Jimmy Baseball — Chapter 6

The legend of a Little League phenom

6.

The big night finally arrived. During the National Anthem, the Astros knew we were light-years from our downtown grotto. The American League’s speaker system sounded like they had Pavarotti in the press box. Not like ours — a scratchy transfer with a few clams from the brass section, and tubas that sounded like foghorns.

The Twins took the field while their ace pitcher tossed warm-ups. The summer might have canned the Mendoza Line, but Jelly liked a low-scoring toss-up.

Huck Higgins warned both dugouts over the backseat driving with his strike zone. Huck clocked the mileage, umping the minors and semi-pro ball. He’s called balls and strikes on guys who made it to the majors.

Jack Kerrigan was the field umpire and top-notch as well. Never out of position, or known to blow calls, while handling all hot-headed coaches with dignified grace. Mr. Kerrigan stalked the diamond and shallow outfield like a panther, sneaking up in the middle of every play.

Ducky snagged a bat and tugged his helmet. Huck gave me chills when he shouted, “Play ball!”

Ducky trotted towards the box, as I stood on deck. Dave Leonard, the Twins pitcher, the best in their league. The kid served a flaming fastball and looping curve as well as a slider. A slider? Are you kiddin’ me? Don’t tell me he’s gotta split-finger fastball too? We never faced a Little Leaguer with such an arsenal of exotic pitches.

Leonard improved his slider over the second half of the season. The secret weapon comes in like a fastball and breaks like a curve. Jimmy told us to follow it and not be tricked by the shake. That’s the moment it grabs you. Leonard gets the batter to freeze at the swift bank, and before they know it, it’s too late to swing and they’re punched out.

Leonard burned a fastball and Ducky took. Huck yelled strike and pumped his fist. The swelled crowd erupted. Both stands were sold out with standing room only. Railbirds slung their elbows over the fencelines to gain a better vantage point as groups of people picnicked on the slopes beyond the outfield wall.

The TV vans showed up too, dispatched by the local cable station. A pair of video guys with cameras and tripods, and a third guy who walked around hand-holding his unit. The station also delivered a woman reporter to interview parents between innings, and that’s the lady the hand-held cameraman followed around.

Uber-cool to see a bunch of National League players and coaches on our side of the bleachers, rooting on the Astros. I never played in a game with this much buzz and box office. Patrolmen were still directing traffic when Ducky swung and missed for strike three.

“Come on Jerry, just like batting practice. You could hit this kid,” a voice called out from the fence behind me. I turned around to see Joey Banta. He winked at me and smiled. So did his supermodel girlfriend. That’s the one that locked me up.

“Let’s go, son. Batter up,” said Huck as I snapped to.

I stepped in and took my first fastball. After giving Coach Banta his free strike, I hunkered down, ready to swing away. The next one, a tad slower. I reckoned it was his slider, and waited a split second for the approach. It shook early and I swung. It dipped a little faster than I guessed, chopping a hard-hit grounder towards short.

Bernie Ramos inhaled the ball at his shoe tops, scissor-stepped the hole, and fired across the diamond. All in one motion, a la Derek Jeter. I watched the first baseman open his glove while his eyes swelled.

I knew I was toast but kept digging like my ass caught fire. Out by a block, I kept racing up the line, even when the ball smacked the glove and Jack Kerrigan called me out.

When I crossed first base, the swabbies in the Twins dugout hooted over my effort. Knocked out, pants on fire. Their coaches told those chuckleheads to pipe down, ’cause that’s the way you run out your contact. If those yahoos had any brains, they wouldn’t be buying up the pine every game.

“Way to hustle, kid,” a Twins coach said to me as I trotted back to the visitor's dugout. Dave Leonard fanned Eddie, and the Astros took the field.

The fastest kid in Maple Valley stepped to the plate. Bernie Ramos, their lead-off hitter, and gold glove shortstop, aimed to kickstart the Twins. Notorious for scoring runs, stealing bases, and burning out in-the-park homers.

Bernie stood patient, jonesing to draw a walk. Mike wouldn’t have it. Down in the count, Bernie squared to chip a two-strike bunt.

“Bunt,” I shouted, and broke for first base. Eddie charged as Bernie steadied his bat and dragged a beaut. While the biscuit bobbed along the super turf, Bernie zipped halfway up the base path. Jimmy leaped from home plate, scooped the ball, spun towards first, and slung a meteorite.

The ball slapped my glove just as Bernie’s lead cleat sprung to stamp first. Kerrigan punched him out, and the house knew we were in for one heck of a game. The Twins bench looked stunned. A great and early message. We ain’t no slouches over here. And oh, by the way, you dudes better pack your A-game.

Mike weaved his hottest stuff all year, firing strikes, and brushing the corners. Jimmy called a smooth game too. As usual, he knew where to position his glove. Jimmy flashed the signals, and Mike pumped the gas.

Through the first three innings, both pitchers tossed shutouts. Between the walks and bunts, both teams had runners in scoring position through the first three innings. And just like the great pitchers of baseball lore, Mike and Dave Leonard hunkered down. Both defenses made all the stops, throws, and even swapped double plays. Two title-driven teams, unwilling to concede a run, much less an extra base.

With one out, Bernie Ramos bumped out a bloop single. Once on first, he aimed to steal second, and I got the call to cover. Bernie broke after the ball passed the batsman. Jimmy crouched like a surfer and rifled a smoker over the diamond.

I held my mitt as a target and watched the baseball whiz right into the web of my glove. I already had second base straddled just like Coach Velez taught us to. I dunked my mitt in the dirt before the bag, waiting on Bernie’s slide. To my stats, Bernie had never been tossed out stealing a base. Jimmy stunned the crowd, the Twins, and even Jelly Mendoza on that one.

The rough around the edges kids and their chicken-fried league. That’s right. Us and our ghetto small ball were all that, until tonight. The Astros weren’t here to bring it on. We crashed the walls to tear them down and prove we were the better team and league. Before tonight, the Twins only heard about the pride. Now they knew firsthand we slugged above our weight.

Mike retired the first two batters before Butch Brogan stepped to the plate. Butch was their big bopper, leading both leagues with twelve dingers, setting a new Maple Valley record.

Butch gripped and ripped, smashing Mike’s fastball into sugar land. The stands erupted as kids scrambled the leftfield woods to fetch the souvenir.

Mike settled down and shook it off. The rolling tide remained stubborn, unable to pick a team to root for. It was the first inning Mike didn’t strike anybody out.

We switched sides and started the fifth down one to nothing. Ducky led off with a mission to ignite an Astro comeback. Banta signaled to lay one down, and Ducky dragged a bunt and a half. By the time it was fielded, Ducky crossed the bag.

After one of Leonard’s rainbow curves, Ducky swiped second without a throw. In between pitches, I looked down at third base for Banta’s signal. I figured bunt all the way. So did the Twins, sending both corner infielders onto the grass, just off the mound to gobble up my sacrifice.

Banta flicked his wrist, telling me to swing away. Thanks, Coach. You’re the best. I won’t let you down. I played my best Joe Cool and took the first strike. I then choked up on the bat and waited for something sweet. Two pitches later, I drove Ducky home with an opposite-field single, and the Astros tied it up.

Eddie pounded a gap shot that sparked my cleats to life. I rounded second base watching Eddie’s double bounce between the outfielders headed for the fence. I heard the echo of the carom as I turned my block back towards third base and Banta. He danced in the coach’s box, already waving me through. Banta’s arm spinning like a windmill.

“Come on Jerry, dig it out. All the way, kid,” he shouted as I stepped on third, and cut for home. I heard the whole crowd as I motored down the stripe. Our bleachers cheered, theirs gasped. An awesome vibe. I felt like I had wings on my cleats.

Jimmy motioned me to stay up, and not to slide. I skipped across home, and Huck Higgins sliced the air with a safe signal. I high-fived Jimmy and headed for our dugout.

Two to one Astros and counting. Jimmy cracked a base hit, and the rally took off. We scored one more and still had the bases jammed when Oscar Velez grabbed his bat. Oscar took his strike and cranked one into leftfield. A gap fly that wafted just enough for a Twin glove to make the catch and end the inning.

In the bottom of the fifth, the Twins roared back. The edge of defeat jumpstarted the champs. Bernie Ramos rubbed a liner into a triple, and the meat of their lineup peeled off bunts and base hits. The Twins showing off some moonshine of their own.

When the frame ended, the bad guys regained the lead. Five to four headed into the last inning. Mike tossed his mitt in disgust while Banta grinned. He dug our ace’s edge. The rest of us told Mike to shake it off. He pitched a bear of a game, and to stock his gunpowder for the sixth and final inning. Our loaded bats amped up to carpet-bomb and steal this title. Huck called batter up and the Astros were down to our final cracks.

It took the Astros five innings and eons of heckling to prove we had game. One last shot to gas these hound dogs and spam Maple Valley with the news.

Eric Burns showed poise all year, proving he could get the bases busy. He laid off the first two pitches, making Dave Leonard earn his first strike. Our ten-year-old hitter told Leonard the Astros weren’t biting on his carney hooks. Dave knew it, and you could see the pitcher getting more and more flustered. We finally tapped his thinker.

The Astros pushed the Twins to the brink, with every intention of bowling them over. We stole your bag of tricks. Time for new jokes. Dave Leonard splashed down and burned a low fastball past Eric’s knees. Huck shook his fist and hollered, “Strike one.” Dave smoked another and Eric swung. By the ping of his bat, Eric jacked it. A missile to left-center, sniffing out a double.

Our entire bench rose, ready to jump and celebrate. That’s when their centerfielder swooned into the frame like Spiderman. The dude dove and slid across the turf with his glove arm up in the air. The baseball glued atop his mitt in a snow cone special. Jack Kerrigan, already on patrol, pumped his fist and a raucous cheer exploded from the stands. One out in the top half of the sixth.

The Twins dugout whooped it up too. A highlight catch for sure. Ducky dug into the batter’s box and hit a bouncer to short. Bernie Ramos inhaled it on one hop, scissor-stepped, and fired a bullet to first. Another bang-bang special. Bernie’s throw beat Ducky by a mile.

Jerry at the plate and if Astroland had any chance, I’d have to reach base. No way was I making the last out. Besides, once I arrived safely, we’d have the middle of our lineup to push this thing home. Eddie on the pad and Jimmy Baseball on deck.

I took a fading fastball for my first strike. I then watched a hook swoon in and break outside the plate. It missed by almost one foot. Huck Higgins agreed. Ball one.

I choked up for the next strike. Once it found my zone, I smoked it over Bernie’s head. A legit single that hot dog in centerfield wouldn’t gobble up, but fielded cleanly. He flipped it to Bernie, as I rounded first.

I had a jolt of snap in my step, carving a wide rooster tail as the heroes do up in The Show. The coaches barked to get my feet back on the bag. I wasn’t going anywhere, trust me. Not until my buddies with the bats marshaled me around. Mister Velez coached first that night and shook my hand once I parked myself on the base.

“Way to rip, Jerry,” he said.

Dave Leonard might have been gassed but looked just as stubborn. He wouldn’t garage that darn breaker. Good news for us, bad news for the American League champs.

Eddie stepped in and worked Leonard to a full count. You felt the momentum breathe and sway during Leonard’s windup, despite being down to our final strike. That’s baseball, man.

Full count, two outs, you run like there’s a tide of lava rolling in. I kept my foot on first base ready to spring. Maple Valley hung on the delivery, as a tired Leonard tossed his bread and butter closer.

Dave Leonard’s rainbow had Eddie buckled at the knees and the Astros in the tank. The pitch finally broke just right, his best curve of the inning. The ball looped in and looked too good from first base. Toe-jam.

The bean broke and skirted off the corner, orbiting the dirt instead of home. Huck called ball four and pointed Eddie towards first base. Boy, talk about a heart attack at the plate. It took me all year to agree with Banta’s take until strike one stuff. Had Eddie been allowed to swing away, he could have struck out and ended the season.

Two on, two out, with our best hitter in the batter's box. I stood on second base, ready to bolt on anything fair. Come on kid, you’re big now. Super big. A little bingo up the middle, I score that tying run. A gap-splitting double brings Eddie in from first as well. He has the pistons to put us ahead. Banta already doctored the gospel. This was showtime, with no more freebie strikes. With the blessing to cut loose, Jimmy coiled as Leonard began his windup.

Leonard’s first two pitches sailed over the strike zone, pulling the catcher out of his jock. Jimmy in the box had Leonard spooked to hell. The Twins coach called for a time-out to visit the mound and settle Leonard down.

The infielders gathered to form a ring around the pow-wow. If they gave Jimmy first base, Leonard’s confidence would shatter, turning the diamond into a conga line.

With speed on the bases and power at the plate, the Astros were still down to our last out. An awesome situation to be in. Uncle Mo remained divided, his magic now a jump ball.

The huddle disbanded, and the Twin players trotted back to their spots on the infield. Dave Leonard took a deep breath, and so did Maple Valley. From the stretch, Leonard went to the belt and delivered. A fastball, right down the pipe. They didn’t know Jimmy had a greenlight.

Jimmy swung and cracked a sonic boomer. I pushed off the bag as the centerfielder dashed for the fence. Had Jimmy and Banta done it again? The baseball booked the sky, and once it cleared the outfield wall, we’d close the show in the bottom half. Have a nice summer boys, we’re blowin’ you outta here.

A ticket to greet Eddie and Jimmy at the plate in a group hug, just like the big guys do on SportsCenter. All ready to raise my arms when they dropped as if filled with iron ore. So did the baseball. Straight down, acting more like a horseshoe, and less like a shooting star.

The outfielder halted on the warning track and spun. With his back at the fence, the centerfielder met the dud with his outstretched mitt. Mr. Kerrigan hesitated to make sure the ball didn’t pop out from his glove. When it sucked in and stayed, Mr. Kerrigan raised a clenched fist and called Jimmy out.

The Twins, not the Astros, were Maple Valley champs. The home dugout cleared, blitzing Dave Leonard. Kids threw their gloves in the air, as friends rushed the field like rabid fans at the World Series. A pile of double-knit baseball uniforms blurred and blendered the mound.

I wondered if the crowd and cable crew saw what I did. I stood on the infield alley waiting for a do-over and detour from this trip to the tombs. Coach Banta turned his back and shook his head. I remained in the base path as the wildfire swelled the diamond. By all accounts, the game was really over.

Things happen fast in baseball. Sometimes, too fast.

After the party on the diamond cleared, we met at home plate to shake hands with the Twins roster.

“Good game,” echoed along the receiving line. For five and two-thirds innings, we shook these cowboys up. No huckleberry in the bunch could fathom they were this close to going overboard.

As the Twin adults manned up to shake our hands, their head coach gave the Astros kudos for our teamwork and style. He knew we fielded a lot of razzing over the season and told us to be proud of ourselves. That we’re all good ballplayers with a heck of a skipper and top-notch assistants.

When we returned to the dugout, Coach Banta told us how proud our heart and fight made him. How the hell that ball stayed in the yard he’ll never know. Neither would I.

“You’re one of the best teams I ever coached. Don’t be ashamed. You gave it everything you had, and left everything you could on that ball field,” he said. Most guys who say that stuff paid off a scriptwriter. Banta never talked like this before.

“I’m not the reason you guys reached this title game. You’re the reason I’m here,” Coach reminded us.

I looked around our dugout. Ducky in tears with his block dipped into a baseball glove. Eddie had a stunned look on his face, as Mike stirred in a daze. I knew how bad our band of brothers wanted to win this game and stick it to the snooty American League.

Despite our crash landing, I remained proud of my friends and teammates. The Astros arrived and went to war with the soul of a lion.

Banta was right, there was nothing more to give. Everything the team had brought that night had left it behind. As tough as it was, I didn’t have the energy or desire to be mad about the loss. We didn’t choke or run out of innings. The Astros played the best game we could and came up short. What else could I say?

Besides the loss, glad I didn’t make that final out. For Jimmy, it became more. Much more.

“I blew it,” Jimmy said.

“What?” I replied. Not only did I question the comment, dumbfounded over the sanity driving it. No way, man.

“I let the whole team down. We needed a hit in the worst way,” Jimmy told me.

“We would have never made this game without you,” I said. My plea bargain fell on deaf ears. Jimmy wouldn’t have it.

“I’ll never strand a runner in scoring position again. Mark my words, Jerry. Not with a title on the line. Never.” Jimmy said.

Of course, I believed him, but what difference did it make? King Cool wouldn’t raise his voice nor throw a tantrum since it wasn’t his style. Wouldn’t cry or pout either. Kept the steam bottled up as always, imploding from the insides.

I could have sat there until the cows came home, telling him all about the breaks of the game and whatnot. That Jelly Mendoza was right, back at the candy store before the season even started. Despite the Banta Legend, the Astros would have never broken free of third place without a top-flight catcher and King Kong hitter.

Hello — Earth to Jimmy. Yes, you, the greatest player in the history of the Maple Valley National League. If not, prove me wrong. The wonder kid that lifted a team of longshots and launched them over the rainbow.

He’d refuse to see my side of it. On this customer, my logic remained outdated and useless. Once I realized I couldn’t win this one, I let it go.

With that, the whistle blew, and Little League railed off forever. Officially retired, I went home and hit the showers. Mom washed my duds, and we returned them for next year’s Astro.