Chapter 15

We were surprised on Monday when Mrs. Middleton spent the period talking about the SATs and giving us tips on how to do better. The same thing happened in precalculus in Mrs. Haggerty’s class. Kim and I already knew a lot of what they told us but it was good to hear we were on the right track with our preparation.

Every Porter-Gaud student took the SAT and our scores were three hundred points higher than the national average. Only about half of all American high school students took it and those were the ones that were planning on going to college. The previous year, every Porter-Gaud student went on to college. I didn’t think parents would pay the high tuition at a college prep school if their kids weren’t planning on going to college. When it came to college, the deck was very definitely stacked in our favor.

Monday afternoon, when Kim and I met Mom to lift, I thanked her for setting me up for success. She gushed that it’s what any parent would do and bragged on both of us for taking advantage of the opportunity. We drove to Kim’s house. I helped her make dinner and when her parents got home, we thanked them, as well. Mrs. McTighe was pretty tired.

“My hip was fine. I could get around the office fine and wasn’t too uncomfortable sitting. What I didn’t expect was to be so fatigued. No one said anything about that. Thanks so much for cooking.”

“There’s dinner for tomorrow already in the fridge. We made a big meatloaf and all I have to do is put it in the oven.”

Mr. McTighe listened to us talking for a while then addressed me. “Kim has attorneys for parents. She grew up hearing us talk at the dinner table. She talked with a couple more attorneys at the Christmas party and she worked at the office last week and some afternoons before that. She understands the language. Mary and I didn’t have that advantage. I think it will be beneficial for Kim. Can you do the same? Can Dane, Hank, Lula Mae, or perhaps Franklin introduce you to someone in your chosen career field to give you that advantage?”

I didn’t know. I knew what Franklin did as an engineer and knew what my mom had done. Her specialty had been architectural engineering, and her focus was on building design. What I had in mind was different. Would talking to an engineer who designed artificial hips help me if I ended up designing surgical instruments or wheelchairs? I had no idea.

Tuesday morning was dedicated to SAT testing. I used all the prep we’d done and it definitely seemed easier than the year before. I already had a pretty good score so there wasn’t a lot of pressure. At lunch, we found Lani and told her we were pretty sure we’d go to College of Charleston at least for our first year and maybe two. She nodded and it seemed like she was thinking the same thing. I knew she’d want to talk to Vince.

By that afternoon, I was just about colleged out and ready to play baseball. Our first conference game was against Northwoods, about twenty minutes away in North Charleston. The bus ride wasn’t quite so rowdy for that trip. Up until then, it had all been practice. Now, it counted. We remembered Coach Hamilton’s caution to not get cocky. It was one thing to play with confidence. It was another to play thinking our opponent expected to lose.

After warming up, we went back to the dugout to wait for our turn to bat. Cherry had been in the bleachers and came back with what looked like a blow-dryer. “What’s he got, Cherry?” Coach asked.

“Mostly in the low eighties but he hit eighty-five once or twice. His changeup is about seventy-five so there’s not a big drop-off. I didn’t see much of a curve.”

“What is that, Cherry?” I asked.

“Radar gun.”

Coach motioned us in close and passed the word. We’d been guessing about pitch speed until right then. Coach Hamilton had purchased a JUGS Sports Radar Gun to give us an edge. The only way we’d known pitching speeds is by the pitching machines. No one really knew how accurate those speeds were. Until then.

“Coach, is that even legal?” I asked.

“Not in the rule book one way or the other. Until they outlaw them, they’re legal.”

“Does everyone else have one?”

“Hell no. These suckers are expensive. We have the budget, though. May as well use it.”

It worked for me. “Cherry, when I’m up to bat, can you keep track? Can you let me know what speed pitches were when I swung early or got a hit?” He held up a notepad with a different page for each of us. He grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

Northwoods’ pitcher was a junior named Avery Stetson. What was it with pitchers and their names? As far as I could tell, all he had was a fastball that wasn’t very fast and a changeup that wasn’t a lot slower than his fastball. He seemed to have pretty good control though and maybe that had been good enough. Randy was our best pitcher and we were starting with him. I figured Stetson was their best.

Legs was up first and hit the first pitch over the shortstop’s head for a single. Two-hop fouled off a half dozen pitches before nailing one up the alley between center and right field. Their right fielder snagged it and threw home before Legs even turned the corner. It was a great throw.

With a man on first and third and no outs, it was my turn. I focused on the label of my bat, then the right field foul pole, then back at my bat. Shifting focus from near to far like that seemed to help me see the ball better. I was certain he’d start with a fastball, and almost as certain that he’d throw a ball, if he could, to see if I’d swing at it. I didn’t. Low and outside for a ball. The next pitch was right down the middle but I swung a little early and hit it a line drive foul down the third base line. We repeated the process two more times before he threw another ball, giving us a full count.

Some guys don’t like a full count. I do. The pitcher has to deliver and I know he’s going to throw his best stuff. If he threw his best stuff, and I hit his best stuff, I’d hit it out of the park. Please, throw your best stuff, I thought. He didn’t, and I was on base with a walk.

“Hey, Bull,” I said jogging to first.

“Hey, Aquaman. Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’d prefer to wave to you on my way past.”

“It’s a productive up, Pierce. That’s all I ask,” he said, doing a fair impersonation of Coach Hamilton.

“Hey, Northwoods first baseman. How’s things?” He ignored me. “No talking to the enemy, huh?” I asked and he had to work to hold back a smile. “I don’t plan on being here long so I guess it’s okay. Say ‘hi’ to your sister for me.”

“You don’t know my sister,” he said, somewhat angrily.

“Ha. He speaks,” I said, leading off. Stetson didn’t even bother looking to first. With bases loaded and no outs, what difference would it make? After all, I couldn’t steal second with a man on. What could I do?

“Hey, Bull, what am I supposed to do? Bases are loaded with no outs. It’s not like I’m going to steal second. How far do I lead off?”

Before Bull could answer the question, Stretch hit a long fly ball toward right field. I couldn’t tell if it was out of the park or not. “What do I do, Bull?”

“Wait right there. Just wait.” I hovered between first and second, waiting to see if it would clear the fence. Stretch had practically caught up with me and I started moving closer to second. The right fielder jumped but it was gone. I jogged toward second, then picked up the pace until I was right behind Two-hop.

I was ten feet behind Two-hop and Stretch was about ten feet behind me as we passed third. Shane Gorski was the third base coach and he thought he was funny motioning for us to go home and slide. Right.

We scored twice more before the inning was over and we were up six, zip. Randy was off to another great start. It was eight, zip when I came up to bat a second time. I didn’t even get a foul tip. Stetson walked me, again.

“Hey, Bull.”

“Hey, Aquaman.”

“This is boring. I hate getting on base this way.”

“More boring than staring at a black line?”

“The black line is my friend. Gotta go,” I said as Stretch hit a line drive practically over my head. Shane motioned for me to take third and I did, while Stretch made it to second standing up. Gizmo hit a long fly ball to center field. I tagged up and scored again. I’d scored twice without getting a hit.

At the end of four, it was sixteen, zip and the game was over by mercy rule. We lined up and thanked them for the effort but they weren’t feeling much like being congratulated for getting skunked.

Back on the bus, we congratulated Randy for having a great game, shutting out another team. Stretch was the hero of the day with six RBIs. Even Randy got an RBI.

“What’s the matter Pierce?” Coach hollered from the front of the bus.

“I didn’t get a hit,” I complained and the bus erupted with boo-hoos. Fine. Be that way.

Wednesday promised to be busy and unusual. We played Bishop England at home. I planned to skip the following day since Mom and Dane were going to be married that evening. I’d promised to chauffer Dane’s family around as needed. I tried to get all of that out of my head and focus on baseball.

In order to do well swimming, you have to be able to shut everything else out of your world. I loved the solitary nature of it. I thought it might be similar to long distance running, or perhaps a time trial in cycling. When I came to the plate in the bottom of the first inning, the game was scoreless. Bishop England’s pitcher, Ryan Fischer, had been a four-year starter for their team and he’d had a ridiculously low ERA the year before. I hated not getting a hit against a weak pitcher in the previous game. I didn’t just want to get a hit against Mr. Ryan Fischer. I wanted to rattle him.

I watched the first pitch go by at what I was certain was close to ninety miles per hour. Cherry had used the radar gun and this guy was a college-level pitcher. I didn’t care. His second pitch was low and outside but it was close. It could have been called a strike, I thought. The third pitch was high and inside. If he meant it as a brushback, it wasn’t effective. I stepped out of the batter’s box and considered whether dodging Timex’s punches was helpful in having a proper perspective about a brushback pitch. I almost laughed out loud, then collected myself and got back to baseball.

The count was two balls and one strike. I didn’t think Fischer wanted to be down, three, one. The next pitch would be a strike and he wouldn’t leave any doubt about it. Just before he started his windup, I asked for time and stepped out of the box. Randy said there was nothing he hated more. I focused on the bat, then the foul pole, and the bat again. This would be a fastball, low and in the center of the plate.

When he threw a fastball, low, and in the center of the plate, I was ready for it. I got all of it and sent it out of the park in left, center field. I wished there’d been a camera. It was a thing of beauty. It took everything I had not to look at Fischer as I rounded the bases. Coach Hamilton had asked if hitting a home run felt as good as winning a race in swimming. I’d said ‘no’ and I meant it, but that was close.

I walked the length of the dugout getting high fives. “Nice swing, Pierce. Really, a very nice cut,” Coach Hamilton said.

“Thanks, Coach. That’s as good as I’ve felt all season.”

“That was only the third hit off Fischer this year.”

Rusty was pitching well, and although they’d connected several times, all they could manage were ground balls. That meant one thing. Rusty’s twelve, six curveball was working. I came up again in the fourth inning with the score stuck at one nothing. There are a lot more high-scoring games in high school than there are low-scoring games. Pitchers haven’t developed their repertoire, fielders make errors, and things can get out of hand pretty easily. We’d won a couple of games by the mercy rule. So had Bishop England. By the fourth inning, we all knew no one was going to win this one by the mercy rule.

I surveyed the field and noted that their fielders had moved back a bit. Their first baseman was playing far off the bag and their shortstop was practically playing short center field. I liked that. I felt like I had a bullseye on me and I really liked that. I shut everything out again, performed my focus drill, and stepped into the box.

His first pitch was a twelve, six curveball for a strike. It looked just like Rusty’s and I’d had practice hitting Rusty. Would he throw the same pitch again? I thought he would. He threw the same pitch, perhaps a bit slower and probably outside but I had a bead on it. I stepped into it and swung for all I was worth and I was two for two, sending it over the right field fence. It felt good but not as good as the first one, probably because it was a ball outside and I’d reached for it. On my way to third, I took a quick glance at Fischer.

He watched me run and I knew the look on his face. It was the same look I’d seen on a hundred boaters at The Cut. It was the look of someone who had been out all day without catching any fish. ‘What did I do wrong?’ his face asked.

As I stepped on home plate, I quietly said to the catcher, “See you in the seventh.”

Rusty’s pitching kept balls in the infield and it was tough to mentally stay in the fielding game. Fortunately, he was working his way through their lineup almost as quickly as Fischer was going through ours. I was first up in the top of the seventh and the score was still two, zip in our favor. I went through my normal prep and stepped into the box. The first pitch was slow, high, and outside. It was so far outside that the catcher had to stand up and move to his right to catch it. I thought maybe he’d asked for a new ball from the umpire and I’d just missed it. Then, he did it again. I stepped out of the box and looked at the umpire.

“He’s walking me, right?” I asked of either the catcher or the umpire.

“He can’t do it until you get back in the batter’s box,” the umpire said.

I was royally pissed off. “Come on, man,” I hollered at Fischer but his expression didn’t change. Two more pitches and I was on first.

“Nice job, Aquaman,” Pat said, from his place in the first base coach’s spot.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, really pissed off.

“Yeah, you did. You fucked up his ERA and he’s not going to let you do it even more. Get your head in the game.”

Right. Stretch was up. I looked over to Shane for a sign. He kept looking in the dugout for help. Stretch worked the count to three balls and one strike. I looked back at Shane and he gave me the signal to steal second. Holy crap. How do you do that? I took a pretty big lead and Fischer threw to first a couple of times. I figured if I did that, he’d get tired of doing it. Plus, I could find out just how far I could lead off without getting caught.

I had to think through a different set of tells and I hadn’t been paying attention. I leaned over to Pat. “I’m supposed to steal second,” I whispered. “When do I go?”

“When his left heel picks up,” he whispered back.

I took my lead and focused on his left heel. When it came off the ground, I took off like an angry bear was chasing me. There was no point in looking to see where the ball was. I was committed. I keyed on the shortstop who had moved over to take the throw from the catcher. The throw went high and to the third base side of the bag and I went low and to the right side of the bag and I was safely at second.

“Crap,” I said, standing up, making sure to keep a foot on the bag. The shortstop looked to see if I’d step off, then threw the ball back to the pitcher.

“What?”

“Well, my uniform was clean right up until that and now I’m going to have to wash it.” I got no sympathy.

Now, I was on second. I’d never been on second unless the bases were loaded. At least not for more than a split second. There was an entire aspect of baseball I was clueless about. Base running. I looked over at Shane and he smiled back. Stretch hit the ball to right field and Shane motioned for me to tag up. As soon as their right fielder caught the ball, I took off for home, by way of third base.

“Hold up, hold up,” Shane hollered. I’d rounded third but Shane had been right. The throw was on the money. I looked out at the right fielder, getting a good look at his face for the first time.

“What now?” I asked.

Shane stepped closer. “I just gave Gizmo the ‘bunt’ signal and he’s pretty good at it. He’ll try to do a drag bunt.”

“English, Shane. What’s a drag bunt?”

“He’ll try to get the ball to follow him toward first base so you have time to score. It’s tough for them to defend. If he does it, the pitcher will probably run to first base while the first baseman tries to field it in time. He’ll have to decide whether to throw home or get the out at first.”

“He’ll try to get me. If I score, it would be an earned run, wouldn’t it?” Too late to hear the answer, I crept toward home.

I’d never seen anyone bunt before. We’d done it in practice but in all the games we’d played, no one had done it. You sure couldn’t hide what you were going to do. Gizmo was crouched low with his left on the handle and his right hand practically in the middle of the barrel, holding the bat over the plate. The pitch came, and at the last minute, Gizmo pulled the bat out of the way. Fischer had thrown high and inside to mess with Gizmo. Pretty smart.

I crept toward home and so did the third baseman. As long as we were even, there wasn’t much chance of me being picked off. After playing cat and mouse for five or six pitches, Gizmo laid down a perfect bunt and took off for first and I took off for home. Just like Shane had said, the first baseman charged the ball. I thought he had me on a throw to home plate. I turned and shifted my shoulders as though I was going to go back to third and he screwed up by throwing behind me. It was a huge mistake. The third baseman wasn’t on third. He was creeping toward home to field a bunt if it came his way. The throw went past third base and I ran home. I scored and Gizmo made it to second before the left fielder could handle the ball.

Back in the dugout, I got the same high fives and congratulations as if I’d hit a home run. Coach Hamilton saw what must have been a confused look on my face. “Welcome to small-ball, Aquaman. That’s what we call a manufactured run. Let’s see if Lefty can manufacture another one.”

He couldn’t and the inning was over. Bishop England had one more chance, but they’d need three runs to tie and send it into extra innings. Coach pulled Rusty and put Cherry in. I didn’t understand that move but I was happy to see Cherry get the chance. He retired the side with nine pitches and the game was over. It was the closest game we’d had all season, and it was against our cross-town rival. It doesn’t get much better than that.

We lined up to pass the Battling Bishops, congratulating them on a good game. When I got to the right fielder, I said, “Outstanding throw to the plate. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“None of us got much work in the field today. You had a great day at the plate.”

“Thanks. Is Fischer bummed?”

“Royally pissed. He won’t be fun to be around until after we beat Prep on Monday.”

“I don’t think I’d want to be Prep.”

We huddled around Coach Hamilton in short left field. “Nice game, gentlemen. We had a lot of firsts, today. Sorry you didn’t get a complete game, Rusty, but the top of the order was coming around for the third time. Cherry, nice job closing them out. Gizmo, great bunt and a lucky error in our favor. Aquaman, welcome to small ball.” That got around of laughs. “Gentleman, Pierce, here, managed two solo homers, a walk, a steal, and another run. Not bad for the rookie.”

“Coach, I’ve been playing since I was seven,” Legs complained.

“Should have started when you were six, Diamond.” Coach knew I was going to be absent the next day and he used it. “We’ll have batting practice tomorrow so some of you clowns can refresh your memory about what it feels like to hit the ball. Pierce, take the day off.”

He was kidding and they knew it but it still got some grumbles. Everyone pretended to be pissed off at me but we’d won and everyone likes winning. I headed for the locker room when I heard Mom calling me. I looked up in the stands. There were only twenty people left but it seemed like most of them were with Mom.

“Come meet your future in-laws,” Mom hollered. Great.

I walked around the backstop and into the stands. She went down the line, introducing me to Dane’s mom and dad, Daryn Edris Senior and Lois, whom I’d met, Janice and Rudy Longworth, Dane’s sister and brother-in-law, and their son Nelson, Alexander and Jenifer Penn and one or two others whose names I couldn’t remember.

I shook hands with the guys. Mr. Edris tried to break my hand so I squeezed back for all I was worth. What was that all about? They were all from Rhode Island. Others would be in later or the next morning. Apparently, Dane had told his family about me while the game was going on. Mr. Edris suggested I look into Brown University, which had an excellent engineering program. I asked if they had a biomedical engineering specialty and he didn’t know and that was the end of that.

Mom said we had reservations at Magnolia’s at seven and I could go with them or meet them there. “Will your girlfriend be coming? I’d love to meet her,” Janice said.

I was going to correct her but figured there wasn’t much point. I said that I didn’t want to speak for her but she would have a hard time turning down dinner at Magnolia’s. Rudy said something that I didn’t understand because of his accent. I looked at Mom, she looked at Dane. Neither of us knew.

“Don’t look at me,” Dane said. “Who can understand that Yankee accent?” I watched the dynamic of it all and had a hunch that Mrs. Edris had prepared them for the South and they were on their best behavior. They seemed stuffy, but that’s just my opinion.

I called Kim from Coach Hamilton’s office. She said she’d be at my house in plenty of time. I thought about our dinner party and who would sit where. I did not look forward to it, but if Kim was there, I’d manage. She knew me well enough to run interference if necessary.

“Hey, Aquaman,” Coach Hamilton said as he came in.

“Hey, Coach. Needed to make a call. I hope that’s okay.”

“Sure. You’re off to a helluva start, son. When Barber sent you over last year, I thought there was no way a green kid with no experience belonged on a varsity baseball team. Boy, was I wrong.”

“Thanks, Coach. That means a lot.”

“You and Franklin didn’t play pickup games when you were little? No, that’s silly. He’s ten years older than you. Must be in the genes.”

“That must be it.”

“Are you having fun? Seems like it.”

“Yes, sir. Very different dynamic than I’m used to.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, we’re all one team but it’s like there’s a bunch of different teams within the team. Randy or Rusty and Thumper are one team. The infield is a team and the outfield is a team. Then, you’re on a different team depending on where you are in the batting order.”

“Interesting. Not much teamwork in swimming though.”

“There’s definitely teamwork on a relay. Most of the teamwork happens in practice though, and that’s a completely different kind of teamwork.” He seemed interested in my take so I kept going. “If my best event is the five hundred free, I’m supposed to coach others how to do better in my event. If they improve enough, they could take my spot. So, it’s this sort of competitive cooperation. I wanted Bobby Claire to improve on his IM, but not so much that he beat me. It’s just different.”