Before he left the field, the argument futile as always, Coach Kaplan motioned angrily for LC to get back to right field.
And so the boy watched, far out of the play, as Billy Socks raced for the next batter’s line drive to left-center, watched and fantasized that it was him, not Billy, as Billy dove for the ball.
And missed.
The center fielder headed it off, though, making a great play, and fired it back toward the infield. The Panthers’ coach took no chances and held the lead runner at third base, while the batter, the game’s tying run, chugged in easily to second.
Coach Kaplan called time-out again, this time going out to the mound for a talk with Rusty. After a few tense moments, with Kaplan growling and kicking dirt, the man stalked back to the edge of the dugout. He managed to get in another insult at the umpire as he went, complaining that the runner had been out on the line drive and that the game should be over.
On Kaplan’s orders, Rusty walked the next batter intentionally, loading the bases, resulting in a possible force-out at every base.
LC could hardly find his breath. Five batters had come to the plate; the game should have been over, one way or the other, by now! The fans on both sides were going wild. The Panthers shouted at Rusty, who just rubbed down the ball and let fly a wad of spit in the general direction of the Panthers’ bench, glaring at the next batter as the kid dug in at the plate.
All LC cared about was that this batter was big and strong and right-handed, which meant he wouldn’t be likely to hit the ball anywhere near right field!
Rusty’s first pitch popped into Tony’s glove with the sound of a firecracker. Strike one.
The next pitch was too far inside, nearly clipping the kid on the hands, and the third pitch, too, was a ball. It bounced in the dirt, and only a smothering grab by Tony prevented all three runners from advancing.
The Panthers’ batter ripped the next one down the left field line, foul.
LC breathed a little easier. Not only did the kid now have two strikes, but Rusty was working him inside, and he seemed quite willing to pull the ball to the left.
Rusty fired; the batter swung.
LC and all the Mariners nearly jumped for joy, for the ball went right by the hitter. There was a moment of confusion, of the sheerest tension LC had ever known.
The kid wasn’t out; he had foul-tipped the pitch and Tony hadn’t held on to it.
The situation only got worse when the next pitch came in too tight again. Ball three—full count.
LC hated this game.
Rusty rubbed down the ball. The entire park seemed to go eerily silent. Three balls and two strikes, two outs, tying run on second, winning run on first.
Rusty went into the windup and let it fly. All three base runners took off. Rusty had to get this one over, couldn’t afford to tease the kid inside again. The ball came in waist-high over the outside part of the plate. LC saw it all as if in slow motion: the batter’s puffy cheeks, the great exhalation as the bat came around and connected.
And then, suddenly, the ball was in the air, soaring high into right field.
LC’s glove came up immediately—all the inexperienced ballplayers did it that way, putting the glove above their heads as if it were an umbrella. LC was all alone then, just him and the ball, and he heard nothing but the sound of wind in his ears as he ran back, back, and toward the line.
Five short steps put him under the peaking fly ball, he thought, with plenty of time to spare, for the ball had been hit so high.
And then it was coming down, down, spinning and falling. LC shifted back a bit more. Since a right-handed batter had hit the ball to right field, it was tailing toward the line, spinning like one of Rusty’s patented curveballs.
But LC was there, in position. Down came the ball, right into his glove.
And out it spun, rolling up his index finger and hopping back into the air. LC felt as if he were in a dream, moving slowly, too slowly. He could count the stitches on the rotating ball, could see its arc as it rose above his head. His short legs pumped for all his life, cleats grabbing at the turf, propelling him forward. He dove straight out, trying to get to the ground before the ball landed.
He did get down fast enough, but his arm wasn’t long enough; the fingers on the vinyl Kmart glove his father had bought him for his first year of baseball weren’t long enough! The ball hit the ground just beyond his reach and rolled tantalizingly away from him.
LC knew that he was in trouble. The runners had taken off with the pitch. One run was in, maybe two, and the winning runner was nearing, or rounding, third. LC scrambled to his feet, took a running stride, then glanced back and saw his doom.
The third run, the winning run, was halfway home; he couldn’t possibly pick up the ball and throw it to the infield in time!