Alive on Opening Day

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Coach Dan

  David put up no further resistance to his son on the ball diamond that night, and the two men drove the 20 miles to Addison in near silence. What scant conversation there was centered mostly on the weather and the Reds, who were looking very good as summer approached, but danced around the two topics both of them wanted and needed to discuss.

  When they made their way to the visiting stands at Bulldog Field, Dan nudged David in the ribs with his elbow and pointed to the hand-operated scoreboard above the center field wall.

  “Looks like maybe they don’t need me, after all,” Dan said, and smiled.

  David’s gaze followed his son’s index finger, and he whistled when he saw the score: 8-2 Eagles in the bottom of the fourth inning.

  “Wow,” David said. “Well, they may not have needed you tonight, so far, but they definitely would not be pounding the Cadets like that without your help. South Pick was completely reliant on defense and pitching before you started coaching them in batting practice.”

  Dan deflected the compliment, bowing his head as he said, “I haven’t really been ‘coaching’ them, Dad. We just talk about stuff, and I tell them if I see something I think would help their hitting. Someday, all high school teams will have access to video equipment, and then the players will be able to diagnose their own problems.”

  “I don’t know, Dan,” David said. “That sounds like coaching to me.”

  Dan shrugged and said, “Maybe. Whatever. Let’s see if White Water can score any runs this inning.”

  As it turned out, they couldn’t, which brought up the Eagles and number-two hitter Jim Franklin. As a small but quick middle infielder, Jim was good at taking walks and slapping “cheap” singles just out of the infield, and in this case, he managed to bunt his way on base. That brought up Ted Waterman, who, as the team’s number-three hitter, was expected to carry one of the best bats in the lineup.

  Croft considered Ted to be Dan’s prized pupil , though neither boy thought of their relationship in quite that way. Just a year behind Dan, Ted had spent most of his high school years as a spindly pitcher but managed to add 30 solid pounds to his frame between his junior and senior seasons. The extra heft made him stronger, but coach Croft was reluctant to put him back on the mound for fear that Jim’s new muscles would interfere with his delivery. At the same time, Ted hadn’t played anywhere in the field except the mound for years.

  So, when the season began, Croft shifted senior left fielder Eric Jasmine down into Dan’s old slot at third and parked Ted in left field, the same place all big bats with suspect gloves end up. And, while Ted had looked fine, and at times special, in the outfield, it appeared Coach’s fears about the bulkier frame slowing him down may have been warranted after the first 10 games of the season. At that point, Ted was hitting just .052 with no home runs and 17 strikeouts in 31 at-bats.

  It was about that time Croft began frequenting HBM’s games, and it didn’t take him long to hit on the idea of asking Dan to join the Eagles for batting practice one night. The coach thought he knew what the problem was with Ted’s approach, and he had hinted at it in their hitting sessions, but he suspected it might be better received if it came from a peer. The coach also hoped digging in to a mentor role would suit Dan and would give the young man even more motivation to try and stay as involved in the game as he could.

  Dan had agreed and showed up around 6:30 that first night, just as the Eagles were spreading out for some extra batting practice. He spent a few minutes catching up with his former teammates and then camped out behind the backstop, fingers laced through its chain links.

  He had watched in silence through the first few batters, only one of whom he really knew, and offering just a quiet, “Let’s go, Ted,” as Waterman strode to the plate. The big left-hander looked out to the mound where Croft was pitching, setting his feet near the back of the box. The first pitch came in belt-high, a perfect — if slow — fastball that Waterman should have crushed but instead lunged at with an off-balanced swing that left his hips nearly stationary but his arms whipping around the right side of his waist.

  The second pitch was nearly identical, and, though Waterman managed to make contact, it was much weaker contact than it should have been, and the ball skipped sickly down the first-base line.

  “Hey, Wet,” Dan called.

  Waterman shot Dan an annoyed look. “What?” he snapped.

  “You afraid of the ball, or something?” Dan teased.

  Ted’s eyes flashed in anger, then his expression smoothed as he realized what Dan was trying to say.

  “No, man,” Waterman said. “I just want to be able to pull the inside ball.”

  The two boys had moved toward each other, separated by the backstop.

  Dan began again. “Look, Ted , I know you’ve added some muscle, and those guns look great, but you can’t power the ball out of the park, or even through the infield, without using your hips and legs.”

  Ted was nodding. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

  “And, if you move a little closer to the plate, you won’t have to hold the bat all the way down at the knob. Choke up just a bit and you’ll have much better control and still be able to cover the strike zone. Croft’s fastball won’t even leave a red mark if it hits you, so get in there and claim your space.”

  Ted exhaled and let his shoulders fall. It was an expression of both surrender and relief, as he was admitting he wasn’t yet ready to be the next Mickey Mantle but also happy he didn’t have to try to hit a home run with every swing.

  “OK, Dan,” Waterman said.

  As Ted stepped back into the box, at least a foot closer to the plate than before, Dan called out again: “And don’t forget to swivel your hips toward the field when you follow through.”

  Waterman touched the bill of his batting helmet in acknowledgment and looked back toward the mound, waiting for Croft’s next offering.

  The coach once again delivered a fat fastball over the middle of the plate, but this time Ted met the ball squarely and pushed it out into center field, shallow but deep enough to make him smile.

  “Good,” Dan called. “Make sure to flip your hips open, though.They moved some, but you have plenty more power in those pegs of yours.”

  “Shut up!” Ted yelled back, but his voice was good-natured. “Just gotta get my timing down now that I’m using all your fancy advice!”

  Waterman set up one more time, and Croft fired off yet another fastball. This one tailed outside, but it didn’t matter for Ted, who caught it just as it broke the plane of the plate and drove hard with his left leg, torquing the ball deep to right field. On the mound, Croft flipped around to follow the flight of the hit, and Dan whooped as the white spheroid flew past the rickety outfield fence and bounced toward the sewage plant.

  “Heads up, Mr. Collins!” Dan hollered, invoking the name of the crotchety history teacher who spent nights and weekends treating the school’s waste water.

  Ted looked back to Dan and pumped his fist.

  On the mound, Croft smiled and nodded to Dan. He mouthed the words, “Nice job.”