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by John H. Ritter
"The number one thing a pro scout looks for," our New York coach told us, "is a guy who's head and shoulders above the rest. Not just an All-Star. They're looking for the guy who thrives on pressure. The star of the All-Stars."
It was two and a half weeks later, at the end of my first practice. I glanced at my cousin, Louie, who seemed bigger than ever in his catcher's chest pad and shin guards. And I winked.
He just shook his head, half grinning. As if to say, "No chance."
But he knew better. The way cousins know cousins.
He already knew what I was thinking. That I'd decided right then, I was going to be that star.
Three days later, I was smack in the middle of my first game in Central Park's North Meadow. And though I'd played Little League here last year, these guys were older, bigger, and stronger. Even so, I figured it was time to show this coach--Coach Trioli--what I could do.
So when I stood in the batter's box in the final inning of that game--score tied, 2-2--I was focused and I was ready to do a little earth shaking of my own.
Squinting out across the ball diamond, some two hundred and fifty feet away, I eyed the flimsy outfield fence made of skinny redwood slats wired together.
Well, at least this field had a fence, I thought. Most of them here didn't.
Farther out, a line of huge oaks, walnut trees, and sycamores flickered in the afternoon breeze. The sticky, muggy, East Coast air had cooled some, leaving the sweat in my green-sleeved, Munibank uniform caked-up and stiff as it rode against my skin.
The third baseman turned to the outfielders. "Move in!" he shouted. "Little guy. No power."
No power? I thought. Yeah, you watch.
I snugged my helmet against my skull, my eyes fixed on the pitcher's right shoulder. Never his face. Never his eyes. I wouldn't play that stupid stare-down game.
The only image in my brain was a deep fly ball. Real deep.
Every day, I did a hundred push-ups. Building my upper body strength. Hoping to do one thing I'd never done before. This season I was determined to hit one over the wall.
"Tyler!" Coach Trioli called from the third base coach's box, trying to get my attention so he could flash me a sign. He clapped his hands, iron hands that clanged more than clapped, sending tremors rippling his thick biceps. I stepped out and gave him a quick glance.
Skin, buckle, skin. Two claps.
Bunt sign! No way, I thought. C'mon, Coach.
I glanced down, then out at the left field fence. Acting. Pretending like maybe I missed the sign. I mean, I knew what he was thinking. He wanted me to bunt my way on, then use my speed to steal second, and let someone like Louie come up and drive me in.
Well, "Fuh-get about it," as Louie would say. This pitcher had a fastball that would fly off my bat. I had to swing away. Besides, I had talents Coach Trioli needed to know about. And this was the perfect time to show him.
"Hey, Orange Head," the first baseman yelled at me. "What'd you do? Shampoo with carrot juice?"
I ignored the jerk. He wasn't going to rattle me over my hair color.
The tall, chunky kid on the pitcher's mound glared in at the catcher, taking his sign.
I calculated the odds of the first pitch being a curve. I knew the guy had a blazing fastball, but I figured he'd show me his slow curve first to mess up my timing. Then he'd try to rifle a few inside fastballs past me.
And sure enough. A big, fat curve floated past my gut.
I didn't move.
"Stee-rike," the umpire called.
"Tyler!" Coach yelled again. "Come on, now. Pay attention."
He went through the signs once more. Skin, buckle, skin.
I wrinkled my forehead--acting confused--then shuffled back into the batter's box and got set.
Coach, you gotta understand, I thought. I have a feeling.
It's like that feeling I'd get sometimes when my dad was pitching, and I felt firm and focused. Felt like I could hit one over the waxy, dark green laurel sumac bushes and into the scraggly branches of the flat-top buckwheat.
Please, I prayed. This pitch. A fastball. Inside. Belt high.
The instant I saw the pitcher bring his arm forward, I lifted my front foot, cocked my hands back, then set my shoe down just the way Tony Gwynn taught. "So soft, you wouldn't hurt an ant."
And the pitch started out right where I imagined it. No, better! Not inside, but over the heart of the plate.
I crushed it.
For a split second I just wanted to stand there and watch. The ball shot off the bat, arcing through the sky like a missile into the right-center gap.
Was it? I wondered. Was it my first real home run?
Rounding first, I caught a better angle and realized it would come up short. Like a dying bird, it plopped against the base of the fence and bounced off.
I dug for second. Triple, I was figuring. With my speed, I could make third easy and be only one base away from scoring the winning run! I pumped with my arms, digging the dirt with my cleats, leaning hard into the turn at second.
Everyone yelled. My team, their team, the fans. But I didn't hear a word. Just the jetwash of wind past the earholes in my helmet.
As I approached second, the centerfielder ran down the ball. He made a strong throw to the shortstop, but I never broke stride, hoping I could beat the shortstop's relay the ball to third.
I didn't. But as the ball entered my vision I could tell it would airmail the third baseman and skip into the chain link fence behind him.
At third, Coach gave me the stop sign, two hands held high.
No! I thought. Why stop now? I knew I could beat the throw home. It'd have to be perfect to get me. Besides, I had to show these guys. I had to make a statement.
Halfway to home plate, I realized that all I'd made was a stupid move.
The pitcher had backed up third. His throw shot past me toward home.
Oh, great, I thought. I'm dead.
But the throw short-hopped the catcher and bounced into his gut. He fell forward smothering the ball while hard, shin-guard plastic scraped against the dirt.
I had one chance.
Before he could gather up the ball, I started my lunge. Head first. Like some sneak-attack dive-bomber on a do-or-die mission, I aimed way off the baseline, on the pitcher's side of home plate.
Then, stretching out with all my four feet, ten and a half inches, I reached around the catcher's knees and tagged the scuffed, white plate with my right hand.
In the same instant, he pounded my head with his mitt. Hard. He swung like a hammer driver busting up a stone wall. Wham! A cracking thunk against my helmet that sent it flipping off my head toward the pitcher's mound and sent me twisting backwards like a shot dog.
But, so what? He was too late.
I'd just won the game.
In the powdery dust of the infield, I rolled once more, onto my stomach, taking in the boom of the crowd's roar, and knowing that what I'd just done was the type of thing that got you noticed. The type of thing an All-Star star would do. Under pressure.
Yes! I thought. Perfect.
"You're out!" screamed the umpire.
"Yo!" said the catcher, showing me the ball. "You're out cold, sucker." He jumped over me and scampered off. I felt the ball drop on my ribs and bounce away.
Over the Wall is published by Philomel Books, a division of Penguin Putnam, New York.
© John H. Ritter, 2000 ISBN #0-399-23489-6.
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