The Youngest Hero (36 page)

“Son, listen. You’re going to be playing somewhere this summer.”

That was a relief. It scared me to think I had to jump two or three levels just to find a place to play. What if I wasn’t
ready?

Jim Koenig arrived, a tall, thin man with short black hair. “So you’re the one who humiliated my pitchers today, huh? I could
use a switch-hitter. Hector tells me you’ve got skills in the field too. Frankly, we had our eyes on Dirk for second base,
but we hate to break up the twins. Hector tells me Dirk is better than you in the field and has a stronger arm, but if you
can hit my pitchers, you’ll hit a couple of hundred points higher than he would at this level.”

I could hardly sit still. I wanted to discuss baseball with this fascinating, friendly man. But I couldn’t speak.

“I’ll make sure my guys treat you right, and past that I won’t make any promises. If this was luck, if you’re a fluke, you’re
back to Hector’s team in a New York minute. Got it?”

I didn’t know what a New York minute was, but I got it.

“We have ten preseason games. I’ll try you at second. Probably hit you seventh or eighth. That’ll tell us where you fit. I’m
willing to start you and play you every inning of every preseason game, even if you bat zero. Get comfortable, find your rhythm,
and show me what you’ve got. We start workouts Monday night and we practice or play every day for the next three weeks.”

He turned to Momma. “Can he be there, Mom?”

She smiled. “He’ll be there.”

“And how do you feel about all this, ma’am?”

Momma seemed to think for a second. “I may never be able
to say,” she said. “Proud, for sure. I can’t tell you how marvelous this is.”

“Well,” Jim Koenig said, “I just hope I’m not doing something bad for the boy. He deserves a chance, but I’d sure hate to
ruin him for the future.”

T
hree weeks, five practices, and ten games later, I had made a believer out of Jim Koenig and fourteen teammates. As the only
player on the team to play every inning, I had racked up these personal stats:

I had gone hitless in my first game but had driven in two runs on two sacrifices—one a fly and one a bunt. In the next nine
games I had at least two hits per game, twice went four-for-four, and finished with ten hits in my last eleven at bats.

That prompted another meeting with Coach Koenig, this time at the hotel with only Momma and me.

“I don’t know quite how to tell you this, ma’am,” the coach began, “but your son is a phenomenon, almost a freak of nature.
I’ve been in the game a long time, and outside of all-star big leaguers, this boy is the best hitter I’ve ever seen. He doesn’t
get fooled. He doesn’t strike out. Well, you struck out once, right?”

I nodded.

“But in that at bat he hit foul his farthest ball of the year. He’s not a home run hitter yet. His power takes him only about
three
hundred feet. But, heck, he’s a child. They shifted on him, pulled in on him, threw at him, walked him intentionally. But
they couldn’t stop him.”

“I’ve enjoyed watching him,” Momma said. “It’s been as exciting to me as to anyone. I’m a little scared, though. What am I
supposed to do with a child like this?”

“Keep him doing whatever he’s doing. He’s a natural who also works hard. If he doesn’t get tired of the game, he’s going to
be a superstar someday.”

“He’s a superstar now, isn’t he?” she said.

“Well, yes, ma’am, at this level. But I’m talking about the big time. The majors. This boy has unlimited potential.”

Clearly Mr. Koenig had come to tell me more than this. I just sat and smiled.

“Ma’am, American Legion is top-drawer amateur baseball. Some of the best teams in the country come from Illinois. The Arlington
Heights team makes the state and national tournaments almost every year, and we’ve been beating them the last few seasons.”

I nodded.

“Stars from Legion ball play division-one college baseball. Many of them make the pros and a few have become big-leaguers.
What I’m telling you is that big-league scouts watch our games.”

Was he going to tell me that they would laugh at a soon-to-be thirteen-year-old on the field? That Coach Koenig will look
silly counting on a kid to carry his team?

“Ma’am, we won all ten of our preseason games. I’ve never seen crowds like that before, and I’ve never seen scouts at games
that don’t count. They were there with their radar guns and their stopwatches. I know they were looking at our pitchers, who,
by the way, didn’t allow as many hits in ten games as Elgin got off them in Hector’s tryouts.”

I was patient.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, ma’am?”

“No, sir.”

“You need a lawyer.”

“Whatever for? And how could I afford one?”

“An adviser. An agent. Someone to represent you. These guys are vultures, and you’ve got a lot of legal things to think about.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that I had to jump through all kinds of hoops just to get permission for Elgin to play Legion ball. Can you
imagine what it would take to allow him to play professionally?”

“Oh, Mr. Koenig, when that time comes, I’m sure Billy Ray Thatcher from Hattiesburg would be happy to—”

“Ma’am, that time has come! Three scouts want to talk to you now. Don’t talk to them alone. Don’t sign anything, don’t agree
to anything. I don’t know if anyone anywhere could ever clear the way for someone who hasn’t graduated high school to play
professionally, but if they can they will, and Elgin will be so much fresh meat. They’ll grind him up, use him, and discard
him.”

“You’re scarin me, Coach.”

“I’m trying to. Can you imagine how noisy it will be if a child starts on a big-league path? It’ll be the biggest thing that’s
ever happened to the game. No one will believe it until they see it, and if Elgin can keep doing what he’s been doing, he’ll
be the rage.”

“What about school? What about travelin? I can’t afford to go with him on big trips.”

“Yes, you can. That’s what you negotiate. If someone wants Elgin, you’re part of the package.”

“But I have a job.”

“You won’t need a job.”

“But what if Elgin loses it? What if he is injured? Gets tired of it?”

“Momma!”

“You could, El. There are no guarantees. I know the odds against a player makin a living at baseball. What are the odds for
a child who just turned thirteen?”

Jim Koenig leaned back on the couch. “Now you’re asking the right questions. Now you know why you need counsel.”

“Would you help us?”

He held up both hands. “No way. I don’t want to be accused of making money off a talent, and you need to have someone you’re
paying to look out for your best interests. It has to be someone you know, someone you trust. This man from Hattiesburg you
mentioned—”

“Billy Ray Thatcher.”

“Does he have experience with this?”

“He’s Bernie Pincham’s agent.”

“Well, there you go. Talk to him right away. The best I can do is keep these scouts away. I won’t give them your name or address
or phone number.”

“We use the pay phone in the hall.”

“All the better. I’ll send everybody to Mr. Thatcher. Uh, could I speak with you privately for a moment, ma’am?”

I cocked my head and thought. “No, sir, I think anything you want to say to me, Elgin can hear.”

Koenig shrugged. “Suit yourself. I just want to tell you that you’re looking at some huge money here.”

“I gathered that.”

“I’m talking millions.” He sneaked a peek at Elgin.

“Sir?” I said.

He turned back. “Millions.”

“I’d say that’s a long shot, but let’s say you’re right. We’ll just make sure Elgin gets good counsel.”

“But, Mrs. Woodell. You’ll likely never have to work again.”

“Oh, I expect I’ll be plenty busy.”

I went to bed that night unable to sleep. My mind raced with my pulse. I had always dreamed of being a big-league baseball
player. How soon could it happen? How old did you have to be? I’d heard of big leaguers who began in their late teens. Joe
Nuxhall pitched for the Reds when he was fifteen, but that was when a lot of the regulars were fighting in World War II.

More than anything, I wanted competition. It was nice to be noticed, and if the day came when I tore up the big leagues, I
guessed that would be all right. But something inside told me that I was simply ahead. I wasn’t the best ballplayer anywhere;
not yet, not already.

I started the regular season batting second and playing second base, finally thirteen but still by far the youngest kid in
the league. I had a little trouble in the field, sometimes getting taken out of the double play by bigger players sliding
into me. I made a few more errors than someone five years older (or more) might have made. But as usual, I hit from the start.

Three games into the season I was five-for-eight with a double. I went two-for-three the next game to send my average well
over .600, then saw how quickly the numbers can change when I went one-for-four the next game and was eight-for-fifteen, or
.533. That put me third on the team and eighth in the league after five games.

I had already been made famous by local newspapers and television stations. It was interesting to people that a boy of thirteen
had been cleared to play in a league where the next youngest player was eighteen. My mother had had to sign all kinds of papers
to absolve the league of any responsibility for my health.

It was the stretch of the next five games that really put me on the map. Our Chicago Legion team—which began the season with
a record of four-and-one—won five straight. I came to the plate twenty times, walked three times (twice intentionally), and
was otherwise seventeen-for-seventeen.

I went three-for-three three times and four-for-four twice with three doubles and a triple. I had eight RBIs and scored five
times. The five games were played in eight days. Jim Koenig said, “The kid had a nice season last week.”

In the eleventh and twelfth games of the year I was oh-for-two and one-for-three, dropping my average to .702. The second-best
hitter in Legion ball in the state was hitting .505. Media
swamped the games, and scouts from nearly every major-league team trailed the team. Stories in the daily papers covered behind-the-scenes
maneuvering to somehow get around all the rules against a minor playing professional baseball. Everyone agreed: I deserved
a chance to start moving up. The City League was considered a step down from Legion ball. And I could not play for a college
team unless I attended that college. The only logical next step was the pros, and that didn’t seem all that logical.

I talked with my mother of nothing except the future. And I still spent just a little over an hour every night in the cellar
with the machine I had come to love. I would never stop that daily regimen, I told myself. I knew it was the secret, a secret
I planned to take to my grave.

In my next eight games I went twenty-for-thirty with thirteen RBIs, three triples, eight doubles, and fourteen runs. Best
of all, I had a three-hit game that included a triple and a home run. I had thought I would never hit one out of a big park.
I had a couple that bounced off the wall, but it was a thrill to see one drop straight down over the right field fence, just
inside the line three hundred and five feet from the plate. I would not swing for the fences. I knew better. Until I grew
up, I would not be a power hitter, but with the solid contact I always made, I knew the occasional home run had to come.

Batting .687 and becoming a flawless fielder, I was the heart of a fifteen-and-five team on its way to the state championship.
I wondered if there was a pitcher anywhere who could get me out consistently. The best hitters in the majors were out almost
seven times out of ten. What would that feel like?