Just A Boy

JUST A BOY

Up here, in the northern climes, October is usually a brilliant month, the leaves falling from the trees, all shades of gold and crimson, swirling in the breeze. It does rain in autumn — quite a bit — but when it’s not raining, the days are marvellous with brilliant blue skies, the sun still strong enough to warm the earth. The evenings are cooler, almost crisp, preparing us for winter that awaits just around the corner. But it’s not that cold just yet, just cool enough for a jacket, or a sweater. This night it was clear, a hint of a chill on the air. A lovely evening to watch a baseball game.  

Little League Baseball was a ritual and a rite-of-passage for so many children in this area. And their parents. Moms and Dads, most well-behaved, some not so much, all made their way to the ball field to watch their children play. Tonight it was “fall ball.” Not the regular summer hardball season — that had ended on Labour Day weekend — but an additional six weeks for the kids to play some more baseball before the temperatures and snow closed the fields until next spring. The kids playing this night were all eleven and twelve years old — the same kids who had played together in “major league” during the summer. Fall ball was a little extra baseball for those who weren’t playing hockey. Hockey was king in this part of the world, but not for every child.

It was a Tuesday night. Parents had hurried home from jobs, rushing to feed their children, ensuring they were delivered to the ball field in time for the six o’clock start. Some parents just didn’t have enough time between the end of their work day and the start of the game — those children ate hot dogs and fries from the ball park snack bar.  Every other kid wished that their parents were rushed, so that they too could have hot dogs and fries for dinner.

Both coaches checked their rosters, and made sure that all of their players were present and accounted for. This was 1997, and there were very few cell phones. Coaches couldn’t call their players to check whether or not they were going to make the game; they just had to hope. There were usually a couple of stragglers, but they could be subbed in when they finally made it to the field. The two umpires were ready — the plate ump, and the field ump. The field ump was only a couple of years older than the players himself, but he seemed so much older with his uniform and clicker. The plate ump was a man who just liked to umpire — his kids were grown, and he missed going to the games, so he umpired. 

Fall ball was supposed to be fun. And for the most part, it was. Parents still came to watch their kids play and cheer them on. There were fewer groans and complaints when the umpire made a call that they didn’t believe was fair in fall ball. There was more cheering and clapping, less screaming and fewer angry words. The kids rarely got angry, or complained. They were here to have fun.

The two teams playing this night were the Royals and the Diamondbacks. The teams were pretty evenly matched. At eleven and twelve, the players had been playing hard ball for three or four years. Most had started in junior tee-ball — where the ball was literally balanced on a tee, and the players tried to hit the stationary ball — when they were five, moved up to senior t-ball when they were seven. It wasn’t until they were nine-years old, in minor league, that they played pitch ball. And those first two years were painful. It wasn’t uncommon to have five or six walks in a row. Teams would literally run out of designated pitchers, so every kid got a chance to pitch in minor league. But by major league, the players knew what positions they were best at. The pitchers and catchers were the “specialized” positions that were populated by the players who were comfortable in those positions, and not afraid.  

Why a player would be afraid of the position of catcher is a no brainer — getting hit by a wild pitch, getting whacked in the head with a bat when the batter swung and took a step backwards, getting crashed into at home when the runner knew they were out but wanted to hit the catcher so hard that he dropped the ball. Yeah, catcher was a dangerous position. And there was the added pressure of calling the pitches for the pitcher. A tough position.

If catcher was dangerous, pitcher was a double-edged sword — it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. If the pitcher struck players out, they were a god, a hero, to their team. But if the batter connected and runs scored, the pitcher was a donkey. Never mind if the fielders couldn’t field, or the players on the bases couldn’t catch and tag, it was always the pitcher’s fault. That’s why so few kids were pitchers — too much pressure.

The Royals pitcher tonight was good, the best in the league. Even though he was twelve years old, everyone could tell that he was that special kind of athlete — he was good at every sport he tried. That was not an exaggeration. Whatever new sport he tried, he excelled at. In fact, five years after tonight’s game — he would be attending university in Boston on a baseball scholarship.  

He had only been pitching for two years, but he was a strong pitcher. He reached his eighty-five pitch maximum most games, and was rarely pulled when he was struggling. The only thing that kept his team from running away with the fall season was the fact that he needed four days of rest between games, so he couldn’t pitch every game. He was just that good. It had been the same during the regular season. Most of the batters feared him.

That night he was pitching well. It wasn’t his best game, but it was still a strong performance. By the bottom of the fourth inning he had struck out four batters, two had popped up, three others had grounded out, and two had been stranded on base. One batter had scored.

The other team, the Diamondbacks weren’t doing too bad, either. They were on their second pitcher, and he was holding his own. Between the two pitchers, they had struck out three, popped out three, and two had scored. If it wasn’t for their strong fielding the Royals might have run up the score. But for now, it was a close game.

It was the top of the fifth, and the Royals, who were the visitors, were up to bat. One out and a runner at second. It was the pitcher’s turn at bat. Not only was he a really good pitcher, he was a strong batter, as well. He hadn’t knocked it out of the park, but he could be counted on for a double or a triple. It didn’t hurt that he was fearless and fast. He took chances as a base runner, and was usually successful.  

“Come on Brad, you can do it!” yelled his teammates.

He stepped up the plate, a little bit of a smirk on his face. He knew he could do this.

“Play ball!” shouted the plate umpire.

The Diamondback’s pitcher, Ryan, was pretty confident. He’d been having a great game. But, this was Brad, and Brad was his unicorn. He had never struck him out, either during the regular season or during fall ball. He wanted to change that tonight.  

Brad stepped into the batter’s box, got into his batting stance, and waited. 

Ryan wound up and leaned into the pitch, aiming for a low and inside pitch. Brad swung.

“Strike one!”

Ryan smiled. His catcher signalled a high and inside pitch. Ryan sent the ball. Brad watched the it whiz by.

“Strike two!”

If it wasn’t considered poor form, Ryan would have done his happy dance. He’d never been ahead of the count with the Brad, ever. 

“Come on, Ryan, do it again!” his mom cheered from the stands.  

“Atta boy, Pitcher. You’re in the zone!” his coach yelled, clapping his hands. “You’ve got this!”

All of the Diamondback players in the dugout cheered him on. The ones on the field watched Brad and Ryan, intently, ready to make a play. They knew Brad could hit, and they were ready. The coach waved the infield back a few steps. They all took two steps farther back, never taking their eyes off of Brad.

Ryan read the signal from the catcher, pulled his arm back, and threw the ball.

Whack!

The Diamondbacks’ shortstop tracked the ball, turned, jumped into the air, and snagged it. The batter couldn’t believe it. It should have sailed into the outfield, and scored the runner on second. It was like the shortstop had leg springs!

“Out!” called the field umpire.

The shortstop came down and turned to the second baseman, and flipped the ball to him. The runner on second had started towards third, but didn’t have time to get back to second on the fly ball.

“Out!”called the field umpire. Inning over.

The Diamondbacks jogged into the dugout, congratulating the shortstop on an amazing play.

The Royals took the field. Brad started to warm up with the catcher, while the other players took their positions.

In the Diamondbacks’dugout the coach went over the batting order. They were in the middle of the lineup — not his best batters.

“Okay,” he said, looking at his roster. “Number 15, you’re up first.”

Number 15 was Ryan, the Diamondbacks’s pitcher. For some reason the coach never used the player’s names. He either called them by their numbers or their position.  

“Number 4, you’re on deck.” Number 4 was the left fielder.

“And number 8, you’re up third.” Number 8 was the shortstop. 

The coach looked around at the players. “Okay, don’t let their pitcher intimidate you. He’s good, but you guys are better. Every single one of you can hit off of him. So, let’s get out there, and show everyone how good we are.” He stuck his hand in the middle of the circle of players.

“Diamondbacks on three.” All the players stuck their hands on top of the coach’s hand. “One, two, three-“

“Diamondbacks!” they all yelled together.

Number 15, Ryan, loped up to the plate. Looking very sure of himself, he used the bat to knock the dirt out of his cleats before stepping in the batter’s box.

“Come on Ryan, big hits, big hits!” cheered Ryan’s mom. 

“Come on 15!” said the coach, clapping. “Make it count!” Clap, clap, clap.

“Come on, Brad, you’ve got this guy” called the Royals coach to his pitcher. “Throw some heat!” The Royals coach knew that his pitcher was only twelve-years old, and heat was very unlikely, but he’d watched Rookie of the Year too many times, and Throw some heat! seemed appropriate.

 Brad wound up and threw the first pitch of the bottom of the fifth.  

“Strike!” called the umpire. 

Brad smiled, slightly. Ryan was good, but he was better.  

It was back and forth, until it was a full count. Unless Ryan fouled off a pitch, this was the last pitch. Brad set up, and threw the ball.

“Whack!” The ball grounded towards third. 

Ryan dropped the bat and tore off towards first base. The third baseman picked up the ball and threw it to first. It was a long throw, and Ryan beat the throw — safe. Everyone clapped.

The coach bent over and spoke to Number 4 — known to his parents as Raj — telling him what he wanted him to do.

Raj walked out and stood in the batter’s box. Raj wasn’t very tall, and he had a pretty small strike zone. Brad knew this, and honed in on it. He threw the ball. It was outside.

“Ball one!”

He focussed again, took a big breath, and threw his second pitch.  

“Ball two!”

The catcher threw the ball back to Brad, who focussed on Raj. Raj bent a little lower in his batting stance.

Just before Brad wound up, Ryan broke from first, heading to second. Brad turned around and threw the ball to the second baseman. Ryan turned to run back to first. The second baseman threw it to the first baseman. Ryan was caught in a rundown. First to second, second to first, each of the moving in towards Ryan. Finally the first baseman tagged Ryan, and he was out. He had a big smile on his face as he went back to the dugout. It was fall ball, and it was fun.

“Two balls, no strikes. Play ball!” call the umpire.

Brad focussed on Raj, and settled down. He threw his third pitch.

“Strike one!”

His fourth.

“Ball three!”

His fifth.

Whack!

Raj took off for first base. Brad ran to the ball that had dribbled into the infield, turned and fired it to first base.

Raj may have been small, but he was fast. But not faster than Brad’s throw. But, the first baseman bobbled the ball, and Raj was safe.

The coach stopped Number 8, and explained what he wanted. The Diamondbacks’s shortstop walked out to the plate, and got ready to bat.

Brad smiled broadly.

“Don’t worry,” he called to his fielders, “She’s just a girl!” The Royals all laughed.  

It was 1997, and every player in the entire league was a boy. All but one, number 8 — the only girl playing hardball — was up to bat. She had been the only girl for two years of baseball. She was also the player who had caught Brad’s line drive, and thrown out the runner on second, so Brad wanted a bit of payback. But, she was just a girl, and Brad wasn’t worried.

Number 8 just watched Brad on the mound. He wasn’t the first boy to underestimate her. He probably wouldn’t be the last.

“Play ball!”

Brad stood on the mound and waited for the sign from his catcher. The catcher made the sign for low and inside. Brad nodded, checked Raj on first, and threw the ball.

Raj took off towards second. The catcher threw it to second, but Raj was already there, sliding through the dirt, hitting the bag before the ball made it to the second baseman’s mitt.

“Safe!” said the field umpire. 

“Strike one!” called the plate umpire.

Brad got ready for the second pitch, checked Raj again. The catcher gave him the sign for down and low. He wound up, and threw the pitch — up and inside. The catcher fumbled the ball, and it dropped at his feet.

Raj took off and slid into third before the catcher could throw the ball to third base.

“Safe!” said the field umpire.

“Strike two!” said the plate umpire.

“Come on, Kat. You got this!” called her mom. 

“Go Kat!” called the players in the Diamondbacks’s dugout.

Kat watched Brad. A big smile crossed his face. She smiled back.

Brad stood on the mound, preparing to throw the ball. The catcher made the sign for up and inside. Brad shook his head slightly. The catcher gave the same sign again. Brad shook is head again. It he hadn’t been wearing a mask, the pitcher would have seen the look of frustration marring his catcher’s face. The catcher gave the high and inside sign, and Brad nodded. The catcher couldn’t believe that Brad wanted to go for the same pitch three times in a row. He set up.  

Brad wound up and threw the pitch.

Kat watched the ball hurtling towards her. She started her swing, and knew she had it before the ball connected with her bat.

WHACK!

Kat dropped the bat and watched the ball sail through the air. Over the heads of the infield, sailing high. Over the heads of the outfielders, arcing in the sky. The right fielder and centre fielder both turned to run toward the fence. The ball still sailed through the air. They hit the warning track. The ball still sailed through the air above their heads. The centre fielder stuck out his glove in a futile attempt to catch the ball. It sailed right over the fence and finally landed twenty feet past the fence — two hundred and twenty feet.

Raj ran home, and scored. Kat jogged around the bases, and scored, a big smile on her face.  

No one had ever hit a home run off of Brad. He was gobsmacked.

“Great job, number 8! Great job!” said her coach, slapping her on the back.

“I wasn’t worried,” she said, “He’s just a boy.”