Painting the Black (17 page)

Right from the start he was calm. Not relaxed—he was
intensely
calm. Josh's eyes were honed on Selin's mitt like a laser beam on a target.

And that's what his pitches looked like too. Laser beams, heat-seeking missiles. He struck out the side in the first. He struck out the side in the second. The seven hitter led off the third with a bunt single, and a sacrifice bunt from the number eight hitter ended his string of strikeouts. But after the out was recorded at first, Josh took his cap off, smoothed his long dark hair, and struck out the next two batters on six pitches.

Seeing him blow away the Bellevue hitters changed our team. As the Bellevue players walked back to their bench shaking their heads, we started holding our heads a little higher.

In our half of the fifth, we caught a break. Their pitcher retired Van Tassel to open the inning, but then he walked Curtis and Combs. On a 2–0 pitch, Bayne hit a perfect double-play grounder. But the Bellevue shortstop bobbled it and then threw wildly to first. One run scored, and Selin drove in two more with a ringing double to left center.

I went in to catch the bottom of the sixth. From his warm-up pitches, I could see Josh was tiring. He'd been dripping sweat since the first inning, but now he looked cold somehow. All those strikeouts had taken their toll. He'd kept us in the game, given us a chance to win. But could he finish them off?

The inning started okay. The first batter popped up to short. But the number two hitter lined a single to center—a hard hit ball. Then we got lucky. They sent up a pinch hitter, a big muscular guy, and he smacked a rocket down the line at third. Curtis somehow knocked it down, picked it up, and fired it to first for the put-out. It was a great play, because if it had gotten by him it would have been extra bases. Still, the baserunner had moved up to second on the out, and he scored Bellevue's first run when the next batter drilled a hanging curve off the wall in right field for a double. I looked down toward the bullpen and saw Smith throwing. Just seeing him up made my stomach go into knots. He was a good enough pitcher, but he was a freshman and this game was too much for him. If he came in we'd lose.

Josh's tempo slowed down incredibly. After every pitch, he'd take a little walk around the mound, shake his arm out. His rhythm was shot, and so was his control. He walked the tying run aboard on four pitches, and then went two balls and no strikes on the next hitter. The Bellevue fans were stomping their feet, and the Bellevue players were up in the dugout. They could sense the kill.

I called time and trotted out to him. His face looked pained, and he kept kicking the dirt. “Forget about everything,” I said. “It's just you and me over at the Community Center, and you're throwing me that nasty slider. Okay?”

He looked at me and sort of laughed. “That easy, eh?”

I smiled back. “That easy.”

Ten seconds later I was crouching behind the plate, sticking down three fingers. Josh delivered. The awkwardness, the jerkiness in his motion were gone, the liquid grace was back. That slider dipped just as the guy swung. “Strike one!” the umpire bellowed. I popped up and fired the ball back to Josh. He caught it without moving, and it was as if we were back at the Community Center. The batter didn't exist, the baserunners didn't exist. Strike two was a fastball that froze him. The went down on a wicked slider that the bottom dropped out of. End of inning, and we still had a two-run lead.

Wheatley came over during our half of the seventh. “You got anything left?” he asked Josh.

“I'm fine,” Josh insisted.

Wheatley nodded. “Smith's ready. You can come out if you want.”

“I want to finish.”

He made a fist in front of his face. “That's the spirit.”

I spent the rest of that half-inning laying out a plan. When a pitcher loses it, he usually loses it pretty fast. So I had to figure for the worst. There was a decent chance he'd have no velocity on his fastball, no bite left in his curve or his slider. But if he could spot the ball, if he could get ahead in the count and then get the hitters to swing at bad balls, they'd get themselves out.

We didn't score in our half of the seventh. I pulled the mask over my face, went back behind the plate, and caught Josh's warm-up tosses. “Let's go!” the ump cried. I fired the ball down to second, it went around the horn, and the batter stepped in.

Bellevue's two-three-four hitters were due up. I started the first guy off with a fastball, figuring he'd be taking, and Josh laid one right down the middle. “Strike one!” the ump called. Josh looked in for the sign. I called for another fastball, and I pointed away emphatically. He nodded, and then came with a tempting fastball belt high but about six inches outside. The guy couldn't resist. He swung viciously, but caught the ball way out on the end of his bat and dribbled an easy grounder to Combs at first. One down, two to go.

The next guy was their best hitter, and the most disciplined. I started him out with two fastballs outside. He didn't bite. Behind in the count, there was nothing to do but come in with a pitch. He was all over it, whistling a line drive to center for a solid single.

Their cleanup batter stepped in, representing the tying run. Sweat was streaming from Josh's face. I called for another fastball, figuring he'd be taking on the first pitch. Josh came in with it, belt high, right down the middle. The guy roped a line drive to left center. It bounded between our fielders and went all the way to the wall. The runner from first scored easily, cutting our lead to one, and the hitter could have made third. I don't know why he held up. It was a big break for us—they'd need a hit to score him.

Wheatley walked slowly out of the dugout. “Can you finish?” he asked Josh. Josh nodded. Wheatley turned to me. “What do you think?”

“We can do it,” I said.

He looked down at Smith, then looked at Josh. “Okay. Go get 'em.”

There were about seventy-five Bellevue fans in the bleachers, and they were stomping and making the noise of a couple hundred. I think that actually worked to our advantage. The batter was anxious, too anxious. We started him off with a fastball outside and high. It's a sucker's pitch and he went for it, fouling it down the right field line. I decided to climb the ladder with him. I called for another fastball, and pointed up. This one Josh put about shoulder high, and the guy swung again, missing it entirely for strike two. He pounded the bat down in disgust.

Keep climbing it,
I thought, as I called for another fastball up. Josh came back with a not-so-fast fastball that was about eye level—exactly what I'd wanted. The guy couldn't lay off. Again he caught nothing but air. We'd struck him out without even throwing a strike. Two down.

I popped up and went out to talk to Josh. Van Tassel came in from second to listen. “One more hitter,” I told Josh. “Have you got three more pitches left in you?”

He blew out some air. “I don't know, Ryan. I hope so.”

“Maybe we don't have to get him out,” Van Tassel whispered.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Let's try to pick the guy off second. He's flat-footed out there, watching, especially after the pitch. I think we can get him.”

“All right,” I said. “Let's try it.” I looked back to Josh. “Throw me a fastball outside.”

Josh went into his stretch, delivered. It wasn't quite a pitch-out, but it was a good two feet outside. I was coming out of my crouch as I caught it, and in one motion I fired down to Van Tassel, who'd broken in behind the runner. It was the best throw of my life, a bullet to the shortstop side of the bag. The guy was so stunned he never even slid. Van Tassel slapped the tag on his knee when he was still a yard from the bag. “Out!” the umpire hollered. For a second everyone stood still, too shocked to believe the game was really over, that we'd really won.

That bus ride back was different from the one going. The entire way, guys were shouting and screaming. They were pounding Josh on the back, pounding me on the back, pounding Van Tassel on the back. Then, just as we got off the freeway, Coach Cliff motioned for me to come sit next to him.

“You did a great job,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied.

“Listen. I talked to Coach Wheatley, and we both agree that the next time Josh pitches, you're going to catch. First inning to last. How's that sound?”

My face broke into a huge smile. “Sounds great to me!”

“All you've got to do is hit a little, Ryan, and you'll catch him all year. You've earned your chance, kid. Make the most of it.”

“You made it, Ryan. Now don't let up! Play the string out to the very end. The very end.” That's what Josh said every time I saw him. I'd nod as if he was telling me something I didn't already know, but there was no way I was letting up. In the morning when I awoke, I felt strong inside, like every single cell in me was bursting with life. It was a feeling I wanted to keep forever.

I wasn't the only guy on a high. The whole baseball team was. We were the darlings of the school, of the Crown Hill community. We were in first place in the league. We were in the top ten in the state. Those days, even breathing was exciting.

When Josh was on the mound, our wins were almost automatic. All we needed to do was scratch out a run or two and he'd take care of the rest. And we were scoring more than a run or two. Van Tassel and Curtis were reaching base. Combs, Bayne, and Hernandes were pounding out extra base hits the way drummers in a marching band pound out a beat.

I was tight at the plate the first couple of games I started. I wasn't quite sure what Coach Cliff meant when he said I had to
hit a little.
But hitting is contagious. You see the guys at the top of the lineup sending line drives all over the park, and you start to believe you can do it too. I banged out at least one hit in every game Josh pitched, and two hits—including a double—against Ingraham, not bad for somebody hitting in the eighth spot in the lineup.

The most amazing thing was the way Chris Selin acted toward me. He had every reason to be burned. I was taking half his innings, half his at-bats. I was catching the star pitcher. I wouldn't have blamed him if he didn't even look at me. But if I stroked a hit or scored a run, or even if I made an out, Selin was always there, cheering me on if I'd done well, picking me up if I was down. It wasn't easy for him. I could see it in his eyes. Still, he did it.

The runs we scored for Josh made calling his games a snap. Fastball in, fastball out. Mix in an occasional change or curveball in the early innings, then call for that wicked slider to blow them away late.

Not that I'm trying to take credit for his success. A catcher can call a perfect game, but if the pitcher doesn't pitch, it means nothing. Josh pitched. Josh was awesome. It was as if he were a big jungle cat and the batters were little mice he was toying with. He won his next four starts 6–2, 8–0, 9–1, and 5–1. I caught every inning.

When you're a catcher, you're into each pitch of the game, no matter what the score. That's not true of anybody else. With a big lead the infielders don't crouch quite so low and the outfielders start singing songs to themselves. Whenever I saw a guy drifting off, I'd motion for him to move a step to the right or a step to the left, back a little or in a little, not because he needed to move, but to wake him up. It's like being a puppet master, in a way. You point your finger and your left fielder moves. It's a good feeling, controlling things. A real good feeling.

But Josh started only half the games. David Reule started the other half, and when Reule was on the mound, Wheatley had Chris Selin behind the plate and me back on the bench.

It's hard to say how I felt about that. I wanted to play. Even if I was banged up or sore from catching Josh, I wanted to be out there. You learn from watching guys, though. And I'd learned from Selin. So no matter how his game went—whether he hit a home run or struck out, whether he cut down a base-stealer or had a passed ball—I was in his corner. I'd like to think I backed him the same way he backed me. I know I tried.

Reule's games were murder to watch. My stomach would churn from the first pitch to the last. His fastball was just okay. His curveball broke, but not sharply, and it had no zip at all. It seemed like every inning the other team would have a couple of guys on base.

But Reule was a competitor. Roosevelt beat him 7–4, dropping us into a tie with O'Dea. In his other starts, though, he got the outs when he needed them. Or if he didn't, then Wilkerson or Smith came in and got them for him. I don't think we won any of those games by more than two runs, and twice we had to come back in the last inning to win, but we won.

We needed those wins, every one of them, because O'Dea kept on winning too. It was like one of those stare-downs you have with your friends when you're a kid. Only one of us could go on to the state tournament. Who was going to blink first?

When the showdown game was three weeks off, I was sure the league championship would be settled—one way or the other—before we met. It didn't seem possible for both of us to win out. Either they'd drop a few or we would. But they took care of their business and we took care of ours. When I looked at the schedule after Josh shut out Nathan Hale 3–0 on a two-hitter, there was only one game left to play: O'Dea, at their field, with the regional championship—and a spot in the state tournament—on the line.

I didn't like our chances. Not with Reule on the mound. For a while I second-guessed Wheatley, thinking he should have thrown Reule against Nathan Hale, and saved Josh for O'Dea. But that would have been risky, too. There was no guarantee Reule would have beaten Nathan Hale, and we didn't need to face O'Dea coming off a loss. Besides, if you've got a rhythm going that's working, you keep it.