Chapter 1

Forty-six feet. Sometimes it didn't seem fair.

In another month, he would turn thirteen. After that, he'd be throwing 60 feet 6 inches from the pitchers mound to home plate. Then the batters might stand a chance of hitting his fastball.

A shrill voice rang out across the field: "Bend your back and follow through Bobby! That'll bring that heater back down!"

Bobby Taylor had always been big for his age. At that time most adults, on first inspection, assumed he was in high school. At 5'6", 145 pounds, he had the size for the high school junior varsity.

"And stop holding it so tight. You know you lose control if you squeeze it too tight! Let it go, let it flow!"

He looked over to the dugout to where his father was leaning out the doorway, fixing him with an intense stare and shouting instructions.

As in most Little League fields in this part of Columbia, South Carolina, it was a dugout in name only. John Taylor stood in the door width gap in the fence that gave access to a plank bench. Bobby's teammates that were not arrayed behind him in their defensive positions were standing in front of the bench, their small fingers clinging to the chain link as if that would get them closer to playing themselves.

"Coach John" was older than most of the other parent coaches in the league, in his mid fifties. A stockbroker, he specialized in supporting a frenetic set of customers - day traders and arbitrage investors. Buy and hold to his customers meant keeping a stock or maintaining a short position until the day after tomorrow. A true "type A," John liked to brag that he ate stress for breakfast.

"First strike now, first strike, makes life a lot easier out there!" he called to his son.

John applied that "type A" energy to coaching his son's Little League team as well. He believed that success was made on the margins of every transaction, in stocks and in baseball. He encouraged his players, and especially his son, to seek out every edge possible to win. It sometimes drove Bobby away from the game he loved, towards karate, cars, and guitars. Those were places where the discipline was self imposed, and the rewards could be enjoyed when, where, and how he chose.

Bobby took a deep breath, and turned to glance at the bleachers where the player's families sat.

This climactic game of the championship tournament was an "away" game to a poorer neighborhood in Columbia, and the field had only one set of bleachers for the fans of both teams to share.

It took him a moment to spot her - Barbara Taylor gave her son a subtle wave to catch his eye. It was the kind of wave where the hand is held close to the ear - fingers extended straight up, with the only movement a couple quick nervous finger curls.

Barbara was much younger than her husband. She had fallen in love with John Taylor while interning at the brokerage during the summer before her last year at the University of South Carolina. Barb was still the 5'6" 120 pound beauty today that she had been then — 13 years ago. Her soft brown eyes looking out under raven black hair conveyed an athlete's confidence, and a keen intelligence. A former 3-year high school letterman in swimming and soccer, she understood competitive sport pressures.

Sensing the added pressure her son was feeling from her husband's yelling while he pitched in the championship game, her eyes were now straining to beam strength, reassurance — and love across the dusty diamond to Bobby.

"God he's tighter than a drum out there," she breathed to the people next to her.

Barbara was bracketed in the stands by Raul Ramirez on one side, and Patty Robertson on the other, all flapping fans to ward off the Carolina summer heat.

Raul was Bobby's sensei at the dojo where he studied karate. He was also the father of one of the players on the opposing team, 12-year-old Sam Ramirez. Sam, as in Samantha, was standing on 3^rd base with her hair stuffed up tightly under her baseball cap, hoping to score.

Raul was a former Marine and single dad, having lost his wife to breast cancer three years before. He owned an auto maintenance shop in this part of town, and also taught Karate on weekends.

"Yeah he could probably break through 6 two by fours instead of 3 right now!" said Raul with a chuckle.

Raul generally discouraged Bobby from "show off" stuff like breaking boards as part of his training. But occasionally he indulged his young student with a chance to impress other students at the dojo, both younger and older, with a little power display.

"Leave him alone, he's fine," said Patty fiercely. Raul and Barbara exchanged amused glances.

Red headed Patricia Louise Robertson was Bobby's closest and oldest friend. She was a little over a year older than him at 14, and a year ahead at school, but because of Bobby's size they looked the same age. Ten years ago the Robertson family had moved into the house across the cul de sac from the Taylor's, in the upscale neighborhood across town from this playing field.

They had shared baby sitters, skinned knees, teachers, friends, secrets, and confidences their entire lives. Patty had a natural instinct to protect her younger buddy from the world's injustices. When Bobby wanted to avoid doing baseball drills in the back yard with his dad, he would grab his guitar and hide out with Patty. She'd play along on her Yamaha keyboard, as they figured out how to reproduce everything from early Beatles to The Allman Brothers to Nirvana.

She too was doing her best to channel strength to Bobby across the diamond, through tightly clenched fists, teeth, and butt cheeks.

Over the weekend Bobby's Loyal Reality team had won two nail biting contests against Columbia Sporting Goods and the Elks. Now on "Championship Monday," a blustery day with rainstorms threatening, they were up against the Lions, a team that had beaten them during the regular season. Sam Ramirez had hit for the cycle in that game, using her quick bat and speed around the bases to lead her team to victory.

But that had been a game where Bobby had already used up his six innings of weekly pitching eligibility. To protect young arms against over zealous coaches or parents, Little League Baseball imposed a set number of innings a player could pitch during a seven day period.

Remembering that regular season experience, Coach John had held Bobby out of the starting role altogether in the post season tournament, having him finish off the prior two playoff games. In both those games, Bobby had struck out the side to preserve one run victories.

That scenario wasn't quite playing out again on Championship Monday. Here in the bottom of the 6^th (the last inning of a regulation Little League game), in the last game of the season, the score was tied. Bobby was trying to hold on to force extra innings. Normally, that would be a foregone conclusion.

However, the pressure of the final game was turning Bobby's catcher, David Simpson, into a quivering mass of nerves. Dave's nervous state was why Sam was now standing on 3^rd base.

Sam had led off the inning by dropping a bunt down in front of Dave. Though he fielded the ball in plenty of time, his excitement prevented him from setting his feet properly for the throw, which pulled the 1^st baseman off the bag. Sam had made it to 2^nd and then 3^rd base by advancing on passed balls by the rattled Dave while Bobby was striking out the next two batters.

Typical Little League fields differ from full sized diamonds in ways that make passed balls "interesting." The base paths are 60 versus 90 feet, making a base runner's dash while the ball is loose more likely to be successful. Even more of a factor is that the backstop is usually quite close behind home plate. If the playing field is an older one, the planks that make up the backstop can be warped, or have ill fitting seams. The uneven surface can send the ball off in unexpected directions. That had happened on the two prior passed balls, allowing Sammy to scoot around the bases.

Coach John wanted to kill Dave. Well, maybe just maim him. He had invested so much of himself in being The Coach! It was causing him physical distress to think they could lose the championship now! After all their hard work! He had studied other team's tendencies like a big league scout. He'd put in extra time to work with players individually on their weaknesses. And above all, he had constantly worked with Bobby to achieve his full potential! He'd gladly paid the tuition to expensive baseball camps, off-season training programs - the works. He couldn't lose now, at the culmination of his son's Little League career!

It was so completely unacceptable; he started to see spots in front of his eyes. He blinked several times to drive them away. "Come on Bobby, Bobby, Bobby," he called.

Bobby looked into Dave for the sign. It was pretty much for show. He didn't intend to throw anything but fastballs. He had to eliminate the chance that Dave would be fooled by a breaking ball, and miss catching it. With Sammy's speed, that would mean game, and season, over.

Bobby let out a deep breath, took his windup, and let it fly. He was so pumped up; the ball crossed the plate like a rocket. Neither the batter nor the umpire showed any reaction. After a stunned moment, the umpire (another volunteer dad, though not of any player in this game) stammered out, "B-ball!"

Bobby stared in with disbelief. It had clearly been a strike, and the umpire had called a good game to that point. But he hadn't seen Bobby's full out adrenaline-fueled heater before.

Chapter 2 »