There were three reasons our state did it this way. The first was it gave almost every team in the state a chance to participate. The second was we didn’t have enough days on the calendar to do a double-elimination tournament. Finally, they worried about young pitchers. In a playoff situation, your best pitcher might become overworked and more susceptible to injury.
My feeling was it put better teams at a disadvantage. One lousy outing, and you were gone. I expected that St. Joe would beat us in a best-of-five series with little trouble. The good news for us was we only had to win today to move on.
It was finally game time, and I stepped out to take some practice swings. The crowd suddenly got eerily quiet. I looked around to see what the problem was and found our fans all sitting down. That was something I’d never seen at the start of a game. Then someone stood up: Alan. He had an old-style boom box that he lifted over his head. I closed my eyes as the first notes of AC/DC’s Thunderstruck began to play. I guess word had gotten out that we weren’t doing that anymore, but Alan and our fans decided they wanted it.
When the music started, our fans jumped up and began ringing their damned cowbells, stomping their feet and singing along. I glanced over to the St. Joe side, and they’d joined in.
I looked out at the pitcher, and he was pissed. Instead of going to the batter’s box, I headed to the mound. Well, shit … That got a reaction.
“It’s all good,” I said, holding up my hands as the catcher, all the umpires, St. Joe’s coach, and Moose all ran to the mound.
“What do you want?” their pitcher asked.
“I just wanted to tell you we didn’t play the music. Please don’t think we are trying to disrespect you or your team. We know you’ve got a great team, and no insult is intended,” I explained.
He refused to shake my hand and gave me a menacing look. I figured, what the hell, be an ass. I turned around and walked back to the batter’s box. Everyone else saw it was okay and started back to where they belonged. I stopped, turned, and looked the pitcher in the eyes.
“One more thing,” I said, which froze everyone. “You hit me with a pitch, and I’ll tear your arm off and beat you with it.”
Moose grabbed me, and their pitcher had to be restrained by their coach. Coach Haskins had the dugout blocked as all my guys jumped up. St. Joe’s side rushed the field, and the umpires all put a wall up to keep them off me.
Moose marched me to our dugout and had a boisterous discussion with me while the umpires cleared the field. I caught him half-smiling at my attempt to rile up their pitcher. My guys had seen me play alpha dog before, so they took it in stride.
The umpires finally got St. Joe back on their benches and pulled the two coaches behind the plate. The St. Joe coach about lost his mind when the umpire told him that if his pitcher threw at anyone, he’d be gone, as would the coach. Moose got the same warning. Coach Herndon was talking to Brock, telling him not to retaliate. Our team knew if something went down, to let the coaches or me handle it.
They let St. Joe’s pitcher throw a few balls to try to settle down. I smiled to see he was raring back and throwing as hard as he could. His adrenaline had to be pumping through his veins.
I got into the batter’s box and dug in. I looked for his fastball on the first pitch. That was, of course, assuming he didn’t throw at my head. I guessed right, and it sounded good coming off the bat. The pitcher’s head snapped around, and he watched a towering shot as it drifted just foul.
I was pissed I’d been a little behind on that one. I could tell from the look on the pitcher’s face that he was going to throw at me.
“You better warn him,” I told the umpire.
He seemed to agree, and he motioned St. Joe’s coach out and met him at the mound. All three of them were red-faced when the umpire came back. Their coach said a few words, and a smirk came onto the pitcher’s face. Well, shit!
Sure enough, the next pitch was in the middle of my back. I would have to send Sandy Range flowers because her new protective gear did its job. The umpire behind the plate stepped in front of me, and I just grinned at him.
“You little shit. You wanted to get their pitcher out of the game,” he said so only I could hear him.
“I’d never admit to that,” I said, feigning shock.
“Take your base,” he ordered me.
St. Joe’s coach and pitcher hit the showers. As far as the St. Joe fans were concerned, I was now public enemy number one.
St. Joe was in a bind. They’d gone through their two best pitchers to get to this game, and their third-best one had just been tossed. Granted, they had depth because they played three teams, but in high school, you only had so many top-notch arms. They faced the choice of bringing out their best starter on short rest or a sophomore. I guess I wasn’t surprised when they brought out their best starter.
It wasn’t like he pitched yesterday, but what it did was mess them up for the Sectional games. He would have to slide back into the order, and they might never get to him for the next round of the playoffs. I could see their logic, though. If they didn’t win this one, they were done.
When he was warmed up, the umpire signaled it was time to play ball. No starting pitcher was used to beginning a game with a runner on. Their ace hadn’t really faced that many base runners because he tended to throw a lot of sinking stuff that got hit as ground balls. He counted on his defense to back him up. Having me on first caused him to have to begin by pitching out of the stretch.
Ray Quinn, the sophomore who had taken Yuri’s spot at third, was up. St. Joe’s pitcher was worried about me and had me dive back to first base a couple of times before he threw home with the ball. Ray had been instructed to keep the bat on his shoulder until the pitcher threw a strike. Moose wanted to see what their pitcher had today before he forced Ray to hit. It turned out to be a good strategy because their pitcher tried to throw around the edges and get Ray to chase a pitch. Four pitches later, I was on second base. Five more pitches and I was on third.
Jim came to the plate with the bases loaded. Over the winter and spring, Jim had taken to the training program. He was now up to 275 pounds of muscle, and he’d also lost a few inches on his waist, so he no longer looked boxy. His goal was to put on another ten to fifteen pounds before the start of football. Alabama would get him into their program and more than likely redshirt him. He had the frame to be a beast. At six-five, he already looked the part on the baseball field.
On the first pitch, Jim hit a curveball on the ground up the middle. The second baseman and shortstop charged it so they could turn the double play. This was when the two of them not playing together all year hurt their team. They collided, and the ball rolled into center field. Everyone had run on contact because it was on the ground. Ray and I scored easily, with Bryan ending up at third and Jim at first.
Their pitcher settled down and got Brock to hit into a double play, but Bryan was able to score to make it 3–0.
When I came up in the second, we were still up 3–0 with one out and two on. I shook my head when they hit me again. This time they clipped my forearm, which loaded the bases. That meant they needed a new pitcher, and their assistant coach was also gone. The new pitcher came in and served up a batting-practice ball to Ray, who hit his first home run of the year to make it 7–0.
In the top of the seventh, I came up, and they hit me for the fifth time. St. Joe had come back, but we now led 12–7. The umpire had warned them if they hit me again, they would forfeit the game. I guess they figured, ‘Why not?’ By now, I was ready to kick someone’s ass. Even with the new Range Sports gear, my back was starting to complain.