either side of the woods. (Mom and Mrs. Walsh became close friends too, but ever since we left St. Mark’s, they hardly saw each other.)

On opening day, there were rumors that a scout was in the crowd, but I put that out of my mind and focused on the next pitch, and the next pitch, and the next pitch, one at a time, just like my coaches had taught me.

As I headed into the dugout at the top of the seventh and final inning, my teammates fell quiet. Normally, we’d be full of chatter, exchanging opinions on the other team’s batters or pitchers (or the girls in the stands), or shouting encouragement to our fellow players. But I had a no-hitter going and no one wanted to jinx it by mentioning it out loud.

I sat next to Kane, who offered me a bag of sunflower seeds. I took a handful and passed on the bag. Nate Powers, our first baseman and one of my Stony Hill friends, went to the plate while Sam Schwartz headed for the on-deck circle. The seven of us remaining teammates chewed and spa our seeds in silent solidarity with one another.

“Stay hydrated, guys.” Coach Kopecki lugged the giant cooler of Gatorade down the dugout, a stack of cone-shaped cups in his other hand. “I don’t wanna get sued by your parents when you pass out from heatstroke.”

Nate, Sam, and eventually our shortstop, Miguel Navarro, ending our half of the inning.

“Okay, Coop.” Kane slapped his catcher’s mitt against my shoulder as he stood up. “Rock and roll.”

“Saved my soul,” I murmured in our usual call-and-response smoothed back my sweaty hair and replaced my cap. Then I made my way toward the mound, counting steps, focusing on anything but our opponent’s zeros on the center-field scoreboard.

The first batter hit the same weak grounder to Nate off the same changeup I’d gotten him on in the fourth inning. I let out a breath and rolled my shoulders when the umpire called him out at first. Two outs until I had a no-hitter.

I stepped off the mound, shaking my head as the ball went around the horn, tossed from first base to second to shortstop to third, keeping the infielders focused between outs.

“There is no no-hitter,” I told myself. “There is only the next pitch. You got this.”

Our third baseman returned the ball to me, and I stepped back on the mound. The batter leaving the on-deck circle was a pinch hitter I’d never faced before.

Kane sat with one knee in the dirt, studying the batter as he moved into the box. Then he punched his mitt and signaled me one finger down for a sinking fastball. I nodded. Go after him with my best stuff, jump ahead of him in the count. Make him nervous.

The batter took his sweet time getting ready, kicking the dirt back and forth, crossing himself, adjusting the titanium rope necklace that so many players wear in imitation of big leaguers. This guy wasn’t playing baseball. He was playing at playing baseball.

In those moments he was wasting, I made a huge mistake: I let my gaze wander over the spectators for the first time in the game . . .

. . . and saw Bailey, sitting on the top bleacher on the third-base side, fanning herself with a wide-brimmed, polka-dotted hat. Her dress or shirt or whatever was a tan color only one shade darker than her skin, making her appear, at first glance, from a distance, totally naked.

I stood there, paralyzed, wondering how I’d blocked out her voice through the first six and a half innings

The batter settled into his stance, but I’d already forgotten the pitch. Kane, seeing my hesitation, repeated the signal.

I went into my windup, but just as my hand was at its zenith I realized it didn’t have the proper two-seam grip on the ball. My mind had registered Kane’s signal, but my fingers never finished the job.

This fastball wasn’t going to sink. It wasn’t going anywhere but straight over the plate and onto the bat.

Crack! The ball streaked past me, over the shortstop’s head, and into the outfield for an easy single. The center-field scoreboard flipped our opponents’ middle zero to one.

I caught the toss from our second baseman, stepped off the mound, and started talking to myself again. “So much for the no-hitter. But hey, one less thing to worry about. Next pitch, next pitch.”

Bailey’s voice rang out. “You can do it, David! Woooo!” She started a spirited, steady clap as the next batter stepped up to the plate. The home team crowd picked up the rhythm in support of the Tigers.

My heart started to pound, and the sweat that had been streaming down my back all day turned suddenly cold.

I shook off Kane’s first signal, for a fastball low and away. He wiggled four fingers down for a changeup, which was good thinking. Surprise the batter. Or . . . would he be more surprised to get what he was expecting? Did that even make sense?

I shook my head at Kane, my thoughts spinning like a hamster wheel. He paused, then stood, asking the umpire for a timeout.

I scuffed my spikes in the dirt as he approached.

“What’s up?” Kane climbed the mound and put his mitt in front of his mouth before he spoke again, in case the other team could read lips (another habit we copied from big leaguers). “Your two-seamer killed him in the fourth. You tired?”

I covered my own mouth with my glove. “Nope.”

“You had one bad pitch, but so what? You’ll get this guy. He chases low balls like he’s playing polo.” When I didn’t laugh, he added, “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

“Bailey’s here. That girl from Math Cave I told you about.” My eyes darted toward the third-base side.

“Where—”

“Don’t look! She’ll know we’re talking about her.”

“Are we in sixth grade? Come on, Coop. Three more outs, then after the game you ask her to the movies. That’s the plan, okay? Now let’s see that sinker.” He started to move away.

I dropped my glove so he could hear me. “I can’t!” When he turned back, I covered my mouth again. “Sorry I’m being a head case, but my parents have rules.”

Kane’s voice came muffled behind his mitt. “Then break them, if you want to go out with her now. Or don’t. But you’re only allowed to worry about it for two seconds after each pitch.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nate trotting over from first base. Great, now it was a full-fledged mound conference. I started to worry our opponents would see my uncertainty as a sign of weakness.

“What’s going on? It’s freaking hot out.” Like most Jesus freaks (a term we’d happily co-opted for ourselves), Nate used “freaking” for the alternative f word.

“We’re good.” Kane’s voice cracked a little.

Nate covered his mouth with his glove. “I think he’s gonna bunt. Pretty sure I saw the coach’s signal.”

“Wow. Thanks,” I told him.

“Yeah, thank you.” Kane’s gaze followed Nate as he trotted back to first.

“Stop staring at his butt.”

“What?” Kane stepped back, practically falling off the mound. “I wasn’t—I didn’t—” He leaned in. “Do you think he noticed?”

“His eyes are in the front of his head, so probably not.”

“Boys!” Coach Kopecki’s voice startled me. “Sorry to spoil the party, but rumor has it there’s a game on.” He shooed Kane back toward home plate, saying, “Watch out for a bunt, Walsh.” Then the coach put his hand on my left shoulder and steered me down onto the grass.

“Cooper, what are you thinking about up there?” he said as we walked clockwise around the mound.

“The next pitch,” I mumbled, knowing it was what he wanted to hear.

“What are you thinking about?”

“The next pitch,” I said, more forcefully.

He kept us walking. “What are you thinking about?”

“The next pitch.”

“What are you thinking about?”

I stopped and looked him in the eye. “The next pitch.”

“Excellent.” He patted my shoulder. “That’s all. Go do it.”

I climbed the mound, so focused I didn’t even see him return to the dugout. Kane signaled for a fastball up and in, and when the batter readied his stance, I threw my best pitch of the day.

He bunted, but instead of dying on the grass like it should have, the ball bounced high and fast back toward the mound. I scooped it up and fired toward second, where Miguel was covering. He whipped it to first for the game-ending double play.

I raised both fists in the air. “Yes!”

Kane slapped me on the back. “That was awesome! One-hitter and a double play.” He shook his catcher’s mask at me. “That scout better be making some calls, bro.”

I spun on my heel to look at Bailey. She was jumping up and down on the bleacher seat, clapping and cheering, as were the two girls with her, though less enthusiastically. I wanted to beat my chest like a caveman with a freshly killed mastodon, but I restrained myself. This wasn’t football, after all.

I gave her as casual a wave as I could manage. Miguel caught up to me for a high five, then we headed back to the dugout together.

Coach Kopecki was waiting there, arms crossed, a frown set deep into the wrinkles of his face.

“Did you see that?” I asked him. A stupid question, but I was craving an “Atta boy, Coop!”

Kopecki lowered his chin, accentuating his jowls. “What do you do with a bunt hit to you?”

“Uh-oh,” Miguel said under his breath. “Good luck, man.” He tapped me with his glove and jogged away.

Was Kopecki really going to ream me out for not following protocol, when we won the game? “I field the ball,” I answered, stepping down into the dugout. It was as smart-alecky a response as I dared.

“And where do you throw it?”

I dropped my glove on the bench. “I’m supposed to throw it to first for the easy out unless Kane signals me not to, since he’s the one who can see the field. But I got the double play by throwing to second. Two outs are better than one, right?”

“Statistically, how many outs does one usually get by throwing to second instead of first in that situation?”

I held back a groan. “Usually none. But the runner was leaning toward first. I knew I could end the game!”

“Your desperation to end the game could’ve cost us the game.”

“But it didn’t. In the end—”

“The ends don’t matter. I’m not here to make you the star of the day or help you impress girls. I’m here to teach you how to play the game, because that’s what you’ll carry with you when you move on.” Kopecki gestured to the field, where Nate and Sam were clearly watching us trying not to look like they were watching us. “This is piss-ant, community-league ball. Wins and losses here don’t mean a thing in the big picture.”

“Big picture?”

“Your career on the mound. Cooper, you’ve got the talent and the work ethic. You stay in shape in the off-season, and you practice more diligently than anyone I’ve coached in a decade.”

My chest got this swelling sensation, like my lungs had been pumped full of warm air. “Thanks.”

“But if you’re gonna make it, you need to get your head on straight. And by that I mean you gotta tame your desire and your fear.”

“Okay,” I said with hesitation. “In that order?”

He almost smiled. “Don’t worry about that. They’re two sides of the same coin. Just stay positive and keep breathing.”

That sounded simpler. “Okay,” I said again, this time with more force.

“And show up half an hour early for practice Monday. You’ll do extra wind sprints to pay for your mistake.”

There were no showers or locker rooms at the community ballpark, so I stood several feet away from Bailey when we met in the parking lot. That way she wouldn’t know how bad I reeked.

“Great job today!” She beamed up at me, the sweat on her face making her metaphorically as well as literally hot. In awe of her allweather gorgeousness, I kept my cap on to hide my severe hat head.“Thanks.” I decided to go for it. “Hey, do you want to—”

A horn honk interrupted me. “David, let’s go!” Mom called from our minivan to my left. My parents hadn’t come to the game today, which didn’t bother me as much as it should have.

I turned back to Bailey. “Sorry, I gotta run.”

“See you next Saturday?”

Whoa. Is she asking me out? “What’s next Saturday?” “Another game, right?”

“Oh. Right.” Another game. Which she would be at. While I pitched. And she watched.

Mom honked the horn again. “David!”

“See you then,” I told Bailey, then put my shades on as I turned away, hoping she hadn’t caught the fear in my eyes or the desire. If they were two sides of the same coin, like Coach Kopecki’d said, then I had a giant, jangly pocketful of those coins.