Jimmy Baseball — Chapter 5

The legend of a Little League phenom

5.

Banta gave us two days off with mandatory practices before the knockout game. Believe me, no need to call them mandatory. The Astros would have pitched tents on the ballfield not to miss this bonus round.

By the gleam in Banta’s eyes, you’d think he looked forward to this title shot more than us. Keep brewin’ that dragon fire, Coach — it’s why we love ya!

Over the rest and relaxation, Eddie and Ducky hit the pool looking for girls, and Mike went to the beach with his folks. I tagged along with Jimmy to catch the American League championship.

“What a bonus, Jerry. We get to watch a title game while scouting both clubs,” he said.

The first thing you notice at the American League field is the diamond. Stadium turf to our dandelions, clovers, and crabgrass. Fresh chalk and buffed infield dirt. The outfield is just as plush, with a warning track lining the fence. I wondered if these hot dogs had walkup music when they reached the batter’s box.

We settled in, watching the Twins and Indians battle it out. A stingy one-run game through the first four innings. Jimmy handled his scorebook, jotting down notes.

After the inning, we decided to charge the concession stand. On the way over, a pack of loudmouths blocked our path. I knew these smarties. Always popping off, looking to duke it out in the lunchroom and after school.

“You guys are gonna get your asses kicked,” one of the baboons said.

“We’ll see about that,” I said.

“You comin’ to the game?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah, we’ll be here,” he said.

“Hey, what’s that?” Another troublemaker stepped from the pack, as he noticed Jimmy’s stat book.

“I always keep score,” Jimmy told him.

“That’s cheating,” another one said.

“Far from it,” Jimmy said.

“Lemme see. I wanna make sure you guys ain’t cheatin’.”

“Get lost,” I told him.

One of the frogs lunged for Jimmy’s book. Jimmy turned but the bugger grabbed it. His small hands gripped and held, as Jimmy twirled. I leaped in to spank the punk and was blocked and put into a straight-jacket hold.

The little bastard rangled the scorebook from Jimmy and ran off into the woods with it. That’s when the goons set me loose and shoved me from behind.

Pop! One of the motor mouths sucker-punched Jimmy flush on his cheek. The jerk stood there, waiting for Jimmy to crumple. Instead, Jimmy shook off the guerrilla strike and fired a right cross of his own. Whammo! Jimmy’s fist drilled the hot shot’s jawbone and the jerk tumbled to the pavement.

The rest of them jumped in and we went at it. Both sides clinched, meshing into one giant blob. There were screams and shrieks, as mothers yanked young ones out of our path. The shouts of grown men amplified, as they appeared and rowed through the ruckus, trying to break us up.

By now our melee had toppled, landing us in a heap. We resembled a pair of football teams knotted in a goal-line stand. At the bottom of the pile-on, Jimmy straddled the sucker puncher.

“Let go, Fister,” the loudmouth said while flopping on his back. Jimmy had him gaffed in a headlock.

“Not until you give,” Jimmy said.

“Eat shit,” he said. Jimmy clamped down, and the sucker puncher squirmed.

“Say it,” Jimmy told him.

“All right, I give,” the punk said. Uncle Jimmy loosened his grip, freeing the loudmouth. As Jimmy got up, I noticed a giant scab on his shoulder blade. A pink patch that Jimmy quickly covered up. I had no idea what it was but it looked serious.

“Save it for the game,” said a fuddy-dud grownup.

“What are you kids doing here anyway?” asked another American League coach.

“Watching a ballgame. Besides, your kids started it,” I said.

“Don’t you have your own ballfield?” another coach asked.

“It’s a free country, mister,” I said.

“You’re a smart one Canizio, aren’t ya?” the coach asked me.

“If you say so,” I said.

“Come on, Jerry. Forget it, let’s go,” Jimmy said. I shook my shoulders and followed him to our bikes.

I couldn’t help wondering about that pink waffle on his back. New and fresh. Something manmade and far from a birthmark. Dying to find out, I didn’t own the nerve to ask him.

The next night we went back to the American ball field for a classified practice. Jimmy stuffed his backpack with neon baseballs, and we biked across town. At first, I didn’t buy into his plan. That’s when he broke out the reverse babble to lift me on board.

“What if you have to pitch?” Jimmy asked.

“Banta’s not gonna let me pitch. Not this game,” I said.

“You never know about that stuff, Jerry,” Jimmy said.

What if Mike gets bombed, and Brendan’s a no-show, snatched by the Boogeyman? Banta would have no choice. I got it.

When we stepped between the gates, the American field felt like sacred ground. I have to admit, it felt pretty cool. By far, the best and nicest diamond I ever stood on.

It started to feel like a sound plan after all. I grabbed a neon baseball and walked to the rubber. Jimmy crouched behind the plate, holding up his mitt. The full moon helped out, as did the path lamps spraying extra tint.

It might have been too dark to field teams and play a game, but just enough milk between the platter and the mound. After warm-ups, Jimmy wanted me to fire in cut-off throws from the edge of the outfield.

Short, second, and shallow gaps. I also tossed a few from first, then over to third. I went deeper to aim the ball on hops to the plate. Jimmy wanted to get a feel for how the diamond bounced relays, and the way balls spun from the caroms around the infield.

We did this for a bunch of throws before meeting back to take a break in the visitor's dugout. Funny thing was, I always had this blue-collar feeling towards the American League. The players, the field, the top of the heap attitude. My not-so open mind began to admire the field, rather than detest it.

“I want us to run the bases. I wanna see how this infield feels,” Jimmy said. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but what the heck. We were here and walked over to the batter's box.

“You go first, Jerry,” Jimmy said. I stepped up to the plate, swung an air bat, dropped the phantom baton, and raced to first.

“Keep going,” Jimmy shouted out.

Once I touched the bag, I galloped for second base. I heard Jimmy huffing up the line. In moments we had the bases rounded, and I stomped on home plate. I turned to watch Jimmy touch home, running into the fence.

“That was cool,” I said.

“Sure was. Let’s do it again,” Jimmy said.

This time he went first. Once he closed in to turn towards second, I jumped from the box. We ran and ran. Rounding the bags again and again.

When we sat down to rest, we made some small talk. Nothing about nothing as they say, and my mind started to drift. Dreaming about that pink patch on Jimmy’s shoulder blade and the comments he made on the pitching mound over the clincher.

The pink bubble on his back remained none of my business, but he did open up that day on the diamond, spewing about heaven and stuff.

As curious as I might have been, I remained scared and confused. I just wanted to know that everything was okay, and the good news would win the day and enjoy the last word.

I asked him what he meant by it and he paused. You could see the kid in the deepest thought. Not fishing for a white lie, but rather about the truth and the moment.

Jimmy took another breath as if there was something more on his mind. I waited for him to wonder if he trusted me enough. I hoped he did.

That’s when a spotlight riffed the infield, flooding the place. We turned to see a Maple Valley police car. The officer nodded the beam right on us.

“What is this? The Bad News Bears?” The officer crackled over his PA system. We slashed the infield, snatching our gear. Once we grabbed the stuff, Jimmy and I dashed for our bikes and bolted off.

We burned down the street, hamming things up like we were in our own getaway chase. The policeman never pursued and we kept going.