A Stitch in Time Pt. 05

The worst was the crowd. I looked around as the guys finished throwing the ball in from the outfield. Mr. Szerchenko had apparently explained the stakes to Tanya, because she was sitting on her hands, staring at me with wide eyes. Cammie, Jeanne, Jill, Sammy — they were all sitting on their hands, completely motionless, completely silent. I hoped they were breathing. Only the little kids were screaming, "C'mon, strike him out." But they had been screaming that all game, sometimes when I was batting.

The first batter was just as nervous as everybody else, and swung weakly at the first pitch. It squibbed out to my left, just beyond my reach, and I instinctively ran toward first to cover the bag in case Mo had a play. I watched in amazement as Mo dove, all 220 pounds of him, his glove enclosing the ball. He struggled to his knees, and flipped it to me. I barely remembered in time to slap my foot down on the base, and we only nipped the runner by a fraction of a step.

The crowd exploded into cheers. I waited until Mo got back up and put the ball in his glove, so he could throw it around the horn.

"Nice play," I smiled.

"Don't make me do that again," he panted.

"Sorry."

The next batter hit a pop foul down the third baseline with two strikes. Matt gave chase, but Rabbit was even faster, snagging it as it came down just on the other side of the chain link fence separating the field from the bleachers. That brought up their clean-up hitter. He was a big guy, who had already struck out twice. And he had no chance. I was loose, I was happy, and he was in my way. His bat never moved off his shoulder during the first two pitches. The third was a changeup. He was so far out in front of it that the guys had started running toward me even before it landed in Tommy's glove. I was buried by the Marshall baseball team. It was a great feeling.

When we finally undid the pile, I walked toward the dugout and acknowledged a standing ovation. I was shocked to find that all the little kids had rushed down to the fence, holding out cups and credit card receipts, anything made of paper that they could find. Coach brought me his pen, and I signed the first candy bar wrapper with a flourish, Patrick Sterling.

The nine-year-old boy looked at it and looked up at me, tears in his eyes.

"I wanted it to say 'Trick, '" he whispered.

Oh, fer cryin' out loud.

"Coach!" I yelled over to where he was greeting some of my teammates' parents. "Can I have the used balls there?"

There was a pile of baseballs that the umpire had taken out of the game for one reason or another, and Jesse Trasker good-naturedly brought them over after Coach had given me the okay. I asked the boy his name, and wrote, "To Charlie, thanks for coming, Trick Sterling, April 14, 2007, 5-0 Marshall."

Yes, of course it took longer. And yes, my left arm was sore. Fortunately, in everything except pitching, I was right-handed. Finally, the kids were gone, and I looked down to find I had one baseball left. I looked up to see my friends and family, Tanya, Jeanne, Jill, and Cammie standing a little in front of Sammy and the Szerchenkos.

"Only one left, girls," I said. "But maybe you have something else you'd like me to sign?"

I waggled my eyebrows.

"We were hoping to get Mo Perra's autograph," Camme retorted instantly.

I couldn't stop myself, the Szerchenkos and my sisters notwithstanding.

"Asshole."

She laughed and I tossed the final ball to Tanya. I had written "To my best friend. Cool, huh? Patrick, April 14, 2007, 5-0 Marshall."

We all celebrated at Carter's after the game, although it was a quick party, because Jeanne, Jill, and Cammie had to get ready for the concert. They had a decent crowd, and I was a little relieved to learn that Mr. Rowe was once again unable to be with us, having been summoned out of town on business. So Mrs. Rowe sat with Rabbit and Sammy and Tanya and I. Just before the concert was to start, Jill slipped down from the stage door and asked us to move over so that she could have the end seat.

"Didn't they save you one up there?" I asked from two seats over.

She smiled and put her finger to her lips.

The concert wound its way through what I'm sure were some very fine pieces for girls' chorus, all of which sounded, to be quite honest, a little squeaky. After five songs, Mr. Collins stepped forward to address the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," he started, leaving out only puppy dogs, "the chorus has just returned from its spring tour, and we were heartbroken at one point when one of our best singers came down with some very severe laryngitis. I announced that we would have to forego the next trio, and then an extraordinary young lady, who is not in the chorus and was just accompanying her sister on the trip, tells me that it's no problem, she's heard the song three times already, she can sing it. I initially said thank you very much, but this is serious music. And then she sang it for me. Of course she sang it beautifully. She comes from an extraordinary family. Her sister Jeanne was already part of the trio, and her brother Dave was an all-state quarterback, and her brother Trick threw a no-hitter today for the Marshall High School baseball team."

I felt a little bad stealing Jill's thunder, but she hissed that I should stand up to acknowledge the applause. I waved, and the clapping eventually died down.

"And now," Mr. Collins sighed, "unfortunately for me, the youngest member of the family, Jill Sterling."

Mr. Collins got his laugh, and Jill got a polite hand as she walked up on stage to join Jeanne and Cammie, who came down from the risers to stand in front of the chorus. They got another standing ovation.

The next day at church the Sterling family once again joined Cammie Rowe in the front pew. We all gave thanks for an exceptional week, quite possibly the best week the Sterlings had ever experienced as a family. It was too bad that we couldn't take it and somehow freeze-frame it. The good thing about bad weeks is that there's always another week on the way. And the bad thing about good weeks is exactly the same thing.