Top of the First

The one o'clock championship game is almost upon them, like a locomotive approaching from a great distance. The closer it gets, the larger it looms. And now here it is — that big train coming through.

The boys have already taken batting practice. They've warmed up and cooled down; chatted, joked, and poked, until, moments before the first pitch, they grow idle and contemplative.

Coach Reid brings the Earl Grubb's team together for a pregame talk. A muted shout breaks the quiet, hand claps and cheers erupt from inside the dugout. "Team!" they cry.

Up in the announcer's booth, Sam Reiser informs the crowd:

And now, please stand for our national anthem....

Both teams hustle to the base paths, straddling the white lines that run from home plate to the respective foul poles. They take off their hats, hands on their hearts — Tyler Weinberg has to be reminded, and is, with a friendly whack on the head from Colin Sweeney — and they watch as the flag waves in a soft breeze. The anthem plays on a crackly sound system. And now at last, it's time for the game. Northeast Gas & Electric, the home team by virtue of a superior regular-season record, takes the field.

Dylan Van Zant stands about ten feet from home plate, timing his swing to Nick Clemente's warm-up pitches. Clemente throws nothing but fastballs that explode in catcher Travis Green's glove. Pop, pop, pop. "Balls in!" Green cries out.

The fielders toss their practice baseballs in lazy arcs toward the home-team dugout along the first-base line. "Coming down!" Green hollers.

The smooth, dark-skinned shortstop, Justin Pinkney, glides over to second base, backed up by the pint-size second baseman, Billy Thompson. Clemente snaps off a half-hearted curveball that floats in like a helicopter. Green snares it deftly, rises, and fires a laser to second base. Strong arm, Dylan notes admiringly, great catcher.

The umpire, bulky and dressed in dark blue, calls, "Come on. Play ball!" From his seat in the announcer's booth, behind and above home plate, Sam Reiser feels his heartbeat quicken. Play ball. He leans into the microphone and pushes the black button.

Leading off for Earl Grubb's Pool Supplies, today's starting pitcher, Dylan Van Zant....

As his name is announced, Dylan looks down the third-base line to Mr. Reid, who is stationed in the coach's box. The skipper claps his hands, nods. "Get us started, Dilly."

Dylan has already decided to take the first pitch. It doesn't matter where the ball goes, Dylan won't swing. He wants to see Clemente's fastball, up close and personal. Watch his motion, look for the release point — but mostly, try to relax. Get rid of the bees that are buzzing in his brain. Because here he stands, playing for the championship. How cool is that? Dylan takes a fastball down the pipe for strike one. It has begun.

Clemente has the unsettling habit of grunting with each pitch. He's like a bull in a pen, eager to break loose. Snort, snort, fliiiiing. Already at five feet, ten inches and 170 pounds, Clemente is colossal for a seventh-grader. Scary as all get-go and he knows it. Clemente works quickly. In seconds he's back on the rubber, charging into his delivery; he plays like his hair is on fire.

Dylan swings and misses at a chest-high fastball, corkscrewing his wiry frame into the earth. Late, Dylan thinks. Way late. He steps out of the box, takes a breath, feels the electric undercurrent from the packed bleachers. Clemente glowers from the mound, hoofing the dirt with his cleats.

The count is no balls, two strikes. No one out. No runners on base. The game has scarcely begun, but already Clemente has set the tone. He is going to work fast and throw gasoline. His every move an act of defiance, a dare that says, "Hit me if you can."

Down two strikes, Dylan inches his fingers up the bat handle. Fast to the ball, he tells himself. Protect the plate. No matter what, don't go down looking. There's nothing worse than striking out with the bat on your shoulders.

Clemente, square-shouldered and built like a soda machine, rocks back into his windup. His hands come together before his chest, pump back over his head, the left knee lifts up as he pivots, pushes off the rubber on a thick right leg, drives toward the plate with maximum force. Uhhhmmmgh.

The pitch is just ridiculous. A curve that acts as if it were dropped from the sky. One moment the ball is right there, then it isn't. Gone, vanished, like it fell into a manhole.

Dylan swings and misses. The home-plate umpire signals strike three. Green zips the ball back to Clemente, who sneers with satisfaction.

Batting second, Nando Sanchez....

The name on his birth certificate is Armando, after a grandfather back on the island. Everyone calls him Nando. And he is very fast. Everything Nando does, from eating waffles to fielding grounders, is restless and quick. He swings in short, choppy strokes — a slap hitter, not a power threat. "We will work with that," his father announced one day. "Speed never slumps. Hit the ball on the ground and fly, Nando, fly."

Thin and undersized, Nando bats with an exaggerated crouch, presenting the pitcher with a small strike zone. He takes the first two pitches high for balls. Clemente steps off the mound, angrily slams the ball into his glove. Clemente's fury surprises Nando, almost frightens him. Clemente grunts and fires another pitch.

"Strike one!" the umpire calls.

Hot stuff, thinks Nando, caliente. Nando steps out of the box, wipes his lips with the back of his sleeve, tightens his batting gloves, and eyes Coach Reid as he goes through the signs. Reid touches his hat, the indicator, then goes to his belt buckle. Nando understands: Bunt. The alert third baseman, Angel Tatis, also seems to sense the possibilities. He creeps in, bent low, his glove licking the tips of the grass.

Nando squares early, showing the bunt, bat held loosely at chest level. The pitch comes in high and tight. Nando falls away, instinctively using his bat for protection. Somehow he manages to bunt the ball foul as he collapses to the ground. Strike two.

"That's okay, Nando! You're okay!" his father shouts from the stands. "Two strikes now, Nando! You've got to protect!" Nando turns to see his father, mother, maternal grandparents, two brothers, and baby sister crowded together in their seats. They have come to watch Nando play in the great championship game. Not watch, no, they've come to cheer — wildly, enthusiastically, passionately. Nando hopes to make them proud on this day, not seeming to realize that it's already been accomplished, long ago. He focuses back on the pitcher.

Clemente stares with reptilian eyes, cold and lifeless. He won't waste a curveball on a weak hitter like Nando. It will be a steady diet of fastballs until Nando proves he can catch up to one.

"You must earn the pitcher's respect," Mr. Sanchez told his son many times. "He has to get you out, not the reverse, comprende, Nando? That's why you must have confidence. Go to the plate like you own it, like you own the whole field. Swing the bat and make him respect you!"

Nando doesn't stand a chance. Strike three cuts the outside corner, or at least that's how the umpire sees it, and his is the only opinion that matters. It's not a debate club. To Sam's eyes, the ball looked six inches wide of the plate. Tough break for Nando. The first blown call of the day. It wouldn't be the last.

In the Pool Supplies dugout, all the players push forward at once, eager to watch this next matchup. Branden Reid might be the team's hottest hitter, sturdy and broad-shouldered. More than that, he has become one of the leaders of the team, the kid everyone respects. If Branden can't hit Clemente, what chance did anyone else have? A loud, guttural voice calls out, "Let's go, kiiiiiiiid!" Sam instantly recognizes the voice, for it can only be Mike Tyree. Sam leans forward to get a better look into the Pool Supplies dugout. At that same instant, Mike returns Sam's gaze, as if they were connected by an invisible thread.

It had happened dozens of times before. It was, in fact, how they became friends, back in Mrs. Geller's first-grade class. It took one wordless exchange — right after Aaron Foley threw up during a math lesson. Spectacularly. Gloriously. Voluminously.

Aaron Foley, short and stocky with a squished-in face that reminded Sam of an English bulldog, did more than toss his cookies. No, Aaron projected his vomit across the room, spewing his insides as if fired from a cannon, a thunderous blast of wet barf splattering onto the tile floor. No one spoke. No one moved.

Mrs. Geller at last motioned to Janice Dingum. "Better fetch Joe the janitor. Tell him to bring a mop" — she paused a beat — "and a large bucket."

At that precise moment, Sam glanced up only to catch Mike staring back at him, his face a mixture of mirth and horror, delight and stunned awe. Somehow each boy knew how the other felt, knew it exactly. A telepathy that focused on a single word: Recess.

Mrs. Geller asked Austin Hayes to escort Aaron to the nurse's office, a request that Austin accepted with reluctance. The teacher then shooed everyone out onto the playground until Joe arrived with that mop.

On the jungle gym, the boys snickered, recounting Foley's heroic hurl. Extra recess! Good old Aaron Foley! That's how Sam and Mike began their friendship, sealed with a simple exchange, a look across a silent (but foul-smelling) distance.

* * *

Mike will try to sneak away to visit Sam later if he gets a chance. It almost feels wrong that he's on the field, while Sam — the better player — is stuck up there. Mike checks the stands and wonders: Will they come? His parents miss so many of his games. But this one is different. This time, it means something to Mike.

He remembers that it was late when he got dropped off after the final regular-season game. The NBA playoffs were on television. Mike waited, still in uniform, watching, mildly interested. The station broke for a commercial.

"So? How'd you do?" Mr. Tyree asked.

"We won," Mike answered.

But Mike's father noted, "I asked how did you do."

"Pretty good," Mike said. "I walked, stole a base, and scored. I made a nice play at third base. I like playing the infield."

"No hits?" his father asked.

Mike didn't have an answer for that.

The commercials were finished, the game was back on. The conversation, Mike knew, was nearly over. "We clinched a spot in the championship game," Mike announced. "It's on Saturday." Mike's head pivoted from his mother to his father. "It would be great if you can, you know, come to the game."

"You know that Saturdays are tough," his mother commented. "We'll see."

Which to Mike's ears meant one thing: If your sister Candace has an AAU basketball game — and doesn't she always? — then you're out of luck. Because there already was a star athlete in the Tyree family. And her name wasn't Mike.

That's two up and two down for Clemente. Next to the plate, catcher Branden Reid....

Other boys in the dugout pick up Mike's battle cry. "Come on, kiiiiiiiid," they exhort. More calls come from the lively dugout, hoots of encouragement. Branden Reid eyes Clemente as he walks to the plate, cool as a three-bean salad.

He pulls the first pitch foul down the third-base line, forcing his father to leap out of the way. Coach Reid pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and waves it. "I surrender, I surrender," he comically gestures to the crowd.

The scattered laughter irritates Branden. He likes his dad and everything, but this isn't the time for clowning around.

Up in the booth, Sam pops a peanut M&M into his mouth. He thinks, Quick bat. Not too many guys can pull Clemente's fastball. It comes as no consolation that, in fact, Sam himself is one of the few guys with hands fast enough to do it. Sam loves facing fastball pitchers.

Down on the field, Nick Clemente challenges Branden with another fastball, but this time in a better spot. High and inside, right above the crook of the elbow. Branden barely manages to foul it back off the screen.

Down two strikes, Branden still feels confident. He knows he can catch up to the fastball. He feels loose, relaxed. His bad arm doesn't bother him when he swings the bat. It only hurts when he throws. Branden calls time, steps out of the box, if only to mess with Clemente, who snorts with impatience. All Clemente knows is now, now, now. He's pent up, eager to kick down walls. So Brandon dawdles, taps his cleats free of imaginary mud, casually picks a piece of sand out of the corner of his eye.

He got Dylan on an 0–2 curveball, Branden figures. He prepares himself for it, thinking, Weight back, hands back. But Clemente comes with a fastball, a pea at the knees. Branden's eyes widen, he swings through the pitch. Branden looks back at the catcher's glove in disbelief. He got beat by a fastball. Damn, just missed it.

In baseball, scouts refer to the five tools: speed, glove, arm, power, and the ability to hit for average. It is rare for one player to excel in all five areas. Branden Reid, however, possesses a sixth tool, amnesia, the art of forgetting. Baseball is, after all, a game of failure. The only thing that a player can influence is the next play, the next at-bat. The strikeouts, the errors, the defeats? Ancient history, best forgotten, or at least pushed aside. So Branden hustles back into the dugout, pulls on the catching gear, and steps back into the sun.

Bottom of the First

"Okay, boys, take the field," Coach Reid barks enthusiastically. "No walking between the white lines, Eamon. Put some hustle in that muscle."

Nine players from the Earl Grubb's team trot onto the field. Coach Reid means it: No walking. He demands that every player hustle on and off the field. Alex Lionni, playing first today, tosses a practice roller to Max Young at second base. Shortstop Carter Harris chats with Nando Sanchez near the third-base bag, seemingly lighthearted and carefree. The outfielders, from left to right, are Eamon Sweeney, Scooter Wells, and Mike Tyree. Good speed to chase down fly balls. Branden Reid takes his position behind the plate.

There's a small, round hill in the middle of the freshly mowed lawn, and that's where today's starting pitcher, southpaw Dylan Van Zant, slowly walks. Yes, walks. Pitchers are different; pitchers are special. They are the only players who are encouraged to walk between the lines. In baseball, the pitcher is everything. He holds the five-ounce ball in his hands. The game does not commence until he lets it go. Others can only stand and wait, spit between their teeth, flick a pebble. Nothing happens without the pitcher's permission. Once he throws, time itself begins.

Most kids get used to sitting on the bench. They accept it. But for others, it's accompanied by a displaced feeling, more acutely felt when the team plays defense. That's when you were most aware of it, the status of benchwarmer, the outcast, the kid whom the coach decides isn't quite good enough to play the full six innings.

While the team bats, the bench players — or scrubeenies, as Colin Sweeney calls them — feel a part of everything. The guys are all together, rubbing shoulders, joking around, a team. But after three outs, nine guys grab their gloves and run onto the field, leaving three boys behind. And the gray cement dugout begins to resemble a dungeon, a dreary cell they've been sentenced to.

It doesn't bother Colin Sweeney. Actually, nothing much does. Maybe Colin even prefers it, not that he'd say so. No pressure. You can't exactly screw up while eating sunflower seeds. For Colin, well, to be honest, it was boring in the outfield. Nobody to talk to, nothing much going on. You can stand in right field for days and the only thing you'll catch is a sunburn on your nose. Come to think of it, Colin ought to show up one day wearing that white stuff on his nose like the lifeguards at the town pool. What's it called? Zinc oxide. That would get a laugh.

Colin is one of two Sweeneys on the team, along with his brother, Eamon. Identical twins, they are opposites in most ways. Colin is a lefty; Eamon is a righty. Colin talks; Eamon listens. Colin jokes; Eamon laughs. Colin likes rap and rock and watching movies; Eamon practices piano and prefers long books. Colin plays for fun, to run with the boys; Eamon plays for ... well, he's not exactly sure. Probably he just feels at home when he's around Colin. For all of these reasons and more, Coach Van Zant jokingly refers to Eamon, the righty, as "The Right Sweeney." Colin, the lefty, is known as "The Wrong Sweeney."

The team's resident movie-trivia king and nonstop talker, Colin is already holding court with the other two substitute players, Patrick Wong and Tyler Weinberg.