MIKE

LUPICA

T H E B I G F I E L D

Philomel Books

T H E B I G F I E L D

MIKE

LUPICA

T H E B I G F I E L D

Philomel Books

PHILOMEL BOOKS

A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.

Published by The Penguin Group.

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group

(Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division

of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.). Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd).

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a

division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd). Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community

Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India. Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive,

Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin

Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South

Africa. Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

Copyright © 2008 by Mike Lupica.

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form

without permission in writing from the publisher, Philomel Books, a division of Penguin

Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S.

Pat. Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or

via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by

law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or

encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights

is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume

any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Book design by Richard Amari.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lupica, Mike.

The big field / Mike Lupica.

p. cm.

Summary: When fourteen-year-old baseball player Hutch feels threatened by the arrival of

a new teammate named Darryl, he tries to work through his insecurities about both Darryl

and his remote and silent father, who was once a great ballplayer too. [1. Baseball—Fiction.

2. Fathers and sons—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.L97914Bi 2008 [Fic]—dc22 2007023647

ISBN: 1-4362-0031-8

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The great Esther Newberg, William Goldman, Susan

Burden and Michael Green, the first response team as

all of these books are being written. Shandel Richardson

of the South Florida Sun-Sentinel.

And Bene and Lee Lupica: I write a lot about parents. My own parents first showed me, and continue to

show me, how to get it right.

Once again for Taylor, Christopher, Alex, Zach

and Hannah.

People ask all the time why I believe in happy end-

ings. My wife and children are why.

T H E B I G F I E L D

1

IF YOU WERE A SHORTSTOP, YOU ALWAYS WANTED THE BALL HIT AT YOU.

Whether the game was on the line or not.

Keith Hutchinson, known to his friends as Hutch, had

always thought of himself as the captain of any infield he’d

ever been a part of, all the way back to his first year of Little

League. Even back then, he could see that other kids were

scared to have the ball hit at them in a big spot. Not Hutch.

It was the shortstop in him. If the ball was in play, he always

wanted it to be his play.

Especially now.

Because the game was on the line now.

And it wasn’t just any old game; it was the biggest of the

summer so far.

Hutch’s American Legion team, the Boynton Beach Post

226 Cardinals, still had the lead against the Palm Beach Post

12 Braves in the finals of their 17-and-under league, even

though this year’s Cardinals didn’t have a single 17–year-old

on the team. But their lead was down to a single run now,

7–6. They were in the bottom of the ninth at the Santaluces

Athletic Complex in Lantana, bases loaded for the Braves.

One out to go.

1

If the Cardinals got the out and won the game, they moved

on to the South Florida regionals next weekend, one round

closer to the state finals.

If they lost, they went home.

Hutch walked over and stood behind second base, almost

on the outfield grass, and waited there while their coach, Mr.

Cullen, talked things over on the mound with Paul Garner,

whom Mr. Cullen had just brought in to pitch.

Hutch knew what everybody on their team knew, that

Paul was going to be the last Cardinals pitcher of the night,

win or lose. He was going to get an out here and their season would continue, or the Braves’ cleanup hitter, Billy Ray

Manning, known as Man-Up Manning, was going to hit one

hard someplace and it would be the Braves who’d be playing

the next round.

Hutch and his teammates would be done for the summer.

Done like dinner.

No more baseball, just like that.

He didn’t even want to think about it.

Paul was one of his favorite guys on the team, normally

their starting left fielder, but he was only the fourth best

pitcher they had. Yet Mr. Cullen had been forced to pull their

closer, Pedro Mota, after Pedro had suddenly forgotten how

to pitch with two outs and nobody on and the Cardinals still

ahead, 7–4. First he’d given up three straight hits to load

the bases. He’d wild-pitched one run home after that, before

walking the next hitter to reload the bases. Finally, he hit the

next batter and just like that, it was 7–6, and Mr. Cullen had

seen enough.

2

Now the one guy in the world they didn’t want to see at

the plate, Man-Up Manning—a seventeen-year-old lefty who

actually did look like a man to Hutch—was standing next to

the plate, waiting to get his swings.

No place to put him. No way to pitch around him.

Paul didn’t throw hard, but he threw strikes, kept the

ball down, got a lot of ground balls when he was pitching at

his best.

One stinking ground ball now and they were in the regionals.

More important, they got to keep playing.

Hit it to me, he thought.

Mr. Cullen patted Paul on the shoulder, left him to

throw his warm-up pitches. Hutch thought about going

over to talk to Darryl Williams while he did. But they never

talked much during the game, not even during pitching

changes. When they did, it was usually only about which

one of them would cover second if they thought a guy might

be stealing.

Nobody was stealing now. Hutch wasn’t paying much attention to the guy on first. Nobody was. He was a lot more

worried about the runners on second and third, the potential tying and winning runs. Darryl? As usual, he didn’t look

worried about anything. He was staring off, lost in his own

thoughts or lost in space. Darryl never seemed to look tense

or worried or anxious. He knew he was the best hitter on

their team—the best player, period. And yet …

And yet baseball seemed to bore him sometimes.

Paul threw his last warm-up pitch. Brett Connors, their

3

catcher, came out to have one quick word with him. As he

ran back, the neighborhood people sitting on the other side

of the screen behind home plate began to applaud, understanding the importance of the moment, as if they were all

suddenly sensing the magic of what baseball could do to a

summer’s night.

Hutch watched them and thought: If we lose, some of

these same people will be here tomorrow night watching

the older kids play the 19-and-under game. Their season

wouldn’t end. Mine would.

Hit it to me.

He walked away from the bag, got into his ready position, watched Brett go through a bunch of signals behind the

plate, all of which Hutch knew were totally bogus. Paul had

one pitch: A dinky fastball with a late break to it that guys

usually couldn’t lay off of, even on balls that were about to

end up in the dirt.

Paul threw one in the dirt now, but Man-Up Manning

didn’t bite.

Ball one.

“Be patient!” the Braves coach yelled from their bench.

“He’s trying to make you chase.”

Paul threw a strike that Man-Up was taking all the way,

then missed just outside.

Two-and-one.

“Still a hitter’s count,” the Braves coach said.

Is it ever, Hutch thought.

He could feel his heart in his chest, feeling the thump4

thump-thump of it the way you could feel the thump of rap

music from the car next to you at a stoplight sometimes.

Knowing that this was when he loved playing baseball so

much, he thought his heart might actually explode. He loved

it all the time, Hutch knew, loved it more than anybody he

knew, on this team or any team he’d ever played on, loved

the history of it, loved the stats and the numbers and the way

they connected the old days to right now.

Most of all Hutch loved it when you were playing to

keep playing, when you were at the plate the way Man-Up

was, or standing in the middle of a diamond like this and

hoping—begging—for the ground ball that would get you

and your teammates the heck out of here with a win.

Paul Garner took a deep breath to settle himself, let

it out, shook his pitching hand before he got back on the

rubber. Because of the way Paul snapped his wrist, his

ball broke more like a screwball, which meant away from

lefties.

He threw his very best pitch now, on the outside corner,

at the knees, right where Brett Connors had set his glove.

And as mighty a swing as Man-Up tried to put on the ball,

swinging for the fences all the way, going for the grand slam

hero swing, the best he could do was get the end of his bat

on it. It would have been a weak grounder for anybody else.

But Man-Up truly was a beast, even when he got beat on a

pitch this way.

He hit it hard the other way, toward the shortstop hole,

between second and third.

5

Instinctively, as soon as he saw the ball come off the end

of the bat, Hutch was moving to his right, knowing that the

only chance they were going to have, if the ball didn’t end up

in left field, was a force at second.

The shortstop in Hutch processed all that in an instant.

Only he wasn’t the shortstop.

Darryl was.

6

2

HUTCH WAS PLAYING SECOND, MOVING TO HIS RIGHT TO COVER

the base, watching from there as Darryl was in the hole in

a blink, moving faster than anybody else on the field when

he had to, backhanding the ball, already starting to turn his

body as he did, gloving the ball cleanly and transferring it

to his right hand, snapping off a throw from his hip without

even looking to see where it was going.

Do-or-die.

Make the play and the Cardinals win.

Throw it away and the other guys do.

The throw was on the money, as Hutch knew it would be.

The break they got, one they sure needed, was that it was

the Braves catcher running from first. Slowest guy on their

team. So he did matter after all. Maybe if the Braves coach

had known how much it was going to matter, he would have

sent in a pinch runner. But he hadn’t. He was only worried

about the tying and winning runs the way everybody else was

under the lights at Santaluces.

Hutch stretched like a first baseman now, stretched as

far as he could while still keeping his foot on the bag, his left

arm out as far as it could go… .

7

Willing Darryl’s throw to get there in time.

The shortstop in him still wanting the ball as much as

he ever had.

Then it was in the pocket of his glove, the worn-in pocket

of his Derek Jeter model, a split second before he felt the

Braves catcher hit second base, heard that sweet pop in his

mitt right before he heard an even sweeter sound from the

field ump behind him:

“Out!”

Game over.

Cardinals 7, Braves 6.

They were going to the regionals.

Even if somebody else had gone into the hole.

• • •

“The golden boy makes one play,” Cody Hester was saying,

“and people act like he won the game all by himself.”

Cody was the Cardinals right fielder, and Hutch’s best

friend in the world.

“The play was kind of golden,” Hutch said. “Even you

have to admit that.”

Cody grinned. “Yeah, it was.” He was finished with his

milk shake, but made one last slurpy sound with his straw,

just for Hutch’s benefit. “I’m still not sure he’s the greatest

teammate in the world.”

“When you’re a great player, there’s no rule that says you

have to be,” Hutch said.

Cody said, “Seriously, though. You don’t think the guy’s

8

a little too full of himself ? He acts like he’s better than everybody else.”

“Only because he is better than everybody else.” Now he

grinned. “And I don’t think he goes around big-timing anybody. He’s just cool is all.”

They were sitting on the steps in front of Hutch’s house

in East Boynton, finishing the milk shakes they’d stopped for

on the way home from the game. Cody’s dad, who worked for

the phone company, had dropped them at the Dairy Queen

on Seacrest and told them they could walk the rest of the way

if they promised to go straight to Hutch’s, which they had.

Hutch and his mom and dad lived here on Gateway, in

a house faded to the color of lemon-lime Gatorade that his

parents talked about painting every year and yet never did.

Cody’s house was right around the corner on Seacrest, not

even a five-minute walk away. His family had moved down

to Palm Beach County from Pensacola when Cody was five,

and he and Hutch had been more like brothers than friends

ever since. They didn’t just have a lot in common, they pretty

much had everything in common, starting with baseball.

They didn’t go through life worrying about how neither one

of their families had a lot of money. Or that they lived in the

neighborhood that they did. Or that Cody’s house—a shade

of pink that Cody liked to say even flamingos would find

gross—was an even uglier color than Hutch’s.

As long as they had each other, and a game to play, they

thought things were pretty solid.

Now they had more games to play. First the regionals. If

they got through that, they played for the state championship

9

on the big field at Roger Dean Stadium in Jupiter, where the

real Cardinals and the Marlins played their spring training

games. Not only did they play at Roger Dean, they got to

play on television, since this was the first year that the Sun

Sports Network would be broadcasting the Legion finals,

in all age groups, the way ESPN televised the Little League

World Series.

Hutch knew it would be a cool thing to make it up the

road to Roger Dean, maybe get the chance to play on television for the first time in his life.

Yet what mattered most to Hutch was that they were still

playing, that they’d gotten out of the bottom of the ninth tonight with their season still intact.

Out of the blue, Cody said, “This is going to be the greatest summer ever!”

“You say that every summer.”

“This time I really mean it,” Cody said. “And you know

I mean it because it isn’t the summer we were supposed to

have.”

Hutch knew what he meant. That was the best thing

about having a best friend—having a conversation and being

able to leave stuff out.

What Cody had meant was this:

When they used to talk about winning the state championship of Legion ball, even before they were old enough

to play Legion ball, it was supposed to happen with Hutch

playing short and Cody playing second. The way things had

always been.

Then Darryl Williams had come along. Now he was at

10

short and Hutch had moved over to second, forcing Cody to

move to right.

Darryl Williams was already treated like he was the

LeBron James of baseball, a kid who was supposed to be

the best shortstop—no, the best player—to come out of the

state since Alex Rodriguez came out of Miami.

He was the same age as Hutch and Cody, fourteen, eighth

grade going into ninth. He lived in Lantana, and had played

on a Lantana Babe Ruth team during the school year. But

summers were for Legion ball and the best Lantana kids

played for Post 226, same as the best Boynton Beach kids

did. There had been some talk that Darryl, even at fourteen,

was good enough to play up to the 19-and-under team from

Post 226. But once Darryl showed up for tryouts, making it

official that he’d decided to play for the Cardinals—maybe

putting off facing nineteen-year-old pitchers for one more

year—Hutch knew he would have to switch positions. It was

just a question of whether it would be to another infield position or to the outfield.

This wasn’t like when A-Rod got traded to the Yankees,

and he knew before he even got there that shortstop belonged to Jeter. Hutch was new to the Cardinals the way

the rest of the kids were, so it wasn’t like this was his team

the way the Yankees were Jeter’s team. Hutch was moving

and there wasn’t anything he could say or do to change that.

Once Mr. Cullen picked the whole team, he decided to move

Hutch to second and put Hank Harding, an ex-catcher, at

third.

So Hutch moved over from short, Cody moved from

11

second to right, and that was their team, the youngest ever

trying to win the state championship at this age level. No

17-year-olds—just two 16-year-olds, Paul Garner and their

ace, Tripp Lyons. And more 14-year-olds than 15-year-olds.

Now “Cullen’s Kids,” as Hutch’s mom called them sometimes, were one step closer to the title, having made it to the

second round.

“You know what the real bottom line is with Darryl?”

Hutch said. “He’s the best player we’ve ever played with or

against, and if you love baseball the way we do, you gotta love

watching him play ball.”

“I’d tell you I agree with you,” Cody said, “but then I’d

have to kill you.”

“Darryl’s the reason it doesn’t kill me that I’m not playing

short,” Hutch said. “It’d be like a golfer getting bent out of

shape that he has to play number two behind Tiger.”

Cody stood up now, walked up the sidewalk and opened

the gate to the chain-link fence in front of the Hutchinsons’

house, one of the few two-story houses in the whole neighborhood, even if it looked like one of the oldest. Hutch had

never given much thought to that fence, just because it had

always been there, and was like a lot of the other front-yard

fences in their neighborhood. It was Cody who made a big

deal of it, saying that some people grew up in white-picketfence neighborhoods, and other people grew up with fences

like theirs.

“I’m gonna say it one last time,” Cody said. “You won the

game tonight, not him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hutch said.

12

Hutch watched him until he disappeared around the corner, thinking about what Cody had said about the game.

Yeah, he told himself. I did get those three hits tonight. I

did drive in four runs. I did make a play in the fourth, going

into short right, that saved a couple of runs.

But anybody who watched the game was going to remember the play Darryl had made in the ninth.

On my ball, Hutch thought.

He was never going to admit that out loud, not even to

his best friend, but there it was. In his heart Hutch knew he

would get over not playing short on a date Cody liked to call

the twelfth of never.

• • •

He went up to his room and turned on the small fan he had

on his desk. The heat was always brutal in Florida in the

summer, but the past few days had been even hotter and

muggier than usual, and even the thunderstorm that had

blown through the area about an hour before the game tonight hadn’t done anything to cool things off. There were only

two rooms in their house that had air-conditioning: the living room and his parents’ bedroom. But his parents were

down in the living room watching a movie they’d rented from

Blockbuster, and so Hutch had come up here to listen to the

Marlins-Mets game on the radio.

He stripped down to his shorts, trained the fan at the

head of his bed, lay down on sheets that wouldn’t feel cool

for long, and tried to concentrate on the Marlins.

13

Problem was, there were shortstops all around him. The

poster of his hero, Jeter, over his bed and the one of Cal

Ripken Jr. over his desk. On the ceiling was Ozzie Smith,

“the Wizard of Oz,” doing that backflip he used to do when

he ran out to play short for the Cardinals.

Not to mention the best shortstop in the house, the one

downstairs watching the movie:

His dad.

He had been the first Hutch Hutchinson, even if he no

longer went by that nickname. He was just back to being

plain old Carl Hutchinson. He’d told Hutch he was going to

try to make the game tonight, but he never showed. Again.

This time, he said, it was because one of the other drivers

hadn’t shown up at the driving service he worked for, and

he’d had to make an airport run to Miami.

His dad always seemed to have a good reason when he

missed a game.

Sometimes Hutch thought it was because he just didn’t

love baseball anymore, because baseball had broken his

heart, because he was supposed to be on his way to the big

leagues once and never made it out of East Boynton.

It’s not going to happen that way with me, Hutch told

himself now.

Even if I am playing second base—more like second fiddle, actually—to Darryl.

It’s only for a couple of months, he kept telling himself.

Cody liked to say that none of this was going to matter when

they got to Boynton Beach High and Darryl was playing for

14

Santaluces Community and Hutch was back at his normal

position.

But Cody didn’t know something, even though he thought

he knew everything about Hutch. Cody Hester didn’t know,

at least not yet, about Hutch’s dream of getting out of East

Boynton, getting out of Florida and playing his high school

baseball a long way from here, on a baseball scholarship at

one of the fancy boarding schools up north in New Jersey he’d

been reading about. One of the schools with famous baseball

programs to go along with their basketball programs.

Baseball was going to be his ticket out of here even if it

hadn’t been his dad’s.

And Hutch believed in his heart that his best chance to

do that was at short. If you followed baseball the way he did,

and nobody he knew followed baseball the way he did, you

knew that a great shortstop was worth his weight in gold.

Just look around: The Yankees had Jeter and the

Rangers had Michael Young and the Mets had José Reyes,

whom Hutch just liked watching run more than anybody else

in baseball, playing any position. The Marlins had Manny

Ramírez’s brother Hanley, and even the little guy who played

short for the St. Louis Cardinals, David Eckstein, had ended

up the MVP of the World Series a couple of years ago.

On the radio now, above the noise from the fan, he heard

one of the Marlins’ announcers, Dave Van Horne, his voice

excited, the words jumping across the room, talking about

Hanley Ramírez moving to his left and snapping off a throw

to first to beat the runner by a step.

15

“What can I tell you, folks,” Van Horne yelled, “the kid’s

a star!”

Why not? Hutch thought. Hanley’s playing a star position.

You had to know that whether you were a team guy or not.

The scouts didn’t come to see second basemen.

16

3

DARRYL WAS LATE FOR PRACTICE MONDAY AFTERNOON.

It wasn’t the first time.

He hadn’t been late for a game yet, even though there’d

been some pretty close calls, including the championship

game last Friday night. He’d shown up fifteen minutes before

the first pitch, after the rest of the team had taken both batting practice and infield.

Today, he said, he thought he was getting a ride from a

friend of his mom’s, but the friend had never shown up.

So he had to go take the bus to Caloosa instead.

Which was late.

“Coach,” he said, smiling in an embarrassed way, “I’m

sorry this sounds like such a lame excuse, but it’s the

truth.”

“Relax, Darryl,” Mr. Cullen said, not even looking up from

the end of the bench, where he was making out the order for

batting practice. “I believe you.”

“Even so,” Darryl said.

“Even so, nothing,” Mr. Cullen said. “It’s the same off the

field as it is on: You can only control what you can control.”

“You’re the man, Mr. C,” Darryl said.

17

Darryl must have sprinted from the bus stop and across

the Little League field at Caloosa Park, where they were practicing today, because he was acting as if he was out of breath,

like he was standing on third base after hitting a triple.

“Now go get yourself a drink of water and get ready to hit

while I get warmed up,” Mr. Cullen said. “You can go third,

after Cody and Hutch.”

Mr. Cullen usually liked to pitch BP rather than waste

somebody’s arm or put somebody on the mound who couldn’t

get the ball over the plate and would just aggravate the hitters. He went out to the mound now and threw some warmup pitches to Brett Connors while Cody and Hutch waited

near the on-deck circle at Caloosa.

“You think I’d be hitting third if I showed up right before

BP?” Cody said when Darryl was out of earshot.

“What I think,” Hutch said, “is that you should shut up

and hit.”

Cody walked away, shaking his head, saying, “I can’t believe people think you’re the nice one.”

Hutch leaned on his bat as he watched Mr. Cullen pitch

to Cody, who had an open stance and was a dead pull hitter, legendary for scattering guys on the third-base side of the

field with screaming foul balls when he’d open up his hips too

early. Hutch was actually less interested in Cody’s batting style

than in seeing how hard Mr. Cullen was throwing today. When

he was a kid, he’d been a high school pitching star up in Vero

Beach known as King Cullen. And had, he’d informed them,

pitched a couple of years in the Red Sox farm system. But

18

he hadn’t thrown hard enough to become a real prospect—

“Unfortunately, I was an eighties guy,” he told them, “and not

because I grew up in the eighties”—and had moved down to

Palm Beach County to start what was now a big real estate

company, even doing his own television commercials for it,

which made him sort of a local celebrity.

Even though he was in his forties now, he could still throw

harder than anybody in their age group. And sometimes he

liked to really bring it in BP. His theory was: If his guys could

hit him, they could hit anybody in Legion ball.

Hutch saw right away that he really planned to bring it

today, just off his first few pitches to Cody.

“Look at him,” Darryl said. “Man’s sweating already like

he’s on the free throw line with a minute to go.”

“This is gonna be one of those days when he goes out of

his way to make us look bad,” Hutch said.

“Not me,” Darryl said.

“You sure?” Hutch made sure Darryl saw him smiling, so

it didn’t come across as some kind of challenge.

“Wait and see,” Darryl said. “He can hump it up there as

much as he wants. All’s I see when I hit against him are mattress balls.”

“What’s a mattress ball?” Hutch said. He knew a lot of

baseball expressions, and knew by now that Darryl had his

own way of talking. But he’d never heard that one before.

Darryl grinned at him and said, “A pitch I can lay all over,

homes.”

Darryl called most guys on the team “homes.” For home-

19

boys. Hutch wasn’t sure if it was because Darryl just liked

the expression, the cool way it sounded, or because he still

didn’t know everybody’s names.

“Mind if I cut the line?” Darryl said now.

And, just like that, Darryl was walking casually toward

home plate as Cody ran out the last ball he’d hit, acting as if

deciding to change the order this way was the most natural

thing in the world.

To him, maybe it is, Hutch thought.

Mr. Cullen didn’t seem to notice that they were hitting out

of order. Or maybe he just didn’t care, because it was Darryl.

Mr. Cullen threw him a breaking ball in the dirt, grinning

as he did, like he was messing with him.

The second pitch was the one. A mattress ball.

There was a tall outfield fence in Caloosa, out beyond the

grass that seemed to be freshly cut here the way the infield

always seemed to be freshly raked, but Hutch had only seen

high school varsity players clear it.

Until now.

Darryl hit it so far over the center-field fence, one that

included an ad for Ken Cullen Real Estate, that Hutch wondered if it might roll all the way to I-95.

That wasn’t the most amazing thing.

The most amazing thing was that it didn’t even look as

if Darryl Williams had swung hard, that he’d hit a ball that

hard with just a flick of his wrists.

He was already walking away from home plate while the

ball was in the air, as if that was all the batting practice he

needed today.

20

Mr. Cullen still had his back to home plate, watching the

flight of the ball.

To no one in particular, he finally said, “And that, gentlemen, is why the old coach ended up in real estate instead of

at Fenway Park.”

Hutch stopped watching Mr. Cullen then and checked out

Darryl. Thinking there had to be some reaction after you hit

a baseball like that.

And there was.

Darryl was smiling, shrugging his shoulders and putting

his hands out, the way Michael Jordan once did on his way

to scoring thirty-five points in the first half of a game in the

NBA Finals.

Like even he couldn’t explain why he was this good.

• • •

Mr. Cullen had told them when the team had first been selected that they weren’t going to choose a team captain until

they’d gotten to know each other a little bit; if they named a

captain before they even got out of the county tournament,

it would be like electing a class president the first week of

school.

They were sitting in a circle in the outfield the way they

usually did after every practice, chugging down Gatorade and

power drinks and ice water, when he announced they were

going to name the captain before they went home today.

“I know you probably think it’s kind of an honorary

thing,” he said. “And maybe you even think we don’t need

21

one on this team, because we’ve got a bunch of hard-working

guys with great work ethics.

“But I’ve always thought being a team captain in sports

meant something. And on every Legion team I’ve ever coached,

going all the way back, I’ve always thought of my captain as

being more like a player-coach.”

He stood up. “Any questions?”

Brett Connors raised a hand.

“I’ve got one, Coach,” he said. “How do you want us to

do this? Should we pick a couple of names and then vote on

those?”

Mr. Cullen put his hands up and walked between Hutch

and Cody to the back of the circle. “You guys decide. This is

your deal all the way.”

Hutch actually thought Brett would make a good captain.

He had grown up in Lantana before moving to East Boynton,

so he had played Little League with guys from both places.

He was a catcher in baseball and a middle linebacker in football, and everybody on the Cardinals knew by now, after just

the handful of tournament games they’d played, that trying

to get to home plate when he was blocking it was like trying

to get a yard against him in football.

Every minute he was on the field, whether he was hitting or catching or just running their infield drills from the

plate, he was all business. It made him Hutch’s kind of ballplayer.

“Okay, then,” Brett said. “I’ll get this party started. I nominate Hutch to be captain.”

Right away, Cody said, “Second.”

22

Brett looked around. “Okay, we got ourselves one nominee. Any others?”

Nobody in the circle said anything. Hutch kept his head

down. He was happy that Brett thought enough of him to

think he’d make a good captain. Hutch just didn’t want his

teammates to see him happy.

Didn’t want to act as if he wanted it too much.

“Okay, let’s do it another way,” Brett said. “Anybody op-

posed to Hutch being captain?”

Hutch said, “I was actually going to nominate you,

Brett.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Brett said. “Everybody knows

you should be the captain.” He stood up. “Everybody for

Hutch Hutchinson, put your arm in the air.”

Hutch allowed himself to look around now, and saw his

teammates’ arms shooting up in the air.

Cody put both of his up.

The only one who didn’t, Hutch noticed, was Darryl, who

was sitting next to Mr. Cullen in the back of the circle.

“Then Hutch it is,” Brett said.

Then they were all saying “Hutch … Hutch … Hutch” as

if woofing out his nickname, and Cody was pulling Hutch to

his feet, the Cardinals all around him, trying to join hands

above his head, a bunch of guys who’d only come together

after the school year ended feeling like a team that had been

together, really together, for much longer.

It was when they broke free that Hutch noticed Darryl

walking alone toward the bench on the first-base side of

Caloosa.

23

When he got to the bench, he turned around, no expression on his face, put his hands on his hips, and stared directly at Hutch.

Or through him, maybe.

Then he kept walking, toward the parking lot.

It was as if a guy who didn’t seem to care about anybody

on the team suddenly cared about this:

Being captain of the team.

24

4

HIS DAD, HUTCH KNEW, HAD HELD A LOT OF JOBS IN HIS LIFE,

even if he hadn’t held on to any of them for very long.

Carl Hutchinson didn’t talk much about that because he

didn’t talk much about anything, not for more than a few sentences at a time. Most of what Hutch knew about the different

things his dad had done since he stopped playing baseball

came from his mom, who had been his dad’s high school

sweetheart and pretty much been with him ever since.

His mom, Connie Hutchinson, the former Consuela

Valentin, was born in Ponce, Puerto Rico. If Hutch had gotten

the baseball in him from his dad, he had inherited his dark

skin and dark eyes from his mother, who had moved to East

Boynton from Puerto Rico when she was ten.

“Your father and I have been together through thick and

thin,” she’d say. “Sometimes extra thick on the thin.”

Then she would smile and say, “¡Ay, bendito!” It was her

catchall phrase from what she called her Spanglish, sometimes happy, sometimes sad, sometimes in between.

Carl Hutchinson had made it out of Legion ball and high

school ball to the minor leagues, first in the Braves’ farm system and then in the Twins’. He’d finally made it to Triple-A

25

with the Twins, but that was as far as he made it. He was out

of professional ball by the time he was twenty-four.

Carl Hutchinson tried selling cars for a while after that,

because he’d always been good with cars. When that didn’t

work out, he started up a landscaping business with one

of his old teammates from Boynton Beach High, figuring

he could cash in, get a lot of business, just from people in

the immediate area who remembered the kind of star ballplayer he had been. He’d been a local celebrity even before

his time in the minors, when he’d taken the East Boynton

Little League team all the way to Williamsport, Pennsylvania,

for the Little League World Series, where they’d lost in the

finals to Taiwan.

His mom had told him all about that, and Hutch had

watched the game on videocassette plenty of times, because

his dad’s year in Williamsport was one of the first years ABC

had put the finals on television. Nobody else on East Boynton

could do much against the Taiwan starting pitcher that day,

but his dad had managed to get three hits off the kid, one of

them a long home run.

The announcers had said you could never call anybody

in sports a sure thing, but this East Boynton kid sure looked

like one to them. They even joked that Cal Ripken Jr. would

be looking over his shoulder someday, because this tall,

skinny kid his teammates called Hutch was destined for

shortstop in the Major Leagues.

Only, by the time he was supposed to be gaining on Cal

Ripken, Carl Hutchinson was back in East Boynton, trying

to sell cars.

26

He worked briefly as an assistant manager in his uncle’s

hardware store up in Juno Beach, but that didn’t last, either.

Nothing did.

Maybe that was why two summers ago Hutch’s dad, between jobs again—needing what he always called a J-O-B—

had even run the snack truck at Santaluces for a while. Hutch

knew why he was doing it, because he needed the work, but

every time Hutch would look over at the truck, it would feel like

somebody just punched him in the stomach. Even now Hutch

would look over at that truck during a break in the game and

remember what it was like when he knew his dad was inside,

or when he’d see his dad leaning against the side of the truck

and watching from there while Hutch’s team played.

Then, and now, Hutch wondered what his dad was thinking, watching his son play on one of the fields where he’d

been the biggest star in the area once, the kind of star Darryl

Williams was now.

Watching with those sad-looking eyes of his.

Carl Hutchinson would never come right out and say it,

but Hutch knew something as well as he knew all the baseball numbers he carried around inside him:

The only job his dad ever cared about was baseball.

And it was baseball that broke his heart for good by telling him he wasn’t good enough and sending him home.

• • •

Carl Hutchinson had worked with Hutch at the very beginning on baseball, the first year his son had been old enough

27

to play tee ball. He showed him how to hold the bat and

played catch with him in the yard, backing up a little bit

at a time as Hutch’s arm began to get stronger. Hutch had

hoped that his dad, because he’d been as good as he was at

baseball, might coach him in Little League someday. But he

never had.

By the time Hutch was eight, he felt like he was his own

coach, even on all the summer nights when he would be out

behind the house in their small yard, throwing balls against

the pitchback his mom had bought for him, fielding one

ground ball after another until it got too dark.

There wasn’t a single night he did it when he didn’t keep

waiting for the back door to open and his dad to come walking out, wanting to play.

It never happened.

Sometimes Hutch would look up and see his dad’s face

in the kitchen window, watching him. Hutch would wave. His

father would wave back.

The next time he’d sneak a look over there, his dad would

always be gone.

It was almost the same way with watching games on tele–vision. He could remember sitting next to his dad on the

couch, his dad pointing out things about where the fielders

were playing, the way a shortstop would come across the bag

on a double play, somehow knowing which pitches would be

the best ones to hit before the pitcher would even deliver the

ball to the plate.

A guy he’d started out in the minor leagues with, a catcher

named Tom McCain—now a backup with the Marlins—was

28

still a big star with the Braves when Hutch was younger, and

Carl Hutchinson would talk about the old days and what they

were both like when they were kids starting out.

Over time, though, his dad began watching games, when

he still watched games, by himself. Always with a can of

beer next to him. It was the only time Hutch ever saw his

dad drinking beer, when a game was on. Sometimes Hutch

would come into the room and the game would be on with

the sound turned off, almost like his dad didn’t care what the

announcers were saying, and he’d feel as if there were some

kind of force field around his dad.

Or there should have been a sign near the door to the living room reading No Visitors Allowed.

Not even your own son.

His dad wouldn’t sit through the whole game. Hutch never

knew where he went, but he’d hear the door close and know

his father had left again.

He came to Hutch’s games when he could, even though it

was never as many as Hutch wanted. It killed him when he

would do something great in a game, something that in his

own mind measured up to the kind of things his dad did all

the time when he was Hutch’s age, and he’d look up to the

stands to find his mom watching, not his dad.

He’d come home after the game and try to tell his dad

what had happened, describe it the best he could, explain

what he was thinking and feeling when he’d made a play in

the field or driven a ball somewhere to win a game, and he’d

see his dad trying to act interested.

But more and more it was just that: an act.

29

His dad claimed he was tired. He was working two jobs

now, caddying during the day at the Emerald Dunes Golf

Club in West Palm, then driving for Sun Coast limousines

three or four nights a week, sometimes more. But Hutch

knew it wasn’t just work that made his dad seem so tired all

the time, so beaten, even so much older than he really was. It

was more than that, something Hutch wasn’t sure he understood totally or could have explained to someone:

But both of his dad’s jobs involved being a caddy, really. He either carried guys around in his car, or carried

their golf bags. Hutch wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was

embarrassed for his dad, thinking of him like some sort

of Caddyshack caddy in his white overalls. The great ballplayer.

Maybe his dad sensed that from Hutch.

Maybe that was why the distance between them seemed

to be growing all the time.

Most of the time Hutch felt as if his dad wasn’t really

there, as if nothing had changed since Hutch was little, when

he was playing in the yard and his dad was inside the house,

one minute there, the next minute gone.

30

5

THERE WERE EIGHT TEAMS IN THEIR REGIONAL, THE BOTTOM HALF

of the brackets in the new version of the state American Legion tournament.

Their county, Palm Beach, was broken up into two

leagues, National and American. The Cardinals had won the

National League and the Tequesta Post 271 Angels had won

the American. The rest of their bracket was filled up with two

teams each from Dade County, Broward, and Lee/Collier, on

the west coast of Florida.

It was pretty simple the rest of the way for everybody in

the South regional:

Win three more games and you got to play in the World

Series from their age group, against the 17-under team that

won the North.

After that it was a best-of-three series at Roger Dean,

every game under the lights, every game on TV for as long

as it lasted.

Their version of the World Series, winner take all.

“We could be five games from winning this whole thing,

you know that, right?” Cody Hester was saying.

They were sitting at a bench near the snack truck at

31

Santaluces, waiting to play their first game in the regionals,

against a team from Naples, the Yankees.

“Or,” Hutch said, ripping open a pack of gum, “we could

be one loss away from your only exercise being mowing lawns

the rest of the summer.”

“And you are telling me this because … ?”

“Because I don’t want you to think about the whole rest of

the tournament,” Hutch said. “I’d sort of just like you to play

these suckers one at a time.”

“Captain Hutchinson of the Cardinals,” Cody said in a

deep announcer voice, “has stressed that his team must take

these games one at a time. As opposed to playing the games

two or three at a time.” Cody shook his head. “When did you

turn into a football coach?”

“I didn’t.”

“What, you just play one on TV?”

“You know the only game I’ve ever cared about is the one

we’re getting ready to play,” Hutch said.

“I know, I know,” Cody said. “I just want to get to that big

field at Roger Dean so bad.”

“Where’s that?” Hutch said. “The only field I can see is the

one right in front of us.”

It had turned out to be a home game for the Cardinals

because of a flip of the coin. After this, the regionals would

play themselves out down in Fort Lauderdale.

Hutch’s parents and Cody’s parents were all coming to

the game. Hutch’s dad had caddied earlier in the day and had

the night off from the car service, where he had been mostly

working nights since he started with them. So this would be

32

the first game he’d seen since the Cardinals had started the

county tournament.

Before Hutch’s mom had driven him and Cody to

Santaluces, Hutch had gone into the living room and grinned

as he asked his dad, “Any last-minute advice?”

His dad was watching the ESPN show where the

sportswriters bickered and kept score over who bickered

the best.

“Don’t try to do too much,” he said to Hutch.

“Got it.”

“Play within yourself,” his dad said.

Same stuff he always said.

“And,” his dad said, “don’t try to pull everything, even if

it’s a lefty pitching. You’re better off hitting to right.”

That was it.

“See you over there,” his dad said, then smiled, not at

Hutch but at the television, where the host had muted one of

the sportswriters. “I love it when they do that,” he said.

Hutch had left him there, the air conditioner attached to

the window sounding louder than a dishwasher. His mom

and Cody were waiting in the car. Before Hutch walked out

the front door he leaned against it, closed his eyes, and

wished he could have spent just one day with his dad when

his dad was young.

Wished he could have met the dad who loved baseball the

way his mom said he did.

Now he and Cody walked all the way to where their bench

was on the field closest to the small lake at Santaluces. Field

No. 2. Their bench was over on the first-base side, the home

33

side of Santaluces. Behind the batting screen, the neighborhood people were already setting up their lawn chairs, like

the area was their own personal luxury suite.

“Hel- lo?” Cody said now.

Sometimes Cody was like background noise to Hutch, like

keeping a ball game on the radio when you were reading.

“What?” Hutch said.

“You zoned out on me there for a second.”

“I was just thinking about some stuff my dad told me

before we left the house.”

“Such as?”

Hutch smiled, then gave his head a good hard shake, as if

trying to clear away any bad thoughts. Because the prospect

of getting to play a game like this, maybe keep playing games

like this, was too much of a happy-making thing to let any

bad thoughts get in the way.

“He told me to catch anything I could in front of my right

fielder,” Hutch said. “Says the guy out there has the range of

one of those palm trees behind the outfield walls.”

Cody just looked at him, his face like a blank wall.

“Do me a favor?”

“Whatever you need.”

“Don’t try to be funny,” Cody said. “I’m the funny one.”

Hutch grabbed a ball and they started soft-tossing between the bench and the first-base line. Darryl joined them.

So did Brett Connors. The pregame chatter all around them

began to get louder, before they were even on the field for

infield, or batting practice. The guys on the Cardinals kept

34

stealing looks across the diamond, checking out the Naples

players, listening to the chatter from over there.

Hutch thought to himself: The only time in baseball that’s

better than the game is this.

It didn’t matter what field they were using, whether it

was here or at Caloosa or any of the other ballparks in Palm

Beach County. Or Roger Dean, if they made it that far.

In moments like this, Hutch felt more at home here than

he did at home.

35

6

NAPLES JUMPED ON THE CARDINALS’ ACE, TRIPP LYONS, FOR FOUR

runs in the top of the first.

Before anybody was out.

Single.

Triple.

Double.

Home run.

The game had only started about five minutes ago, and

Hutch realized that the other team had already hit for the

cycle. The Naples team called itself the Yankees, even wore

Yankees pinstripes. Now they had come out swinging like

they were the real Yankees.

So the Cardinals were in a 4–0 hole, just like that. And it

would have gotten much worse a few minutes later without

Hutch.

Tripp had finally managed to get two outs by then. But

the other guys were threatening again, with runners on second and third. The runner on second, the Yankees catcher,

had just ripped a shot past Hank Harding at third, the ball

looking as if it were going to roll all the way into the corner

before Paul Garner cut it off. Paul then made a perfect cutoff

36

throw to Darryl and the Naples third-base coach held the

other runner there, even though there were two outs and

sometimes you took a chance in that situation, tried to steal

another run on a bad throw to the plate.

Naples was down to the ninth spot in the batting order.

Mr. Cullen liked to call it a soft spot for the pitcher to land,

even when the pitcher was in the kind of jam Tripp was still

in. Because another hit here and the score was going to be

6–0 before the Cardinals even came to the plate.

And the No. 9 hitter wasn’t going to be soft.

Hutch could see it just by the way he dug in, the way he

held his bat. Hutch knew. He hadn’t paid really close attention when the Yankees were out there for fielding practice, so

he wasn’t sure what position this guy played. But he was a

player. For one thing, he wasn’t all twitchy, like a lot of hitters

were once they got into the box. They were the ones who kept

fooling with their batting gloves the way their heroes did on

TV, the ones who had to check to see if their feet were in the

exact spot they wanted.

The kind who could make baseball feel slower than a

traffic jam sometimes.

This kid was up there to hit.

The first pitch was outside.

Never moved.

The next one from Tripp was a fastball right down Route

1 and the hitter was all over it, driving the ball up the middle,

right between Tripp’s legs before he could get his glove down,

the ball looking for all the world as if it were on its way into

center field.

37

Hutch was moving to his right as soon as the ball came

off the bat. He was still learning about angles from the other

side of second base, after a whole lifetime of watching the

ball come off the bat from short. But he was getting better at

it, more confident, every day.

He didn’t fade toward the outfield grass, knowing his only

chance was to cut the ball off right there if he was going to

have any kind of play at first.

Hutch still had to dive at the last second, full out, and try

to backhand the ball.

Which he did.

Everything seemed to happen at once after that. Hutch

feeling the ball in his glove, somehow getting to his knees,

getting off a sidearm throw from his knees, and putting

something on it. Cody would say later that the kid had been

slow coming out of the box, like he was sure he’d hit a single

up the middle. Or maybe he just didn’t think there was a

second baseman in Legion ball who had enough arm to get

him from there.

Hutch did.

His throw to Tommy O’Neill, their first baseman tonight,

beat the guy by two steps.

Inning over.

The game stayed 4–0.

Hutch had kept the game from turning into a total blowout.

For now.

“Some of those guys on the Yankees look like they’re in

college,” Cody said as they ran off the field, high-fiving Hutch

with his glove.

38

Hutch said, “Tell me about it. I think the guy who hit

the home run got lost on his way to the nineteen-and-under

game.”

“And he’s not as big as their starter,” Cody said when they

got to the bench. “Check it out.”

The Yankees starter must have sprinted to the mound as

soon as the ump at first made the out call. Hutch recognized

him as the No. 5 hitter in their batting order, and could see that

he was easily the biggest pitcher they had faced all season.

“Well, you know what they say,” Hutch said. “The bigger

they are, the harder they fall.”

“Tell you what,” Cody said. “Find out who ‘they’ are and

see if they want to grab a bat against the Hulkster.”

The Hulkster struck out the side in the first. He got Alex

Reyes, then Brett, then Hutch on a 2-2 pitch that looked

pretty sweet coming out of the guy’s hand—he’d heard the infielders calling the Yankees pitcher Ronnie by then—and then

just exploded up into Hutch’s eyes when it got to the plate.

He looked totally helpless, clueless really, swinging right

through it.

When he came back to the bench to get his glove, Cody

knew enough not to say anything.

All Hutch said was “Next time,” and ran out to second.

Next time was the bottom of the fourth, the Yankees ahead

5–0 by now. By Hutch’s count, Ronnie had struck out eight

and hadn’t given up a hit. But Alex beat out a bunt to start

the Cardinals’ fourth and Brett worked a walk by laying off

the high stuff, watching as the last four pitches Ronnie threw

him sailed out of the strike zone like Frisbees.

39

Hutch’s turn.

He knew he wasn’t going to bring the Cards all the way

back with one at-bat. He just wanted to be ready if the

Hulkster threw one in the strike zone, put a good swing on

the ball, drive it somewhere and give Darryl a chance to do

the same thing behind him.

Hutch did more than put a good swing on a 1-1 fastball.

He put his best swing on the sucker.

Caught it right on the sweet spot. Now it wasn’t a fastball

exploding up and in on him. It was the ball exploding off

Hutch’s bat, making him think in that moment of something

guys said shooting hoops:

Butter.

Hutch knew he had caught it, knew he had hit it high and

deep toward the alley in left center, knew it might have the

legs to get out of the park, knew he had the power to do that

at Santaluces, even to the power alleys. He still ran. Hutch

never stopped to admire the flight of the ball, never posed at

home plate.

He didn’t hesitate now the way the kid had in the top of

the first.

He busted it out of the box.

Hard.

The next time he allowed himself a look toward the outfield was when he came around first. That’s when he saw

that both the center fielder and left fielder weren’t running

anymore, they were just standing near the warning track.

From behind him, Hutch heard Mr. Cullen, coaching first,

say something one of the guys on SportsCenter used to say.

40

“It’s deep and I don’t think it’s playable,” Mr. Cullen

said.

Hutch slowed down, but not too much, not wanting to act

like he was trying to show up the other team with some dopey

home run trot. He did have a brief urge to pump his fist, just

because his team was back in the game now. Didn’t do that,

either. Just put his head down and kept going, slapped five

to Brett’s dad, their third-base coach, as he went past him,

gave a quick fist-bump to Darryl as he crossed the plate, ran

into the crowd of Cardinals waiting for him in front of their

bench.

Cody grabbed him from behind and shook him so hard

that Hutch’s red batting helmet, his lucky one, one that

looked older than he was, went flying.

“That sucker flew out of here like a golf ball!” Cody

said.

Hutch said, “I just closed my eyes and swung.”

“Yeah, right,” Cody said. “You know what went over the

wall along with the ball? The Hulkster’s mojo. ”

“Don’t be so sure,” Hutch said. “There’s a lot of ball left

to be played, and we’re still down two.”

Then Darryl doubled to right center, Hank Harding

singled him home, and just like that they were only down

one, 5–4.

• • •

Tripp was getting stronger as the game went along, the way

he did sometimes, even on nights when he didn’t give up four

41

runs in the first. But Ronnie of the Yankees had settled back

down, too, after Hank’s RBI single. The game stayed at 5–4

through the fifth and sixth.

Hutch had walked on four pitches with two outs in the

sixth, and then Darryl gave one a ride to dead center, Hutch

thinking it had a chance to go out. But as he came around

third, he saw the center fielder catch up with the ball in front

of the fence in dead center.

Still 5–4.

Stayed that way through the seventh.

Just like that, first game of the regionals, there was a

chance that they were six outs away from being through.

That’s the way it was in knockout tournament baseball. Mr.

Cullen had Tripp on a pitch count and had pulled him after

he pitched through the top of the seventh. And even though

they were still behind by a run, Mr. Cullen decided to go with

their closer, Pedro, right there.

In the bottom of the eighth, the Yankees brought in a

reliever of their own, the one small guy they seemed to have

on their team, a lefty who’d been playing right field. He proceeded to breeze through the bottom of the Cardinals’ order

by throwing nothing but junk, getting out Cody, Paul Garner

and Tripp, who’d moved over to play first base. Sometimes it

happened that way, Hutch knew. You waited the whole game

to get the hard thrower out of there, then the next kid looked

like he was lobbing softballs in there underhanded, and your

timing was completely messed up.

Pedro Mota breezed through the middle of the Yankees’

order in the top of the ninth, and it stayed a one-run game.

42

The Cardinals were up against it. Big-time. Except that

the first game of the regionals wasn’t like their last game in

the county tournament. This time they were the ones trying

to come from behind. This time it was them who needed

one run to get the game into extra innings, two to get to the

regional semis.

Or come up empty and go home.

Mr. Cullen gathered the whole team around him before

Alex Reyes, their leadoff guy, started off the ninth.

“We’re gonna win this thing right here,” he said. “Alex is

gonna get on and so is Brett, and then we’ll see how the little

guy likes facing our boppers.”

He meant Hutch and Darryl.

Now Mr. Cullen put his hand out, and they all put their

hands in there with him, and at the same time everybody

yelled, “Cards!”

“Cards on the table is more like it,” Cody said to Hutch.

“All in,” Hutch said.

The third baseman for the Yankees was right on top of

Alex, remembering the bunt he’d laid down earlier. He came

in even closer when Alex shortened up again, then had no

chance when Alex pulled the bat back and chopped one past

him into left field.

Brett Connors next. He was the best they had at making

the other pitcher work, taking a lot of pitches. He did that

now, working the count full.

Darryl had come out to stand with Hutch in the on-deck

circle while Brett was at the plate. Hutch knew that was

against the rules. Only one guy was supposed to be standing

43

there. But this was another case of Darryl, looking as relaxed

as could be leaning on his bat, acting as if there was a different set of rules for him.

“Must be a slow night for the Palm Beach Post,” he said

to Hutch before the 3-2 pitch to Brett.

Hutch wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. Most of his

energy, all of his energy, had been directed toward Brett at

the moment, as he tried to will him into taking ball four.

Or hitting one out of sight.

“What?” he said to Darryl.

“I was just sayin’ that I see the Post has got the reporter

and the photographer here who covered some of my school

games,” Darryl said. “Got a crew here from that Channel 12,

too. How about that?”

Hutch wanted to say, How about we focus on getting a

couple of runs?

What he did say was: “Let’s give them a story about us

coming from behind in the bottom of the ninth to win the

game.”

The lefty surprised Brett with a fastball then, one he hadn’t

shown anybody yet, and Brett swung right through it.

One out, one on, for Hutch.

“You just get on base somehow,” Darryl said, calm and

cool as ever, smiling that smile of his, like the joke was on

the rest of the world. “Then let D-Will take it from there. I’m

gonna be all over the news tomorrow.”

Hutch tapped Darryl’s bat with his and said he was cool

with that.

He started walking slowly toward the plate.

44

Then, for some reason, he stopped and turned and saw

his dad.

His dad was sitting there at the top row of the aluminum

bleachers, leaning back against the railing the way he leaned

back against the couch when he was watching a Marlins

game. Hutch’s mom was sitting to his left, Cody’s parents

next to her.

Hutch thought: The only thing missing is a can of beer

in his hand.

But for some reason, he heard his dad’s voice inside his

head now, giving him the same advice he always gave when

Hutch asked him, doing the only coaching he ever did with

Hutch.

Don’t try to pull everything. You’re better off hitting to

right.

When Hutch got into the batter’s box, he rubbed some

dirt on his bat handle. He didn’t wear a batting glove, even

though some guys on their team wore two. Just one more

old-school thing with him, like wearing his red stirrup

socks high.

Hutch dug in.

The lefty tried to get him to chase a dinky pitch, off the

outside corner by a foot. Hutch took it for ball one. Then the

kid basically threw him the same pitch again, one that was

still outside, though not by as much.

The ump called it a strike.

“Hey, ump,” Mr. Cullen called down from the first-base

coach’s box. “That pitch was closer to me than to my kid.”

The ump was out from behind the plate in a shot, tak45

ing his mask right off, using it to point at Mr. Cullen. “Zip it,

Coach. Now. ”

Mr. Cullen wasn’t quite ready to let it go. He smiled,

walked down about ten feet from the coach’s box, said, “Just

making an observation.”

“Keep your observations to yourself the rest of the way.”

“Sorry to have mentioned it,” Mr. Cullen said, walking

back toward first.

Sometimes he’d get into it with an umpire, even for an exchange as brief as that one had been, just to get a pitcher out

of his rhythm. Hutch just stayed where he was, deep breathing, the bat resting on his shoulder, trying to think along with

the pitcher. He guessed that the kid was going to keep the

ball down and away, remembering what had happened when

the Hulkster came in on him his second time up.

The lefty tried to go away again.

This one really did catch part of the plate. Or would have

if Hutch, going the other way with it the way his dad had told

him to, hadn’t laid all over it.

Like he was the one who’d gotten the mattress ball.

Hutch hadn’t been sure about his first home run of the

night, not until he saw that the outfielders had stopped

running.

He was sure about this one.

He still ran hard to first, because that was the way you

were supposed to play ball.

But this baby was gone.

Gone, baby, gone.

This one was in his sight lines the whole way. This time

46

he saw the whole thing: The Yankees right fielder stopping

dead in his tracks after a few steps. Then the right fielder

dropping to one knee as the ball left the yard.

By the time Hutch rounded second base, he didn’t feel

like he was running at all.

More like he was floating.

Cardinals 6, Yankees 5.

Two dingers in the same game.

He thought of the Spanish word his mom liked to use

when something made her particularly happy:

¡Chévere!

Excellent.

Most excellent.

The whole team was waiting for him at home plate, everybody jumping and pounding on each other as Hutch rounded

third. Hutch saw the guy with the Channel 12 television camera standing a few feet away, shooting the whole thing, saw

the reporter with the microphone in his hand standing next

to him.

When Hutch was halfway down the line, he saw the reporter tap the cameraman on the shoulder with his mike,

saw the cameraman nod and turn.

Then a TV camera was pointed straight at Hutch for the

first time in his life.

Yeah.

Hutch was definitely floating.

47

7

HUTCH WAS WATCHING THE HIGHLIGHTS ON CHANNEL 12’S ELEVEN

o’clock news along with his mom and dad.

And Cody.

When they showed Hutch’s game-winning swing, he stole

a look at his dad, thinking this would be a baseball thing that

might actually make him smile.

All he did was nod.

They didn’t have TiVo in the Hutchinson house, it being

too expensive, but they did have an old-fashioned VCR taping

the sports report.

Now they were watching the part where Hutch was running straight at the camera after he rounded third.

Connie Hutchinson said, “Could we pick up our head a

little, so the world can see that gorgeous face?”

“Mom,” Hutch said. “I thought I was just helping us win a

ball game, I didn’t know I was starring in some movie.”

On the screen now, Hutch was standing next to the

Channel 12 reporter.

“Hush now,” his mom said, “they’re going to interview you.”

“Keith Hutchinson,” the reporter said, “what did that feel

like, bringing your team back with one swing of the bat?”

48

The Hutch on TV looked as if he wanted to look anywhere

except at the camera before finally mumbling, “It felt good.”

In a quiet voice behind him, Hutch heard his mom say,

“Like father, like son.”

Hutch and Cody were sitting on the floor, in front of the

couch. Now Cody fell over on his side, like somebody had

shoved him down, grabbed his head with both hands.

“It felt good?” he said. “That was the best you could do?

You hit a ball like that in the bottom of the ninth and you

felt … good? ”

“What was I supposed to say?” Hutch said.

Cody said, “You need to think about using me as a translator from now on, like some of the Japanese players have.

Now that you’re a celebrity we can’t have you thinking for

yourself.”

When the piece ended, Hutch’s mom rewound the tape,

Cody telling her to stop when she got back to the celebration

at home plate.

“You see me?” he said, getting up and pointing at the corner of the screen. “Right there!”

Hutch’s dad got up off the couch. “Where?” he said,

squinting. “All the bouncing boys look alike to me.”

“I was the one on the right, Mr. Hutchinson,” Cody said,

looking so sad it was like somebody had canceled his birthday. “You really couldn’t tell it was me?”

“Maybe when I watch it again I can go frame by frame.”

Then he said he was going to bed, he had to get up early

in the morning to go to work.

Hutch watched his mom’s eyes follow his dad all the way

49

out of the room, saw her sad eyes. Sometimes there was a

look on her face like she thought he was going to walk out of

the room and the house and never come back.

They sat and watched the piece all the way through, at the

part now where the sports guy was standing off to the side

while the Cardinals kept celebrating in the background, the

celebration mostly consisting of the rest of the guys pounding on Hutch.

“I don’t see how somebody would say they can’t see me,”

Cody said.

Connie Hutchinson hushed him again, saying she wanted

to hear what the reporter said.

“You just heard it, like, two seconds ago,” Hutch said.

“And now I want to hear it again,” she said.

“There was another Hutch Hutchinson who came out of

East Boynton once, and I covered him when I first got to

Channel 12,” the reporter was saying now. “And a lot of people, myself included, thought he was the best ballplayer to

ever come out of this area. But there was a new star tonight,

for his old team, Post 226, and it was his son. Reporting from

Santaluces Park, this is Steve Carey, Channel 12 Sports.”

Now Hutch’s mom shut off the TV.

“Okay, time for bed, star,” Hutch’s mom said. “You, too,

Cody.”

Cody stood up. “Tell me you saw me when we replayed

it, Mrs. H.”

She smiled at him, the sad eyes gone, at least for now.

“You definitely jumped the highest.”

“You make me sound like a cheerleader,” he said.

50

“There’s nothing wrong with team spirit,” she said, still

smiling at him. “Now I want both of you team members to

head up.”

Hutch got up and hugged his mom, and as he did she

said, “I’m proud of you.”

“What about Dad?” he said.

“He was, too,” she said. “But you know your father. He

has a hard time expressing himself sometimes.”

Hutch thought:

Sometimes?

At least his dad had showed up. He had cared enough

tonight to do that.

In a lot of ways, it was like baseball, if you really thought

about it.

You took what they gave you.

• • •

Cody was on the air mattress that just barely fit between

Hutch’s bed and the outside wall of his room. Hutch was

on the bed. His mom had let them bring one of the downstairs fans up with them, so Cody could get some cool air

on him, too.

They were talking quietly in the darkness, the room lit

only by a big moon, both Hutch and Cody trying to keep their

voices underneath the sound of the two fans. It was 12:30 in

the morning by now, and they didn’t want Hutch’s parents to

hear that they were still awake.

Even having to whisper, the two of them were completely

51

happy like this, lying on their backs, one of them on a real

bed and one of them on the floor, going back over the game

a pitch at a time, like it was one of those replays of Marlins

games you got on television as soon as the real game was over,

until they couldn’t keep their eyes open a minute longer.

“Good night, compai,” Hutch said. His mom had told

him that compai was the slang version of compadre.

“Good night, hero.”

Nobody talked then. Hutch fought sleep for one more

minute, still picturing that last swing, remembering the way

the ball felt coming off his bat, remembering the run around

the bases.

Remembering, word for word, what Steve Carey of

Channel 12 had said about him and his dad at the end of

that sports report.

Especially the part about him being the new Hutch

Hutchinson.

It was something his dad never called him.

• • •

It turned out Darryl had been right

Yesterday must have been a really slow day for sports

news in Palm Beach County. Because there it was the next

morning, on the front page of the sports section of the Post,

a big story about the Cardinals’ win over Naples.

Next to it was a big color picture of Hutch jumping into

that crowd of teammates at home plate, like he was suspended in midair.

52

The big headline over the story and the picture read this

way: “First Round Heroics from Second-Generation Star.”

The sports section was waiting for Hutch and Cody on the

kitchen table, along with what Cody immediately described,

in Cody-speak, as a “ginormous” stack of pancakes.

Carl Hutchinson had already gone off to Emerald Dunes

to caddy.

Cody pointed to the picture of Hutch.

“At least they shot you from your best side,” he said.

“All’s you can basically see is the number two on the back

of my uniform,” Hutch said.

Jeter’s number.

“Like I said,” Cody said, going right for the pancakes.

“Your best side.”

They put their chairs together so they could both read

the story, which started out with the writer talking about

how the son of former American Legion star Carl Hutchinson

had turned Santaluces Park into his own field of dreams last

night.

“Field of dreams,” Cody said. “It’s practically like I wrote

it myself.”

“Except for the fact that it’s punctuated properly,” Hutch

said.

Cody just turned and stared at him.

“C’mon,” Hutch said. “That was funny.”

“No, this is funny,” Cody said, and opened a mouth full of

half-chewed pancakes so Hutch could see.

“I’m only looking at the paper,” Hutch said, “so I never

have to look at you ever again.”

53

The writer must have done his homework because there

was a lot in there about his dad. Near the end of the story, the

writer even mentioned that Carl Hutchinson had recently assumed a “new position” with the Sun Coast Driving Service.

Like he was Hutch, assuming a new position at second

base.

Nothing in there about him being a caddy at Emerald

Dunes.

Connie Hutchinson said, “That’s the biggest write-up in

the papers you’ve ever gotten, hon.”

“Mom,” Hutch said, “this whole thing is getting mad embarrassing now. The guy makes it out like I was some sort of

one-man team last night.”

Mouth still full, Cody said something that ended with

“ … hit two bombs.”

“Seriously, Mom,” Hutch said, because this was bothering him. “I don’t want the other guys to think that because I

had one good game and answered a few questions that I’m

looking for attention.”

“Sometimes you don’t have anything to say about it,” she

said, then put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Sometimes attention comes looking for you.”

He looked up at her. “Did Dad see the story before he

left?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “The paper was open when I

came downstairs, but he was already gone.”

“You think he was cool with the way they talked about him?”

His mom said, “I’m sure your father is as proud of you

as I am.”

54

“Know what I’m sure of ?” Cody said.

“What?”

“How excited the rest of us are going to be just to be on

the same field today with … the … new … American …

Idol!”

Hutch put his head down so his forehead was resting on

the sports section of the Post.

“Make him stop, Mom,” he said.

“Too big a job for me, mi cucubano, ” she said.

One of her many nicknames for Hutch, this one meaning

“firefly.”

Hutch said to Cody, “I didn’t ask for any of this, you

know.”

He felt Cody patting him on the back.

“No,” he said, “you certainly didn’t.”

Then Cody laughed and said, “But you’re still gonna get it.”

55

8

“LOOK,” PAUL GARNER SAID, POINTING FROM BEHIND THE PITCHER’S

mound, as Hutch and Cody came walking out of the parking

lot at Caloosa Park toward the field named after Lou Gehrig.

“Isn’t that the kid I saw on SportsCenter last night?”

“Don’t start,” Hutch yelled back.

Garner, grinning, said, “You must be joking. I’m just get-

ting started.”

Hank Harding, who usually didn’t say much more than

“nice hit” or “nice play,” joined right in.

“I recognize the second-generation star,” he said, putting

air quotes with his fingers around second-generation star.

“But who’s the guy with him?”

Brett said, “The ugly guy? Never saw him before.”

Cody made a bring-it-on motion with his hands. “Go

ahead, make your silly comments, you little, little boys,” he

said. “Me and the star can take it.”

Hutch turned. “You, too?”

Cody shrugged. “Slipped out.”

“Do you plan to practice with us today, Hutch?” Alex Reyes

said. “Or are you too tired from carrying us to victory?”

56

“Can we get you something?” Brett said. “Something to

drink, maybe?”

“A new bike?” Hank said.

“If you want to rest on your … laurels and take it easy,”

Paul said, “that’s fine with us.”

“Wait, I’ve got an idea,” Cody said. “Why don’t all you comedians kiss his … laurels.”

Hutch laughed along with everybody else. Eventually his

teammates let up on him and they all started to warm up, the

conversation shifting to their next game, against Sarasota, to

be played down in Fort Lauderdale.

Darryl was the last one to show up, right before Mr.

Cullen did.

As usual, it was as if he just appeared, out of nowhere, or

got beamed in the way guys did in one of the old Star Trek

shows that Hutch liked to watch on the Sci Fi Channel. They’d

just look up and there would be Darryl, bat bag slung over

his shoulder, wearing his Nike flip-flops. Even if it was one

of their late practices, way after the sun had gone down, he’d

still be wearing some pair of cool sunglasses, never the same

pair two days in a row. Hutch didn’t know a lot about fashion, or what things cost, but Cody did, and he had told Hutch

one day that the pair of Oakley glasses Darryl was wearing

cost more than both their baseball gloves combined.

Today Darryl was wearing the kind of glasses you sometimes saw big leaguers wearing, the kind that seemed to just

fit your face like a mask even though they weren’t really attached anyplace.

57

“A-Rod glasses,” Cody said.

“Very cool.”

“Just not as cool as Darryl.”

They watched from the field as Darryl sat down on the

bench, let them all see him taking a brand-new pair of black

Nike baseball shoes out of the box, holding them up and

admiring them before he started lacing them up, taking his

time doing that, as if the laces had to be perfect. You’ve got

to hand it to the guy, Hutch thought. He is cool. A couple of

minutes before practice and he still acted as if he had all day

to gear up.

Brett was hitting fly balls to the outfielders and Hutch

was out there shagging with them, just for the fun of it.

“On time for Darryl,” Cody said, “is pretty much when he

gets here.”

“He’s not late,” Hutch said. “So just chill.”

Cody was already dripping wet with sweat, as he usually

was about five minutes after he started doing any kind of

running.

“Chill,” he said. “In this heat. Out standing advice.”

Cody ran back a few steps then backhanded a ball, threw

it all the way in to Brett on one bounce—for a guy who’d

mostly played second base in his life, he had a surprisingly

good arm—and then said to Hutch, “I just hope Darryl sticks

up for you the way you do for him, especially when you’re not

around.”

“We’re on the same team,” Hutch said. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“’Cause even though we’re on the same team, dude, he

58

acts as if he’s in a whole different league than the rest of us,

that’s why.”

It was time for what Mr. Cullen called their “situation

room” drills.

“Situation room” drills were game situations. Coach

would leave the regular defense out there and use a couple of the pitchers and guys off the bench to run the bases.

Sometimes it would be one guy on base, sometimes two,

sometimes bases loaded. Then Mr. Cullen would call out how

many outs there were, what inning it was, and what the score

was, before hitting the ball somewhere.

If it were a single to the outfield with, say, two runners on,

the guy picking up the ball would have to make a decision

about trying to throw a runner out at either third or home. If

he had no play, he’d be expected to throw to the right base,

or hit the cutoff man.

Or else.

Or else they’d do the exact same play again and keep

doing it until they got it right. The base runners had to make

the right decisions, too, read where the ball was and who was

throwing it before they’d try to take an extra base or try to

run all the way home.

Sometimes Mr. Cullen would keep the play in the infield.

Put a runner on first, another on third, saying a double play

ended a one-run game. On plays like that, he’d put a runner

behind Brett, let him take off for first as soon as the ball

was hit.

Right now, it was first and third, nobody out. Mr. Cullen

59

rocketed one up the gap in right center between Alex Reyes

and Cody, neither one of them having a chance to catch the

ball on the fly. It landed between them and looked like it

was going to make it all the way to the wall before Cody cut

it off with a sliding stop. Then he scrambled to his feet and

made a perfect cutoff throw to Hutch, who’d nearly sprinted

all the way out to Cody’s normal position in right to meet

the ball.

“Home!” Hutch heard from behind him, not just one

voice, but a lot of them.

As soon as Hutch had the ball in his glove he was transferring it to his throwing hand as quickly as he did when trying to turn a fast double play, was wheeling and throwing the

ball toward Brett without even looking, as if his teammates

were right about him when they said he had eyes in the back

of his head.

From where he was in short right, he shouldn’t have been

able to get it to Brett on the fly without setting himself.

But he did.

Paul Garner, who had pretty good speed, was the runner

trying to score all the way from first, but when he saw how

badly the throw had beaten him, he didn’t even slide. No

point.

When Hutch jogged back to second, Darryl came over

and got down on his knees, and started making the I-am-notworthy motion you saw fans making in the stands at sporting

events sometimes.

“Oh, Captain,” he said. “No wonder the papers and the

TV love you so much.”

60

“Cut it out,” Hutch said, grinning.

Darryl stayed where he was. He never showed you anything on the field. But he was making a big show now. And if

his plan was to embarrass Hutch, it was a solid one.

“Is that a direct order, Captain Hutch?”

“Seriously, dude,” Hutch said. “Get up.”

“Just trying to treat you the same way the me-di-a does,

Captain.”

Finally he got to his feet, smiling at Hutch as he did, as if

it were all a big joke. And Hutch figured it was, except for the

way he had kept leaning on Captain the way he did. Nobody

on the team ever referred to Hutch that way, especially not

Darryl Williams.

Until now.

They waited near second base while Mr. Cullen brought

in Cody to do some running and sent Paul out to replace him

in right, even though left was normally Paul’s position.

Hutch said, “I’m sure the Post and Channel 12 have lost

interest in me already.”

Still, Darryl wouldn’t let up.

“Big star like you?” he said, still with that smile on his

face. “They’ll lose interest in Britney Spears or Beyoncé ’fore

they lose interest in you.”

Before Darryl could say anything else, Mr. Cullen was calling out the next situation, and they were back to baseball.

This should have been boring stuff, going through one

situation after another like this. Only nothing about baseball

ever bored Hutch, not even the waiting time. It was why he

never dogged it even when some of the other guys did, never

61

just went through the motions, never took shortcuts even

if the play was somewhere else, or if he thought Mr. Cullen

might not be watching. He prided himself on being where he

was supposed to be at all times, the way Jeter of the Yankees

always was.

Hutch always remembered the famous flip play Jeter had

made in the playoffs one time, against the Oakland A’s.

The Yankees were down 0–2 in the first round, needing a

win to keep the series going, when one of the A’s hit a ball to

the outfield. Jeremy Giambi, Jason Giambi’s brother, tried

to score on the play. Looked like he would score. Only here

came Jeter, the shortstop, flashing toward the first-base line,

picking up the ball that had gone over the cutoff man’s head,

making that neat backhand flip to the Yankees catcher, Jorge

Posada, who put the tag on Giambi.

The Yankees came back to win the series, and lots of people thought Jeter’s play turned the whole series around.

Hard to say for certain.

What was certain was this:

Jeter was where he was supposed to be, backing up the

cutoff man. He was able to make one of the most famous

plays in Yankee’s history, baseball history, because he did

something in the moment that he had probably done hundreds of times in a drill that a lot of his Yankee teammates

probably thought was more boring than ballet.

So Hutch kept going to the right place today, even

though most of the action seemed to be running through

Darryl. When Darryl made a pretty amazing relay throw of

his own to the plate, from his knees, getting Cody at the

62

plate when he should have had no shot, Hutch said, “You

the man, D.”

Darryl responded in a voice loud enough to be heard at

the Little League field next door. “Oh no, Captain. How can I

be the man when you the man?”

Hutch decided then he was basically going to shut up for

the rest of practice. Darryl seemed locked on this Captain

routine no matter what Hutch said.

Mr. Cullen gave them a break a few minutes after that,

told them to go get a drink, because when they were done

with their little break, they were going right into what he

called Extreme Infield.

Just about everybody on the field except Hutch groaned

at that particular news bulletin.

Extreme Infield, the Cardinals knew, was as much a drill

for hard baserunning as it was for fielding the ball and making the proper plays. If the runners had the chance to slide

hard and break up a double play—cleanly—they were supposed to do it. If they had a chance to go hard into Brett at

the plate, they were supposed to do that. Tripp said Extreme

Infield was like a drill his basketball coach would use sometimes, putting a bunch of guys under the basket and telling

them to do whatever they had to do to get a rebound, short

of assault and battery.

The Cardinals did Extreme Infield for about fifteen minutes, with only a few knockdowns at home plate and no need

for the first-aid kit, which Hutch always saw as a huge positive. Finally Mr. Cullen announced that they could quit for

the day if Darryl and Hutch could turn one last double play.

63

“Bottom of the ninth,” he said. “We’re up a run. First and

third. Double play sends us off the field a winner. But, and

this is a big but … ”

Cody, who’d been sent out to second to run, raised his

hand. “As big as Tripp’s?”

The rest of the guys laughed. So did Mr. Cullen, even

though you could see he didn’t want to.

“Where was I?” he said.

“Tripp’s big old—” Cody said.

“But,” Mr. Cullen continued, “you gotta be sure you can

turn two. I’m gonna play you a couple of feet back off the

grass. Not quite double-play depth but close enough, like we

do sometimes. If the ball’s not hit hard enough, come home

and cut off the tying run.”

Then he proceeded to hit a hard grounder to Darryl’s left.

As soon as Hutch saw where the ball was, he was as sure

as Mr. C wanted him to be that they could get the double

play.

Easy.

In addition to everything else Darryl Williams had going

for him, size and speed and strength, he also had the softest

hands for an infielder Hutch had ever seen on a kid their

age. Even softer than Hutch’s. Now he fielded the ball with

his glove hand. As he did, Hutch slowed down just slightly,

wanting to have the timing just right, wanting to set his feet

on each side of the bag just as Darryl turned and gave him

one of his perfect underhand flips, wanting to be balanced

as Hutch himself turned to avoid the runner and make the

relay throw to first.

64

Tommy O’Neill, who could play just about any position for

them, was the one pretending to be the batter running toward

first, and he was one of their slowest guys. Brett Connors,

Hutch knew, was coming from first like a city bus.

Hutch got to second with plenty of time to spare.

The ball didn’t.

It was still in Darryl’s glove.

Hutch knew he had to hang in there, even knowing Brett

would take him out with a clean slide if he could, because

that was the way Brett played the game.

Come on, D, Hutch thought.

Gimme the rock.

The only thing Hutch could figure was that even with

those soft, sure hands, Darryl couldn’t get the ball out of his

glove. Now the double play was out of the question.

Hutch just wanted to get one, get the ball in time to keep

Alex Reyes, halfway down the line at third, from scoring the

fake tying run.

Maybe it didn’t matter to the other guys, but it mattered

to Hutch.

Finally Darryl had the ball in his bare hand. Hutch saw

that, thought he even saw Darryl smiling right before he let

it go, like maybe he was embarrassed to have messed up on

what was such a routine play, at least for him.

Except he was still messing it up.

He didn’t flip the ball underhand the way he usually

did when he was moving toward second. Instead he lollipopped the ball over hand, the ball floating toward Hutch

like a balloon.

65

This was one time when Hutch didn’t need those eyes

in the back of his head. He was sure he was going to get

popped.

He was right.

This time he didn’t have to pretend he was flying, the

way he had the night before, after he’d hit that game-winning

home run.

This time Hutch really was.

66

9

WHEN HE CAME DOWN, HE CAME DOWN ON HIS RIGHT SHOULDER.

It was a hard enough landing that he felt his breath come

out of him as soon as he hit the infield dirt. As baked out

as that dirt was in the summer, no matter how much they

watered it at Caloosa, it was the same as if he’d landed in the

parking lot.

Brett was kneeling next to him almost right away, saying

how sorry he was, asking if Hutch was okay, wanting to know

where it hurt, trying to get all those things out at once.

Looking as if he was in more pain than Hutch was at the

moment.

“I kept expecting you to turn and get out of the way as

you made the relay, like you always do,” Brett said. “But you

never turned around.”

Hutch wanted to tell him that it’s pretty tough making a

relay throw if you don’t have the ball, but he needed to get a

lot more air in his lungs before he could do that.

He tried to sit up instead, hoping that would help him

catch his breath faster.

Mr. Cullen was there by now.

“Easy, tiger,” he said, kneeling next to Brett.

67

Cody was standing behind them, staring down at Hutch,

eyes wide.

“Let’s take this nice and slow,” Mr. Cullen said, putting

his arm behind Hutch’s shoulders and gently lifting him up.

“You hit your head?”

Hutch coughed, took in some air, coughed again. “No,”

he managed.

“You sure? This infield is like cement.”

Hutch said, “I hit my shoulder. It’s like my dad says.

Didn’t get my flaps down.”

“Somebody get an ice pack out of the kit,” Mr. Cullen

said, and Cody went running toward the bench like he was

trying to go from first to third.

Brett said, “Hutch, I am so sorry, but you know we’re

supposed to go pedal-to-the-metal in Extreme Infield—”

Hutch put a hand up to stop him, wincing a little, unable

to help it, as he raised his arm.

“You did what I would have done if I were coming into

second,” he said. “No worries.” And bumped him some fist.

“You always get out of the way, every single time,” Brett

said.

“Well,” Hutch said, “there’s a first time for everything.”

Cody came back with the ice. Hutch put the pack right

on top of his shoulder, where it hurt the most, thinking Mr.

Cullen was right: As hard as the infield was, he was lucky he

hadn’t broken something.

He stood up now, feeling somebody pulling him by his

left arm.

68

Darryl.

“Sorry, Captain,” he said. “Couldn’t get the dang ball out

of my glove.”

“I noticed,” Hutch said.

Darryl said, “Didn’t mean to cause no accidents.”

“No worries,” Hutch said again.

“That,” Mr. Cullen said, “is about as extreme as Extreme

Infield should get.” Then he told Hutch to go take a seat on

the bench and keep that ice on his shoulder, and anybody

who wanted to take some extra batting practice could. He’d

give each guy three swings until pickup time.

Cody walked with Hutch to the bench. When he was sure

nobody could hear them, he said, “How bad is it, really?”

“I’m fine,” Hutch said.

“You sure?” Cody said. “Because the way you landed, not

breaking your fall—”

“I said I’m fine!” Hutch said, the words coming out with

more teeth on them, sharper, than he intended.

“Okay then,” Cody said.

“Okay,” Hutch said.

They walked the rest of the way to the bench in silence.

• • •

Hutch didn’t say much on the ride home, the ice pack still

on his shoulder.

When they got to the Hesters’, they ate burgers that Mr.

Hester had cooked on the tiny grill in their tiny backyard.

69

After dinner Hutch and Cody went to Cody’s bedroom in the

back of the house and watched a couple of old episodes of

24 on Cody’s computer.

When it was time for Hutch to go home, Cody walked him

outside.

It felt like the temperature had dropped about ten degrees since dinner, which in Florida, especially in the summer, probably meant another thunderstorm was about to

blow through. And right then, as if on cue, they saw a flash

of lightning in the distance, heard the distant rumble of

thunder.

It was then that Hutch put a voice to the question that

had been running through his mind. Or at least part of the

question.

“Why do you think Darryl was messing with me today?”

“You mean calling you ‘Captain’ over and over again?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said.

“I told you last night I thought he was torked off, com-

pai, ” Cody said. “I think this was just his way of saying it . ”

Hutch hadn’t felt much like smiling since Brett had sent

him flying. But anytime he heard Cody using Spanish expressions, even one word, Hutch couldn’t help himself.

“So what do I do about it?”

“Nothing,” Cody said. “Darryl’s Darryl. And he ain’t

changin’, dude.”

“What’s his problem?” Hutch said.

There was more lightning, getting closer. Hutch knew

he’d better get a move on if he didn’t want to get real wet,

real quick.

70

Now Hutch saw Cody’s smile in the light from the sky.

“You really want to know?” Cody said.

“Yeah, I do.”

“You’re too good.”

“But he’s better,” Hutch said.

“Maybe not by enough.”

Hutch almost said something else, something he’d been

wanting to say since practice, but he didn’t. Instead he

bumped fists with Cody and headed home.

He got there about a minute before the storm hit. His dad

was in the living room, and before Hutch saw what was on

the television he knew, because he could see the can of beer

on the small table at the end of the couch.

Hutch gave a little knock on the wall, like he was asking

permission to enter, saw that it was the Marlins-Cubs game

his dad was watching.

Saw that the force field was up.

“Hey,” his dad said, shooting him a quick look, taking a

sip of his beer.

“Hey.”

“I’m only watching an inning or two before Law and

Order. ”

“Cool.”

His dad wasn’t Spanish, liked to say that his nationality

was Florida redneck. But all the time he had spent in the sun

his whole life had made him almost as dark as Hutch, almost

as dark as Consuela Valentin Hutchinson.

“What’s the score?” Hutch said.

“Five–four in the third.”

71

Hutch lingered in the doorway, wanting this night to be

different from all the others, wanting to be invited in.

Wanting to talk about baseball with his dad tonight as

much as he ever had.

His dad turned back around, as if realizing that Hutch

was still standing there.

“Something on your mind?”

Go ahead, you loser.

Tell him.

“Nah,” Hutch said.

“’Night then,” his dad said.

“’Night.”

Hutch went to his bedroom, closed the door, reached

under his bed and found the brochure for The Hun School of

Princeton, up in New Jersey, the brochure he’d sent away for

without telling anybody, not even his mom. The Hun School

of Princeton: With white buildings that looked like they belonged in the nicest parts of Palm Beach, and happy-looking

students, and streams, and trees, like something out of another world.

The famous boarding school that was supposed to have

one of the best baseball programs in the whole country, as

good as anything in Florida or California, even though it was

in the Northeast.

Hutch heard people talk all the time about how cold it

could get up north in the winter, even watched the Weather

Channel sometimes so he could see the pictures when one of

those big storms they called Nor’easters hit.

Maybe so.

72

Hutch didn’t care.

It couldn’t be colder than what he’d felt tonight at practice, what he was still feeling now, even on a hot Florida

night. Hutch hadn’t said this to Cody. He’d thought about

saying it to his dad just now in the living room, before he

lost his nerve.

But how could anything be colder than what Darryl

Williams had done tonight?

Holding that ball on purpose.

Hutch knew he couldn’t prove it.

He just knew.

Darryl had wanted him to get run over.

73

10

WHEN HUTCH CAME DOWN FOR BREAKFAST, IT WAS JUST HIS MOM

in the kitchen, almost ready to leave for the clothing store

she worked at, called Blue, at the Crystal Tree Plaza in North

Palm.

“How’s my boy today?” she said.

Connie Hutchinson was in a good mood this morning. It

seemed no matter what went on with their family, his mom

had the best attitude of anybody Hutch knew.

It was why Hutch tried to never let on when he was in a

bad mood. Or having a bad day. Because she never seemed

to have one, never let the sadness win.

“I’m good,” he said. “My shoulder feels a lot better than I

thought it was going to this morning.”

He had poked his head inside her room before going to

bed, and told her what had happened. She had said that if

his shoulder hurt any worse when he woke up, she wanted

to have the doctor take a look at it.

“Really it does,” Hutch added, pouring himself some cereal.

She looked at him. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

74

Then he put his head down like he was watching a ball

into his glove and made himself extremely busy eating

Frosted Mini-Wheats.

“Of course with you,” his mom said, “it’s usually what

you’re not saying.”

“You sound like Cody,” he said. “Or maybe it’s him that

sounds like you. I can’t decide sometimes.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Okay, that doesn’t sound anything like Cody.”

She sat down at the table, even though Hutch could see

by the clock that she should be heading out the door. Never

good. She was staring at him, the way she did sometimes, as

if trying to read his mind.

Which she sometimes could, at the weirdest possible

times.

“You okay?” she said, smiling at him.

“I told you my shoulder’s fine.”

“Wasn’t talking about your shoulder.”

Even with her psychic powers, Hutch told himself there

was no way she could know what was really bothering him.

But her radar had picked something up, Hutch could tell.

Now she wanted Hutch to open up. She was a mom, after all,

which meant she thought you were breaking some sort of law

if you didn’t open up.

“Anything else you want to talk about this morning?” she

said. “Anything at all with your old mom?”

“You’re not old,” Hutch said.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I didn’t know there was a subject, Mom.”

75

“You have that look.”

“The one where I just got up and I’m eating my breakfast?” Hutch said. “That look?”

She’s the opposite of Dad, he thought. He never wants to

talk and she always does.

“The look where something’s bothering you.”

“Nope.”

“If there is … ”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Right,” she said, smiling again.

She stood up, kissed him on the forehead, said she’d

pick him and Cody up after practice. She had her hand on

the doorknob when Hutch said, “Mom?”

Thinking as he said it that he couldn’t help himself sometimes—it was like she wore him down just by knowing him

as well as she did.

“You ever wonder why Dad and I hardly ever talk about

baseball?”

“I don’t wonder,” she said. “Maybe because I think I

understand.”

“Understand what?” Hutch said.

“Understand that he worries that it will break your heart

someday the way it broke his.”

Hutch said, “But I love baseball.”

His mom said, “So did he.”

Past tense.

• • •

76

The thing about being a second baseman now—temporarily,

Hutch kept telling himself—was that you hardly ever had to

make a big throw, the kind shortstops seemed to make all

the time.

Maybe once a game, if you were lucky, you had to backhand

a ball behind second and gun a throw to first from there.

Or make the kind of relay throw from the outfield he’d

made at practice yesterday.

Most of the time, on routine grounders, you felt like

you could make your throw to first base underhanded and

still get the guy. Or run the ball over there yourself. So even

after landing on his shoulder the way he did, Hutch knew he

wasn’t going to miss the next game. There was about as much

of a chance of him missing a game, especially a tournament

game, as there was of Cal Ripken Jr. missing a game when

he had his streak going.

He just didn’t want to have to worry about his shoulder

every time he made a throw or swung the bat. The only thing

he wanted to worry about was beating their next opponent,

the Sarasota Dodgers, down in Fort Lauderdale.

No worries, as it turned out. The shoulder was a little

stiff for the next couple of days, but not sore. He could throw

and he could hit. By the time Hutch and the rest of the guys

got on the bus for the trip down 95 to Fort Lauderdale, Hutch

pronounced himself good to go.

“Thank you for that bulletin,” Cody said, “because the

rest of the guys and me were very concerned that you might

not be ready to play tonight.”

77

The bus ride took about an hour. They got off at

Commercial Boulevard and as they did, Hutch pointed out a

huge billboard for the Joe DiMaggio Children’s Hospital.

“He used to have a charity softball game every year at Fort

Lauderdale Stadium, which is right next to where we’re playing tonight,” Hutch said.

“I know you think I should know this, but I’m going to

ask you anyway, and don’t hurt me,” Cody said. “Who’s Joe

DiMaggio?”

Hutch reached over and cuffed him lightly on the back of

his head, something he had to do a lot. “He’s one of the greatest baseball players of all time, a center fielder, known as the

Yankee Clipper,” Hutch said. “And that didn’t hurt.”

“‘Yankee Clipper’ makes him sound like the team barber,” Cody said.

Hutch ignored him, saying, “When he was still alive, they

used to introduce him as the greatest living ballplayer, even

though my dad says it was Willie Mays.”

Now Cody brightened. “That must be the guy they named

Willie Mays Hayes after in Major League. ”

Hutch closed his eyes, shook his head. “Anyway,” he said,

“here’s the coolest stat of all on Joe DiMaggio: He played in

ten World Series and the Yankees won nine of them.”

“If one of us has to be up on stuff like that,” Cody said,

“I’m glad it’s you.”

Hutch said, “He also had almost the same number of

career home runs as he did strikeouts.”

“Awesome,” Cody said, but in a way that let Hutch know

that Cody’s brain had already moved off Joe DiMaggio and

78

on to something else. “Hey,” he said, frowning, “how come

we’re not on the big field here?”

“Because you gotta make the finals to make the big field,”

Hutch said. “Which is the way it oughta be.”

They got off at 12th Avenue and passed Fort Lauderdale

Stadium. Hank Harding, sitting behind them, said that he

had come to an Orioles-Marlins game here in March, and

caught a foul ball.

“Just make sure you catch all balls tonight,” Cody said.

“You ever think about using your mouth to catch them?”

Hank said. “’Cause I’m pretty sure it’s bigger than your

glove.”

The trash-talking among the Cardinals really began after

that, and suddenly the inside of their old bus was as loud as

recess and everybody was joining in.

Everybody except Darryl, D-Will himself.

He was in the last row, head resting against the window,

sunglasses on.

Fast asleep.

79

11

THIS TIME IT WAS THE CARDINALS JUMPING OFF TO THE QUICK

lead, 3–0 in the top of the first.

Alex walked, Brett singled to left, and Hutch tripled them

both home. At least the man working the public address system called it a triple. Hutch thought it was a double and an

error because of the way the center fielder misplayed the ball

after it bounced off the wall in left center.

Standing on third, Hutch thought they might be looking

at a really big inning, but then Darryl just missed a home run

the way he’d just missed one against Naples, the ball falling

a few feet from the fence in left.

Problem was, Darryl was sure it was a home run when

it left his bat. Which is why he went into his home-run pose

at home plate, tossing his bat away, stopping a few feet out

of the batter’s box, hands on hips, watching the flight of

the ball.

The way guys did on SportsCenter, every single night.

He was still standing a few feet away from the plate,

hadn’t even started running yet, when the ball ended up in

the left fielder’s glove and all he had to show for his swing

was a long, really long, sacrifice fly.

80

Hutch thought the ball was going out, too, but tagged up

anyway, ran hard for the plate even though the kid had no

shot of ever throwing him out.

He ran so hard right through home plate that he nearly

ran into Darryl, who had backed up a few feet but was still

staring toward the outfield, as if what happened there was

some kind of optical illusion.

“Almost,” Hutch said, putting the brakes on.

“There’s no almost in baseball,” Darryl said. “This isn’t

a game of dang horseshoes. So don’t give me any of your

almost. ”

“Hey,” Hutch said, picking up Darryl’s bat for him. “At

least we got another run out of it.”

Darryl grabbed the bat away from him and said, “Go captain somebody else,” and walked away from him.

• • •

In the third inning, the Cardinals were still ahead by a score

of 4–2. And they were threatening again, bases loaded, two

outs, a chance to blow the roof right off the semis.

Darryl at the plate.

All Hutch had to do was take one look at him from first

to see how much he wanted to hit a grand slam.

He laid off the first pitch, thinking it was high, turned and

gave the ump a quick look when he called it strike one.

Then he swung through a hard fastball to get into an 0-2

hole. Some pitchers would waste one here, seeing if they could

get the hitter to strike himself out.

81

Not this pitcher. He was big, and had an arm to match.

He went into his windup and came with the exact opposite of a waste pitch, threw one as hard as he could, one of

those fastballs that dared you to catch up with it.

Darryl didn’t.

He was the one who got wasted, swinging so hard trying

to hit his grand slam that he spun himself around and stumbled and nearly ended up in the lap of the Sarasota catcher,

his bat falling out of his hands.

From where he stood, a few feet off first, Hutch thought

he heard somebody in the infield, either the shortstop or the

third baseman, laugh right before the Sarasota guys ran off

the field.

Hutch couldn’t see who’d done it because he was still

watching Darryl.

Who must have heard the laugh, too, because as soon as

he had his feet under him again, he glared over toward the

Sarasota bench.

“Somebody think this is funny?” he said.

Nobody said anything back.

Then suddenly Darryl was picking up his bat in his right

hand, pulling it back like he was going to fling it. Not at the

Sarasota bench. Just somewhere.

Like he was about to throw it as hard as he’d just swung it.

“Darryl!” Hutch yelled.

Hutch knew he had to stop him somehow, knew that as

soon as the bat left Darryl’s hand, he was going to be ejected

from the game. American Legion rules were clear about that.

82

And about this: If you got ejected from a game, you were automatically suspended from the next game.

Hutch was running across the infield, between the pitcher’s mound and first base, yelling, “Don’t!”

But it wasn’t Hutch who stopped him.

It was the home plate umpire.

Darryl didn’t even know the ump was behind him. But as

he tried to launch the bat he couldn’t, because the ump had

a death grip on the barrel.

Hutch stopped a few feet away, heard the ump in a calm

voice say, “No.”

Just that.

No.

It stopped Darryl. Or maybe confused him.

Because hardly anyone ever said that word to him.

“We both know you don’t really want to do that,” the ump

said.

The ump was a young black guy, a former ballplayer himself, named Anthony, who had already worked a bunch of

their games up around Palm Beach. For a second the two

of them just stood there, Anthony and Darryl, each of them

holding on to his end of the bat, like they were in a tug-ofwar, or had come up with a new way to choose up sides.

Anthony used his free hand to take off his mask, show

everybody he was smiling, that he had everything under

control.

“I’d like you to let go of the bat, son,” Anthony said. “You

hearin’ me on this?”

83

When Darryl didn’t say anything, Anthony, just loud

enough for Darryl—and Hutch—to hear, said, “Answer me

when I talk to you, son. Are you hearin’ me on this?”

“Yes.”

“Yes sir, think you meant to say.”

“Yes sir,” Darryl Williams said, though you could see that

he wasn’t used to being told what to do any more than he was

used to somebody saying no to him.

Darryl let go of the bat. As soon as he did, Anthony

handed it right back to him.

“Now go put that thing back in the rack, ’cause we got

ourselves a heck of a good ball game goin’ here,” Anthony

said.

Darryl did exactly what the ump told him to do.

Hutch thought it was as amazing as him striking out the

way he just had.

Maybe even more.

• • •

Paul Garner, who had started for the Cardinals, left after

the fifth with the game tied 5–5. Chris Mahoney, who started

in left when Paul pitched, came on after that and shut out

the Dodgers through the bottom of the eighth, without allowing a base runner, the best Mahoney had pitched all season by far.

By then the Cardinals were back ahead 7–5 because Brett

Connors, who hardly ever hit home runs, had hit an oppo84

site-field dart down the right-field line that was fair by about

three feet and cleared the fence by less than that.

It stayed 7–5 into the bottom of the ninth.

Hutch never tried to think past the next pitch when he

was in the field. Sometimes he’d pretend he was the manager

when the Cardinals were batting, trying to think a few batters

ahead. But never when he was in the field. When he was in

the field, he was in the moment, thinking what he was doing

with the ball if it was hit to him or where he was going if it

was hit to somebody else.

Still:

With two outs and nobody on and Pedro Mota having just

absolutely gassed the first two Dodger hitters in their half

of the ninth, he was actually thinking that they might get to

the bus for once with a win that wasn’t scarier than a Saw

movie.

No such luck.

Hank Harding promptly booted a routine ground ball

that would have ended the game.

The next Dodger batter hit one in the hole between Hank

and Darryl, and Darryl made a sweet play to keep the ball

from going into left field. But instead of putting the ball in his

pocket, he tried to make a hero throw and get the guy at first.

It exploded out of his hand the way balls usually exploded

off his bat, and went over Tripp’s head at first and halfway

up into the stands. Not only were the Cardinals not on their

way to the bus, they were looking at second and third and the

Dodgers being a hit away from tying the sucker up.

85

Pedro hadn’t done anything wrong except get two ground

balls, but you could see he was hot, so Mr. Cullen made a little talking motion with his hand, meaning he wanted Hutch

to be the one to settle him down.

When he got to the mound he said, “Qué pasa, dude?”

“Qué this stinks! ” Pedro said.

“So how about this,” Hutch said, trying to act as relaxed

as if they were already having their postgame snack. “How

’bout you get this guy to hit it to me this time, and we get out

of Dodge.”

Hutch hit him encouragingly with his glove and went back

to his position.

Pedro went to 2-2 on the next hitter, the little guy leading

off for the Dodgers, then threw him a righteous fastball in

on the guy’s hands, a pitch that would have been unhittable

against a free swinger. Only this guy, the Dodgers’ second

baseman, was the opposite of that. Hutch had noticed all

game long how good he was at handling a bat.

Better now.

Somehow muscling a flare toward short center.

Hutch wasn’t off with the crack of the bat, because it

wasn’t a crack—it was more like a thud. He was still on it,

focused hard on it, almost seeing inside his head where he

thought it was going to land. If it landed. Hutch ran toward

that spot, not taking his eyes off the ball for one second,

blocking out everything else, going at full speed now, tracking

this baby real good.

Knowing he was going to get there.

Getting ready to backhand the ball.

86

Reaching up with his glove just as Darryl, at full speed

reaching for the ball himself, came crashing into him from

the other direction.

Two shortstops. Each thinking the exact same thing:

I got it.

87

12

BY SOME MIRACLE, THEY DIDN’T BANG HEADS, MAKE IT ONE OF

those “helmet to helmet” hits football announcers were always talking about, only without the helmets.

Darryl had angled himself a little bit to Hutch’s right, so

it was more like shoulder to shoulder.

Hutch still felt like he’d run into a wall.

He ended up flat on his back, Darryl next to him, already

groaning his way into a sitting position. The first person

Hutch saw when he opened his eyes was the field ump.

“You okay, kid?” the ump said.

“Think so.”

“How about you?” he said to Darryl.

“Yeah,” Darryl said. “Now that I find out my head’s still

attached to my body.”

The ump looked back at Hutch now. “Then would you

mind if I took a look at your glove?”

“My glove … ?”

The ump reached down then, opened up the Jeter mitt,

the Rawlings PROSDJ2-50 he’d saved up for the whole school

year, the 11-1/2” model, the cool-looking black one.

The ball was still in the pocket.

88

“Well then,” the ump said, “this baby is over.”

He straightened up, jerked his right fist in the air,

yelled, “Out!”

Then, just as loud, he yelled, “Ball game over!”

For Darryl, it was like an alarm had suddenly gone off.

He jumped to his feet, stood over Hutch and pointed a finger

at him. “You trying to kill me?”

Hutch was still feeling a little shaky. But he made himself

get up, too. As soon as he did, Darryl was right in his face,

like a manager in the big leagues getting ready to go at it with

the home plate ump.

“I was trying to make a play,” Hutch said in a quiet

voice.

“Yeah,” Darryl said. “On me. ”

Hutch said, “D-Will, I didn’t run into you. We ran into

each other.” Still not yelling, trying to talk to him in a normal voice. Mr. Cullen was there, so were some of the other

fielders. They were all giving Hutch and Darryl plenty of

room.

“That was my ball,” Darryl said. “It’s always the shortstop’s ball.”

This was the last thing Hutch wanted to be doing, especially after winning a ball game. Not just winning it, but doing

it on a crazy play like this. But he wasn’t going to let Darryl

call him out this way.

“Look at where we’re standing,” he said. “It was closer to

me than it was to you.”

It was true, they were a couple of yards to the second

base side of the bag.

89

“I was calling for it,” Darryl said. “You’re telling me you

didn’t hear me?”

“I didn’t,” Hutch said. “Because you didn’t.”

“You’re calling me a liar now?” Darryl said.

“I’m saying if you had called,” Hutch said, “I would’ve

gotten out of the way like I do when Cody or Alex calls me off

on a ball between us.”

Still Darryl wouldn’t drop it.

He said, “You may be the captain of this team. But everybody who plays ball knows who the captain of the infield is.

And it’s never no second baseman.”

“Okay,” Mr. Cullen said, “that’s enough.”

He reached down and handed Darryl his cap, which had

gone flying when Darryl and Hutch had gone flying.

“You both sure you’re okay?” Hutch and Darryl, looking

at him instead of each other, both nodded. “Then we’ll talk

this out at practice tomorrow,” Mr. Cullen said, and started

walking Darryl back toward the bench.

Cody went walking toward second base, picked up

Hutch’s cap, banged it against his leg to get the dirt off it,

came back and handed it to him.

“You really okay?” Cody said to Hutch.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go home then.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said again.

Hutch looked down, noticed he still had his glove on,

opened the pocket and saw the ball still in it.

“You gotta come up with a Spanish word to describe that

catch, dude,” Cody said. “Because English ain’t gonna do.”

90

“If I ask you a question, will you answer in plain English?”

Hutch said.

“Always.”

“Did you hear him call for the ball?”

Cody looked down.

“Yeah,” he said. “We all did.”

91

13

HUTCH WAS IN THE PAPERS AGAIN. THE SUN-SENTINEL THIS TIME,

the big paper in Fort Lauderdale.

The Hutchinsons hardly ever saw the Sun-Sentinel, even

if the paper was sold up in Palm Beach. But somebody had

called Hutch’s mom first thing in the morning and she’d

run over to the 7-Eleven to get it before she had to leave for

work.

When she showed it to Hutch, he’d said, “Great.”

“Yes,” his mom said, “it must be a terrible burden for you

sports celebrities, all this media attention.”

“Mom, you don’t understand.”

“Your picture in the paper being a bad thing? You’re right.

I don’t understand.”

Hutch turned the sports section over and said, “It’s just

going to make Darryl hate me even more.”

“I seriously doubt that Darryl hates you.”

“He’s the star of every team he plays on,” Hutch said.

“And the last couple of games, people have treated me like

I’m the star.”

Connie Hutchinson said, “And that’s a bad thing, too?”

“Darryl thinks it was his ball, that it should have been

92

his catch,” Hutch said. “He called for it and everybody heard

him except me, and so he blames me for us banging into

each other … ”

He leaned back in his chair so far that he nearly tipped

over, and said, “Aw, I give up.”

“Talk to Darryl,” his mom said. “Even though it’s not the

guy thing to do.”

Hutch didn’t care if it was the guy thing to do or not.

He knew his mom was right. Hutch decided to make things

right with Darryl, even though he hadn’t meant to do anything wrong.

After all, it wasn’t like he was trying not to hear him when

they were both going after the ball. Wasn’t like he wanted

to run into the guy at full speed and maybe lose the game

in the process. If you thought about it, the only thing Hutch

was guilty of was trying too hard, concentrating so much on

trying to make a play and win the game that he had blocked

out everything else.

Including the sound of Darryl’s voice.

But none of that mattered now.

It was Hutch’s job as team captain—as a team guy— not

to let things get any worse between him and Darryl, not when

they were so close to winning a championship. They had to

stop acting like they were on different teams instead of being

teammates. Hutch wanted to root for Darryl and have Darryl

root for him, mostly because he’d never been on a good team

in his life when everybody wasn’t rooting for everybody else.

So what if Hutch had been on television? So what if he

was in the papers again?

93

Everybody knew this was Darryl’s team.

Everybody knew who their star really was.

Didn’t they?

• • •

Hutch thought Cody might fight him on apologizing to Darryl, just because Cody had never acted like Darryl’s biggest

fan. But when Hutch told him on the way to practice what he

planned to do, Cody agreed it was a good idea.

“You know why?” Cody said. “Because you don’t need the

hassle.”

“I’m just gonna tell him that if everybody heard him

except me, that’s on me,” Hutch said. “It’s what a captain

should do.”

There was a little convenience store a block away from

the field, and Mrs. Hester dropped them there, so they could

pick up some Gatorade. Before she drove away, she reminded

them that Mr. Hutchinson was picking them up today.

They bought two quart bottles of blue Gatorade each,

threw them in their bat bags, and walked the rest of the way

to Santaluces. They weren’t in their spikes yet, just wearing

their flip-flops, knowing they were early, not caring. They

could never be early enough for baseball. And usually they

were the first ones to arrive at practice.

But not today.

Hutch was the one who heard the sound of a ball hitting

an aluminum bat, right before he saw that there were already

two people on the field at Santaluces, one hitting ground

94

balls, the other fielding them out at short, mimicking throws

over to first before lobbing the ball back to home plate.

The fielder was Darryl, who was never early to practice

even though he lived only a few blocks from here with his

mom. But he was early today.

That wasn’t the biggest surprise.

Not even close.

The biggest surprise was the guy at the plate.

Hutch’s dad.

95

14

CODY SPOKE FIRST, JUST BECAUSE ONE OF THEM HAD TO SAY

something.

They were standing behind the black Sun Coast town

car that Hutch knew his dad must have driven here, the car

hiding them from Carl Hutchinson and Darryl Williams, at

least for now.

“Is your dad, like, lost or something?”

“Looks right at home, if you ask me.”

Cody said, “He barely even comes to games. ”

“Tell me about it.”

“So what’s he doing out there?” Cody said.

Hutch’s dad had jogged out to short now, was crouched

in front of Darryl.

Hutch said, “Showing him how to put his glove straight

down, then bring it straight up once the ball is in it.”

It was one of the first things Hutch could remember his

dad teaching him. Before his dad stopped teaching him baseball things. Hutch was seven. His dad had brought a small plywood board out into the yard, told Hutch to pretend the wood

was his glove, showed him how to put it straight down on the

ground and then use his bare hand to pin the ball against it.

96

Then he’d shown Hutch how to keep that bare hand on

the ball as the board came up, almost like a snatch move,

before he set himself to make his throw.

When he was seven, Hutch thought he could practice

for a thousand years and not make it look as easy as his

dad did.

Hutch remembered everything about that day, remembered how his dad stayed out there until he was satisfied

Hutch was doing it the way he’d wanted him to, finally telling him, “This is a hard game. If you’re going to learn it, you

might as well learn it right.”

Then he’d gone back inside the house, telling Hutch that if

he wanted to keep practicing, he could throw the ball against

the little pitchback he’d bought for him.

Now he was out near second base doing the same thing

with Darryl Williams, putting his own glove down in the

dirt—where did the glove come from? Hutch wondered, he

didn’t even know his dad still owned one—and then bringing

it up in that old snatch move, making it look as effortless as

he always had.

Next he went and stood behind the pitcher’s mound, with

what had to be Darryl’s bat in his hands, rocketing grounders

at Darryl from there, unable to get one past him.

Hutch watched them, thinking:

It’s like they’re the same player.

“You want to go join ’em?” Cody said. “We can’t hide here

behind this car all afternoon.”

“No,” Hutch said. “Still looks to me like the two of them

are doing just fine on their own.”

97

He could feel heat on the back of his neck, like somebody

had just turned up the sun.

How many times? Hutch thought.

How many times had he wanted to be alone on a field,

any field, with his dad the way he was alone out there with

Darryl Williams right now?

Hutch watched now as his dad walked back to home

plate, heard him yell out, “One more.”

Coach Carl Hutchinson.

He hit one more rocket. This one was to Darryl’s right.

Darryl went to his knees, made a sliding stop, whipped a

throw across the diamond that would have been dead solid

perfect if somebody had been standing on the bag.

“Can’t lie to you, son,” Carl Hutchinson shouted, flipping

the bat over his head as if surrendering. “That’s the way I

used to pick ’em.”

Hutch tried to remember one time in his life when his

dad had said anything like that to him, but couldn’t.

He and Cody came out from behind the car now, walking

toward the home team’s bench at Santaluces.

It was then that Carl Hutchinson noticed them.

“Hey,” he said, “how long you guys been here?”

Hutch said, “Long enough.” He sat down on the bench,

made himself very busy putting on his socks and his baseball

shoes, as if knotting the laces just right was the most important thing he was going to do all day.

Or all summer.

“Man, I am out of shape,” his dad said.

Darryl was with them now, having retrieved the ball

98

from where it had ended up against the wire fence in back

of first.

“Don’t believe that, ” Darryl said. “Captain, you never told

me you had such a cool dad.”

Maybe because I didn’t know myself, Hutch thought.

Darryl said, “I can’t believe how much I learned in, like,

fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said, not looking up at either one of them.

“My dad sure knows his baseball.”

• • •

The way it happened, Carl Hutchinson explained to his son,

was this:

He had made an airport run to Fort Lauderdale earlier

in the day and was supposed to wait down there and pick

up an arriving passenger and drive him to the Ritz-Carlton

in Manalapan. But then the arriving passenger’s flight was

canceled and he knew he had to pick up Hutch and Cody, so

he’d decided to surprise Hutch and watch practice for the

first time all season.

“Surprise!” Hutch said when he finished, his smile as fake

as the one you gave if you got a present you actually hated.

“When I got here,” his dad continued, “Darryl was the

only one here, and I decided to change in the car and work

him out a little bit.”

“Whatevs,” Hutch said.

A Cody word. One that usually expressed total indifference, not that Hutch’s dad was going to pick up on that.

99

“Darryl had an extra glove with him he’s breaking in,” his

dad said. “That’s the way I used to do it. Had one glove as my

gamer and another one warming up in the bullpen, in case

something happened to the gamer.”

“Dad,” Hutch said, “I gotta get out there and start warming up.”

Like: Sorry to interrupt such a fascinating story.

The rest of the Cardinals were starting to show up now.

Hutch saw Tripp and Tommy and Brett, Paul Garner, Hank

Harding. He was looking at them, not his dad.

“Everything okay?” his dad said.

“Fine.”

“I thought you’d be happier to see me,” his dad said.

Yeah, Hutch wanted to say, if you’d shown up about five

years ago.

“I’m happy to see you back on the field, Dad,” Hutch

said, and then jogged toward the outfield to shag balls, just

because that was as far away from his dad as he could get

right now.

Darryl was at first base, throwing grounders across the

diamond to Hank Harding.

“You are so lucky, man,” Darryl said to Hutch.

Hutch had no choice but to stop.

“Yeah,” he said. “Lucky me.”

“Not only do you have a dad,” Darryl said, “you’ve got a

baseball dad. You never told me your old man almost made

it to the majors.”

Hutch did not want to have this conversation with him

right now, or maybe ever. But there was something in his

100

voice Hutch had never heard before. He didn’t know if it was

a kind of sadness. Or envy. Something, though. Something

that didn’t make him sound cool or cocky or better than everybody else. Something that made Hutch want to like him for

more than the way he could play baseball.

“I never even met my dad,” Darryl said. Quietly, almost

as if talking to himself instead of to Hutch.

“Sorry,” Hutch said, knowing how weak that sounded, truly

weak, but knowing it was the best he could do right now.

“My mom says that even if he’d hung around, he wouldn’t

have been here, y’know?” Darryl said. “What I know of him is

just scraps and pieces.”

“He like baseball?” Hutch asked.

“Only to bet on it, according to my mom.”

Now Hutch really didn’t have anything to say, so he just

ran out to where Cody was waiting for him in right field.

When he got there, Cody said, “You talk things out with

Darryl like you said you were going to?”

“Never got around to it,” Hutch said. “He just wanted to

tell me what a cool dad I have and how lucky I am.”

Cody said, “I know you probably don’t want to hear this,

but your dad probably didn’t think he was doing anything

wrong—”

Hutch cut him off. “Yeah, the way he doesn’t think he’s

doing anything wrong when he doesn’t even want to watch

baseball with me, when the only company he seems to want

is a stupid can of beer.”

“Maybe we should change the subject,” Cody said.

“Maybe we should,” Hutch said, and then Cody was talking

101

about tomorrow night’s game, about how good he’d heard

their opponent, Punta Gorda, was, about last night’s Marlins

game, about this Web Gem highlight of Ken Griffey Jr. he’d

seen on SportsCenter, Griffey running into another wall and

making another amazing catch and not ending up on the

disabled list for once.

Sometimes Cody acted as if he thought talking could fix

anything.

Mr. Cullen called everybody in a few minutes later, saying

they were going to have batting practice first today, that he

wanted the regulars to make a quick run through the order,

Tommy O’Neill taking Brett’s place behind the plate so Brett

could hit, Chris Mahoney calling balls and strikes.

Alex Reyes led off, the way he always did, and when Mr.

Cullen buckled his knees on an 0-2 count with a big breaking

curve, Mahoney made a big show of punching him out, which

drew hoots from the rest of the team.

As Brett dug in, Darryl came and stood next to Hutch.

“The way I’ve been off the last couple of games with my

stroke,” Darryl said, “I probably should be asking your dad

for batting tips, not fielding tips.”

Hutch was swinging two bats, trying to get loose. Trying

to make his voice sound loose, casual, he said to Darryl, “Go

ahead and ask him if you want, he’s sitting right behind us

in the bleachers.”

“Nah, I don’t want to bother him any more today,” Darryl

said.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t be a bother. He seemed to be having

a great time with you out there.”

102

“The best,” Darryl said. “He must’ve taught you everything you know.”

Hutch couldn’t decide whether Darryl was messing with

him or not, so he used a line he’d heard in a movie one time.

“Just not everything he knows,” Hutch said.

Brett walked on four pitches, Mr. Cullen complaining to

Mahoney about the last two calls.

Hutch’s turn at bat now.

He wanted to hit the first good pitch he saw as far as he

had ever hit a baseball. Wanted to feel—and hear—his aluminum bat crush the ball. Wanted to show his dad that Hutch

was pretty good at this game, too.

He knew the biggest mistake a hitter could make was

squeezing the bat and trying to hit a home run, that it was

the the surest and quickest way to screw up your swing.

Hutch didn’t care.

Not today.

Whatever crazy mixed-up feelings he was carrying with

him to the batter’s box right now, he was determined to take

everything out on the ball.

He swung at and missed the first pitch and then took an

even harder swing on the second pitch. Missed that, too. At 0-2,

he took his wildest swing yet, a caveman swing, worse than the

one Darryl had knocked himself down with last night.

He was lucky to get a piece of the ball, off the end of the

bat, grounding weakly down the first-base line.

After Hutch had run it out, Mr. Cullen called over to him,

“Okay, who are you and what have you done with sweetswinging Captain Hutchinson?”

103

“Just trying too hard today, Coach,” Hutch said.

Mr. Cullen gave him a funny look and said, “Yeah, I get

that. What I’m wondering is, why?”

From the batter’s box Darryl said, “Maybe trying to show

his dad a little something special.” Mocking him.

“No,” Hutch said, going to get his glove. “You’re dead

wrong, as a matter of fact.”

“Sure about that?” Darryl said.

It was like Hutch could hear the smile in his voice before

he turned and saw it on Darryl Williams’ face, Darryl looking

first at Hutch, then behind the plate where Carl Hutchinson

was sitting, then back at Hutch.

Like he’d figured everything out.

• • •

With about a half hour left in practice, after everybody had

gotten their swings in, Mr. Cullen gathered the team around

him near the pitcher’s mound and talked about what Hutch

knew everyone was thinking about:

Being one game away from Roger Dean Stadium, from

getting their chance to play the state finals on the big field

there.

“They said our team was too young,” he said, grinning at

them. “But that got old fast, didn’t it, boys?”

Then he talked about what he had talked about the

first day they were together, talked about pitching and

defense, saying that in the end, no matter what level of

baseball you were talking about, it always came down to

104

pitching and defense for the best teams, with hardly any

exceptions.

“So even though you’re all tired and thirsty and your

minds are already down in Lauderdale getting ready to play

the Punta Gorda Pirates tomorrow night, guess what we’re

going to work on?” Mr. Cullen said. “I mean, since we know

we got the pitching.”

They all knew the answer he was looking for.

“Defense!” they shouted at him.

Behind him Hutch heard Darryl say, “Except D-Will don’t

want to work on any more dee-fense today.”

Hutch knew Mr. Cullen had to have heard, too, but if he

did, he didn’t let on. He just told the regulars to go take their

places on defense. And as Hutch ran out to second, he heard

Mr. Cullen call out, “Mr. Hutchinson?”

Hutch stopped, turned around. “Yes, Coach?”

Only Mr. Cullen wasn’t talking to him.

“Sorry, I meant Hutch Senior,” he said, grinning.

Then he yelled up to the stands and said, “I’ve been

waiting all year to have you show up early for one of my

practices.”

“Why’s that?” Hutch’s dad yelled back.

“Because I was hoping to get a chance to put you to work,”

Mr. Cullen said. “You probably have forgotten more about

baseball than I know.”

Hutch’s dad just dismissed that with a wave of his hand.

“Seriously,” Mr. Cullen said. “You mind helping out a little

today, long as you’re here?”

Say no, Hutch said to himself.

105

“Why not?” his dad said.

He got up, stretched, then made his way down the aluminum bleachers and around the screen behind home plate

and out onto the field.

“What do you want me to do?” Carl said.

Mr. Cullen said, “Go out there to second and get with my

star middle infielders. Including one I think you know.”

“I can do that.”

“I’ll put some runners in motion from various places,”

Mr. Cullen said, “set up some situations like we usually do

at this time of day. Then you check where Darryl and Hutch

are playing, where they’re going with the ball. See if an old

infielder sees some stuff I don’t.”

Hutch’s dad said, “Got it,” and ran out to the back of the

infield dirt, giving a little hop over the bag as he did.

Mr. Cullen put Chris Mahoney on first, said Tommy

O’Neill would be the runner from home as soon as the ball

was in play.

Darryl turned around to Hutch’s dad now, and said, “I

didn’t know there were so many fine points to playing short

until you started showing me, Mr. H.”

He knows, Hutch thought.

It’s why he was smiling at me before. He knows it bothered me seeing him on the field with my dad.

It’s why he wants to act like my dad is his baseball dad

all of a sudden.

They went through various situations for about fifteen minutes. Darryl and Hutch made a couple of double plays, had to

go to the outfield a bunch of times to get relay throws—“Was I

106

out far enough, Mr H?” Darryl said one time—and it all would

have been a routine ending to practice except for this:

Every time Darryl asked his dad for advice or thanked

him for giving advice, Hutch felt himself getting madder and

madder.

Like a balloon somebody was blowing too much air into,

one getting ready to pop.

His dad would give a pointer to Hutch once in a while,

too, move him a few feet this way or that, ask him where the

ball was going if it was hit to his right or left. But Hutch felt

like his dad was just going through the motions, throwing

him an occasional bone, that he didn’t really care where the

second baseman was or what he was doing.

Carl Hutchinson couldn’t help himself. He was a shortstop still, focusing on shortstop things, seeing everything

through his shortstop’s eyes.

It didn’t matter that the second baseman was his own

kid, because the kid was still nothing more than a second

baseman.

With a few minutes to go, Mr. Cullen put Alex, their fastest guy, on first and sent Tripp out to the mound and told

him to just lob some pitches in, they were going to try a couple of bunt plays.

Tripp got into his stretch position. Mr. Cullen squared to

bunt. When it was clear Tripp was delivering the ball to the

plate, not throwing over to first, Alex took off.

“He’s going!” Brett yelled.

Then Mr. Cullen, even though he really wanted to lay

down a bunt, missed the ball completely.

107

Alex ran hard from first anyway, making the play into a

straight steal.

Usually Hutch would have been moving to cover first on

a sacrifice bunt. But as soon as Mr. Cullen missed the pitch,

Hutch raced to his right, trying to beat Alex to second base,

keeping his eyes on Brett, who’d bounced out from behind

the plate and unleashed one of his big throws.

A few feet from the bag, Hutch looked up and saw that

Darryl had come over to cover, too.

They didn’t run into each other this time, both of them

pulling up at the same moment, both of them watching Brett’s

throw sail into center as Alex raced for third.

Before Darryl could say anything—and Hutch could see

he really wanted to—Carl Hutchinson said, “Shortstop covers on that play. Even Little Leaguers know that.”

“But—” Hutch started to say.

“No buts about it,” his dad snapped. “You should have

been moving toward first as soon as Coach showed bunt.”

Then he pointed to his head and said, “You gotta think

out here.”

“Yeah,” Darryl said to Hutch, shaking his head, walking

back toward short. “Think like a second baseman.”

And that was it. The balloon finally burst.

Hutch followed him.

“Maybe I get crossed up sometimes,” Hutch yelled,

“because I’ve gotten used to doing the thinking for both of

us. Even though you want my dad to think you’re more interested in defense than Ozzie Smith all of a sudden.”

Darryl turned and smiled another one of his smiles.

108

“That’s not what’s making you hot, though, is it, Hutch

Junior?” Darryl said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hutch said, still yelling

at him, in a voice he barely recognized as his own.

When Darryl answered, it was in a voice only loud enough

for Hutch to hear.

He said, “What’s the matter, Hutch Junior? You afraid

your daddy likes me better than you?”

Hutch didn’t say anything, didn’t think, just dropped his

glove and went after him, put his head down and drove his

shoulder into Darryl’s stomach like this was football, put

him down as hard as he could.

By the time the two of them had been pulled apart, Hutch

had been suspended from the Punta Gorda game.

109

15

THEY WERE IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE COMPANY CAR. HUTCH’S

dad had the key in the ignition but still hadn’t started the

engine. The two of them just sat there in the new parking lot

at Santaluces.

Talking to each other about as much as they usually did.

Finally Carl Hutchinson said, “I ought to make you sit in

the backseat.”

Hutch just sat there in silence.

His dad said, “Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because right now I feel like I don’t know you any better

than the people I drive around in this thing, that’s why.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Hutch said.

Now his dad put the car in gear, pulled out onto Hypoluxo,

drove them past the 7-Eleven where Hutch and Cody had

stopped for Gatorade, back when the only problem in Hutch’s

life was what he was going to say to Darryl Williams when he

tried to make things right between them.

Good job with that, Hutch thought now.

Cody had gone home with Mr. Cullen, the coach saying it

110

was right on his way, telling Hutch’s dad, “I have a feeling you

and your boy have some things to talk about.”

Hutch hadn’t thrown any punches at Darryl once they were

on the ground, but then he’d never had the urge to punch him. It

wasn’t about that. He just needed to put him down in the heat of

that moment, knock that smirk out of his voice and off his face.

Hutch knew, in the smart part of his brain, the part he

wasn’t using, how stupid this whole thing was—“juvenile” was

the word his mom always used for dumb guy things—but he

still couldn’t have stopped himself. He knew Darryl had tried

to get under his skin, knew what was happening between

them was sillier than the silliest beef on a playground, one

guy saying your dad liked him better.

Didn’t matter.

He went for Darryl the way you went for a high fastball

you knew you should lay off sometimes, no matter how much

you told yourself it was a sucker pitch.

It had taken half the team to get them separated. Brett

took hold of Darryl, while Carl Hutchinson had his long arms

around Hutch.

Darryl wasn’t smirking now, wasn’t wearing that smile

any longer, just pointed a finger at Hutch and said, “That’s

your one.”

“One what?” Hutch said.

“One free shot,” Darryl said. “Next one’s mine.”

“There isn’t going to be a next one, for either one of you!”

Mr. Cullen had yelled. “This ends here and it ends now. Is

that understood?”

111

Hutch and Darryl weren’t looking at him, they were still

looking at each other, still trying to stare each other down.

Playground stuff to the end.

“I didn’t do anything,” Darryl said.

“Right,” Hutch said.

“Am … I … understood?” Mr. Cullen said, spitting out

the words one at a time.

Reluctantly, both Hutch and Darryl nodded.

It was then that Mr. Cullen had turned to Hutch and said,

“What were you possibly thinking?”

And Hutch Hutchinson, who had just shown he didn’t

have the best judgment in the world, but who still prided

himself on telling the truth, told the truth now.

“I wasn’t thinking.”

Mr. Cullen shook his head, exasperated, took off his

Cardinals cap the way he would sometimes after they got a

bad call, and ran his hand through what hair he had left.

It was then that his coach hit Hutch a lot harder than

Hutch had hit Darryl.

“You’re out of the game tomorrow night,” he said. “I love

most everything about you, Hutch. Love your game, love your

passion for the game, love your heart. But I wouldn’t let another player on this team get away with what you just did,

and I’m not gonna let you get away with it, even if it costs

you—and us—our season. Now is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Hutch said.

They had all stood there for what felt like an hour to

Hutch, Mr. Cullen done now, nobody on the team saying anything, until Hutch’s dad had said, “Let’s go.”

112

Now they were in the car, this quiet car that was much

nicer than their own Camry, Carl Hutchinson gripping the

steering wheel with those big baseball hands of his.

“Why?” he said to Hutch.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You can decide something like that, whether you want to

talk about it, when you’re the dad someday. But I’m the dad

here. So you’re sure-as-Sunday gonna talk about it now.”

Hutch slouched down even lower in the passenger seat

than he already was. Where did he even start a conversation

like the one his dad wanted to have now?

When he was seven?

Hutch thought of himself as a pretty smart guy. Not the

smartest kid in his class. But smart enough. Just not right

now. How did he explain to his dad, how did he make him

understand that he’d been waiting for his dad to come out

and play with him for the past five years … that when he

finally came out of the house to play ball, even for a few minutes, he’d done it with Darryl?

“How come you want to start talking to me now?” Hutch

said.

“That’s a question, not an answer.”

“It’ll have to do.”

“Don’t use that snippy tone of voice on me,” his dad said.

“I didn’t do anything tonight.”

“Who are you, Darryl?”

“I’m your father,” Carl Hutchinson said, “the one who’s

trying to understand why you’d do something to hurt your

team that way.”

113

“I wasn’t trying to hurt my team,” Hutch said. “I was just

tired of him mouthing off.”

“Mouthing off about what?” his dad said. “I was out there

and I didn’t hear anything.”

“Dad, you only hear what you want to hear most of the

time.”

“We’re back to me again?”

“Anyway, what matters is that I heard him,” Hutch said.

“And what did you hear that was so terrible that you

had to go after him like one of those soccer nuts in the

World Cup?”

“Why don’t you ask him the next time you’re giving him a

private baseball lesson?”

The words just came out of Hutch, nothing he could do

to stop them. It would have been like trying to stop a wave

off Boynton Beach.

They were at a stoplight.

Carl Hutchinson turned to his son.

“Is that what this is about?”

Hutch turned and looked at him.

Another staredown, with his dad this time, not feeling so

different from the one he’d had with Darryl.

“Yeah,” he said to his dad. “I guess it is.”

• • •

After that Hutch just let it rip.

About how it should have been him on that field, not

Darryl, how Darryl could never have shown him up as much

114

as his own dad had today, acting like he cared more about

Darryl than he did about his own son.

He was shouting and his dad wasn’t stopping him.

“I can’t even remember the last time you were out on a

field with me, acted like you wanted to be out on a field with

me, if I tried!” Hutch said.

He turned away, feeling like his heart was going as fast

as the car, noticing for the first time that they were on the

Florida Turnpike for some reason. Wondering where in the

world they were headed.

His dad gave him a quick sideways glance. “Can I say

something about your friend Darryl before you start in on

him again?”

“He’s not my friend!” Hutch said. “Why can’t you get that?

He never wanted to be my friend. He didn’t want me to be

captain, he doesn’t act like he even wants to be on the same

team with me. The other day, he went out of his way to get

me run over on a stupid routine force play.”

“He did what?”

“Never mind.”

They were in the left lane, going at a pretty good clip. But

then his dad always said that the Florida Turnpike was like

the Daytona 500, just with amateurs.

Now his dad said, “You’re dead wrong about what happened tonight. It didn’t mean anything. Least not to me.”

“Well it did to me,” Hutch said. “And don’t tell me it didn’t

mean anything to you. I could see you were having big fun out

there. So could Cody.”

“I got no reason to lie to you, son,” Carl Hutchinson said.

115

“All I was doing was killing time.” His voice was the total opposite of Hutch’s, barely louder than the sound of the engine

from the Sun Coast company car. “That’s all baseball ever is

to me now. A way to kill time.”

He slowed the car down now, got back in the right lane,

put on his right blinker, and took the Okeechobee exit off the

Turnpike.

“Great, Dad,” Hutch said. “So you’re saying you don’t even

care about my baseball now. Sorry you have to kill so much

time coming to watch my games.” Hutch paused and then said,

“Why do you ever bother showing up for my games, anyway?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

Hutch clenched his fists, pounded them on his knees.

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that when it comes to baseball, I don’t let

myself care too much, not even about you,” Carl Hutchinson

said. “Especially about you.”

“Well, I want you to care!” Hutch was yelling again. “I care,

don’t you get that?”

“Looked tonight like you cared a little too much,” his dad

said.

He paid the toll now, went through the booth, took a right

on Okeechobee Boulevard.

“You cared so much,” Carl Hutchinson continued, “that

you acted like you’d lost your stinkin’ mind and cost yourself

a chance to play in a championship game. And guess what,

son? You don’t know how many games like that you’re gonna

get in your life, trust me on that.”

116

Hutch was still stuck about his dad not caring, couldn’t

make himself move off that.

He said to his dad, “You sure looked like you cared about

baseball with Darryl when you were showing him that old

board drill of yours.”

“That’s the thing,” his dad said, “what I’m trying to explain to you, even if I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

“What thing?”

They were taking another right, into what looked like

some kind of big complex for condominiums. Hutch had

barely noticed how fast it had gotten dark since they’d left

Santaluces.

“It costs me nothing, working with a guy like Darryl,” his

dad said in that quiet voice of his, the one that made Hutch

think sometimes he went through life talking like people did

in the library. “Because he doesn’t care.”

“How can you be as good as he is, as great as he is, and

not care?” Hutch said.

“Oh, he cares, all right,” Carl Hutchinson said. “Just not

like you. He loves baseball for what it’s gonna do for him

someday, because he’s sure it’s gonna make him rich and

famous and get his momma out of Lantana and all like that.”

He nodded and said, “All the things I was gonna do when I

was his age. He just doesn’t love baseball for baseball. The

way you love it.”

Hutch thought about the Hun School of Princeton, New

Jersey, pictured the cover of that brochure he kept hidden

in his room.

117

But he wasn’t going to tell his dad about it, not tonight,

not until he absolutely had to.

He just felt tired all of a sudden. “It still should have been

me out there with you. If you wanted to get back on the field,

why couldn’t it be with me?”

It was then that he noticed the sign for the Emerald

Dunes Golf Club.

Hutch looked at that, then looked at his dad, saw that his

dad was the one who really looked tired now, looked as tired

and beaten as he ever had.

“You want to know where you end up if you care too much

about baseball?” Carl Hutchinson said. “Here. ”

118

16

HUTCH HAD NEVER BEEN HERE. AND DIDN’T WANT TO BE HERE

now. He just wanted to go home, go to his room, get grounded

or whatever his dad was going to put on top of the suspension Mr. Cullen had given him, get a little bit closer to this

day being over.

But he could see that wasn’t happening anytime soon.

“Dad,” Hutch said, “I don’t want to do this tonight.”

“I do,” he said. “Now get out of the car.”

There were still some outside lights on at Emerald Dunes,

even though his dad said everybody who worked here had

gone home by now. His dad showed him where the caddies

changed, showed him the construction they were still doing

on the new clubhouse, took him around back and showed

him where the new dining room was going to be, overlooking

the 18th green.

It looked like a nice place to Hutch, but he knew he

wasn’t here so his dad could show off Emerald Dunes to

him. Maybe in this way, Hutch and his dad weren’t so different. Hutch had never asked his dad any questions about this

place, had shown about as much of an interest in his dad’s

day job as his dad showed in Hutch’s baseball.

119

But this wasn’t the night to talk about that, to try and explain to his dad that he didn’t want to know about Emerald

Dunes or what his dad did here because he didn’t want to

think of him in those white overalls.

“’Bout time you saw your dad’s real office,” he said.

“Sometimes when I want to clear my head at night, I get into

the car and drive over here and walk around like this by

myself.”

So that’s where he goes, Hutch thought.

But how could you find peace at night at the same place

where you had to carry around guys’ golf bags during the day?

There was, Hutch decided, even more he didn’t know

about his dad than he’d ever imagined.

Then they were walking past the practice putting green

and around to their right, where Hutch’s dad said the first

tee was, walking on the cart path past that tee, walking in the

direction of Okeechobee Boulevard.

Another silence between them.

Neither one of them saying anything about Darryl or

baseball or fathers or sons.

It was weird, Hutch thought. All the times when he’d

wanted his dad to talk with him, about anything, and now he

was happy to find himself in another one of their silences.

Until his dad finally said:

“It wasn’t my shoulder.”

Hutch couldn’t see his face.

“What?”

“Your whole life, I let you think that I really started washing out of the minor leagues because I hurt my throwing

120

shoulder,” he said. “That I couldn’t make the throw from the

hole after that, that it screwed up my swing. But that was just

a lie I came up with.”

Hutch said, “I don’t understand.”

His dad said, “It was just a way of me not admitting

to people what I’d already admitted to myself before I got

hurt.”

Hutch nearly tripped over something in the dark.

“Drain pipe,” his dad said. “You know who tore up his

knee bad because of a drain pipe?”

“Mickey Mantle,” Hutch said. “He was playing right because Joe DiMaggio was still in center, even though he was

much older than Mantle. DiMaggio called him off on a ball

and Mantle pulled up, but he got his spikes caught on an

outfield drain. Messed up his knee bad.”

“Why am I not surprised you know that?”

They kept walking toward Okeechobee, the car lights

up ahead of them, his dad pointing toward a lit-up office

building in the distance that he said belonged to Homeland

Security.

“I wasn’t good enough,” his dad said. “Oh, I was the best

to ever come out of East Boynton Little League and Boynton

Beach High, the way a lot of other guys in the minors are the

best guy from someplace. And I sure did believe what people

told me about where I was going in baseball. You always do

that when people promise you your dream is gonna come

true. And I was like you. I wanted it more than anything.

Wanted it because I loved the game like it was my whole

life.”

121

In Hutch’s whole life, he had never heard his dad say that

the two of them were alike.

Hutch wondered if they were going to walk all 18 holes

of the golf course, like his dad planned to do a whole

loop, which is what he called carrying somebody’s bag

the whole 18.

“This is my long-winded way of saying I don’t want to happen to you what happened to me,” Carl Hutchinson said.

“It won’t,” Hutch said.

“It broke me when I found out I wasn’t good enough,

that I wasn’t really as good as everybody said I was. Nobody

can prepare you for that, having your dreams killed,” his

dad said. ”Now I see you making the same mistake I made.

Wanting it too much.”

Hutch stopped now.

“How could you possibly know that?” he said.

“Know what?”

“How could you possibly know how much I want anything?”

“You’re my son. I can see myself in you.”

“Then how come you never told me that before tonight?”

Hutch felt himself getting mad all over again, and didn’t care,

not even a little bit. His father had brought him here and

wanted to talk and they were going to talk. “The problem is,

you never took the time to know me, Dad. You’ve never asked

me about my dreams one single time.”

“You want to be a ballplayer,” his dad said. “You’ve always

wanted to be a ballplayer, and I could see from the start there

was nothing I could do to stop you.”

“So that’s your excuse for ignoring me?” Hutch said.

122

“That was your way of trying to help me? Do you have any

idea how weak that is?”

“Don’t talk to me that way,” his dad said, getting hot himself now.

“Sorry if I don’t know how to talk to you, Dad, but let’s

face it, it’s not like I’ve had a lot of practice.”

It was on now between them, so on, no stopping it. This

probably wasn’t the heart-to-heart, the father-son talk, his

dad had planned. But this was the one they were having now,

standing out here on the golf course in the night.

Hutch said, “Are you trying to tell me you hardly ever

coached me because you didn’t want me to care too much?

How about giving me a vote on that? How about asking me

what I thought? All the times I wanted to play ball with you

so much and I couldn’t, and it was like somebody punched

me right in the gut …”

He stopped because he was afraid if he didn’t, he might

start crying.

“Don’t,” his dad said.

“Don’t what?” Hutch said. “Tell you the truth? You know

what I think the truth really is, Dad? That you don’t want me to

care so much about baseball because you don’t think I’m good

enough. Not as good as you were when you were my age.”

On the empty golf course, wherever they were on the No.

1 hole, Hutch’s words came out so loud, it was like they were

booming out of a PA system at the ballpark.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“You never wanted to help me before,” Hutch said. “So

don’t start helping me now.”

123

Then before his dad could say anything back, Hutch said:

“It doesn’t matter, anyway, because I’m leaving.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know what my real dream is, Dad?” Hutch said. “To

get a baseball scholarship up north someplace and get out of

here the first chance I get.”

“You never said anything about that,” his dad said.

“One more thing you didn’t ask me about,” Hutch said.

He left his dad standing there, walked away from

Okeechobee, pretty sure he was going the right way, toward

the parking lot, saying over his shoulder, “Please take me

home now.”

Nothing more to say.

For either one of them.

124

17

HE TOLD HIS MOM ABOUT THE FIGHT WITH DARRYL AS SOON AS HE

got home, just because he knew he was going to have to tell

her sooner or later.

Hutch hoped his dad wouldn’t stay in the room, so he

could tell it his own way. But his dad sat right next to her on

the couch in the living room, showing about as much expression as he did when he was on that couch watching baseball

by himself.

When Hutch was done, Connie Hutchinson looked at her

husband and said, “It happened that way?”

“Pretty much. I didn’t hear what Darryl said to him

right before. Our boy acted like an idiot after that, but he

doesn’t lie.”

“I see,” was all she said.

“Can I go?” Hutch said.

What had officially become the longest night of his life

wasn’t over yet.

“Not quite yet,” she said. She turned to her husband and

said, “So what do we do about this, other than telling him

nothing like it had better happen again?”

“Nothing,” his dad said. “Nothing could be a worse

125

punishment than his missing that game tomorrow night. I

don’t know a lot. But I know that.”

“No grounding then?”

“If his team loses and it’s even partly because he’s not

there, it’ll be the worst grounding he’s ever gotten. Because

he’ll have grounded himself from baseball for the rest of his

summer.”

He wanted to defend himself, wanted to tell both his parents that he never lost his temper like this, never got into this

kind of trouble. He’d never even gotten grounded before.

But all he said was, “We’re not going to lose.”

Like he was trying to convince himself of that more than

his mom and dad.

“It would be a shame if you did,” his mom said. “But it

would teach you a valuable lesson, Keith.”

“Keith” was never good. Keith meant she meant business.

“Keith,” his dad said, making it almost sarcastic, making

it sound like Darryl calling him “Captain,” “is lucky he didn’t

get kicked off the team.”

His dad didn’t mention boarding school nor the trip

to Emerald Dunes, and neither did Hutch, not even when

Hutch’s mom asked them why they were so late. His dad just

said, “We drove around a bit and talked,” and left it at that.

“Can I please go to my room now?” Hutch said.

“Fine with me,” his dad said. “I’ve got nothing more to

say, anyway.”

He got up and walked out of the room. When he was

gone, Connie Hutchinson leaned forward and said in a soft

voice, “I’m sorry.”

126

“Me, too.”

“You don’t know what I’m sorry about.”

“Mom, can’t we just call it a night?”

“I’m sorry it hurt you so much, seeing your dad on that

field with Darryl.”

“I’ll get over it.”

He went upstairs, closed the door, turned on his dinky fan,

flopped on the bed. He tried to close his eyes, but as soon as

he did, he saw himself charging Darryl again. So he got up, got

out one of his favorite DVDs, the Yankees highlight DVD from

the 2001 postseason. He sat down at his desk, turned on his

laptop, the used Dell they’d bought for him, inserted the disk,

and found the flip play Jeter had made against the A’s.

Hutch watched it over and over.

Watched Jeter be in the right place, make the right decision, again and again and again, on the night when Hutch

had made the dumbest decision on a ball field he’d ever

made in his life.

When he finally got tired of watching, he got back on his

bed, stared at the shadows on his ceiling, and tried to imagine something that would make Jeter charge A-Rod the way

he had charged Darryl tonight.

But he couldn’t.

• • •

“You’re coming to the game,” Cody said to Hutch, “even if I

have to tie you up like they do in the movies and throw you

in the trunk of the car.”

127

“It’s a bus, Codes.”

“I’m just trying to make a point here.”

“And I’m not going,” Hutch said.

They had been riding their bikes around the neighborhood for the last hour, making this big loop around the edges

of the world they’d grown up in. They rode up and down

Seacrest for a while, past some houses whose windows were

still boarded up because of the hurricane last year, past an

apartment complex called the Village Royal Green, got passed

a couple of times by a Citizens Observer Patrol Car. When

they reached the Community Center, a couple of blocks south

of Gateway and Seacrest, they turned around and headed for

Cody’s house.

Cody liked to call rides like this the Tour de Hester.

Every time Hutch would start to think Cody had dropped

the subject of him traveling down to Fort Lauderdale with the

team for the Punta Gorda game, he would bring it up again.

“If I buy the burgers for lunch, will you let this go?” Hutch

said.

“No.”

“Burgers and ice cream later?”

“I can’t be bought.”

“Sure you can.”

“Good point,” Cody said. “Just not today. Today my job is

to be the captain of you, and make you see that as the captain

of the team you should be with us.”

“I’m not part of the team today.”

“You’d come if you were hurt,” Cody said.

128

“But I’m not hurt,” Hutch said. “My dad was right about

one thing: The only thing I did last night was hurt you guys.”

“Please come,” Cody said. “I’m asking you as your best

friend.”

“Don’t,” Hutch said.

“You’ll figure out a way to help us even from the bench. I

know you.”

Hutch said, “And I know it will kill me having to watch

from the bench.”

Truth was, it was killing Hutch already just thinking

about the game. And he knew it was going to kill him even

more tonight, whether he was there or not. When he had

finally gone to sleep last night, he had told himself he would

feel better about things in the morning. Isn’t that what your

parents always told you, that everything would look better

after a good night’s sleep?

They were wrong.

When Hutch woke up and started thinking all over again

about what he’d done, he’d only felt worse.

About everything.

He’d let everybody down, no matter how much Cody was

trying to prop him back up.

They went back to Cody’s house when they were finally

tired of riding around, sat down in what shade there was

on the Hesters’ front porch. Almost noon now, straight up.

Four and a half hours until the Cardinals’ bus left from

Santaluces.

Great, Hutch thought.

129

Now the longest night of Hutch’s life was turning into the

longest day.

“What will you do if you don’t go?” Cody said.

“Go to bed early and pull the covers over my head until

you call and tell me we won.”

“I sleep in that room all the time, remember?” Cody said.

“You’d suffocate.”

Mrs. Hester had the day off from her nursing job. She

brought them out glasses of lemonade and said, “Looks to me

like I’m interrupting some deep conversation, am I right?”

“No,” Hutch said, at the same time Cody said, “Yes.”

Mrs. Hester laughed and said, “Wait a second, I thought

the two of you were always on the same page.”

“Not today,” Cody said.

When she was gone, Hutch said, “You’ve got a cool mom.”

“This isn’t Jeopardy! ” Cody said. “Don’t try to change the

category.”

Hutch put his glass down so hard, he was afraid he might

have broken it for a second. “We either stop talking about

this, or I’m out of here,” he said, the words coming out with

more snap than he’d intended.

Cody stood up now, face red, a shade he liked to call “redneck red.” He said, “You know what? Nobody’s stopping you.

And if you want to be as selfish today as you were last night,

I’m not going to stop you from doing that, either! You want to

stay home tonight? Stay. You want to go home and feel sorry

for yourself there instead of doing it with me? Go.”

It took a lot to get Cody mad, and he hardly ever got mad

at Hutch unless it was fake-mad over a video game.

130

But he was mad now.

“Who is it that’s always saying how seriously he takes

being captain of the team? Oh, wait: That would be you,

wouldn’t it? Well, excuse me for thinking you were going to

suck it up and be a real captain tonight. You know why we’re

still talking about this? Because I never thought you’d act like

this much of a baby, while the rest of us go down there and

try to save your sorry butt.”

Hutch sat there and took it from his best friend, staring

up at him from the top step.

“So what’s it gonna be?” Cody said. “Are you in or are

you out?”

Hutch stood up then, so they were eye to eye.

Then he put out his hand for the kind of regulation handshake they only gave themselves when they were shaking on

something important.

And this was important.

“I’m in,” Hutch said.

He knew he was going to feel like an outsider. But Cody

Hester, his redneck friend with the red face, was right. Righter

than he knew.

You were either the captain of the team, or you weren’t.

Hutch was.

131

18

MR. CULLEN WAS STANDING BY THE DOOR TO THE BUS WHEN

Mrs. Hester dropped off Hutch and Cody. “I’m glad you

came, Hutch.”

“I’m sorry again about last night, Mr. C. I’ve never done

anything like that before in my life.”

“Last night was last night,” Mr. Cullen said. “If there’s

one thing I’ve learned in sports, it’s that you can’t do anything about last night. Lord knows I used to try when I

was a player. Let’s just do our best to support the guys

tonight.”

“I’ll do whatever you say,” Hutch said.

“How about I make you bench coach for a night? You can

sit next to me when we’re at bat and hold things down when

I’m coaching first.”

“Cool,” Hutch said.

Only he didn’t feel very cool.

Other than when he’d sprained an ankle in Little League,

he couldn’t remember one time in his life when a team of his

had a game and he wasn’t playing in it.

There was something else bothering him.

He knew he was going to have to talk to Darryl sooner or

132

later. Not just about what had happened last night, but all the

junk that had been going on between them the whole season.

Maybe if he’d had the talk last night, the way he’d planned

before he showed up for practice and saw his dad on the

field, he wouldn’t be in the fix he was in now.

Hutch and Cody had grabbed two seats in the very back

of the bus by the time Darryl got on. Usually Darryl liked

to sit by himself in the back so he could take a nap, no

matter how short the trip was. But when he looked up and

saw Hutch back there, he sat down in the first row, across

from Mr. Cullen, who always had the first seat behind the

driver.

The conversation with Darryl would have to be later.

• • •

Hutch waited until the Cardinals were about to go out for infield practice, then walked over to where Darryl was standing

at the end of their bench.

“I was out of line last night,” he said.

Darryl looked at him, no expression on his face, not

mad, not interested, not anything, almost like Hutch was a

stranger, before saying, “You think?”

“Darryl, we gotta get past this, you and me,” Hutch said,

keeping his voice low. “For the good of the team.”

“You shoulda thought about the good of the team before

you sucker-slammed me.”

He wasn’t going to make it easy.

But why should he? Hutch thought.

133

I don’t deserve it.

And it wasn’t like he was going to stop being Darryl just

because Hutch had apologized.

Connie Hutchinson liked to say that if you were born

round, you didn’t die square.

“You’re right,” Hutch said. He didn’t like saying that to

Darryl, but he did anyway, swallowing hard like he’d just taken

medicine. “I’m just asking you as best I can to go out there

tonight and get me a chance to play a few more games this

season.”

He put out his hand then, but Darryl picked that moment

to start fiddling with the straps hanging off his glove.

Leaving Hutch hanging until he just dropped his hand

back down to his side.

“Won’t be doing it for you,” Darryl said.

“I just don’t want there to be any more trouble between

us, is all,” Hutch said.

“That would be up to you, wouldn’t it?” Darryl said.

Then the Cardinals shortstop ran out to short, Hutch

envying him more than he ever had, just because he had a

game to play and Hutch didn’t.

• • •

The Cardinals were going with their best tonight, which

meant Tripp was starting. Cody had replaced Hutch at second, going back to his normal position, and Tommy O’Neill

was playing right.

When Mr. Cullen gathered them around him before the

134

game, he announced that he wasn’t going to wear anybody

out with one of his big rousing pep talks.

“Rousing, Coach?” Cody said.

“Hush and listen,” Mr. Cullen said. “Because I’ve basically

got just two words for you tonight: Roger Dean.”

Hutch hadn’t worn his uniform, even though Cody had

tried to get him to. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and

his favorite sneaks, an old beat-up pair of Nike Franchise

Lows. As Mr. Cullen spoke, he hung back behind the guys

who were in uniform.

He wasn’t a player tonight and wasn’t going to pretend

like he was, even now.

“When we get back on that bus and go back up 95 tonight,” Mr. Cullen said, “we’re not just gonna be heading

home. We’re gonna be on our way to the finals.”

He looked from face to face and said, “Are you all hearing

me on that?”

“Yes!”

“Then go win the game,” he said, and the Cardinals ran

out to their positions from the third-base side of the field.

Hutch watched them go and felt like he was watching everybody get dismissed from class early except him.

Mr. Cullen must have been watching him watch his teammates, because he put an arm around Hutch’s shoulder.

“You want to chart pitches?” he said to Hutch.

“Nah. I can’t follow the game doing that, Mr. C. I don’t

even keep score when I go to Marlins games.”

He sat down at the end of the bench and Mr. Cullen sat

down next to him.

135

“So just hang with me, then,” Mr. Cullen said. “I watch

you when you’re playing. I see you moving guys around when

you don’t think I notice. I know you see stuff in games that

nobody else on the team sees.”

“I just want to see us win,” Hutch said.

Tripp threw strike one then to start the game.

“All right!” Hutch yelled.

Mr. Cullen grinned.

“Easy there, tiger.”

For some reason Hutch remembered the night they’d all

sat in his living room and watched the replay of his home

run on television, Cody complaining that Hutch’s mom was

calling him a cheerleader.

Now Hutch was the cheerleader, at least for a night.

• • •

In the fourth inning, the Pirates leading 3–2, Hutch caught

Cody’s eye when he saw him shading too much toward first

with a left-handed hitter, the Pirates catcher, at the plate.

But even though the Pirates had four lefties in their order,

only one of them had managed to pull the ball off Tripp so

far. Now they had second and third, two out, the catcher up.

A base hit was going to put them up by two runs, and Hutch,

in his mind’s eye, saw that base hit going right up the middle

between Cody and Darryl.

So without making a big show of it, any more than he

would have made a big show of it on the field, Hutch just

136

hooked a thumb at Cody and told him to move back toward

second base.

Cody took two steps.

Hutch motioned with his head for him to keep going.

Cody gave him an are-you-crazy? look, but did what he

was told.

When Hutch finally told him to stop, Cody pointed toward the big hole that had opened up between him and Chris

Mahoney, playing first with Tripp pitching.

Hutch grinned and made a calming motion with his

hands, as if telling him everything was cool.

Mr. Cullen had gone to get a bottle of water out of their

cooler, came back with the count 2-2 on the catcher, said to

Hutch, “Uh, why is Cody practically standing on second base

all of a sudden?”

He started to get up and move him back, but Hutch put a

hand on his arm and said, “I told him to play there.”

“Guy’s a lefty.”

“I know, Mr. C,” Hutch said. “But you gotta trust your

bench coach on this one.”

Mr. Cullen took a swig of water, spit it out, and said to

Hutch, “You better be right.”

Two pitches later the kid at the plate hit a hard grounder

up the middle, just to the second baseman’s side of the base.

Cody barely had to move.

He was all over the ball, not even having to backhand it,

gloving it straight up and having plenty of time to get the out

at first and get them out of the inning.

137

“Oh,” Mr. Cullen said, “I get it, that was the hole I should

have been worrying about.”

“No biggie,” Hutch said, smiling to himself, feeling for a

moment like he was actually in the game.

It was still 3–2, Pirates. The Cardinals had gotten their

runs when D-Will had doubled home Alex and Brett in the

bottom of the first off the Pirates’ lefty starter.

Hutch knew it should have been him bringing the runners around, could have been him if he hadn’t acted like

such an idiot. But there had been nothing to do back in the

first inning except stand and cheer for Darryl like everybody

else on the bench.

Tripp, working on a high pitch count, somehow made it

through the top of the fifth without giving up another run.

The Pirates’ starter, who seemed to match every pitch Tripp

threw out of the strike zone, walking a half-dozen guys by

Hutch’s count, only made it through the fourth before the

Pirates’ manager brought in a big righty who looked like he

ought to be playing middle linebacker in football.

Not good.

Not even close.

Because as soon as he’d pitched to his first two Cardinals

batters—Chris and Hank—Hutch knew this kid had better

stuff than the Pirates’ starter—better command, two fastballs, one a riser, the other a mean sinker.

The big righty, a seventeen-year-old for sure, kept the

Pirates ahead by a run into the eighth. It was pretty clear

to Hutch by then that they were going to pitch him the rest

of the way. There wasn’t anybody warming up and the kid

138

seemed to be on cruise control, even when the Cardinals

would manage to work the count on him a little bit, which

wasn’t often. The Cardinals were barely forcing him to break

a sweat.

“Got any brilliant strategy you’re working on?” Cody had

said when the Cardinals came in to bat in the bottom of the

seventh.

“Yeah,” Hutch said. “Score two more runs before that guy

gets nine more outs.”

“The math sounds simple enough,” Cody said.

But the Cardinals managed only a single base runner

in the seventh, who was immediately erased when Chris

Mahoney hit into a double play.

Chris tried to make up for that by at least pitching a 1-2-3

top of the eighth.

Six more outs for the Cardinals to get those two runs and

a trip to Roger Dean.

“I don’t know if we can hit this kid,” Mr. Cullen said before running out to coach first, just loud enough for Hutch

to hear.

Hutch said, “But he is hittable, Coach, that’s the thing.

We’re just not being patient enough, making him work hard

enough. We’re getting ourselves out.”

Cody was leading off for them in the bottom of the

eighth.

Hutch grabbed him as he was putting on his batting

gloves and said, “A walk wouldn’t stink here, you know.”

“I hear you.”

Hutch gave his arm a good squeeze.

139

“Ow?” Cody said.

Hutch said, “A walk really wouldn’t stink here.”

“Do you think I’m thick or something?” Cody said, then

quickly added, “Wait, don’t answer that.”

Somehow Cody the free swinger worked the count to 3-2.

He stepped out for a moment, turned around, caught Hutch’s

eye, grinned. Then he got back into the box and maybe for

the first time in his entire life laid off one of those in-youreyes fastballs he loved more than chocolate ice cream, and

the Pirates’ big righty issued his first walk since he’d come

into the game.

“Yes!” Hutch said.

Alex Reyes up next, top of the order. He tried to bunt for

a base hit and nearly beat it out, the third baseman’s throw

getting him by a step. Cody moved to second on the play. Not

good enough, Hutch thought. Somebody needs to smack one

off this kid. He’d had things pretty much his way for four

innings now.

If somebody didn’t hit a ball hard, and soon, they were

going to lose.

Brett was up now. He grounded one that somehow was a

foot to the left of the third baseman’s glove and a foot to the

right of the shortstop’s glove, and made it into short left. It

looked like Cody might have a chance to score, but the thirdbase coach wisely held him up at third.

First and third, still one out.

Darryl at the plate, batting third tonight with Hutch not

in the lineup.

Only problem? Darryl had done nothing against this

140

pitcher his first two times up against him, acting as impatient

as everybody else, popping out on first pitch, high fastballs

both times. It had driven Hutch crazy from the bench.

It was why he’d practically begged Cody to go up there

looking for a walk.

But D-Will wasn’t going to be looking for a walk here—he

was going to be swinging away, looking to be a hero.

He and Hutch hadn’t said a word to each other since

they’d talked before infield, somehow managing to avoid each

other in the bench area all night long. But when the Punta

Gorda coach called time-out and jogged out to the mound,

probably to tell his pitcher to be careful with Darryl whether

he’d popped him up twice or not, Hutch got off the bench and

walked toward the on-deck circle.

When he was halfway there, Darryl said to him, “Not now.”

Hutch remembered Tim McCarver talking one time

on TV about how when he had been catching for the real

Cardinals, Bob Gibson would try to glare him away from the

mound when McCarver would want to talk to him, but how

if McCarver had something important to say, he’d suck it up

and keep going.

Hutch kept going.

“Seriously? This is not the time to mess with me,” Darryl

said.

“I’m not messing with you,” Hutch said. “I’m trying to

help you.”

“Then go sit your butt down. I told you before: Go captain

somebody else.”

Hutch stood his ground, kept his voice low, and said,

141

“Just listen to me for one minute. This guy’s sequence is exactly the same when one of our guys works the count: high

fastball, sinking fastball, change, high fastball again. Every

single time. Nobody expects the change because they’re fixed

on catching up with his high heat.”

The Punta Gorda manager was jogging back to the

bench.

Darryl said, “And this matters to me because … ?”

“Because the change just sits there, that’s why. He only

throws it to set up the next fastball, make it look like it’s

coming in about a thousand miles an hour.”

Darryl wasn’t saying anything now.

Or maybe he was actually listening to what Hutch was

trying to tell him.

Hutch leaned forward, whispering now. “The change is

your mattress ball, dude.”

• • •

This time Darryl took the first pitch.

For strike one.

The second fastball was the sinking one, the kind of

pitch that always looks like a fat one until it dives toward

the catcher’s mitt, or the dirt, like a seagull looking for food.

Most of the time the big righty had thrown it in the dirt.

This time there was hardly any late break.

Darryl took it. Strike two.

0–2.

He stepped out of the box, messed with his batting gloves

142

for a second, turned and tried to stare a hole right through

Hutch.

Hutch didn’t move a muscle.

Please, he thought to himself.

Please don’t change your sequence now.

The Pirates pitcher went into his stretch, checked Cody

at third, looked over his shoulder at Brett taking a short lead

off first.

Then he threw his changeup.

Threw his do-nothing changeup and watched Darryl

Williams put that effortless swing of his on it, heard the same

sound everybody else heard, the sound of the fat part of the

bat on a ball that was just about the sweetest sound in this

world.

He knew and Darryl knew and everybody in the park

knew.

This time when Darryl stopped to watch a few feet out of

the batter’s box, he had a home run to look at.

To dead center.

No-doubter all the way.

Cardinals 5, Pirates 3.

It ended that way because Pedro Mota struck out the side

in the ninth.

When the Pirates’ leadoff man swung through strike three

for the final out of the game, Hutch led the charge toward the

pitcher’s mound, trying to get there first, even before Brett

made it there from behind the plate.

But Darryl cut him off.

For a second they just stood there in the middle of

143

the infield, third-base side of the mound, like it was one

more staredown between them, neither one of them saying

anything.

Until Darryl said, “Good call.”

“Better swing,” Hutch said.

“Doesn’t change things between us,” Darryl said. “Just

so’s you know.”

“Didn’t expect it to,” Hutch said.

144

19

WHEN HUTCH WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, IT FELT LIKE THE

first day of summer all over again.

He wanted to play some ball, even though Mr. Cullen had

given everybody the day off.

Just to be a good guy and a good friend, he waited until

a few minutes before eleven before riding his bike over to

Cody’s. He was pretty sure Mrs. Hester was gone, but Hutch

rang the doorbell just in case she was still there, knowing

that wouldn’t wake Cody, since Mrs. Hester liked to say doorbells weren’t made to wake the dead.

When nobody answered, he walked around to the kitchen

door, the one on the carport side of the house, knowing from

experience it was always open if somebody was in the house,

even if the somebody was still asleep.

Then he walked back to Cody’s room, loudly opened the

shades and yelled, “Rise and shine!”

From under his pillows Cody said in a muffled voice, “Aw,

man, this is wrong.”

“C’mon, dude, you can’t sleep all day,” Hutch said.

“But that was my plan,” Cody said, wriggling himself

deeper under his covers. “What time is it, anyway?”

145

“Eleven.”

“So wrong,” Cody said.

“We got to get out and play some ball.”

“Not on our day off,” Cody said.

He poked his head out from under the pillows and covers

now, squinting.

“We’re in the finals,” Hutch said. “We got to get after it.”

“Friday,” Cody said. “Friday we’re in the finals. Today is

Monday. Please let me go back to sleep. I’ll pay you.”

“C’mon,” Hutch said, pulling him up into a sitting position. “I won’t even make you go all the way to Fallon Park,

we’ll just go over to the Community Center and play on the

football field.”

Fallon Park was about twenty blocks away. There were

two baseball fields there, one for Little League and one for

Babe Ruth, and a fenced-in batting cage with a ball machine

that the coaches had keys for during the season. The fields

weren’t the best around, and there was always talk about

tearing them up and building new ones if the city would ever

come up with the money. But they were baseball fields. And

because Cody’s dad had once coached them in Little League,

he still had a key to the batting cage.

“Nice of you,” Cody said.

“Soooo nice,” Hutch said. “I’m even going to buy you

breakfast.”

Cody got out of bed, as a form of surrender, mumbling, “I

think I liked you better when you were suspended.”

They stopped at the Kwik Stop, two blocks down from

the corner of Gateway and Seacrest, for what Cody called

146

“the real breakfast of champions,” which for him meant powdered doughnuts and purple Gatorade. Then they rode their

bikes the rest of the way to the Community Center, went

around to the back, past the outdoor basketball courts that

were always patrolled, day or night. It was a good place for

kids of all ages, they knew, but the policemen you usually

saw there were a reminder to Hutch and Cody that their

Palm Beach County wasn’t the one with mansions on the

beach.

Past the basketball courts and seldom-used tennis courts

was the football field used by the Boynton Beach Bulldogs,

who played in the South Florida Youth Football League. There

was a sign before you got to the field that read sUPER BOWL

CHAMPIONS, because a few years ago the Bulldogs had won

their big tournament, against the best teams in the country,

up in Jacksonville.

“Next week, I’m putting a sign like that on our front lawn

after we beat Orlando,” Cody said.

“We’re only playing for the state championship, Codes,”

Hutch said.

“From the best state in the country at producing athletes,”

Cody said.

“I thought that was California.”

“Florida,” Cody said, “and I have the stats to prove it.”

“Where?”

“Right here,” Cody said, pointing to his head.

They soft-tossed at first, then kept backing up, the way

Hutch would see guys doing at Marlins games when he was

lucky enough to go to Marlins games, until they were throw147

ing balls as far as they could. In this case, that meant from

one twenty-yard line to another, even though Hutch knew he

could have gone deeper than that if he’d wanted to.

There was no infield and no outfield and no bases. But

they had green grass under their feet and a blue sky over

their heads. The temperature was not only down in the seventies today, it felt as if somebody had thrown a switch and

turned off the humidity.

The only thing that would have made the day better was

having Game 1 be tonight. When they started throwing, even

the smack of the ball hitting the pocket of his glove sounded

better than ever.

“I think your arm got stronger in the last two days,” Cody

yelled.

Hutch yelled back, “Second basemen don’t need an arm.

I learned that watching you.”

He uncorked his biggest throw yet, watched it sail over

Cody’s head.

“Sorry!” he yelled.

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right.”

They had each brought a bat and hit fly balls to each

other now, trying to outdo each other, even having a contest

to see which one of them could be first to hit one through

the goalposts.

Hutch won.

Cody said, “You hit it, you shag it.”

Hutch said that was fine with him, he was just going to

pretend he was running out a game-winning home run.

148

This was one of those days, he thought, when he could

play baseball all the way until dinnertime.

It was when he reached down for the ball that he noticed the black town car in the distance, parked on North

Seacrest.

Hutch didn’t know if his dad was caddying today or driving, mostly because he hadn’t done much talking to, or about,

his dad the last couple of days.

Was that his dad’s car?

Hutch knew there were always a couple of times a week

when he drove mornings and then tried to caddy in the afternoon.

Was this one of them?

Another thing he didn’t know about his dad.

But if it was his dad in that car, what was he doing here?

Why would he be watching him and Cody goofing around

on a football field?

Hutch started walking toward the car, thinking if he got

a little closer he might be able to see who was behind the

wheel. Knowing he was probably being crazy, that there were

probably more car-service cars like the one his dad drove

around in than he could even imagine.

As he did, the car eased out behind a passing truck and

pulled away.

• • •

His dad wasn’t around for dinner that night. Hutch asked

his mom if he’d been driving today and she said she actually

149

wasn’t sure, he’d been gone when she woke up.

“Why do you want to know?” Connie Hutchinson asked.

“Just wondering.”

His mom said, “You never ask about your dad’s work.

Why tonight?”

Hutch pushed some food around on his plate. “I was just

wondering why he wasn’t here, is all.”

“Are things any better between you two?”

“Same,” Hutch said, not looking up.

“Well, that’s not good,” she said.

Hutch looked up at her now. “The other night Dad told

me he’d been lying about his shoulder injury, that when he

got to the minors he just wasn’t good enough.”

His mom had started to pick up her water glass. Now she

put it down. “He told you that?”

Hutch nodded.

“That must have been very hard,” she said.

“Me hearing that from Dad, you mean?”

“No,” his mom said. “Him saying it.”

“He could have told me before,” Hutch said. “I don’t know

why he had to treat it like some kind of big family secret.”

She said, “Maybe because only he knows what it was like

going from what he’d been here to what he turned out to be

there.” She looked off and said, “And then ending up back

here.”

Usually Hutch helped her clear the table. Tonight she said

she could handle it alone. So Hutch went upstairs to listen to

the Marlins game, which is where he was when he heard the

150

front door open and close.

He waited a whole half hour before he came down the

stairs, hearing the television announcers broadcasting the

same game against the Braves that Hutch had been listening

to on the radio.

His dad was on the couch. If he had been driving earlier,

he’d already changed out of his white shirt and tie and into a

blue Florida Gators T-shirt and some khaki shorts.

The beer can was on the table next to him.

Hutch had planned to ask him whether he’d been at the

Community Center, but somehow the sight of that beer, the

force field being in place, made him change his mind.

Or lose his nerve.

And what did it matter, anyway?

His dad noticed him and said, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

It was about the normal length of the conversations they’d

been having since Emerald Dunes.

Hutch stood there a little longer, knowing this night was

going to be like all the rest, that he wasn’t going to be invited

to join him. Knowing at the same time he was never going to

ask to join his dad, that if his dad wanted company he could

just say so.

“ ’Night,” Hutch finally said.

“ ’Night,” his dad said, and took a sip of beer.

Hutch went back up the stairs, hearing the Marlins’ an nouncers from his radio now, Dave Van Horne’s voice rising as

he described Hanley Ramírez trying to beat a throw home. Same

151

game, same house, different broadcasts. Maybe it figured.

It was weird, Hutch thought to himself.

Two other shortstops in his life.

His dad was one, Darryl was the other.

And right before the biggest games of his life, he was

barely on speaking terms with either one of them.

152

20

THE NIGHT BEFORE GAME 1, THEY GOT TO PRACTICE UNDER THE

lights at Roger Dean Stadium.

Hutch and Cody had both been there before to watch

spring training games, and once in a while would get a chance

to watch the Jupiter Hammerheads minor league team play

after spring training ended. So they knew their way around,

basically. Most of the time when they did get to come watch

games, especially ones involving the real Cardinals or the

Marlins, their favorite spot was this grassy area in foul territory down the right-field line known as The Berm.

It was underneath a picnic area known as the Party Deck

at Roger Dean, and tickets to watch from there cost only ten

dollars during spring training. When they did get a chance

to go, they’d always ask Mr. Hester to get them there in time

for batting practice—since they always went with Cody’s dad,

never with Hutch’s—so they could go straight out to The

Berm and compete with other kids for long foul balls.

And every time they were out there, Hutch and Cody

would tell each other how they were going to play on that

field someday, way before they ever knew you could do that

in American Legion ball when you were only fourteen.

153

Always when Hutch had imagined himself out here, playing for the real Cardinals or Marlins or even the Yankees, he

imagined himself at shortstop. That’s what he was, after all.

A shortstop.

Tonight, and tomorrow night, and all weekend, he would

be a second baseman. Hutch knew as soon as he stepped

out of the dugout on the first-base side, got on the grass and

stared out at the Budweiser scoreboard and the huge Bank

of America video board in left center, that playing second

base here would do just fine for now.

There was still plenty of daylight left when they took the

field after Orlando finished their practice. But the lights were

on anyway, just so players on both teams could get used to

them, according to Mr. Cullen. Good thing, Hutch thought

when he looked around. These lights weren’t the ones they’d

played under at Santaluces, as good as those were for town

fields.

These were spotlight-bright. They were big-time. And

somehow, playing on this field under the lights made everything feel even more big-time.

But then Hutch and Cody had been feeling pretty big

about themselves from the moment they got out of the bus

in front of the main entrance and walked across the little

patch of green grass cut into the shape of a diamond, walked

across that and between the two tall palm trees that felt like

goalposts and underneath the huge white lettering that read

ROGER DEAN STADIUM.

They had gone through their normal pregame drills, not

changing their routine, and were finishing with batting prac154

tice now. Mr. Cullen had picked the order randomly tonight,

Darryl going first and Hutch scheduled to go last. Cody had

just hit and was standing on second base now, making his

way around the bases every time Alex Reyes put a ball in

play.

Hutch said, “It looks bigger from the inside, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Cody said, “it does.”

“Same dimensions as Santaluces, though,” Hutch said.

“Four hundred to dead center, 325 down the lines.”

“I didn’t notice,” Cody said. “But you would.”

Alex fouled one off, so Cody stayed where he was. “Maybe,”

he said to Hutch, “we should stretch this thing out to three

games just so’s we can get three games here.”

“How about we just focus on winning Game One?” Hutch

said.

“Okay, here we go with your ‘one game at a time’ crud,”

Cody said. “Blah blah blah.”

Hutch grinned at his friend. “Funny,” he said, “that’s all I

ever hear when you’re talking. Blah blah blah.”

Mr. Cullen was throwing BP, the way he normally did.

Only tonight it didn’t seem normal at all. Hutch could see

that their coach was as happy and excited as any of them to

be standing in the middle of this field tonight. Hutch watched

him, listened to his constant chatter, saw the smile on his

face, and wondered how many times in his life Mr. C had

pictured himself under the lights on a big-league field, trying

to throw fastballs past the world.

When it was finally time for Hutch to get his cuts, though,

even Mr. C’s best fastball wasn’t fast enough. Hutch was

155

on top of every pitch, hitting line drives to all parts of the

field.

Hutch could see Mr. Cullen, who had been bringing it with

everything he had, tiring. Doesn’t matter, Hutch thought. I’d

hit him even if he was throwing 100. That’s how well he was

seeing the ball. This is what it must feel like to be Darryl

every day.

“No bunt,” Mr. Cullen yelled in from the mound.

Hutch had taken the last of his cuts when Mr. Cullen

yelled to him, “One more.”

“How come?” Hutch said.

“Because I know I can get you out,” Mr. C said, grinning.

Hutch shook his head. “Not today,” he said. He didn’t

say it in a cocky way, or a trash-talky way, because he never

looked to show anybody up. Especially his own coach.

But he was the last batter of the day and he could tell this

was all for fun.

“Bring it then,” Hutch said.

Mr. C said, “I’m warning you, I’m gonna dial it up now.”

“Better dial 911 instead,” Hutch said.

He cocked his bat. Mr. C threw him one last fastball.

Hutch was sitting on this one the way he’d been sitting on the

rest of them. As soon as he connected he heard that amazing

sound he usually heard only from Darryl’s bat, the one that

was just different from everybody else’s on their team.

Or in their league.

At first, Hutch thought this one might actually have the

legs to get out of Roger Dean, especially when he saw Alex

Reyes give up on it out in right center. But the ball finally

156

landed on the warning track and one-hopped the wall over a

Dunkin’ Donuts sign.

And in that moment, Hutch was sure of something: He

was going to hit a ball like this over the weekend, with a game

on the line, or maybe even the whole series.

He didn’t know why he was so sure.

But he was.

157

21

HIS DAD WASN’T THERE WHEN HE GOT HOME. HIS MOM EXPLAINED

that a flight had been delayed coming into the West Palm

Beach airport and his dad would have to sit and wait for the

guy, some professional golfer, until he arrived.

But it didn’t change the menu. In honor of the finals starting the next night, Connie Hutchinson said, she was making Hutch one of his favorite Puerto Rican dinners: Asopao,

a thick gumbo that he loved, made with chicken, and al-

capurrias, fritters, on the side.

She sat with him while he devoured all of it, asking him

about Roger Dean, how practice had gone, wanting to know

how excited everybody was.

A mom line of questioning if there ever was one.

During the school year she wanted to know everything

that had happened to him during the day, every day. Hutch

sometimes thought that she had just finally given up on getting his dad to talk about anything, and had decided to turn

her full attention to Hutch and see if she could get him to

open up.

But she never mailed it in, or acted as if she were going

through the motions. She was genuinely interested in Hutch’s

158

answers, even when he thought he’d had a day that was duller

than homework.

Tonight was different, though, and they both knew it.

Hutch was pumped about having been on the field at Roger

Dean and gave her a play-by-play of pretty much the whole

practice.

“So we’re ready then, is that what I’m hearing?” his mom

said, smiling.

We.

Hearing that made Hutch smile. “Yeah, Mom, we’re

ready.”

“Things okay with you and Darryl?”

One more time when she acted as if she’d heard a comment Hutch hadn’t made, at least out loud.

“As good as they’re going to be,” he said.

“The old status quo,” she said.

“If that means they are what they are, yeah, the old status

quo,” Hutch said. “Like with me and Dad.”

“Honey,” she said, “you and your dad are just going

through a rough patch, is all.”

Hutch thought: Yeah, a rough patch that started around

fifth grade.

“Things will get better between the two of you,” Connie

Hutchinson said.

Hutch started to say something back, but just got up and

took his plate over to the sink instead.

“What?” his mom said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Might as well have.”

159

Hutch turned around. “Mom,” he said, “you know how

much I love you. But the only person who believes things are

going to get better between Dad and me is you.”

“Not true.”

“Totally true, Mom, and you know it. He wants to act like

we’re alike, at least when it comes to baseball. But we’re not.

We’re not anything alike, starting with how I’m not nearly as

good as he was.” He took a deep breath. “You want to know

what else is totally true? We don’t even have baseball in common, at least not anymore.”

She didn’t even try to bluff her way through with a smile.

She just gave Hutch the same sad look she’d give his dad

sometimes when she didn’t think anybody was watching.

“Your father might not be able to express it, but he loves

you very much and is very proud of you,” she said. “And he’ll

be rooting for you as hard as I will this weekend.”

“Right.”

“He will, honey.”

“He doesn’t even want to be around me most of the time,

even when he’s here.”

“Now you’re being silly.”

“No, I’m not. He’d probably be just as happy this weekend

doing what he does best now: carrying somebody’s bags.”

“You take that back, young man!” Connie Hutchinson

said.

Her voice seemed to explode out of nowhere in their tiny

kitchen, the way a radio would when you turned it on and the

volume was way too high.

Hutch didn’t even know if she realized she had gotten up

160

from the table. But she had, her hands pressed down hard

on the kitchen table, her face red.

“Mom—”

“Take it back.”

Hutch knew he had no choice. He said in a small voice,

“I take it back.”

“Take it back like you mean it,” she said. “Not because

I’m angry at you, or because you want to get out of here. Take

it back because it was a terrible thing to say and you ought

to be ashamed of yourself.”

Hutch said, “I’m sorry if it came out wrong. But that’s

what Dad does, isn’t it? He carries guys’ golf bags or he carries somebody’s bags when he takes them to the airport, or

picks them up, or whatever.”

He was trying to calm things down, but he could see just

by looking at his mom’s eyes that she was still breathing

hard, still on fire about this.

“You’re acting as if this is the worst thing I ever said about

anybody,” Hutch said.

“Maybe it was.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I can see that,” she said. “So maybe it’s time somebody

explained to you how much strength it takes to be your dad.

To carry everything around that he does.”

• • •

They sat in Hutch’s room.

No baseball on the radio now, the way there was almost

161

always baseball in this room at night. Just the sound of the

fan and some night noises from outside and music coming

from down the street somewhere.

Hutch’s mom sat on the swivel chair at his desk, surrounded by all the shortstops on his walls.

“Mom,” he said, “I didn’t mean for this to turn into such

a big deal.”

“Well, it did, whether you meant for that to happen or not.

And it is a big deal, whether you understand that or not.”

“I wasn’t trying to make fun of Dad, really I wasn’t.”

“No,” she said, “you were doing something worse, and it

wasn’t just tonight. I’ve sensed it for a long time. The only

difference tonight was that you finally put words to how you

feel about your father.”

“Feel what?”

He was sitting cross-legged on the middle of his bed, so

he could feel the breeze from the fan.

“Ashamed,” she said.

“No, I don’t!”

“I’m not saying it’s the only thing you feel about your father. I know you love him and it’s more clear than ever to me

how much you want his approval, and his support, when it

comes to your baseball. But I know you are ashamed that he

has to caddy for a living. And you’re wrong to feel that way,

as wrong as you’ve ever been about anything.”

It was funny, Hutch thought, how quiet it seemed in here

without baseball.

“He took me to Emerald Dunes,” Hutch said.

He could tell it surprised her.

162

“When?” she said.

“The other night, after Darryl and I went at it.”

“Nobody mentioned that to me.”

“I thought it was just between Dad and me,” Hutch said.

“We hardly ever share anything. I figured it was okay to share

a secret. If you could even call it that.”

His mom turned around in the chair and looked out the

window. “He took you there,” she said, almost as if she were

talking to herself now.

“Yeah,” Hutch said, “and he told me that’s where you end

up if you care too much about baseball.”

She turned back to Hutch. “He doesn’t want you to end

up there,” she said.

“But it’s okay for him?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s at peace there, that’s why,” she said, adding,

“even though I’m not sure he understands that himself.”

“Neither do I,” Hutch said.

“What he’s doing is good, honest work,” she said. “He’s

with good players most of the time, and when he helps them

play better, it’s a way for him to compete. He takes pride in it.

And he’s outdoors, not stuck behind some desk in an office,

which always drove him crazy.”

“When you put it like that—”

“Let me finish,” she said, holding up her hand. “He

makes good money during the season, when the tourists are

here, and does all right in the summers. When he puts that

money with what he makes at the driving service, we do all

163

right here. With a little help down the road, we’ll have enough

money to send you to college, whether you get the baseball

scholarship your father thinks you’re going to get or not.”

“He never told me he thinks I’m good enough for a baseball scholarship.”

“Because he doesn’t want to put pressure on you,” his

mom said. “He wants you to keep playing for the love of it,

not because it’s a means to an end. He lost that love along the

way, back when he became convinced that the only thing that

mattered was making the big leagues.”

This wasn’t the night, Hutch knew, to say anything to her

about the Hun School of Princeton, New Jersey.

Instead he sat there on his bed and wondered how come

he and his dad seemed to communicate better when his dad

wasn’t even in the room.

Or in the house.

His mom stood up now.

“Cut him some slack,” she said. “Your father’s a proud

man. If he thought working at that golf club was beneath him,

he wouldn’t do it. And he certainly wouldn’t go back there at

night the way he does when he wants to make peace with the

way his life turned out.”

His mother kissed Hutch on top of his head and left

him sitting on the bed. When the door was shut, he immediately put on the Marlins game, lay there in the dark

listening to it.

A half hour later, he heard his dad’s car in the driveway.

Much later, about the seventh inning, Hutch went downstairs to get some ice water and saw that the television in the

164

living room was still on, tuned to the Marlins station, and

that his father’s beer can was still on the table next to the

couch.

But his dad wasn’t there.

Hutch went outside, saw that his car wasn’t there, either.

At least tonight, Hutch thought, I know where he went.

He was wrong.

165

22

GAME DAY.

At last.

Normally Hutch would have passed the time with Cody,

trying to make the day go by faster, speeding everything

up the way you did when you skipped through the boring

parts of a movie on DVD. But today they could only hang

together until just after lunch because this turned out to be

the day Mrs. Hester had scheduled Cody to have his teeth

cleaned.

“A trip to the dentist’s right before the finals,” Cody said

as they were finishing their lunch at his house. “Dude, that

is just plain dirty.”

Dirty was one of Cody’s favorite catchall words. If a

pitcher threw a nasty pitch to get somebody out, the pitcher

was dirty. Or the pitch was. And it was good or bad depending on whether the pitcher was yours or not. So basically

there was good dirty and bad dirty.

In this case, having to go see the dentist on this particular

afternoon was bad dirty all the way.

“I have a feeling you’ll survive,” Hutch said.

“What if he finds a cavity?” Cody said. “What if I need a

166

filling? There’s a lot that could go wrong and then before you

know it, he’s reaching for the needle and the novocaine.”

Hutch reached over, patting him on the back. “Look at

it this way,” he said. “I’m almost positive novocaine isn’t on

baseball’s list of banned substances.”

A half hour later, Cody left to go to the dentist. He told

Hutch he could borrow his dad’s key to the batting cage at

Fallon Field if he wanted, but Hutch said no. He hadn’t done

that on the day of a game since the Cardinals’ season had

started and was superstitious enough, on game day especially, not to start doing that now; if he wanted extra hitting

and the series did go three games, maybe he’d go over to

Fallon on Sunday, an off day.

It was still only one in the afternoon. The game

didn’t start at Roger Dean until seven and the bus from

Santaluces didn’t leave until four-thirty. Hutch went to his

room and turned on the fan and lay down on his bed and

tried to think the happy thoughts his mom was always

telling him to think, trying to visualize all the good things

he wanted to happen against the Orlando Astros tonight.

Connie Hutchinson was big on visualizing and even bigger

on dreams, and chasing your dreams and achieving your

dreams. For as long as Hutch could remember, she had

been teaching him to visualize the way he wanted things to

work out in his life.

Hutch lay there, alone in the house in the afternoon,

closed his eyes, pictured line drives and diving plays in the

field and runs crossing the plate for the Cardinals.

What he couldn’t do was make the afternoon get out of

167

the way for tonight. Every time he’d look over at the clock on

his desk, it was as if the hands had barely moved.

The way the clock in your classroom wouldn’t move when

you wanted a class to end.

His mom was at work. His dad, he knew, was at Emerald

Dunes. There was no Marlins game for him to listen to on

the radio or even watch on TV if he wanted. He thought

about watching a movie on his computer, maybe the secondhand DVD of The Natural that he’d bought for himself

at Blockbuster and nearly worn out by now. But he knew he

wouldn’t be able to concentrate, not even on the good parts.

Not today.

So he came up with a better idea of something to watch,

a dream that he didn’t need to visualize because it would be

right there on his own television:

His game-winning home run against the Yankees.

Yeah, Hutch thought.

I’ll visualize the heck out of that.

It was when he came downstairs to get the cassette of the

Channel 12 sports report that he saw the scrapbooks on the

coffee table.

The ones of his dad’s baseball career that his mom had

lovingly put together.

Hutch couldn’t imagine that his dad had taken them out

to look at. So his mom must have had them out after everybody had gone to bed the night before.

The game stories out of the newspaper and the photographs had come from Grammy Hutchinson. Grammy hadn’t

been much at organization but she didn’t like to throw any168

thing out, either, and when they were going through her possessions after she’d died a couple of years ago, Hutch’s mom

had come across the big old box that had his dad’s baseball

career crammed into it.

Slowly, without telling anybody, Hutch’s mom had gone

to work on that box, finding stories from the Post that went

all the way back to when his dad had played Little League.

Finally she bought two beautiful leather albums, even though

his dad had said they were way too expensive for a bunch of

baseball games everybody had forgotten about.

“You haven’t forgotten those games,” she’d said to Hutch’s

dad. “And now neither will we.”

His dad, seeing how important this was to her, instantly

seeing how much work had gone into this gift, tried to act

pleased then, sitting on the couch and going through the pages

one by one, Hutch’s mom on one side of him and Hutch on the

other. But even that day, his dad sitting there with what had to

have been the best years of his life right there in his lap, Hutch

could see he was just going through the motions, acting the

way he thought Connie Hutchinson wanted him to act.

If it hurt his mom’s feelings, she didn’t let on.

“I love them,” he’d said when he got to the last page of the

second book, the one that had a picture of him signing his

first pro contract. “Thank you so much.”

Then he did something he hardly ever did when Hutch

was around. He kissed her.

It was the first and last time Hutch could remember him

opening those books. Hutch hadn’t opened them up again,

either.

169

Until today.

He sat there in the silent front room in the quiet house

in the middle of the day and looked at pictures of his dad in

the Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pennsylvania,

ones of him playing high school ball and holding up the state

high school championship plaque, ones of his dad in his own

American Legion uniform, so tight on him back in the day

that it looked to be a couple of sizes too small.

There was his dad scoring the winning run when Post

226 beat Jacksonsville in the finals, when he was fourteen

years old.

There was his dad, bat cocked, looking oh-so-serious, in

the fake baseball card somebody had made up for him when

he was a senior in high school.

Once Hutch opened the books up, it was as if he couldn’t

stop going through them. Maybe it was because his dad

looked happy on the pages of these books, happier than

Hutch ever saw him now.

He sat there on the couch and found himself wishing he

could have known that Carl Hutchinson, the one who loved

baseball this much once.

Too much, according to his dad.

Just once, Hutch wanted to see baseball make his dad

look this happy again.

No, Hutch thought, not just baseball.

Me .

• • •

170

A woman from the American Legion Tournament Committee

met them near the two palm trees outside Gate B a little after

five, walked them through the stands behind the first-base

dugout and around the picnic area before they finally came

to the building behind the right-field wall where the real Cardinals dressed for spring training games.

Once they were inside the clubhouse, they saw the lockers

for Albert Pujols and the rest of the team, saw where Tony La

Russa’s office was, felt the thick carpet under their feet.

Cody said, “I’m glad we’re getting to play out there,”

pointing back in the general direction of the field. “But I’m

pretty sure I want to live here. ”

Tommy O’Neill, who lived a couple of blocks away from

Santaluces in Lantana, said, “This room is bigger than my

whole house.”

“Yeah,” Chris Mahoney said, “but remember something:

Tonight it’s our house.”

Most of the guys had gotten on the bus already dressed

in their uniforms. Not Darryl. He had worn a T-shirt and

cutoff jeans and sandals, and was quietly changing into his

uniform now at Pujols’ locker. There was, Hutch noticed, no

wide-eyed wonder from Darryl about being in here, being on

the inside, any more than there had been the night before

when they’d first taken the big field for practice.

Darryl acted as if this was exactly where he was supposed

to be.

Hutch thinking: Cody and me and the rest of the guys, we

only dreamed about playing ball here someday.

171

Darryl expected to be here.

When Darryl had his spikes on and was good to go,

Hutch walked over to him, put out his hand. Darryl looked

up at him, waiting just long enough to make Hutch think he

was going to ignore the gesture, just leave him hanging. But

finally he reached up and casually gave Hutch a sideways

slap.

“Let’s do this,” Hutch said.

He didn’t expect them to suddenly be the best of friends

just because they were in the finals. Tonight Hutch just

wanted them to be the best teammates they could be.

Darryl just shrugged.

“I’m good,” he said.

To the end, it was as if D-Will were a baseball team all by

himself.

The guy’s consistent, Hutch thought.

You’ve got to give him that.

• • •

Hutch saw a television cameraman near the third-base dugout when the Cardinals took the field, saw him aiming his

camera and his TV light at two announcers in blazers, neither

one of whom Hutch recognized. Sometimes the announcers

would look at each other, sometimes straight into the camera, as if they couldn’t make up their minds.

“What can they possibly be talking about?” Hutch said.

“The game doesn’t start for another hour and a half.”

172

“Probably taping their standup,” Cody said, as the

Cardinals started to stretch in front of their dugout on the

first-base side.

“Their standup?” Hutch said.

“I’m not just your average jock,” Cody said in a smug way.

“I know things.”

They stretched and hit and took infield and now the minutes did start to fly by, until the Orlando players were being

introduced first, lining up along the third-base line the way

big leaguers did before Game 1 of the World Series. Hutch

was watching from behind the screen in the Cardinals’ dugout, taking it all in, noticing that by now a decent crowd had

filled in the seats on the other side of the field.

Hutch knew it would be mostly friends and family for

Orlando the way it would be for the Cardinals tonight, but

he didn’t care.

Inside his head, this baby was going to be standing room

only.

When the public address announcer finally called out his

name—“Batting third and playing second base for Post 226,

Number Two, Keith … ‘Hutch’ … Hutchinson” —he jogged

out to stand next to Mr. Cullen and Alex and Brett, slapped

them all five, turned and saw his parents and Cody’s parents

behind the first-base dugout, in front of a whole row of blue

Comcast signs.

Both Hutch’s mom and Cody’s started waving at him like

mad when they saw him look in their direction.

Hutch, trying to be cool, just nodded.

173

Then he caught his dad’s eye.

His dad nodded back.

He had made it in time.

He was here.

Like always, Hutch took what he could get.

174

23

TRIPP WAS THEIR STARTER FOR GAME 1, AGAINST THE ASTROS’

ace, a seventeen-year-old right-hander named Rod Brown.

There had been a story about him in that morning’s Post,

recalling the fact that he’d pitched a no-hitter in last year’s

final. The story also told how he had moved to Orlando from

Austin, Texas, a couple of years before, and how his hero was

Roger Clemens, another Texan.

He wore Clemens’ number, 22, and was known to his

teammates as “The Rocket.”

The story said that the scouts in attendance tonight were

primarily there to look at two players above all others:

The Rocket, and fourteen-year-old Darryl Williams.

“Nice write-up today,” Hutch had said to Darryl during

batting practice.

“ ’Bout time,” Darryl said. “Wait till you see what they

write at the end of tonight.”

But through the first three innings, it was Rocket Rod

Brown’s night.

By the time he struck out Cody to end the top of the

third—Orlando had won the coin flip before the game, making them home team tonight—it had been nine up and nine

175

down for the Cardinals, with The Rocket striking out five

guys already, including Hutch and Darryl.

The Rocket was everything they’d read about and heard

about.

And more.

“So that’s what a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball looks like,”

Cody said when he came back to the bench.

Brett said, “Don’t you mean sounds like? I never saw

the ball.”

Fortunately Tripp was matching The Rocket out for out, if

not strikeout for strikeout. So the game was 0–0 after three,

the only hit so far coming from Orlando’s leadoff man. Hutch

and Darryl had vaporized him on the very next pitch from

Tripp, on a 4-6-3 double play. Hutch flashed to his left to

keep the ball from going into right-field and giving Orlando

first and third, nobody out. He thought he might have to dive,

realized he wouldn’t have to, gloved the ball, spun around toward the outfield, and still managed to make a perfect throw

to Darryl, who snapped off a Rocket-like throw of his own to

get the runner at first by a step.

“That’s what I like to see,” Hutch said as he and Darryl

ran off the field together.

Darryl nodded toward the people sitting in the seats behind the home-plate screen and said, “That’s what the scouts

like to see, homes.”

Hutch doubled over first base with two outs in the fifth,

not trying to pull the ball, just making solid contact. Darryl

honed in with a runner in scoring position, doubled him

home, and the Cardinals had the first run of the game.

176

Then Hank Harding singled home Darryl and it was 2–0.

But Orlando came right back with two runs of their own

in the bottom of the inning, Tripp getting wild and walking

home one run and wild-pitching home another before getting

a pop-up to end the inning.

When they got back to the dugout, Mr. Cullen informed

Tripp that he was done for the night, explaining that if there

was going to be a Game 3 Monday night, if the series did go

the distance, he wanted Tripp to be as fresh as possible, even

with two days of rest.

“One more inning, Coach,” Tripp said. “Don’t let me end

my night with a sloppy inning like that.”

They were at the end of the dugout closest to the water

cooler. Mr. Cullen put his hands on both of Tripp’s shoulders

and said, “You know I was a pitcher myself once. So trust me

when I tell you something, kiddo: Nothing has ruined more

arms than guys thinking they had one more inning in them

when they didn’t. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Mr. C said, “Now you go play first base and let Mahoney

hold them until we get some runs and bring Pedro in to turn

out the lights in the ninth.”

The Rocket pitched one more inning than Tripp, through

the top of the sixth, seeming not to tire, striking out the last

three batters he faced: Cody, Alex, Tripp. All swinging. By

Hutch’s unofficial count that made it an even dozen strikeouts

for the game.

All the Cardinal players, wanting this guy out of there

as soon as possible, had noticed that Orlando had a new

177

pitcher warming up even while The Rocket worked the sixth.

But they weren’t positive he was out of the game until they

saw the new guy, a skinny right-hander, taking the mound for

the top of the seventh.

“Look at him,” Cody said. “I could use this guy to floss.”

Hutch said, “You’re assuming that they won all those

games and got here with just one stud pitcher?”

“There’s no way this new guy is as studly as the guy they

just took out,” Cody said.

“Don’t be so sure,” Hutch said, studying the new guy as

he warmed up.

Then he got his bat and went and stood in the on-deck

circle, because he was leading off the seventh.

Unfortunately, the closer Hutch got to the skinny kid, the

better he looked. Even though he had an easy motion, pausing a little at the top, the ball just exploded out of his hand,

the way the ball exploded off Darryl’s bat even though he had

that smooth swing. Hutch also noticed that the new guy had

long fingers, always dangerous for a good pitcher, not just

because they helped put more spin on the ball, but also because Hutch believed they could hold on to it a split second

longer, generating more force and movement on it.

The public address announcer said his name was Julio

Ortiz.

Julio threw two letter-high fastballs to start Hutch off,

both of which he fouled off. The next two fastballs were just

off the plate, Julio trying to get Hutch to strike himself out,

Hutch being patient, not playing along.

Two-two.

178

Hutch tried to think along with the pitcher now, the way

he always did, especially late in the game. He knew Julio

didn’t want to walk the leadoff man, not with Darryl waiting

there on deck. And Julio probably didn’t even want to go

to a full count, put pressure on himself to have to throw a

strike.

It meant that the next pitch might be the best one Hutch

was going to see in this at-bat.

Had to be the fastball again. Julio hadn’t thrown a

single breaking ball yet and Hutch couldn’t imagine him

messing around with junk—if he had any—and risk hanging one now.

Hutch dug in, having processed all that in a few seconds,

the way he could on a baseball field, in almost all situations,

and dug in, thinking fastball all the way.

Julio threw him what looked like a fastball, what should

have been another fastball, but what turned out to be the

nastiest, dirtiest split-fingered fastball he had seen from any

American Legion pitcher all season, which meant that it was

the dirtiest splitter anybody had thrown him in his life.

The ball ended up in the dirt in front of the Orlando

catcher, but it didn’t matter because Hutch had swung right

through the pitch. Forget about it, no chance.

As the Orlando catcher came out of his crouch to throw

the ball down to his third baseman, Hutch said, “How much

did that thing break?”

The kid lifted his mask, turned his head away from

Hutch, grinned, and spat. “Enough,” he said.

Hutch didn’t just feel bad about striking out, he felt bad

179

about looking as bad as he knew he did striking out. And

then he felt even worse about everything when Darryl—who’d

obviously been paying close attention to old Julio from the

on-deck circle—went the other way with the first splitter he

saw, hitting a bullet into the right-field corner. When Hutch

saw where the ball landed, he thought it would be a triple

for sure. But Darryl, slowing down to check where the right

fielder was with the ball, tripped over second base and nearly

went down, and had to settle for a double.

Hutch thought: It would have been an RBI double if I

hadn’t been up there like I was swinging the wrong end of

the bat.

Darryl made it to third when Hank Harding grounded out

to second, but stayed there when Chris ended the inning by

flying out to short left.

Game still tied, 2–2.

Stayed that way through the bottom of the seventh and

through the top of the eighth. Before they took the field for

the bottom of the eighth, Mr. Cullen had them collect at the

home-plate end of the dugout, leaned against the screen to

talk to all of them.

“Now we know we can play with these guys,” he said. “All

that’s left is for us to beat them.”

Chris Mahoney was still pitching. “I got this, Coach,” he

said.

Hutch said, “And we got you.”

Then he said to everybody what he’d said to Darryl in the

clubhouse:

“Let’s do this.”

180

When Hutch got out to second base, he looked around

Roger Dean. He had been doing it all game long, just about

every time there was any kind of break in the action. Checked

out where his parents were still seated. Looked in behind

home plate, trying to figure out which ones the scouts were.

Not that he’d given them much to scout so far tonight, other

than that one play in the first.

He turned around then, gave a quick look to the outfield,

saw some younger kids out there on The Berm, watching this

game from where Hutch and Cody had watched big leaguers

play in the spring.

When he turned back around, watched Chris take his

final warmup pitches, Hutch suddenly found himself hearing something Mr. Cullen would say on the bench during a

close game:

“It hasn’t happened yet. ”

He said it all the time in close games, and it always meant

the same thing, that the play or the pitch or moment that

would decide the game still hadn’t happened.

In Hutch’s mind now it just meant that the best of the

night was yet to come.

Chris pitched a scoreless eighth for the Cardinals. Julio

Ortiz did the same for Orlando in the top of the ninth. By then

Pedro was warmed up and good to go, even in a tie game, ready

to face the middle of the Orlando order. Usually Pedro was in

there if they had the lead. Tonight he was supposed to keep the

game tied and, somehow, get them to the top of the tenth.

On his way out to right field Cody veered off and came

over to where Hutch was standing near the second base bag.

181

Cody said, “Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Do something great.”

“Got it.”

Pedro walked the No. 3 hitter to start the inning. It was

not the way any of the Cardinals wanted to start the bottom

of the ninth—putting the potential winning run on base.

Hutch didn’t think the Astros would sacrifice with their

cleanup guy, a lefty power hitter who played first, even if the

guy on first—their center fielder—had great speed. But he

was wrong. The sucker laid down a perfect bunt between

Brett and Tripp, the ball rolling along the first-base line and

nearly coming to a stop before Tripp grabbed it.

His only play was to turn and throw to Hutch covering

first.

Winning run on second now, one out.

The No. 5 hitter hit the first pitch he saw from Pedro

Mota down the right-field line, and when it came off his bat,

Hutch was worried that it might be too far away from Cody

for him to catch up with it. Cody could catch anything he

could get to, but he wasn’t fast and didn’t get the greatest

jump in the world, not even during batting practice.

Tonight he got a great jump, ran down the ball, and

caught it in stride about five feet from the line.

Two outs now, but the runner on second had tagged and

gone to third.

Hutch ran in to the mound, grinned at Pedro, and said,

“You know our deal, right?”

“Get this guy to hit it to you?”

182

“There you go.”

The Orlando catcher was built like a tree stump and

Hutch knew by now that he had a short, dangerous, compact

swing. He’d nearly driven one over Alex’s head—not so easy

to do—in the second.

But Pedro did as he was told, got the catcher to hit it to

Hutch on a 1-2 pitch, throwing the kid a sinker of his own

that was good enough—dirty enough—to have come spinning

out of Julio’s long fingers.

The best the kid could do was hit a high chopper toward

Hutch at second.

Hutch knew the catcher had no speed, that he didn’t have

to charge the ball, that he could just wait on it.

The way the ball was bouncing, he didn’t even need to use

the old board move.

Until he did.

Until the ball hit the lip of the infield grass and went skidding across the dirt at a whole new speed, before Hutch had

time to adjust and get his glove down in time.

The glove wasn’t low enough and neither was he.

So he never even touched the ball as it rolled under his

glove, through his legs, and toward Cody in right field as the

No. 3 hitter for Orlando crossed home plate with the run that

gave his team Game 1.

183

24

HUTCH DIDN’T MOVE AFTER THE GUY CROSSED THE PLATE.

He had made errors before; every kid his age made errors. Just never like this.

He had never lost a game all by himself like this.

They called it a walk-off home run when one swing ended

a game in the bottom of the ninth. What did you call this—a

walk-off E-4?

It was the biggest game he had ever played in his life, and

it had ended on a nothing ball like that, going right through

the wickets the way that ball had gone through Bill Buckner’s

legs in the World Series in 1986 against the Mets.

Now Hutch was Buckner, frozen in place between first

and second at Roger Dean as the Orlando kids celebrated at

home plate. He looked around at his teammates. Pedro Mota

was finally walking off the mound, trying his best to avoid

the celebration. Brett was already in the dugout, taking off

his catcher’s equipment so he wouldn’t have to wear it on the

long walk to the Cardinals’ clubhouse out in right field.

Mr. Cullen just sat by himself at the end of the bench,

staring out at home plate, watching the Orlando kids pound

on each other like the series was already over.

184

Hutch didn’t even want to look into the stands where his

parents had been sitting with the Hesters, didn’t even want

to make eye contact with his dad.

Instead he just put his head down, staying right where

he was, kneeling now in the soft infield dirt that was almost

reddish in color, like a clay tennis court. That was where he

was when he heard Cody’s voice behind him, felt his friend’s

hand on his shoulder.

“C’mon,” Cody said. “Let’s bounce.”

Hutch still didn’t move.

“Codes,” he said, “I make that play in my sleep.”

“I saw the whole thing,” Cody said. “I’m a second baseman, right? I saw how the ball stayed down on you.”

“Now we’re down a game, all because of me.”

“Down but not out,” Cody said. “So get up.”

When Hutch still didn’t move, Cody grabbed his arm and

pulled him up and then the two of them were walking back

toward right field together. Like always. Like they were walking something off. When they were nearly to the open gate in

the outfield fence, a guy in a Sun Sports blazer who looked

young enough to be one of their teammates got in front of

them. He had a microphone in his hand and a cameraman

with him.

All Hutch had been thinking about was how he’d let his

team down. He’d forgotten, for the moment, that the game

had actually been televised.

“Tim Fox,” the guy in the blazer said to Hutch. “Sun

Sports.”

“I can see that,” Hutch said.

185

“Ask you a couple of questions?”

Cody leaned in and whispered, “You’re allowed to say no.”

Hutch turned to Cody. “I let them talk to me on TV when

I hit that home run.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Cody said.

“Yeah, I do,” Hutch said. “I’m captain of the team.”

He turned back to Tim Fox of Sun Sports and said, “Go

ahead.”

“How does it feel to lose Game One on a play like that?”

Tim Fox said.

Hutch said, “I feel bad any time I make an error. I just

feel worse tonight because I let my team down on such a

bonehead play.”

“What happened?” Tim Fox said. “When it came off the

bat, it looked like you guys were headed for extra innings.”

“I forgot the first thing my dad ever taught me in baseball,” Hutch said. “To put my glove down.”

Tim Fox thanked him and he and his cameraman ran toward the Orlando side of the field, done with the losers now.

Hutch and Cody kept walking, past the thick yellow foul pole

that had Metro PCS written on it, the letters running from

top to bottom, through the gate, toward the clubhouse.

All season long Hutch had told himself he was still a

shortstop, that nothing had changed, that he really wasn’t a

second baseman.

Well, tonight he’d proved it.

He wasn’t a second baseman.

• • •

186

Mr. Cullen gave them a quick talk when they were back inside

the clubhouse, reminding them of something he told them a

lot, that the last play was never the only one that decided a

game in sports, win or lose.

Even if a guy hit a grand slam in the last inning, he said, a

lot of other things had to happen to get those bases loaded.

He wasn’t talking to the team now and they all knew it.

He was talking to Hutch, obviously under the impression

that anything he said in here was going to make Hutch feel

better.

As if anything anybody said was going to make him feel

better between now and the start of Game 2, which felt about

a hundred years away.

“I’m a Mets fan,” Mr. Cullen said, grinning, trying as hard

as he could to lighten the mood. “All you Yankee fans on our

team know that. And Mets fans never forget Bill Buckner

letting the ball roll through his legs in the ’86 Series. But if

you’ve ever seen the end of that game on one of those classics

shows, you know how many other things had to go wrong for

the Red Sox before Mookie Wilson dribbed that ball down

the line.”

Hutch wondered where he was going with this, thinking:

All I want to do is go home.

“But before we go, I want to tell you about Game One of

that Series, which only I remember,” Mr. C said. “The Red

Sox won that game. The score was 1–0. And you know how

they got their run? On an error by the Mets second baseman,

Tim Teufel.”

Boy, Hutch thought, I feel so much better already.

187

“The Mets didn’t let one play cost them their World Series,

and we’re not going to let one play cost us ours,” Mr. Cullen

said.

Then he told them to get their stuff together and start

heading for the bus, it was time to call it a night.

Before long, Hutch and Cody were the only two players

left in the clubhouse, in front of the last two lockers next to

Tony La Russa’s office.

The door opened and they saw Mr. C standing there,

hands on hips.

“When I said ‘start heading for the bus,’” he said, “what

did you two hear me saying?”

Mr. C ran ahead of them, saying he was going to check the

dugout one last time, make sure nobody had left anything.

Hutch and Cody walked back through the gate in right, back

across the outfield grass toward home. It was the same field

it had been a few hours ago. Same dimensions: 400 to center,

325 down the lines.

It just looked different now.

When they got to the infield, Hutch said, “Maybe I should

just dig myself a hole right here.”

“Awesome idea,” Cody said. “That way you could do what

you want to do, and feel even lower than dirt.”

“Codes,” Hutch said, “you’ve played with me pretty much

our whole lives, right?”

“Longer.”

“You ever see me do anything like that in a big spot?”

“No.”

“So why did I have to do it tonight of all nights?”

188

Cody stopped near the pitcher’s mound. They were facing

the dugout, where Mr. Cullen had come up with somebody’s

bat, and a batting helmet. They heard him saying, “Like picking up after my own kids.”

In a quiet voice, so Mr. Cullen wouldn’t hear, Cody said,

“I’m gonna say this, and then we’re not talking about this the

rest of the night and I’m gonna make sure you stop feeling

so sorry for yourself: It happened to you because it happens to everybody sooner or later, even if they’ve spent their

whole career feeling like Captain Hero. Because we watched

that World Series where the Tigers pitchers kept making errors on the simplest plays in the world. Because one of your

Yankee heroes, Mo Rivera, probably the greatest closer in the

history of the game, threw a simple ball away in Game Seven

one time and the Yankees blew a whole World Series in the

bottom of the ninth.”

Mr. Cullen said, “Really, guys, we need for this night to

be over now.”

“Just one more sec, Coach,” Cody said to him. To Hutch

he said, “What do you always tell me when I ask you why

some game ended in some weird way?”

In a voice even quieter than Cody’s on the empty field,

Hutch said, “I tell you that it’s baseball.”

“Baseball happened tonight,” Cody said. “And I promise,

baseball will be better tomorrow.”

The bus was waiting for them near Gate B, everybody

else on board by now, the engine running. Mr. Cullen got

in ahead of them and took his usual seat in the first row.

Darryl was alone in the seat behind him, slouched down,

189

cap pulled down low. Good, Hutch thought. He didn’t even

want to make eye contact with Darryl right now, knowing

that Darryl wouldn’t even have to say a word to him, he could

probably lay him out with one mean look.

Hutch thought about going all the way to the last row,

sitting back there alone, even though he knew Cody wouldn’t

let him. But the last row was taken and so was the one in

front of it, so Hutch grabbed the first empty window seat, on

the ballpark side of the bus, took one last look at the lights

of Roger Dean on this night, the night Mr. C said he wanted

to be over now.

Not as much as I do, Hutch thought.

Cody sat down next to him, even though there were two

empty seats across the aisle. In a voice just above a whisper

he said, “I said all I’m going to say.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Codes,” Hutch said. “But

good.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

The bus pulled away from the Stadium, went past the

Florida Atlantic sign, took a right on Donald Ross, then the

left that put them on 95 South. There were guys talking, but

they were all keeping their voices down. Usually there would

be a lot of noise on the bus, even after they lost a game, the

guys using jokes and laughter and insults to start putting the

loss behind them.

Not tonight.

Hutch kept staring out his window. Even when the

Cardinals did lose, there was something about the ride home,

having the guys all around you, that made the game hurt less.

190

There was the feeling that it hadn’t just happened to one of

them, it had happened to all of them. And it was just another

thing that Hutch loved about sports, being a part of a team,

being a part of something, that people who’d never been on

a team couldn’t understand.

It just didn’t feel that way tonight.

Tonight it was as if it had only happened to him, as if the

rest of the guys had won and he’d lost, all by himself.

It was then that Cody Hester stood up.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ve got a question.”

Cody’s voice was always loud. Tonight, because the bus

was so quiet, quieter than it had ever been, his voice sounded

much, much louder.

“It’s about the end of tonight’s contest,” Cody said.

“Cody,” Hutch said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Please don’t.”

Cody held up a hand to him. Like, not to worry.

“What do you think was worse?” Cody said. “Hutch’s

error, or … Spider-Man 3?”

“Spidey,” Brett said. “No doubt. Too many bad guys.”

“Okay, then,” Cody said, “and moving right along.”

Sounding like one of those peppy game show hosts. “Hutch’s

error, or … that time we lost the Internet for a whole week

because of the hurricane?”

“Not even close!” Hank yelled from the back. “No IM-ing

for a whole week? It was like being in jail, dude.”

Suddenly, everybody was calling out suggestions on stuff

they thought was worse than Hutch’s error. Hutch or the

Marlins trading away all their good players the season after

191

they’d won the World Series. Hutch or Season 6 of 24, which

prompted Cody to say, “Hey, watch it now.”

Hutch’s error or the creepy guy with the octopus face in

the last two Pirates movies.

And now the bus was filled with noise, and would be all

the way to Santaluces. Cody didn’t sit back down, holding

on to one of the overhead straps, until the ride was about to

end and they were pulling into the school parking lot across

from Field No. 1.

“See,” he said to Hutch. “It wasn’t the worst thing of all

time. And if it does turn out to be the worst thing that ever

happens to you, look on the bright side: It just means that

the worst thing that is ever going to happen to you has already happened!”

“Codes,” Hutch said, “you are truly certifiable. And the

best friend anybody has ever had in the history of the known

universe.”

The bus doors opened and the Cardinals filtered out.

Hutch and Cody stayed put, thinking they were the last two

guys to leave. They weren’t.

Darryl was still in his seat.

Cody made a motion with his hand, like asking him if he

wanted to go ahead of him down the steps, but Darryl slowly

shook his head.

Once Cody was gone, it was just Hutch and Darryl on the

bus, the driver having gotten up to open the luggage hatch.

Great, Hutch thought, he’s been waiting for me.

It wasn’t enough that Hutch had been beating himself up

since the game had ended. Now it was Darryl’s turn to weigh in.

192

He still wasn’t making any move to get up, was still leaning back against his window, his bare feet up on the seat next

to him.

“Hey,” he said.

“There’s nothing you can say about the play I haven’t been

saying to myself,” Hutch said. “I messed up big-time.”

Darryl said, “Don’t want to talk about the play. Ugly as

it was.”

“Thanks a lot,” Hutch said.

“I just want to tell you one thing: We’re still winnin’ this.

You got it?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said.

“Don’t say it ’less you mean it.”

“Oh,” Hutch said, “don’t worry, I mean it.”

For the first time, Darryl extended his hand first to Hutch,

in the form of a fist. Hutch gave him some back.

“Let’s do this,” Darryl said.

He didn’t wait for a reply, just got up, stretched like a cat,

a very cool cat, and walked down the steps.

193

25

HUTCH WAS ON HIS BED IN HIS ROOM, LISTENING TO THE MARLINSDodgers game from Los Angeles, when he looked up and saw

his dad standing in his doorway.

His dad never came up here at night when Hutch was

listening to baseball on the radio. Hutch had never thought

about it before, but it was as if this was his private place for

Marlins games, the way the living room was for his dad.

Maybe without knowing it, Hutch had put up a force field

of his own, just without the beer can.

“Hey,” his dad said.

“Hey.”

“Your mom asked me … ” Carl Hutchinson began.

Even now, he had to be himself, not even act as if it had

been his own idea to come up here.

“I get it, Dad.”

“She thought you might want to talk, or whatever.”

Tonight, Hutch thought. Tonight he wants to have another heart-to-heart talk. First he wants to do it when I get

suspended, now when I feel even worse.

Yeah, Hutch thought, good times.

“Dad, I’m all talked out,” he said. “But thanks for asking.”

194

His dad stood there, as if waiting for Hutch to say something else. Or just tell him it was okay to go back downstairs

and watch the game by himself, which was what Hutch was

sure he really wanted to do.

“I played the game,” his dad said in a soft voice.

Hutch sighed, the sound louder than he meant. “I know

you played, Dad,” he said. “Before the game, I was even looking through those scrapbooks Mom made for you. So I know

you played, and I know how well you played, which is a lot

better than I ever will.”

It was as if his dad wasn’t even listening, as if he were

somewhere else. “I know what it’s like,” he said. “To lose.”

Hutch sat up. “Not like this,” he said.

He was suddenly very tired. Tired of talking about the

game. Tired of even thinking about it.

“You’ll get another chance tomorrow night to make up for

it,” his dad said.

There was a long pause from across the room and then

his dad said, “Everybody deserves a second chance.”

Yeah, Hutch thought, they do.

Just not tonight.

Then he rolled over on the bed, his back to his dad, and

said good night.

• • •

Connie Hutchinson called Mr. Cullen in the morning and

asked if she could take Hutch and Cody over to Roger Dean

a little earlier than the bus was supposed to bring them, and

195

he said it was fine with him, both the field and the clubhouse

would be open by four.

Hutch and Cody didn’t even bother going out to the clubhouse. They went straight to the field in T-shirts and shorts

and spikes, hoping nobody else would be out there this early.

And nobody was. But the infield had already been dragged,

looked so new and clean Hutch almost felt bad about messing it up.

Of course, he’d done that the night before.

It was why he had work to do.

He went out to second and Cody went to home plate and

started hitting him one ground ball after another, the ball

against Cody’s bat sounding even sweeter than normal because this was a big-league park and they had it all to themselves, the way they would when they’d get to Santaluces or

Caloosa early for a game.

“We couldn’t stay home and do this and take the bus

along with everybody else?” Cody yelled out to him.

“If I’d known the field better,” Hutch said, “maybe I would

have been more careful on that ball.”

Cody said, “Yeah, you’re right, bad hops probably only

happen here. I’m surprised that hasn’t gotten out.”

Hutch said, “Shut up and hit.”

“Is that any way to talk to your best friend who’s standing

out here in the middle of a hot oven feeding you balls like

he’s one of those ball machines in tennis?”

“Sorry,” Hutch said. “I meant to say: Please shut up and hit.”

“That’s better.”

Hutch didn’t miss one ball from the time they started

196

until he saw the rest of the guys filing in behind the first-base

dugout and down the aisle to the field. None of the Cardinals

even acted surprised to see him and Cody out there, having

their own two-man infield.

The only person who said anything was Darryl, Darryl

with his cap turned around backward even though he knew

Mr. Cullen hated that, and wearing some new cool shades

Hutch hadn’t seen before.

“The two of you come here straight from breakfast?”

Darryl said.

He didn’t wait for an answer from either one of them, just

walked casually toward the right-field fence.

• • •

Orlando got two runs in the first off Paul Garner.

Then they got two more in the second.

So it was 4–0 when Mr. C came out to talk to Paul, runners on second and third, still just one out. Hutch thought he

might pull Paul, even if that would mean bringing in Tommy

O’Neill, who hadn’t pitched an inning since the semis of the

county tournament.

But all their coach did was pat Paul on the butt and say

something that got a smile out of him. Sometimes that was

all he was out there for, to get a smile from a pitcher in trouble, and wouldn’t leave the mound until he did.

Before he crossed back over the baseline, Mr. C brought

the infield in, meaning they weren’t going to trade an out for

a run here. They would try to hold things at 4–0.

197

What they wanted here was a ground ball to Darryl or

Hutch. But Hutch knew that was going to be easier said than

done because Paul had been up with his pitches from the

start.

Not now.

He finally put some late break on his first pitch to

Orlando’s No. 2 hitter, who put a good swing on the ball and

blistered a one-hopper hard right at Hutch.

The ball was on Hutch so quickly he felt like a hockey

goalie, dropping to his knees to make sure the ball didn’t go

through him because nothing was going through him tonight,

gloving the ball cleanly, transferring it to his throwing hand

in one clean move.

The kid on third, who’d taken off on contact, decided to

test Hutch.

Maybe he just wanted to put more pressure on the second baseman who’d lost last night’s game for his team. Or

maybe he didn’t know this particular second baseman had

a shortstop’s arm.

Whatever.

From his knees Hutch sidearmed a perfect throw to Brett,

who had the plate completely blocked with his left leg. The

kid coming from third had about as much of a chance of getting through Brett as he did beating Hutch’s throw.

Yes! Hutch whispered to himself.

Two outs.

When Orlando’s No. 3 hitter lined out to Alex in short

center, the Cardinals were out of the inning, feeling much

better than they had a right to, down four runs already.

198

“You wait and see,” Mr. Cullen said when Hutch came

down the dugout steps with the rest of the guys, all of them

making a good baseball clatter on the wooden floor. “You just

turned this sucker around.”

“When we get some runs,” Hutch said.

“You seem better today,” Mr. C said.

“Having a game to play always makes me feel better,”

Hutch said.

The Orlando starter, a right-hander, wasn’t a hard

thrower like The Rocket, and had this herky-jerky delivery,

snapping his head toward first base as he delivered the ball,

not even looking at his target. He wasn’t a submariner, his release point was higher than that. But he was definitely coming hard from the side, and first time up Hutch had trouble

picking up the ball as it was released. He’d wound up lining

weakly to second base.

He promised himself that he wasn’t going to be late with

his swing next time up. And he wasn’t. With two outs, Cody

on second, and Alex on first in the bottom of the third, Hutch

worked the count full after taking five straight pitches. Hadn’t

taken the bat off his shoulder because he wasn’t doing that

until he felt like he got a good look at the ball.

He did so on the 3-2 pitch. It wasn’t the best swing of his

life, but he hung in there even though the guy dropped down

a little more than he had and the ball seemed to come at

Hutch out of the third base coach’s box. Hung in and hooked

one over the third baseman’s head, the ball landing about

two feet fair, rolling from there into the corner before the left

fielder finally caught up with it.

199

Cody, off with the pitch, scored easily from second. No

chance at him. But the Orlando shortstop thought he had a

chance at Alex, which meant that he hadn’t been paying much

attention to the way Alex Reyes could run the last two nights.

Alex beat the shortstop’s relay in a breeze, sliding home just

for the fun of it, Hutch taking third on the play.

Then Darryl lined one up the middle that nearly spun

the pitcher’s cap around on his head, and just like that the

game was 4–3.

Now it really was what Mr. C had said:

Brand new ball game.

200

26

PAUL PITCHED HIMSELF OUT OF BASES-LOADED TROUBLE IN THE

fourth and kept the game at 4–3, then the bottom half of the

Cardinals batting order started a small rally in their half of

the inning, Cody finally doubling home Tripp and Tommy to

give them a 5–4 lead.

Hutch looked out at Cody, clapping his hands at second

base, the front of his uniform covered with dirt after his

headfirst slide in there, and decided it was as fired up as

he’d ever seen his friend on a ball field. Cody had gotten his

biggest hit of the season, it had put them ahead, and best of

all, he’d done it here. Here at Roger Dean, here in their World

Series, here in a game they had to win.

Though neither Alex nor Brett could bring Cody home,

the Cardinals had their first lead of the game despite starting

out in that 4–0 hole. When Cody came off the field, Hutch was

waiting for him with his cap and his glove.

“Now that,” Hutch said, “that hit was dirty.”

Cody grinned at Hutch, took his cap from him, took the

glove, looked around Roger Dean as if he were seeing it for

the first time, and said, “Dude, that was mud. ”

Orlando tied them in the sixth, the big hit coming off the

201

bat of Rocket Rod Brown, playing first base tonight. Paul left

The Rocket stranded on third base but he was pitched out

now, even though Hutch knew Mr. Cullen had wanted him to

go a little deeper into the game.

The question now was who Mr. C would bring in to replace him. If they won tonight, there was going to be another

game to play, and more relief pitchers to use, on Monday. But

that didn’t matter if they didn’t win tonight.

He made his decision. When they were all in the dugout,

Mr. C went over to Chris and said, “That rubber arm of yours

got a couple more innings in it?”

Chris frowned like he was thinking it over, rubbed his

shoulder with his left hand, and said, “I guess it feels fine,

Coach. But you sure you want to waste me in a meaningless

game like this?”

“I’ll take that as a yes, wise guy.”

“Oh yes!” Chris Mahoney said. “Tell Orlando to bring it

on with their own bad selves.”

Orlando made a pitching change of their own in the bottom of the sixth, bringing in a lefty. He was as tall as Rocket

Brown but a whole lot wider, reminding Hutch of C. C.

Sabathia, the double-wide who pitched for the Indians. The

lefty showed you a lot of motion, so much that it was almost

as if there was a little delay, like somebody had hit the pause

button, right before he released the ball.

He was wild at first, walking both Hutch and Darryl to

start the Cardinals’ sixth, but then Hank bounced into a double play and Chris struck out and Game 2 was still tied.

Three innings left, unless they were still tied after nine.

202

It was different for Orlando, though, because they had that

game in hand. The Cardinals had to win. Every pitch now,

every hit or out in the game could be the game. Before the

night was over, somebody was going to get the chance to make

one of those swings—a scrapbook swing, Hutch thought—

he’d remember for the rest of his life. Or maybe somebody

would make the kind of error Hutch had made at the end

of Game 1, remember that for as long as he played ball. Or

even longer.

Hutch remembered Mr. Cullen’s words to him the night

he was suspended. “It hasn’t happened yet.” As he stood out

near second waiting for Chris Mahoney to finish his warm up

pitches, he thought: This is why you play.

It was everything. The stakes, the setting, playing to keep

playing. All of that. But somehow it was even more than

that. In a game like this, you knew what all your sports

heroes knew. You had the same nerves, the same concentration, the same … fierceness to find a way to win the game.

Somewhere tonight, Hutch knew, Jeter and the Yankees

were playing a game, and even though it wasn’t the playoffs

for them, at least not yet, maybe it was a close game. Maybe

the thing that was going to decide their game hadn’t happened yet.

It made Hutch smile, knowing that wherever Jeter was,

he couldn’t possibly be into his game any more than Hutch

was into this one at Roger Dean.

In that way, they were the same tonight.

Chris pitched a scoreless seventh. Orlando’s doublewide used all his deception and off-speed stuff to go through

203

Tripp, Tommy and Cody after walking Paul to start the bottom of the seventh.

Two more innings to go. There was some kind of ending coming. Nobody knew what it was. Chris Mahoney

breezed through the top of the Orlando order in the top of

the eighth, looking as fresh as the first game of the season.

If the Cardinals could just push across one lousy run, Mr. C

could give the ball to Pedro Mota and he could pitch them to

Monday night.

In the dugout, Darryl got up and walked all the way down

from where he was sitting to where Hutch was sitting by himself near the bat rack.

“Gonna have to be you or me,” Darryl said.

Hutch said, “We’ve got a lot of guys who can get us a

knock when we need one.” Not because he thought the other

guys might be able to overhear, but because he meant it.

“Yeah, but it’s not their job, homes,” Darryl said. “It’s

ours.”

Saying it matter-of-factly.

Like they were equals.

Darryl reached for where he’d left his batting helmet, on

the top shelf of the bat rack. Hutch’s helmet was so old and

nicked up, it was as if a truck had run over it. Darryl’s, even

this close to the end of the season, looked as if somebody

had just spit-shined it.

“It’s on us,” he said, “and everyone on this team knows it,

whether they’d say it or not.”

Hutch knew Darryl was right. Maybe you couldn’t be as

good as Darryl was without knowing it, without knowing who

204

wanted to be up there in a big spot and who didn’t. Even after

last night, even after letting that ball go right through him,

Hutch knew he wasn’t afraid. He wanted to be up in this inning and when he got out on the field, he still wanted the ball

coming to him.

Alex Reyes grounded out to second. But then their third

baseman booted a routine grounder from Brett like he was

a World Cup soccer player, booted it all the way into foul

territory. And when the kid pouted for a second rather than

starting to chase after it right away, Brett kept right on going

after he rounded first and beat the throw to second with a

sweet hook slide.

So they had the go-ahead run, maybe the winning run, on

second with one out.

Ever since last night, everybody in Hutch’s world had

been telling him pretty much the same thing: Get them tomorrow. Well, here it was, this at-bat. Hutch figured he had

waited long enough to square things. So he didn’t wait past

the first pitch he saw from the lefty. He jumped on a fat, hanging curve and hit it so hard to left that it was almost over the

left fielder’s head before he made a move on it. Brett could

have walked home. It was 6–5, Hutch on second. Darryl singled him home on the first pitch he saw. 7–5. The inning

ended that way.

Three outs from Monday night.

That close.

Except the game wasn’t even close to being over.

• • •

205

Game in and game out, Pedro Mota was the most consistent

guy on their team, the one who never seemed to get rattled,

the one who clearly loved to be out there in close games.

He picked tonight to lose his fastball.

He wasn’t throwing it as hard as he usually did, Hutch

could see after a couple of pitches, and he couldn’t locate it.

And when both of those things happened to you at once, it

didn’t matter what league you were pitching in or what your

numbers were, you were going to get rocked.

Pedro was getting rocked.

Orlando’s first batter, their right fielder, doubled between

Alex and Cody, to the Dunkin’ Donuts sign in right center.

The next guy drilled one right over first that looked like it

might fall in the right-field corner for a double, but Tripp

made an amazing play, diving to his left, not just getting his

glove on the ball but holding on to it after hitting the ground

hard.

Hard out, Hutch thought, in all ways.

Then, the Orlando center fielder, a switch-hitter, hit

a hard grounder up the middle that neither Hutch nor

Darryl had a chance at, and the guy from second scored

easily. Just like that, still just one out, their lead was a

single run, 7–6.

Hutch looked into the dugout at Mr. C, as if knowing his

coach wanted him to look in there. Mr. C made a talking

motion with his hand. Hutch called time and took his time

walking to the mound to talk to Pedro.

“Don’t try that Mr. C crap and try to get me to smile,”

Pedro said. “’Cause I ain’t smiling.”

206

“Take a look around,” Hutch said. “No one is.”

“I can’t get the stupid ball to do what I want it to do,”

Pedro said, slamming down the rosin bag.

Hutch just stared at him, not saying anything.

“What?” Pedro said, as the home plate umpire took his

mask off and came strolling toward them.

Hutch reached over, took the ball from Pedro, took his

own glove off so he could rub it up hard, then slapped it back

into the pocket of Pedro’s glove.

“You’re not giving up this lead,” Hutch said. “And we’re

not losing this game. So suck it up and start making the ball

do what you want it to.”

Sometimes you had to take a different approach.

His little speech to their closer helped for exactly one batter, the left fielder, who hit a sinking liner to center that Alex

made a sliding catch on for the second out.

One run ahead still, runner on first, one out away from

Game 3, the little Orlando shortstop, littlest guy on their

team, at the plate. Lefty hitter. A slap hitter, but one with a

great eye who made you throw him strikes.

There was no chatter from the other infielders, just

Hutch. “You got this guy, Petey,” he called in to Pedro. It was

Hutch’s nickname for him. Pedro was Dominican and so

was his hero, Pedro Martínez, and Hutch knew that some of

Pedro’s teammates used to call him “Little Petey.”

The batter dug in, his bat raised, awaiting the pitch.

There was other noise all around him at Roger Dean,

from both dugouts, from the stands, from the PA announcer

who’d just announced the shortstop’s name. But to Hutch,

207

the field was quiet now, as quiet as his own room when there

was no baseball on the radio.

He cheated a little bit toward second base, remembering

that even when the shortstop had made good swings his first

two times up, he had hit the ball the other way. But on a 2-1

fastball from Pedro that was right over the heart of the plate,

one of those fastballs that just said “crush me,” the little guy

turned on the ball and pulled one to right.

At first Hutch thought the ball might hang up long enough

for Cody to catch it, Cody charging hard toward the sinking

ball. But it had too much topspin on it, finally knifing into the

ground about ten yards ahead of him, then taking this crazy

hop and spinning away from Cody, toward the line.

With two outs the kid from first was running all the way

as Cody chased down the ball. Hutch was running, too, because it was all happening at once now at Roger Dean, the

way it could in baseball, the runner running around the

bases and the fielders going to their spots.

Hutch glanced over his shoulder, saw the Orlando third-base coach windmilling his right arm, waving the runner

home, then looked toward the outfield and saw that Cody

was already up with the ball and throwing home.

Hutch couldn’t remember a time all season when Cody

had thrown out a runner at the plate, but he had to do that

now or the game was tied.

Tripp was set up perfectly as the cutoff man, really only

there to give Cody a target because there was going to be no

cut. It was do or die now. That kind of play.

208

Cody’s throw had a little too much air underneath it but

had plenty of juice, too. The problem was it was on the wrong

side of the first-base line, heading over Tripp’s head, sailing

into foul territory instead of toward Brett at home plate.

But Hutch was there.

He had come running from second base to be right there,

be where Jeter was that night against Oakland in the playoffs, was running for Cody’s throw the way a wide receiver

ran after a pass in football.

He didn’t pick the ball up off the ground the way Jeter

did against the A’s that night. Hutch caught this one in the

air, all of his momentum going toward the Cardinals dugout

behind first base.

Even running away from the plate as he was, Hutch

turned his body midair and flipped the ball to Brett, who

had the plate blocked like a champion. Brett: who caught

Hutch’s throw a split second before the runner came piledriving into him.

Hutch was on his knees again as the game ended, the

way he had been the night before. He was on his knees a few

yards inside the baseline, about halfway between home and

first, holding his breath, watching Brett until he came rolling

out from underneath the Orlando runner and showed the

umpire his catcher’s mitt.

And the ball was still inside it.

Then the silence was over and this is what Hutch heard:

“Out!”

Then before Hutch could move, the ump was running

209

over to him, reaching out a big hand to help Hutch to his feet,

shaking Hutch’s hand as he did.

“Thanks, kid,” the ump said.

“For what?”

“For showing me somebody could make that play twice

in my life. I’ll see you Monday night.”

210

27

HUTCH DIDN’T WATCH HIMSELF ON THE ELEVEN O’CLOCK NEWS

when he got home.

He hadn’t watched when he’d lost Game 1, and he wasn’t

going to watch when he saved Game 2, either. The ending was

better this time, but it was the same deal as Friday night: No

matter how many times he watched himself, the final score

wasn’t going to change.

And the only reason he knew that the Post had called

him “Jeter Junior” in Saturday’s paper was because Cody

called and told him all about it, not even waiting until Mrs.

Hutchinson drove them to practice.

“You really didn’t look at the paper this morning?” Cody

said in the car. “Scout’s honor?”

“Scout’s honor?” Hutch said. “Cody, you went to exactly

one meeting before you quit Boy Scouts. And, no, I didn’t

look at the paper, ask my mom.”

Connie Hutchinson said, “He didn’t even check the box

scores today, which usually makes me take his temperature.”

“All I can say is, they liked you a lot better today,” Cody

said.

“So do I,” Hutch said.

211

Mr. Cullen had said he wanted a short practice today,

just so they wouldn’t have nearly two full days to think about

Game 3. No heavy lifting, he promised. Just some BP and a

little infield. Tripp could do a little light throwing on the side

if he wanted to, along with Pedro and Chris Mahoney. One

hour to be together as a team before he gave them the rest

of Sunday off.

When they finished a few minutes before two, they all

sat down under the green canvas roof over the five rows of

bleachers at Field No. 1 and swigged Gatorades and water as

Mr. Cullen faced them.

“They had their chance to knock us out last night and

they couldn’t do it,” he said. “That’s why this thing is ours

now. They know it and we know it. Am I right?”

They all nodded.

“Their time is over,” he said. “It’s done. This is our time.”

Cody raised his hand.

“Uh, Coach?” he said. “Isn’t that exactly what the coach

said in Miracle right before the big Olympic hockey game

against the Russians?”

“Kurt Russell,” Brett said.

“No, the coach was Herb Brooks,” Hank said.

Brett said, “I know who the coach was. I mean the actor

playing him.”

Mr. Cullen grinned. “You got me,” he said to Cody. “I just

didn’t know if I’d ever have a chance to give that speech.”

Everybody had a good laugh at their coach’s expense.

Then their parents began to show up, and the long wait until

Game 3 had officially begun.

212

• • •

Early Sunday night.

Cody had gone home after eating dinner with Hutch and

his mom, Hutch’s dad having had to make another one of his

unexpected airport runs.

Hutch’s plan was to watch Sunday Night Baseball on

ESPN, at least until his dad came home and reclaimed the

living room and the couch. The Yankees were playing the Red

Sox, which meant Hutch would get a chance to watch the real

Jeter in action.

Except he wanted to be in action himself.

He knew he was only kidding himself if he thought he

could hang around the house and relax and not think about

playing Orlando in less than twenty-four hours. He needed to

get outside, move around, even with Jeter on television, do

some baseball things.

He called Cody and asked if they could use his dad’s key

to the batting cage at Fallon Park, go hit some balls.

“I have played enough baseball this weekend,” Cody said.

“And so have you. You can take one night off.”

“I know I can,” Hutch said. “I just don’t want to. Is it all

right if I borrow the key?”

Cody said that he was acting like a crazy person but, yes,

he could borrow the key.

When Hutch told his mom where he was going, he could

tell by the look on her face that she thought he was acting a

little crazy, too. But she said he could go ahead.

“For one hour,” she said. “And if the park is empty, you

213

promise you will turn your bike around and come straight

home?”

Hutch said he would, even though he was sure there was

some kind of men’s softball league that used Fallon Park on

Sunday nights.

He didn’t even bring his glove with him, just his bat,

slinging his bat bag over his shoulder for the bike ride. He

ran into the Hesters’ house, grabbed the key from Cody, who

told him he was crazy again, then rode the twenty blocks to

Fallon, for his own early batting practice, twenty-four hours

before the game.

There was a softball game going on under the lights, just

as Hutch suspected. Usually he would stop to watch any

kind of ball game, but he only had an hour, so tonight he

rode right past the big field at Fallon, past a couple of tennis

courts, out toward the secluded spot behind the Little League

field where the lighted batting cage was nearly hidden by a

cluster of palm trees.

Before he got there, Hutch could hear the crack of the bat.

Not an aluminum bat.

A wooden bat, making the sweetest baseball sound in

this world.

Except it wasn’t a sweet sound tonight. It was the opposite of that to Hutch, because it meant somebody else with

his own key had beaten him to the cage, on tonight of all

nights.

Hutch got off his bike, leaned it against one of the palm

trees, and poked his head around it, curious to see who else

wanted to come work on his swing on a Sunday night.

214

When he did see, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

The guy in the cage was his dad.

• • •

Hutch stayed behind the palm tree, not wanting his dad to

know he was watching him.

He still couldn’t believe his eyes, that it really was his

dad, taking his stance and waiting for the wheel with the

balls in their separate holders to turn slightly toward him,

then coming forward with his bat when the pitch was delivered, his swing looking as smooth and level as Darryl’s.

Hutch didn’t even know that his dad still played baseball,

or that he had a key to this batting cage, because he had

never mentioned the key to Hutch or offered to let him use

it, even when Hutch and Cody would talk about coming over

to Fallon to hit.

But here he was, as serious standing in there waiting for

the next pitch as if he were the one getting ready to play the

title game. As serious as if he were standing in there against

a real fastball, or curve. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, which

the sign outside the Fallon cage told you to do if you were

going to use the ball machine. He just wore an old Braves cap

Hutch had never seen on him before, the A in white script, a

dark blue cap with a red bill. His dad wore that and a gray

sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off up to his shoulders, showing off the ripped muscles in his upper arms.

No batting gloves. Like me, Hutch thought. Bat held high.

No flipping motions with the bat like you saw from some big

215

leaguers, the ones waving the bat behind them as they waited

for the pitcher to pitch. While Carl Hutchinson waited for the

next pitch to come to him, he was almost completely still.

Hutch had a clear view of his dad’s face. Under the lights in

the hitting cage, Hutch could see his dad’s eyes focused on

the ball as if it were the only thing in the world that mattered

right now.

Then another ball was on top of him and he was coming

through with his arms and wrists and hands, the wood bat

so loud on the ball Hutch was sure they had to be able to

hear it back at the softball game, this hit rocketing right off

the ball machine itself, so hard that Hutch thought it might

knock the sucker right down.

Hutch shook his head, thinking: He smoked that one.

And in the batting cage, Hutch saw his dad smile then,

smiling the way he did in the scrapbook pictures. Smiling as

if he were young again.

In that half-light you get between day and night, darkness coming faster now, Hutch heard his dad say “Yeah” to

himself. Then his dad took his stance again, and as the ball

was coming to him, he dropped his bat down and got it out

in front of him and laid down what looked to Hutch to be a

perfect bunt. The way you would if you were having real batting practice.

The ball he bunted must have been the last one, because

now he walked up to the machine and began picking up all

the balls around it, the ones he had rocketed into the netting

and sometimes through the netting and into the wire fence

around the cage at Fallon.

216

Hutch could hear his own voice inside his head, loud now,

so loud he was almost afraid his dad would be able to hear

it, telling him to get out of here before he was spotted. And

maybe it was something else telling Hutch to leave, maybe

the idea that this was his dad’s own little baseball world and

somehow that Hutch was intruding on it. That Hutch should

just leave him here in this cage with his memories.

Hutch stayed where he was.

He didn’t know what he would tell his mom when he got

home, didn’t even know if his mom knew that his dad still

came to batting cages. Hutch hated to lie about anything and

hated even the thought of lying to his mom more, but he

could hear himself telling her that he’d changed his mind

about Fallon, that he’d just decided to ride his bike around

for an hour and start imagining all the good things that were

going to happen to him in Game 3.

Maybe there’d be enough truth in what he’d tell her that

it wouldn’t really qualify as a lie.

Or maybe this was something he could talk to his mom

about, even if he had to swear her to secrecy about spying on

his dad this way. Maybe she knew that this was another place

his dad went to find peace, even if he was doing it in a batting

cage, even if he was using baseball to find peace when it was

baseball that was supposed to have made him so torn up in

the first place. And so sad.

He remembered the other night when he had come

downstairs and found the TV set on and the beer can on the

end table, and he’d just assumed his dad had gone over to

Emerald Dunes to walk around. But maybe Hutch had been

217

wrong, maybe watching the game had made him want to grab

a bat and come here.

One by one now his dad placed the balls back into the

pitching wheel, taking his time, as if he were enjoying even

this part of the process. When he had the machine loaded

up, he jogged back to pick up his bat and get back into his

stance, as if he didn’t want to miss a single pitch.

“Bring it,” he heard his dad say to the ball machine.

Then he was bringing it again, never overswinging, never

looking as if he were trying to jack one right through the

chain-link fence and out of the cage. He just stayed back, patient, the way the best hitters were, his weight back to start

before he cleared his hips, sometimes keeping his head on

the ball so long, or at least where the ball had been before he

smacked it, that it looked to Hutch as if his head were still

down when the ball was into the net.

Hutch kept picturing the balls rolling all the way to an

imaginary wall for extra bases.

Every few seconds at Fallon Park there was the crack

of his dad’s bat on the ball and that was the only sound at

Fallon except for an occasional burst of laughter from the

softball game in the distance. Hutch remained hidden behind

the tree, just his head poking out, as he watched the boy in

his dad come out with every swing.

Finally they were sharing baseball, even if only one of

them knew it.

218

28

EVERYBODY HAD LEFT THE CARDINALS’ CLUBHOUSE AND GONE OUT

to start stretching before Game 3.

Everybody except Hutch and Darryl.

It was nothing new for Darryl. He was always the last one

on the field for stretching, sometimes not even stretching at

all, as if he couldn’t be bothered.

But tonight Hutch was with him, taking his time putting

some black electrical tape he’d found in the trainer’s room

around the toe of his right baseball shoe, having looked down

as he was getting dressed and noticed that the whole front of

the shoe had come loose from the sole and was just sort of

flapping around.

Hutch had thought he could make it through the whole

season with these shoes, a pair of mid-length black Nikes, but

now he’d come up one game short. So he sat in front of the

locker he was using tonight and took his time being a shoemaker. The locker had David Eckstein’s name over it. He was

the Cardinals shortstop, the little guy with the dirty uniform

and a ton of heart who’d been the MVP when the Cardinals

won the World Series a couple of years ago. Another baseball

team that wasn’t supposed to win, and somehow did.

219

Usually Hutch would be rushing to finish the job, rushing

to get on the field with the other guys. But for some reason he

was enjoying the last of the waiting time tonight. He couldn’t

have explained it to anybody if he tried, but after being impatient all afternoon, counting down the minutes until it was time

to go over to Santaluces and get on the bus, he was fine now

with the last quiet he was going to get before he got outside.

So he was in front of Eckstein’s locker and Darryl was

across the room in front of Pujols’. Hutch couldn’t remember

a time all season when it had been the two of them alone, really alone, like this.

Right before he finished up with the last piece of tape

he’d ripped off, Darryl came across the room and sat at the

locker next to him, the one belonging to Adam Wainwright,

the Cardinals’ young starting pitcher who’d been the closer

on the Series-winning team.

“Tell you what,” Darryl said. “We win tonight and I’ll give

you a brand-new pair of shoes.” He nodded at Hutch. “What

size are you?”

“Nine.”

“Same as me.”

Hutch said, “You always seem to have new shoes. Like

you get a new pair every time you get a new pair of shades.

How does that work?”

Darryl shrugged. “People give me stuff. Maybe thinkin’

that when I make it to the big leagues and the big money

starts rollin’ on in, I’ll remember they were nice to me back

in the day.”

Hutch grinned. “When you make the big leagues? Not if ?”

220

Darryl shrugged again. “No worries,” he said. “No

doubts.”

Hutch thought: Not only are we talking to each other like

teammates are supposed to, Darryl’s the one who started it.

Maybe it was because it was their last night as teammates,

maybe it wasn’t any more complicated than that.

“That ought to do it,” Hutch said, making sure the last

piece of tape wasn’t covering one of his spikes.

“Both your folks gonna be here tonight?” Darryl said.

“Yeah,” Hutch said, “though I sort of always have the

feeling that my dad would just as soon be somewhere else.

Anywhere else, actually.”

“Man,” Darryl said, his voice rising suddenly, like he’d

gotten disgusted with Hutch all over again, “you talk some

stupid dang smack for a smart guy sometimes.”

Hutch looked up from the floor to see if he was kidding,

even though Darryl Williams had never been much of a kidder, not that Hutch had ever noticed. But he could see from

Darryl’s face that his mood had changed.

That he was back to being the old Darryl.

“What kind of smack?” Hutch said.

“ ’Bout your old man.”

“All I said was—”

“I heard what you said, homes,” Darryl said. “Heard what

you said and see the way you act toward your old man, way

you talk about him sometimes when you think only your boy

Cody can hear. Boo-hoo, my daddy don’t care.”

“Hey, take it easy,” Hutch said. “You don’t know what

you’re talking about.”

221

“Yeah, homes, as a matter of fact I do.”

“Guess what,” Hutch said, not wanting to get into this

now, but not being able to help himself. “Not even I know

my dad.” Thinking back to last night now, the batting cage

at Fallon Park, thinking that last night might have been the

closest he ever came to knowing his dad without a word between them being spoken. “So how come you know both of

us so well all of a sudden?” Hutch said. “ ’Cause he worked

you out one time?”

Hutch looked up at the clock. He had been taking his time

taping his shoes. But now he did want to be on the field, didn’t

want to waste any more time with this. Whatever this was.

“Want to know what I know about your old man?” Darryl

said. “That he’s here. Seriously. When you look up over our

dugout tonight, where’s he gonna be?”

Hutch said, “That’s not what I meant—”

Darryl waved him off. “He’s gonna be there, that’s where

he’s gonna be. Watchin’ you play.” Darryl shook his head. “My

mom’s comin’ tonight, too. For the second time all season, I

figure. You know why only twice? ’Cause she’s too tired when

she gets home from bein’ on her feet all day. Tell me somethin’ here, Captain: You think your old man ain’t too tired to

come watch baseball after carryin’ some rich man’s golf bags

all day?”

It was coming out of him now, like this was something he

had saved up all season.

About somebody else’s dad.

Darryl said, “And by the way? You know the next time I

figure my old man’s gonna show up for one of my games, if

222

he’s even still alive? When I’m at Yankee Stadium someday,

or some such. That’s when he’ll probably want to start up

with all his father-son stuff. When there’s something in it for

him other than me.”

Hutch stood up. “D, this isn’t the place for this, we gotta

bounce here.”

Darryl was still sitting in his chair, acting as if he had all

night.

“I know where we gotta go and where we gotta be,” he

said. “I just had to tell you because I didn’t know if I’d ever

get the chance after this game here tonight: You oughta stop

actin’ like such a baby on account of what you don’t got. And

be a lot happier, and more grateful, for what you do. ”

He stood up.

But he wasn’t through.

D-Will said, “Be happy that when you are looking up in

those stands tonight, you’re gonna see what I never saw one

day of my life.”

He walked through the door. Hutch followed. Late in the

season, real late, he was finding out he didn’t know nearly

as much about the two shortstops in his life as he’d thought

he did.

223

29

THERE WERE NO INTRODUCTIONS ON THE FIELD TONIGHT THE WAY

there had been before Game 1.

They did bring out representatives from Post 38 in

Orlando and from 226, and there was a young woman in

an Army uniform who stood near home plate and sang the

National Anthem better than Hutch had ever heard it sung

before.

So there was some ceremony tonight, even if it didn’t

take nearly as long as it had on Friday night, which already

seemed like a long time ago to Hutch. It was as if all the

big shots from the American Legion wanted to make sure

everybody at Roger Dean realized this was still a special

occasion.

As if anybody playing in the game needed to be reminded,

Hutch thought.

He didn’t need songs or flags and he was sure nobody

else on the team did, either.

Mr. Cullen won tonight’s coin flip, making the Cardinals

the home team, meaning they had last ups again, just

like they wanted. When he came back into the dugout, he

called them all together in front of their bench.

224

“I’m gonna keep this short, and simple,” he said in a

voice so quiet, Hutch wondered if everybody could hear.

“Boys, if you’re lucky, you might get a handful of games like

this in your lives. I don’t know how many, nobody does, that’s

why you play. But what I do know is this: You’ve all got one

tonight.” His voice got a little bigger now. “And what I guess I

want to ask you is if you came here to lose the sucker.”

“No!” they yelled, loud enough for the whole ballpark to

hear.

“Are you still too young?”

“No!”

“Is this your time?”

“Yes!”

He put his hand out. They all reached in. “Now go make

this a night nobody can ever take away from you.”

They broke their huddle and ran out from behind the

dugout screen and took the big field.

• • •

Rocket Rod Brown was throwing even harder tonight than

he had in Game 1, even with just two days’ rest. Nine up and

nine down through three innings, six strikeouts, only one

ball—a fly ball to left by Darryl in the bottom of the second

—out of the infield.

“This is beyond dirty,” Cody said after striking out looking to end their third.

“Long way to go,” Hutch said.

“I’m aware of that,” Cody said, taking his glove and cap

225

from Hutch. “But that last splitter he threw me? That was

pure filth. If it’s a movie, it’s got one of those ratings where

nobody under seventeen is allowed to go.”

“We’ll get to him,” Hutch said.

“When?” Cody said.

They were already trailing 2–0, because of a two-run

Rocket home run. And while Hutch was never going to admit

this, he was starting to wonder just when they were going to

do anything against Orlando as long as the Rocket was still

pitching the way he was.

When they finished throwing the ball around before the

start of the fourth, Hutch ran in for a quick chat with Tripp,

who’d really only thrown one bad pitch so far—the one

Rocket had hit over the 325 sign in left.

“One thing?” Hutch said, taking the ball from Tripp and

rubbing it up for him.

Tripp said, “What?”

“No more runs.”

Tripp got through the top of the fourth, one of the outs

coming when Hutch ran like an outfielder toward short right

and made an over-the-head catch on a ball the Orlando

shortstop had hit. Then the Cardinals came to bat in their

half of the inning.

It started innocently enough, with a walk to Hutch. But

Hutch then stole second on the first pitch to Darryl, the first

time all game the Cardinals had a runner in scoring position. And with the Cards’ best hitter at the plate in the form

of Darryl, the Astros must have figured Hutch would stay

put and let the hitter do his job. Maybe that’s why the Rocket

226

didn’t even look back at Hutch when he had Darryl 0-2 in

the count.

Hutch kept walking into a bigger lead. And as soon as

Rocket went into his motion, he took off for third.

Didn’t even draw a throw.

The pitch was high and Darryl laid off it for a ball.

The extra stolen base seemed to knock Rocket off the

rails for a second. He overthrew his next pitch—a splitter

that bounced about two feet in front of the plate and away

from the Orlando catcher toward the Cardinals dugout.

Hutch didn’t hesitate, he was coming home all the way.

Their catcher got to the ball fast, and the Rocket was off the

mound to cover the plate almost as fast. But Hutch beat the

play with a straight-on slide and the score was 2–1 now.

“Cheap run,” Rocket said when they were both still down

on the ground, even giving Hutch a little shove as he stood

up first. “Cheap, cheesy run.”

Hutch bounced up now, ignoring the shove, since the last

thing he was going to do was get into it with their pitcher in

a game like this. He did point out at the Bank of America

scoreboard, though. “Check it out,” Hutch said. “They’re

gonna put the run on the board anyway.”

Darryl flied out to deep center to end the inning. Yet at

least the Cardinals were on that scoreboard now. They were

still getting no-hit. But they weren’t getting shut out. It felt

like something, maybe even more than just one run. It felt

like hope, even the way the Rocket was still bringing it.

It stayed 2–1 through the top of the fifth, even if it was a

struggle for Tripp. He managed to get through the first four

227

guys in the Orlando order without giving up another run,

but needed thirty pitches to do it, the third out coming on

a vicious line drive from Rocket Brown into Hank’s glove at

third.

In the dugout, Mr. C told Tripp that had been his last

pitch of the night.

“Please let me stay in,” Tripp pleaded when he got to the

dugout. “I can hang in there against this guy, I know I can. I

can stay out there as long as he can.”

“Son,” Mr. C said, “you’ve already done the thing that

makes everybody want to play this game in the first place.”

“What’s that?”

“Been even better than you thought you could be,” Mr. C

said, and then shook his hand and told him to go get his first

baseman’s mitt.

The Cardinals went quietly in the bottom of the fifth, and

there was a slight delay when Chris Mahoney came out to

pitch the top of the sixth because Rocket’s landing spot had

created a huge divot at the bottom of the mound, one the

groundskeeper needed to fix.

It gave Hutch a chance to take another look around.

Like taking one more snapshot of the night.

His parents were in the same seats they’d been in for

the first two games, the last row in front of one of the

Comcast signs. Mr. and Mrs. Hester were next to them.

And next to Mrs. Hester was a woman Hutch had never

seen before, but who looked too much like Darryl not to

be his mom.

Hutch couldn’t help but smile.

228

• • •

The Orlando right fielder singled with one out in the top of

the sixth. When Cody fumbled the ball in right center, the kid

kept going and made second standing up. Their second baseman was next up and bunted the first pitch toward third,

attempting to sacrifice with one out. Maybe the thinking in

the Orlando dugout was that if they could get the guy over

there, they could get one of those cheap, cheesy runs Hutch

had gotten.

Hank picked up the ball with plenty of time to throw the

runner out at first, but for some reason he rushed, maybe

the nerves of the moment grabbing him by his throwing

arm. The ball bounced in front of Tripp at first and when he

couldn’t come up with it cleanly, everybody was safe.

First and third, still just the one out, the Orlando left fielder

coming up. Mr. C waved the infield in, not wanting to give up

another run here even if it meant giving up a shot at a double

play. Because if they tried for a double play on some kind of

slow roller and didn’t get it, the game was going to be 3–1. A

lead like that, the way Rocket was pitching, was going to feel

like a lot more than two runs. And Hutch was starting to worry

that the guy might have it in his head to go the distance.

So if the ball was hit to Darryl or Hutch, they were coming home if the runner from third tried to score. Or they were

going to hold him there and get an out at first. That was the

plan, anyway.

Before Chris went back to the mound, Darryl called over

to Hutch.

229

“Hey.”

Hutch shot him a quick look.

Darryl said, “It comes to us, we got this, right?”

And somehow Hutch knew exactly what he meant without asking. Just knew. Somehow, in the last game, they were

finally on the same wavelength. They were never going to be

friends. They might not ever play together after tonight.

They were just two teammates trying to figure out a way

to win the game.

At 2-2, the left fielder hit a grounder up the middle that

Chris Mahoney barely missed grabbing with his bare hand.

The ball was headed right at second, which meant that it

could have been Hutch’s ball, or Darryl’s.

Hutch let the shortstop take it.

Darryl flashed to his left, in front of the bag, and in that

moment Hutch flashed right behind him.

Because he knew.

“Home!” Hank shouted from third.

Hutch knew the shortstop wasn’t going home.

Darryl Williams gloved the ball and made no attempt to

turn his body, or even glance at second, just shoveled the ball

with his glove to where he knew Hutch would be.

Hutch didn’t even bother with his glove hand, just barehanded

Darryl’s toss and in the same motion snapped off a throw to first

that got the left fielder by two full steps and got the Cardinals the

double play that got them out of the top of the sixth.

The crowd at Roger Dean made a sound that seemed to

be a lot bigger than the number of people in the place.

Hutch smiled now, not because of the cheer, but because

230

Darryl hadn’t even stopped running after he gloved the ball

over to Hutch. He just slowed ever so slightly and nodded as

Tripp took Hutch’s throw and the ump at first made the out

call, then kept running right into the Cardinals’ dugout.

• • •

Hutch came up with two on in the bottom of the seventh. Alex

had singled with two outs, a clean single up the middle, their

first hit. Finally. Then Rocket Brown, still in there with a 2–1

lead, nobody warming up for Orlando, walked Brett.

Hutch had noticed something watching Rocket pitch to

Alex and Brett: He was throwing fewer splitters now, just

relying on heat more and more. Then he proceeded to throw

four straight fastballs to Hutch. Hutch had missed two and

two had been out of the zone.

Rocket wasn’t just throwing fast now, he was working

fast, and Hutch could see he was ready to throw the 2-2

pitch as soon as he got the ball back from his catcher, like

he wanted to finish Hutch off right now.

So Hutch decided to slow things down a little.

He asked for time at 2-2, stepped out, rubbed some dirt

on his hands, looked down at Mr. C in the first-base coach’s

box as he did, saw Mr. C make a motion as if he had a bat

in his hands.

Then, right before he stepped back into the box, Hutch

took a quick look into the stands. His dad was staring at the

pitcher, but his mom smiled brilliantly at Hutch, like one

more light in the stadium, and pointed to her head.

231

Telling him, in her own way, to dream a big dream for

himself right here.

A big hit.

Rocket went into his stretch and came with high heat

again. What the baseball announcers just loved to call high

cheese.

Hutch swung right through the ball. Through it and underneath it and not even close to it. The ball was right in his

grill and he’d been beaten by it, straight-up. Rocket Brown

stopped and pointed at him before he ran off the field. “We’re

even now,” he said.

Game 3 still wasn’t.

232

30

RUBBER ARM MAHONEY WALKED THE ASTROS’ LEADOFF HITTER TO

start the eighth, but when the next batter hit a slow roller in

front of the plate, Brett was a blur getting to it and gunned

the ball to Darryl covering second, and they cut off the lead

runner. Chris took care of business from there, getting the

next two guys to fly out.

It was still 2–1.

Six outs left. Nobody on the Cardinals was hanging his

head. The dugout was as alive as it had been at the start of

the night. There was all this chatter about how they were

gonna do this, they were not losing this game, they were

gonna get the first guy on and go from there.

The Rocket was out there again for the eighth. To Hutch,

he didn’t look tired, didn’t even look like he’d broken much

of a sweat even as he went deeper into the game. But Darryl

hit the second pitch he saw for a double, then stole third.

Hank Harding walked to give them first and third. But when

Paul Garner struck out on an 0-2 pitch, Hutch was afraid

that Darryl would stay at third with the tying run.

He didn’t. Tripp singled hard up the middle, a clean hit.

Even though he wasn’t pitching, he and the Rocket were even

233

now. The Rocket struck out Tommy O’Neill after that, threw

a fastball at 0-2 that Hutch thought must have sounded like

a police siren going past Tommy.

No matter.

Game 3 was 2-all.

Last ups, for everybody.

• • •

Taking grounders from Tripp while waiting for the top of

the ninth to start, Hutch was calmer than he’d expected to

be. There hadn’t been a lot of conversation in the dugout as

they’d all grabbed their gloves, other than everybody congratulating Tripp for his RBI hit. They were all business now,

knowing the next play could decide everything.

So here they were.

Bunch of neighborhood kids, bunch of fourteen-and fifteen-year-olds from East Boynton and Boynton Beach and

Lantana trying to be the best Legion team in the state. Trying

to knock off the defending champs. Trying to do it at Roger

Dean and do it on TV and do it in front of an even better audience than that—family and friends.

All that wrapped up in the next few minutes. It was

another part of sports that Hutch knew he’d have a tough

time explaining to people who’d never experienced anything

like it.

Mostly it was the feeling that you wouldn’t want to be

anyplace else in the world.

A sense of being exactly where you belonged.

234

Pedro Mota pitched the top of the ninth. He had no problem with location tonight. He blew away the first two guys

with fastballs, walked the next batter when he got a little too

carried away with how hard he was throwing, then recovered

to strike out Orlando’s catcher on three pitches.

Just like that it was the bottom of the ninth.

Maybe the bottom of the whole season.

• • •

The Rocket came out, as expected, to pitch. Hutch was scheduled to bat fourth in the inning, which meant that he needed

for somebody to get on if he was going to get one last shot at

this pitcher.

His best friend was the one who obliged. Cody, who’d

looked terrible all night against Rocket Brown, singled to

lead off the inning from the nine hole. It was a good pitch,

in on his hands, but somehow he managed to fist it over the

first baseman’s head and just inside the right-field line. It

wasn’t pretty. Didn’t matter. Winning run aboard.

Alex fouled off a pitch trying to bunt. Then he laid off the

second pitch he saw, thinking it was high, but the ump disagreed and said it was strike two. Which meant 0-2. Hutch

looked down at Mr. C in the first-base coach’s box, because

even from over there he was the one giving the signs.

Mr. C kept the bunt on, even with two strikes. And Alex

delivered for him, between the pitcher’s mound and first.

The Rocket got over to the ball quickly enough, took a look at

second, then decided to take the sure out at first. One down.

235

But Cody was on second now, which meant a hit would win

the championship.

Brett was up now, with Hutch on deck. Rocket got ahead

0-2 before wasting a high one that Brett laid off. Then Brett

guessed right on the 1-2 pitch and ripped a fastball over

third base, but he’d opened up just a split second early and

the ball landed foul by a foot.

Hutch could hear everybody in the Cardinal dugout groan

at the same time, like they’d all been punched in the gut. Still

1-2. Not for long. Now Hutch watched along with everybody

else in the ballpark as Rocket poured a fastball past Brett for

strike three. A fastball at the knees, on the outside corner,

totally unhittable.

Dirty.

Hutch’s turn. He put his bat down for a second, got some

dirt to rub on his hands, saw that his hands were shaking.

He told himself it was all right, these were good nerves, that

he wasn’t scared, that his whole life he’d wanted to be up in

situations like this. A dream situation, with everything on

the line.

Dream big.

Darryl came out of the dugout behind him. “Captain,” he

said.

Hutch turned around.

Darryl said, “You know how I’m always sayin’ it’s you or

me in situations like this?”

“Yeah, D, I do.”

“Don’t feel like you have to wait on me tonight.”

Hutch walked slowly to the plate, making himself breathe

236

deeply, trying to get his emotions under control, trying to get

his mind just right, ready to stand in there against a pitcher

who might just have thrown the best fastball he’d thrown all

day. In the bottom of the ninth.

Hutch leaned over, rubbed more dirt on his hands, dug

in now, looked out at the Rocket. Rocket checked Cody at

second to keep him close, not about to make the same mistake twice in the game and let Cody just stroll over to third.

Then he reared back and threw a fastball in the direction of

Hutch’s eyes. Threw one up and in and put him on his back,

Hutch flipping himself backward like one of those backward

high jumpers in the Olympics.

His helmet went flying. So did his bat, and the back of

his head hit the ground hard. Even as he landed on his back,

he was hoping the ball might have gotten away from their

catcher so that Cody could move to third, but when he sat

up, he saw Cody still standing on second base.

“Sorry,” the pitcher yelled in to Hutch, even though he

didn’t sound very sorry. “Sucker slipped.”

Hutch didn’t think so. He was sure he’d been buzzed on

purpose, sure that Rocket didn’t want Hutch hanging over

the plate for the rest of this at-bat. Hutch was just as sure

of something else: The next fastball was going to be the one

Brett had just struck out on, a fastball away. That was why

Rocket had just tried to move him away from the plate.

Hutch didn’t care where, but he knew he was hitting

this next pitch hard somewhere. This wasn’t like practice

that time when his dad was watching and Hutch had nearly

screwed himself into the ground trying to hit a home run,

237

and ended up barely getting his bat on the ball. He didn’t

need a home run and neither did his team.

Just a base hit.

He’d never been more determined in his life to get one.

Hutch thought: This guy is mine.

He cleaned off the front of his jersey, started to get into

the box, good to go.

It was then that he stopped. Like there was a voice inside

his head telling him to pause.

The voice was his dad’s.

“Hey,” his dad would say when he wanted to get Hutch’s

attention, or even reprimand him sometimes. “Hey,” he’d say

in a real sharp voice.

Hey, Hutch heard now.

He looked up to where his dad and mom were, and the

Hesters, and Darryl’s mom.

Looked there just as his dad stood up.

238

31

HIS DAD WAS LOOKING RIGHT AT HIM.

Carl Hutchinson tried to make it look casual to the people around him, like he was getting up to stretch, not having

to worry about blocking anybody’s view because there was

nobody sitting behind him.

His eyes, though, never left Hutch’s.

All those nights and all those games when Hutch just assumed his dad wanted to be somewhere else. Not now. He

was staring as hard at Hutch as Hutch had stared at him last

night in the batting cage at Fallon.

Like he needed to get his attention.

Then Hutch saw why. Saw his father drop his hands the

way coaches did when they were telling you to bunt.

Bunt?

Was he nuts?

His dad wanted him to bunt with the winning run standing there on second base? With two outs? And a chance to

end this game with one swing?

Hutch said to the ump, “I need one more second, sir, I’ve

still got some dirt in my eye.” He stepped back, rubbed a

finger in an eye that didn’t need rubbing, then squinted over

239

toward third base, as if he wanted to make sure he could see

straight.

The third baseman was playing way back. Too far back

and guarding the line, even though any kind of hit was going

to win the championship for the Cardinals, whether it went

for extra bases or not.

But still … a bunt?

Hutch put his back foot into the batter’s box and dug in,

and as he did, he shot one last quick look at his dad as he

cocked his bat. Saw him nod again.

Then Carl Hutchinson did something he hardly ever did.

He smiled.

The Rocket checked Cody and then threw his fastball on

the outside of the plate, just as Hutch had known he would.

Hutch bunted.

He dropped the bat head the way you did when you were

bunting for a base hit, got the fat part of it on the ball, deadened the ball right down the third-base line, and took off for

first.

Cody would tell him later that the third baseman started

in when he realized what was happening, then stopped like

he’d forgotten there were two outs, stopped like he thought

he might have to cover third with Cody coming hard from

second. Once he did, it was all over. He couldn’t get to the

ball in time, the Rocket had no chance, and neither did the

catcher.

Hutch didn’t turn around until he’d crossed first base

safely. He wanted to clap his hands when he saw that everybody was safe, that they had first and third for Darryl. He

240

didn’t. Even now he was old school. He wasn’t looking to

show anybody up, not even the pitcher who’d just put him

down.

He was just looking to win the game.

And he’d left it up to the team’s best hitter to do just

that.

Hutch did allow himself another look up into the stands.

His dad was seated again, staring in at home plate.

But still smiling.

Carl Hutchinson wasn’t in his seat for long. Nobody at

Roger Dean was. Because on a 1-0 pitch, Darryl got everybody up. Because Darryl was the one making the scrapbook

swing, putting that sweet swing of his on the ball, the ball

making a sound coming off his bat that was louder than

ever to Hutch, like something they could hear in the parking lot.

The ball cleared the Dunkin’ Donuts sign with ease,

cleared it and rolled toward the Cardinals’ clubhouse.

Cardinals 5, Astros 2.

Championship.

All of the Cardinals were at home plate when Hutch got

there. They started pounding on him the way they’d pounded

on Cody and then they all waited for Darryl. Who was, of

course, being Darryl, taking his time going around the bases,

styling to the end.

When he got near home plate, he tossed his helmet away,

the way David Ortiz of the Red Sox did when he hit a walk-off

home run, and then it was the whole team there celebrating

together, everybody pounding on everybody else, again.

241

Hutch and Darryl were the first ones to pull loose from

the crowd. When they did, Darryl was grinning at him.

“What?” Hutch said.

Darryl said, “I gotta be honest, Captain. I would’ve been

happy if it was you got the big hit.” Now he wasn’t just grinning, he was smiling all the way, as big as Hutch had ever

seen from him. “But let’s face it: It was supposed to be me.”

Hutch laughed. “When you put it that way, I suppose it was.”

Darryl said, “Ask you something, before I go talk to TV?”

“Anything.”

“What made you lay it down like that?”

Hutch said, “My dad told me to.”

“Told you,” Darryl said. “Man can coach.”

Then D-Will walked over to where the young guy from

Sun Sports was waiting for him, walked in front of the camera and into the TV lights, as if that was another place where

he was supposed to be.

And in that moment, away from the lights, away from the

rest of the Cardinals, it was just Hutch and Cody on the big

field.

“You know what tonight is?” Cody said.

“What’s tonight?” Hutch said.

“The first of many just like it, dude. First of many.”

Cody kept talking then, the way he did, but now Hutch

wasn’t hearing him, he was hearing Darryl in the clubhouse

before the game, telling him that maybe everything he needed

wasn’t at some school up north, or anywhere else in this

world, maybe it was right here.

Then Hutch left Cody Hester standing there and made

242

his way through his teammates, made his way through the

gate at the end of the dugout and up through the stands at

Roger Dean and did something he had not done in a very

long time:

Hutch hugged his father.

And his father hugged him back.

243

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mike Lupica, over the span of his successful career

as a sports columnist, has proven that he can write

for sports fans of all ages and stripes. And as the

author of multiple hit books for young readers,

including Heat, Travel Team, Summer Ball, and

Miracle on 49th Street, Mr. Lupica has carved out a

niche as the sporting world’s finest storyteller.

Mr. Lupica, whose column for New York’s Daily

News is syndicated nationally, lives in Connecticut

with his wife and their four children. He can be seen

weekly on ESPN’s The Sports Reporters.

Table of Contents

PHILOMEL BOOKS