Twelfth Angel (9 page)

I knew that one too. Winston Churchill’s commencement address to a graduating class at Oxford. Eight words … eight very powerful words. Then the great man turned away from his audience and walked slowly back to his seat.

“Do you believe those words, Timothy, that one should never give up?”

He nodded. “I never give up.”

We spent our first practice working on Timothy’s hitting. I would stand next to him, also holding a bat, and ask him to imitate my stance and swing. Worked better than I had hoped. After ten minutes or so I began pitching to him while correcting any variances in either his stance or his cut at the ball. Before long Timothy was taking short strides into my pitches with a level swing and even following through while maintaining his balance. He only made contact a few times, but I could see that his confidence was gradually building, and he seemed to be enjoying our routine. We even spent time
practicing bunting, and although he had difficulty pivoting and keeping his arms relaxed, I finally had him crouching and bending his knees until he dropped several fine bunts down the third-base line.

That evening, at home, I phoned Bill.

“You okay?” he asked quickly, unable to hide his concern.

“For the moment.”

“How did it go with your little Angel?”

“Fine. Fine. He’s getting better and better.…”

“What?”

“Nothing. Bill, I was wondering, are you familiar with a Doc Messenger in this town?”

“Everybody is, John. Old Doc Messenger has practiced here for a long time. He was a big man on the staff at Johns Hopkins and came here to Boland after he retired—to grow a few tomatoes and hit some golf balls, he told everyone. Then Boland’s only doctor suddenly moved to Seattle, and this township had no one to take care of them, so the old man decided to come out of retirement and he’s been Boland’s savior ever since. Even makes house calls for sick kids and old folks. Why are you asking about him? Something wrong, John? Need a doctor?”

“No, no. Timothy was telling me about the good doctor. Seems like he’s quite a special man. According to Timothy I guess he’s even come to a couple of our practices.”

“I thought that was him sitting high up, back of first base, wearing that old hat of his. Never gave it another
thought when we got busy. Didn’t figure him to be spending time at a Little League practice.”

“Timothy said he came to see him.”

“Well, since he probably helped deliver most of our team into this world, as well as the rest of the league, I imagine he’s keeping his eye on all of them. Quite a guy! Must be almost ninety, but he can still hit a golf ball a long way, believe me.”

During our final two practice sessions Timothy and I worked on his fielding and base running. On fly balls I began by merely tossing them up into the air, coaching him to hold his hands over his head and catch the ball with both. After he had caught perhaps ten tossed balls in a row, I grabbed a bat, sent him out to shallow center field and began hitting gentle pop-ups. It seemed to take him far too much time to see the ball in flight before he moved toward it. I wondered if his eyesight was at fault, but he said he had been checked at school in May and they had told him that his vision was normal. Could it be his reflexes, perhaps? I didn’t know. Also, his running was terribly slow, whether he was chasing after a fly ball or going from base to base, and the expression on his tiny face, when he ran, was always one of great effort. I finally asked him, “Timothy, does it hurt you to run?”

“No,” he gasped. “I just keep trying to make my legs go faster, but they don’t. They will, though, you wait. They will. I’ll never give up … never! I’ll be faster!”

Following our final preseason practice each player received his official Angel uniform, gray with the letter
A
in large dark-blue script on the left side of the shirt. The caps and socks were also in dark blue, and as Bill handed a box to each player, he said he hoped and prayed that he had measured everyone correctly.

I was loading bats and balls into the canvas bags when I sensed that Timothy was standing close by.

“Yes, Timothy?”

“Mr. Harding, thank you very much for all your help. My mother said to tell you thank you for her too. I know I’m a better player now.” He grinned and then said, “Day by day … day by day.…”

I smiled and extended my hand. “Good luck, all season. You’re going to do fine, trust me.”

He nodded enthusiastically. I wanted to pick him up and hug him as I had always hugged Rick.

“Good night, Mr. Harding.”

“God bless, Timothy. Don’t forget. First game next Tuesday at five against the Yankees. Be here no later than four-fifteen.”

I stood and watched until bike and rider turned the corner and were out of sight. Then I returned to the dugout and sat until long after darkness had fallen, praying to God for the strength to hold on.…

IX
 

I
hadn’t felt so nervous since that memorable day, not very long ago, when I had stood to address the board of directors of Millennium Unlimited for the first time.

All the pregame activities had been completed and the opening-day ceremonies were now drawing to a close as everyone in Boland Little League Park rose to the strains of our national anthem from the loudspeaker system affixed to the top of the tall wire backstop.

It had been almost thirty years since I had played my last Little League game, but the routine prior to the game had not changed even a little in all that time. The first-, second-, and third-base canvas bags had already been anchored down at their proper spots on the diamond by the time Bill and I arrived at the park and unloaded
our equipment. Since we were the designated home team for this opening game, our dugout was the one behind third base.

Bill broke out our ball bag, and our lads started throwing on the sidelines. Sid Marx, the Yankee manager, waved in our direction and then came across the diamond, shook hands, and we wished each other good luck. Each team took infield practice, Yankees first. When it was our turn, I hit three easy grounders to Paul Taylor at third, Ben Rogers at shortstop, Tony Zullo at second and Justin Nurnberg at first. Although they were all obviously tense, our infield handled all my batted balls flawlessly. Behind our dugout Todd Stevenson had already started his warm-up throws to Tank, while behind the Yankee dugout a very smooth left-hander named Glenn Gerston, who had impressed me at the league tryouts almost as much as Todd, was throwing hard. This opening game was probably going to be a low-scoring pitchers’ battle.

Two umpires finally made their entrance through the opening in the fence that separated the field from the parking lot. Both were wearing light-blue shirts, open at the neck, dark-blue pants and baseball caps. One was carrying a chest protector and mask. When they arrived at home plate, they beckoned to Sid and me to join them, and after more hand shaking all around the umpire with the chest protector said that there was only one special ground rule for our field. Any batted ball that landed in the outfield in fair territory and then
bounced over the five-foot-high wooden fence that bordered the outfield, whether on the first bounce or the tenth, would be considered a double.

George McCord, a popular Boston morning-radio personality on WBZ and WBZA Radio for more than thirty years, before retiring to Boland, had been the League’s public-address announcer for several years, the “best nonpaying gig I ever had,” he kept telling everyone. I had heard nothing but praise for the old boy’s ability to make every name in the lineup sound as if Ted Williams were coming to bat in the last half of the ninth with two out and the score tied.

After our meeting with the umpires, George’s husky voice was heard, from his position at a bench and heavy oak table behind the home plate wire backstop, introducing Stewart Rand, who dramatically announced that the forty-fourth season of Boland Little League was about to commence. He instructed the Angel players, coach and manager to form a single file along the third-base foul line, from home plate, and the Yankees to do the same along the first-base line. Then he asked our Todd Stevenson if he would please walk out to the pitcher’s mound and lead both teams in the Little League Pledge.

Todd turned to me in surprise, but when I patted him on the shoulder, he trotted out to mid-field, removed his cap with his left hand and placed his right hand over his heart. His voice quivered slightly as he began, but soon he was almost completely drowned out by twenty-three other eager and youthful voices.

“I trust in God. I love my country and will respect its laws. I will play fair and strive to win, but win or lose, I will always do my best.”

All our players immediately turned, as they had been instructed to do, and ran back to the dugout as soon as the pledge had been completed. When they were all seated, I sat on the top dugout step facing them and said, “Well, guys, we’ve been working hard for several weeks to get to today. Just keep your mind on the game and keep doing the things you’ve been doing in practice and I know you will do well. We’ve got a good team. Now, let’s go out there and start proving to everyone that we’re the best team in the league!”

“We’ll never give up!” little Timothy suddenly blurted out.

“Yeah,” responded Todd. “We’ll never give up!”

“Never give up, never give up, never give up!” the entire team was shouting when the plate umpire nodded toward us and pointed to the field.

“Okay, men,” Bill barked, “let’s go get them!”

As soon as the Angels had all taken their positions, accompanied by applause, cheers and whistles from the stands, the national anthem commenced, and every player on both teams faced the flagpole in deep center field, standing at attention with his cap clutched tightly to his chest until the music stopped.

Todd threw eight or nine final warm-up pitches to Tank before the home-plate umpire stepped in front of the plate and turned his back toward Todd as he leaned down to brush off the plate. Then he returned to his position
behind Tank, put on his mask, adjusted his chest protector and yelled, “Play ball!”

I had decided to say nothing to Todd before he went out to the mound. No motivational pep talk. He had thrown well in warm-up and he looked to me as if he had things under control. Anything I said to him might do more harm than good if it affected his concentration. I went down into the dugout and sat next to Bill and our three nonstarters, Chris Lang, Dick Andros and Timothy.

“Bill,” I said, “I just can’t believe the size of this crowd. It’s only five o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, but this place is almost packed solid. Close to a thousand fans for a Little League game in a town of only five thousand or so people? Seems impossible.”

“Not here in Boland, John. If you checked the stands, you’d find a lot of parents who care but also a large number of retired people who don’t want to or can’t afford to move to warmer climates. These games have become an important part of their lives. They will all select a favorite team as the season begins and cheer for that team all season. Gives a lot of them something to do, a place to visit and maybe a reason to wake up and get out of bed in the morning, something a lot of them need very much.”

A reason to want to wake up and get out of bed in the morning? One never misses it until that desire isn’t there anymore. Oh, how I knew! I turned toward Bill, but he was staring out toward home plate, and his face
showed no emotion. I patted him on the knee and said nothing.

Timothy Noble had moved to the top dugout step. His shrill voice suddenly resounded above the crowd noise, “Come on, guys, you can do it! Never give up, never give up …!”

Todd had a little trouble with the fresh sand around the pitching rubber and he walked the Yankee lead-off batter before settling down and retiring the next three batters in order on two grounders and a strikeout. As our team came in from the field, I called to Chris Lang, sitting on the bench, and asked if he would mind being our first-base coach. Without saying a word he jumped up and trotted across the diamond toward first. I would give the batters and base runners all the signals from my third-base coaching position, signals as to whether they should bunt, take the next pitch and also whether or not they should attempt a steal if they were on base. Bill West had agreed to monitor things from the dugout as well as keep our scorebook to be certain that every boy played the allotted number of innings.

Tony Zullo walked to lead off our half of the inning, and I decided to test the Yankee catcher’s throwing arm immediately. The league rules declare that base runners shall not leave their bases until the ball has been delivered and has reached the batter, and when the first pitch to our second batter, Justin Nurnberg, was called a strike, I immediately touched my left elbow with my right hand, signaling that Tony was to break for second
base as soon as the next pitch crossed the plate. Standing at the plate, Justin also picked up my sign and swung well above the next pitch in order to distract the catcher as Tony broke for second. Zap! The ball was waiting for him when he hook-slid into the bag, and we knew in a hurry that the Yankees had an excellent catcher as well as a smooth pitcher. Then, as so often happens when a runner is thrown out stealing, Justin stroked a clean single to right field, but Paul Taylor, batting third, struck out on three pitches, bringing up Todd. The big guy hit the first pitch high to left field, and the scrambling young man out there, with more luck than skill it seemed, made a sensational catch over his right shoulder just before he ran into the outfield fence. Fortunately he was only shaken up, but he did hang on to the baseball and the crowd gave him a well-deserved standing ovation as he ran across the field into the Yankee dugout.