Trial and Error

Twenty-eight

Coach Kreindler told Bobby he could pitch. But only in practice. And only to two batters.

Still, it was something. Whatever Uncle Steve had said to the coach-or whatever he’d threatened-had worked.

But where’s Uncle Steve now?

A sticky evening. Mosquitoes and no-see-um gnats were buzzing in the glow of the field lights. Bobby was already lathered in sweat and his glasses were fogged.

On the mound, Bobby nervously toed the dirt the way he’d seen pitchers do on TV. One difference. Those guys never caught their spikes on the rubber and tripped. He’d nearly fallen twice and hadn’t yet thrown a pitch.

Uncle Steve was late. He’d called from the car, saying traffic was backed up on Dixie Highway. Bobby had wanted to ask a question about his grip for the fastball, but his uncle was focused on his trial.

“Bobby, what do you know about the Marine Mammal Strike Force?”

“Not much. It’s mostly classified.”

“But you’ve heard of it.”

“There’s stuff on the Internet, but no way to know if it’s true.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Dolphins being trained to fire toxic darts at enemy divers or drag them under and drown them, that kind of thing.”

“Jesus. Gives new meaning to the term ‘wet work.’”

“Suicide missions, too. Dolphins loaded with explosives to attack terrorists’ boats. Really weird stuff.”

“Is that real?”

“Dunno. You’d have to really be a sicko to do that to a dolphin.”

Now Bobby wondered, just how could he pitch without his uncle here?

“Let’s go, Robert,” Coach Kreindler yelled from behind home plate. He was wearing a “Kreindler Means Kosher” T-shirt and leaning over the catcher in the umpire’s position.

Barry Roth stood in the batter’s box, crowding the plate. Thin, wiry, the Bobcats’ leadoff hitter. Quick wrists, a singles hitter. Not a bad kid, at least compared to Rich (The Shit) Shactman.

The catcher was Miguel Juarez. His family didn’t belong to Beth Am, but Miguel’s dad was the security guard at the synagogue, and none of the Jewish kids wanted to catch. Miguel had short, thick legs, and could throw out a runner at second without ever coming out of his crouch. Bobby looked in for the sign. Miguel wiggled one finger.

Fastball.

Bobby worked the ball in his hand, his index and middle fingers running across the seams. He wound up, a jumble of herky-jerky motions. He looked uncoordinated. But his arm was a whip.

He let fly.

The ball sailed straight toward Barry Roth’s head.

Barry’s legs flew out from under him as he hit the dirt, the ball rocketing all the way to the backstop.

“Ball one!” Coach Kreindler shouted. “Robert, watch it out there. No brushbacks.”

But Uncle Steve had told him not to be afraid to throw inside.

“The inside of the plate is yours. You have to take it away from the batter.”

A shudder ran through him. What if he hit Barry? What if he hurt him?

“What are you waiting for, Solomon? Chanukah?” Rich Shactman yelling from the on-deck circle. The jerk was swinging three bats, showing off his muscles.

Miguel Juarez signaled for another fastball. Bobby wound up and threw again. High and wide. Miguel came out of his crouch to nab it. Ball two.

Barry Roth crowded the plate even more. Another pitch, Bobby tensing up and hanging on too long. The ball skidded in the dirt before it reached the plate. Ball three.

Where are you, Uncle Steve?

Bobby tried to relax, but he couldn’t. He tightened his grip even more, and the ball squirted out of his hand like a watermelon seed. A floater that looked like slow-pitch softball, going straight up and falling ten feet in front of the plate.

“Ball four!” Kreindler yelled. “One more batter, Robert.”

The coach seemed pleased, as if letting Bobby pitch had been both annoying and a waste of time.

“Rich, get in there and take a couple swings,” Kreindler said, smiling at his slugger.

Swaggering to the plate, Rich Shactman glared at Bobby, who took a shaky breath, picked up the resin bag, bounced it in his pitching hand a couple times, then tossed it away.

Stalling.

Tension gripped Bobby, a hundred pigeons flapping inside his chest. He tried to remember everything Uncle Steve taught him.

The grip. The windup. The release. I’ve forgotten everything.

“C’mon, Robert,” Coach Kreindler yelled. “We only have the field for an hour.”

“Which ends in two dang minutes,” came another voice. A husky man in a pin-striped baseball jersey stood at the fence along the first-base line, his gut hanging over the steel railing. Shug Moss. Coach of the First Baptist Bashers.

A dozen kids in Bashers uniforms sidled up to the fence alongside Moss. Most seemed bigger than Rich Shactman. The ones who weren’t had the long, lean look of sprinters or Dominican outfielders.

“Git a move on, Kreindler!” Shug Moss shouted. “You can’t hog the field. It ain’t kosher.”

The Bashers laughed at their coach’s southern-fried wit. Kreindler offered a feeble wave of his hand.

Moss had been a three-sport star athlete at Homestead High thirty years earlier. Having failed to show up for any classes his senior year, he forfeited a variety of college scholarship offers and signed a minor league baseball contract. A ferocious fastball hitter, his line drives splintered outfield fences in Dunedin, Lakeland, and other bush league towns. In four years, he got a shot with the Baltimore Orioles. He had one hit in thirty-four at-bats before being sent back to Double A ball. Just as he had failed basic grammar in high school, he never learned to hit a breaking pitch in the minors.

These days, when tanked on gin, he still talked about making it to The Show. His favorite story was to recall a blast into the upper deck at Yankee Stadium. Unfortunately, it was batting practice, and the ball was foul by fifty feet.

Now, Moss sold disability insurance, but his prime objective in life was to win the championship in the Kendall Sunday School Baseball League. He’d succeeded the last four seasons with a team composed not only of members of the First Baptist Church but also of undocumented Haitians who looked old enough to vote and a couple of players who had honed their skills in the Miami-Dade Youth Corrections Facility. Truth was, Moss would play an Al Qaeda suicide bomber if he could lay down a decent bunt.

On the mound, Bobby looked nervously toward the hulking Bashers, itching to get on the field for practice.

“Gib zich a traisel, Robert,” Kreindler urged him. “Let’s get this over with.”

Bobby started his motion, feeling like his arms and legs belonged to someone else. He let the pitch go too soon, and the ball sailed over the backstop.

Whoops and hollers from the Bashers along the fence.

“Ball one,” Kreindler announced.

Bobby tried again. This time, the pitch sailed ten feet behind Shactman.

“Ball two.”

“This your new pitcher?” Shug Moss taunted. “Stevie Wonder has better control.”

Bobby wiped the sweat off his glasses, then threw another fastball, this one skittering across the plate.

“Ball three,” Kreindler called out.

Shug Moss smirked. His players laughed and high-fived.

Shactman stepped out of the batter’s box. “This is embarrassing, Coach. The Bashers think we’re all weenies.”

He’s embarrassed, Bobby thought, hating all those eyes on him.

“Robert, just relax,” Coach Kreindler shouted. “Lay one right down the pipe.”

Shactman stepped back into the batter’s box.

Bobby took a smaller windup and floated a pitch chest high across the middle of the plate.

Shactman jumped on the pitch with a ferocious swing. A cannon shot, the crack of metal hitting leather. A rising rocket, the ball soared toward left field, gaining height and speed, never seeming to hit its apogee. The ball was still rising as it cleared the wooden fence and bounced high into a strand of live oak trees.

Holy shit!

Once at Pro Player Stadium, at a Giants-Marlins game, Bobby had seen Barry Bonds launch a home run that left the yard so fast, it seemed to be over the fence before Bonds had finished his swing. Outside of that, he had never seen a ball hit so hard.

Shactman still stood in the batter’s box, like a golfer admiring a tee shot.

Kreindler rose up from his umpire’s position and looked skyward. “Got in himmel!”

Shug Moss beamed toward Shactman. “Nice hitting, kid. Too bad you’re on the wrong team.” Then he turned to Bobby, who slumped toward the dugout. “And you! Four eyes. You ever think of taking up chess?”