Jimmy Baseball — Chapter 4

The legend of a Little League phenom

4.

Waiting for my mother outside the Foodway when I got hooked by Mrs. Piper, the local news machine. I couldn’t stand this lady, always rubbing stuff in everybody’s face.

Most folks marked her as the town phony, demanding everybody kiss her ass or else. Forget that tank of man-eating sharks, I’d rather see Evel Knievel and his motorcycle jump over this broad’s backwash.

Her and her Howdy-Doody husband, promoting church activities, while running the best friend's forever scam on the pastor. All their other friends seemed like orchestrated connections than natural buddies. A weird and pompous agenda drove every social move the Piper’s ever made.

Too late to duck spider lady, Mrs. Piper boxed me in. She also happened to be a neighbor of Jimmy’s, and always creeped me out the way she’d watch us through her window, camped out like a spy.

Mrs. Piper also had this uncanny craft to sneak up, say stuff, and make you feel like you swallowed from the wrong spoon. A blob of mercury comes to mind.

“You’re the one who’s friends with the Fister boy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah”, I said. Duh. What’s it to you, crow face?

“Did you know that he’s very sick?”

“Nobody ever told me that,” I said.

“Of course they wouldn’t. You’re too young to understand,” Mrs. Piper said. She always spoke slow, low, and clear, all with a snobby tone.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Piper,” I said.

Trying my best to fan this broad away who didn’t seem to be in a rush to get her groceries.

“I happen to know that things aren’t right,” Mrs. Piper said.

“You must have the wrong kid. Jimmy seems fine to me,” I told her.

“Oh no. It’s personal business. They wouldn’t tell a young man like yourself something of that nature,” she told me before walking off.

Mrs. Piper’s visit dinged me up and stayed there the rest of the day. Jimmy looked legit to us. I wondered if she was making stuff up, just to cause trouble.

I already plotted my revenge, marking Mischief Night on my mind’s calendar. I’d coax the Astros, along with fine-as-pie Jimmy, to bomb her house with eggs. I’ll show you, blabber shoes.

“Are you okay?” Mom asked, breaking up the mirage. I looked stewed, and she poked around. As much as Mrs. Piper was allergic, Mom had this ability to get to the bottom of things and make me feel better. Burning down inside, I lied and told her I was fine.

“You don’t look fine,” she said.

The Pirates rolled up and we bottomed out. Can’t strand runners when you don’t reach base. Banta went beserk, ripping the baseball cap off his head to slam it on the ground. By the fourth frame, he stopped shaking out the dust. After whacking Wheeler, we couldn’t smack lobbed candy.

The bats went to bed, and so did the Astros, dive-bombing the full six innings. The team slump hung around, marching into the stretch drive. All year long, those dunkers that dropped in for base hits, hung in the humid air until an eager and opposing Rawlings glove appeared below.

The romance of a rough patch, even as the Yankees do at times, was a bit different in the Maple Valley Little League. The fact was, the Astros and our backslide seemed more about the mechanics of boys navigating a man’s game.

Brain farts, fatigue, jet lag — who knew. We started to drift, and forget how to swing, field, and throw. Programmed all season with fundamentals and small ball, the Astros started grinding down. At the end of the day, we were still twelve years old. The ones who weren’t, a bit younger, and little.

We brewed a boatload of errors and tossed to the wrong bases with games on the line. As in all levels of baseball, from the sandlots to the big leagues, the Astros made our share of flubs. And just like errors and mistakes, the venom, not the bites, did us in.

The slide even mugged Banta. During a rain delay, the umps debated to scrap the game or wait out the storm. Once the rain downsized to a drizzle and lifted for good, we resumed play. Of course, father time hopped on, dialing up Banta’s curfew and pact with the devil. Banta had to scram, and Mr. Burns took over.

Nobody said anything as we sat on the dugout bench, waiting to take our positions in the field. Instead, our attention focused on Banta as he dashed off and leaped into a staff car with spoked wheels and tinted windows. Anthony ‘Tony Bones’ Molinari punched the gas, and the getaway ride fishtailed for the halfway house.

The slump did a job on Jimmy too. Choppers, strikeouts, pop flies with runners in scoring position. Two at-bats in a row, the umps punched him out with the infield fly rule. Unbelievable. Our two-game lead skipped town, pinning the Astros in a three-way tie for first.

The Fisters had some personal stuff that forced Jimmy to miss a game, and as close as we were, I didn’t dare ask him. With only twenty ballgames on the schedule, the season seemed too precious to skip an inning, let alone a full game. Whatever it was, could wait until we finished for good. I couldn’t imagine our chances without Jimmy against the Pirates or Braves, much less the Cardinals.

I started to think about Mrs. Piper and what she said outside the Foodway. I hoped she was wrong, for Jimmy’s sake, and the dream of seeing that lady choke on her own gossip. Either way, I remained baffled about Jimmy and that seed Mrs. Piper planted in my brain. Was Jimmy really okay?

Back to business, the Astros had to clamp down. In the heat of the second half, each game bloomed into a big one now. Banta scammed another tune-up for the pennant race. With the Cardinals looming, we’d be tossed in the wash if the Astros flunked this contest.

Eddie and Ducky met two girls at the pool and skipped Banta’s called practice. The stallions ended up in a garden apartment to sip alcohol and make out. Banta blew his bolts, benching both Casanovas for the must-win game. A gutsy move nobody expected.

The Astros were not only forced to win without the middle of our lineup but our frontline starter as well. Mike pitched the previous game, already robbed by the innings rule. Eric Burns played first in place of Eddie, and Oscar Velez took over for Ducky at short and leadoff.

What should have been a blow-out remained a tie headed for the final inning. Brendan Logan, our second starter, stepped up big time and pitched a whale of a game.

The Astros had a chance to take the lead in the top of the sixth. Our first two batters reached safely, and after a passed ball, both advanced.

With two reserve players before Oscar, we prayed for Banta to pinch-hit. The second-stringers already had their one must at-bat. We waited for Coach to cool down, and order Eddie and Ducky onto the launchpad.

The two moons bought up the end of the bench, wedged in the corner of the visitors' dugout, silent for six innings. Two sorry kids way too late. Banta kept the smoochers on the plank, and let the reserves take their whacks.

Both struck out and with our go-ahead runners on second and third, Oscar lined out to left. In the bottom of the sixth, the Cardinals won it with a walk-off single.

Instead of racing away with the gold, the Astros were stuck in the wash and left to soak. We knew at full strength, we’d clean their clock. It didn’t matter. As in life, woulda, coulda, and shoulda are three outs in baseball, each and every time. The Cardinals earned their one-game lead by out-playing and out-hustling the rest of the league, plain and simple.

The Astros finally snapped to and showed the fangs. Jimmy joined the faith for good, while Eddie and Ducky became born again small ballers. The schedule police blessed Banta and the Astros with day games down the pike.

We broke that team slump, ripping four in a row. King animal and off the chain, the Astros smeared the Cubs and smacked the Cardinals in our rematch. The team took the league lead thanks to the round robins by the other clubs and their games. Upsets, rallies, and added breaks provided the room the Astros sought, and the team put our shoulders to the wheel.

Back in first place with our last game of the season. We beat the Braves, the Astros own the world. We lose, and the Cardinals win, we’re forced into a playoff to see who draws the American League champs.

Mike couldn’t pitch this one, dipped by the innings bug. Brendan was scratched too. A barking arm that demanded rest if Banta wanted to keep his day job. Coach gave me the ball and pointed out the mound. Now the pressure was on. A little scary, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I went to the dugout to meet up with Jimmy and to talk about the pitches he’d call.

“Hey Jerry, you ever wonder what it’s all about?” Jimmy asked me.

“What do you mean, pal? Baseball? It’s just a game, right?” Sounded okay to me. Never found a need to question nor define it. Seemed as natural to me as birdsong and fuzzy moons.

“Not baseball. Life. The world and stuff,” he said. Whoa, Jack. Can’t we talk about this stuff at the pool or over the next rain delay? We have a championship to win. I dug this kid, but boy I didn’t get him.

The peacenik Braves just wanted to get this season over with. What a lucky draw from the make-up bin. Talk about the planets aligning. We had the perfect opponent with home team advantage. We trotted onto the field owning last cracks and a hungry lineup sniffing out a title.

That’s when the chicks showed up. The hottest girls in Maple Valley. The kicker? They climbed into our pavilion. In the house to scout the Astros. Yeah, yeah, yeah! Wubba, wubba, wubba!

Wobbled by the chicks and pitching rust, my elbow started to shimmy. I fired three pitches behind the first two batters, smacking the backstop. It only took one-third of the first inning to blister Banta’s ass. He directed Coach Burns to visit the mound and crush the comedy.

“Just throw strikes,” he said. What do you think I’m doing? Coach Burns adjusted my windup and moved my feet on the pitching rubber. Much more patient than Banta, who might strangle me, and wake up in Alcatraz.

I tried my best to block out the electricity in the bleachers. We scored a ton of runs, building a nice cushion. I had the feeling we’d short-out the scoreboard if needed. The whole idea wasn’t to issue the Brave’s lineup a refund. My job was to find the plate and call it a day.

The girls decided they had enough. A combo of my ropey arm and echoes from the Valley Pool, just behind the trees. The Braves broke the shutout without causing an earthquake. By the time we reached the third, I began to straighten out.

Two more runs, one more inning to gaff this title. Once we dealt a big lead, we’d enter the Mercy Rule and the umps would pull the plug. The only snag, that the fourth inning looked nautical miles away.

That’s when I relapsed. The pitch count started rising, and Banta remained out of arms. He ordered strikes, even if it meant doughballs. I still couldn’t find the strike zone. I began to rush my windup, making things worse.

“Come on, no-hitter here, Jerry,” Ducky and Eddie said. My teammates fanning me to find my inner-hero. Then came the calls from the stands.

“Throw strikes,” a voice said.

“Settle down, kid.”

“Take your time, Jerry.”

“Concentrate.” I heard them all. The comments swirled my skull like debris trapped in a tide pool. I knew what to do but couldn’t shake the kinks from my stockpile. Another deep breath, and shaky delivery.

I smacked my glove and kicked the rubber. Jimmy held the baseball, paused, and said something to the home plate umpire. The ump raised his hands, and Jimmy chugged up to the pitching mound.

“I have no idea what’s goin’ on. I’ll settle down,” I told him. I started to prance the circle, still flustered. Jimmy had a blank look on his face. He paused like there was something else on his mind. I stopped to study him.

“Hey, Jerry. You ever wonder what happens when we die?”

“What?” I asked, shaking my head. Why now, here? What is this kid talking about? Jimmy hovered for my answer. Bananapants wasn’t going anywhere.

“Go to heaven, I guess,” I said.

“I know. But you think it’s like Father Tom says in church?” Jimmy asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. We were twelve years old. Who our age thinks about this stuff?

Before the ump could break it up, Jimmy pulled his mask down, smiled, and trotted back to home plate. Don’t tell me the heat’s gettin’ to him, too? The other kick that day. Nuclear and steamy. A few people in the stands already came down with sunstroke, forcing the umps to either suspend the game or postpone it. If the Braves decided to erupt, the Astros could tilt and gum up the works.

Don’t ask me how it happened, but Doctor Quack cured me of the yips and I settled down. Wherever Jimmy put the glove, I aimed the best I could. His fingers flashed the pitches, and I started to hum. Back in the dugout, a mellow Jimmy. No more babble socks and Zen of Baseball.

“Remember Jerry, you have seven kids behind you. All wearing gloves that could make plays,” Jimmy said.

I took the mound to see the Cardinals lined up along the fence. They pulled the next game, all confident to force a playoff and snatch that title. They parked their bums rooting for the Braves. That part was expected — we would have done the same.

“He’s not a championship pitcher,” a Cardinals coach called out. Of course, I heard him, his hands funneled over his pie hole. The manager ordered some noise to psych us out. Especially me, as the Cardinals began to cat-call my rubber arm.

My pitching groove carried on, and I hitched up to it. Jimmy must have plugged me into some celestial life force. A secret hole in the sky with a spirit world that only he knew about.

Jimmy positioned his mitt and I aimed. Corners, knees, inside dips. He flashed the signals, and I hit the marks. Whatever the tribe swatted back, found an Astro mitt. Our side made all the plays, just like Jimmy claimed they would.

In our bottom half, we bumped a bunch more when Jimmy doubled and Bryan Flynn singled him in. Our six-run lead swelled to double digits. The inning ended, and the good guys fetched our gloves.

The umpires ordered the Braves to light up the home-cookin' or it’s toast time. Out of house money, the coaches and parents joined in, pumping up the troops. The Braves had their own game plan, jonesing a jailbreak for the pool and beat us to the girls.

When we busted the dugout to take the diamond, Banta stared me down. His glare said to wise up and channel my best war-face or else. I whiffed the first two Braves and forced the third to pop up. Jimmy tossed his mask and twirled around the catcher’s box. He stuck out his mitt, snatching the ball on the way down. The ump pumped his fist and the Astros were champs. We had won the National League!

The whole team rushed the mound. Not that I was the Most Valuable Player, but being the pitcher, I was mobbed. The Braves retreated to their bench as the dumbstruck Cardinals watched me drown.

After shaking hands with the Braves, we huddled in our dugout. Next up, the pizza party. After that, the showdown with the American League champs.