Tool Six

 Part 1 of 2

 from Spitball, The Literary Baseball Magazine

 

Alex Wayne stood in the third base coaches’ box and flashed the simple sign that said hit away. The batter, Denny Thornton, nodded and grinned. With the count two balls and no strikes and the bases loaded, the pitcher had to come in with a strike. No way would he risk walking in the go-ahead run, even if it meant pitching to the league’s best hitter.

The pitch was on the outside corner at the knees, not a bad pitch at all. Denny dropped the bat head on the ball with his beautiful compact swing and drove it into deep right center. The ball clanged off the chain-link fence as the outfielders chased after it. All three base runners scored and the Valley Vista High Braves took a four to one lead. Denny stood on second base pumping his fist and soaking up the glory while six or seven scouts in the grandstand scribbled rapidly in notebooks and on scraps of paper. It was a familiar scene, one Alex had witnessed many times over the past three seasons.

The next batter popped out to short left field, ending the top of the seventh inning. Now the Braves needed just three more outs to clinch the league title.  Alex looked around the dugout and then climbed the steps to scan the bleachers and the grandstand. Where the hell was Walker Bateman, the Braves head coach? He remembered seeing him leave the dugout after the top of the fourth inning, no doubt heading to the men’s room to take a nip from the flask he carried. These absences were becoming more frequent and lasting longer. Alex had grown accustomed to taking over and managing the team until Coach Bateman resurfaced. He decided to let his pitcher, Teddy Sullivan, start the bottom of the seventh, but at the first sign of trouble he would have to make a change, with or without Bateman. A three-run lead could evaporate in an instant in high school ball.

Damn, Walker. Where are you? Alex scanned the area again. The league championship on the line and you take a powder. It was a sad state of affairs for a man who was a legend in the high school coaching ranks. Walker Bateman had sent many players on to success at the college and pro levels. Now he was in his last season, sliding into retirement at age sixty-five. It was only the last few years—Alex tried to remember when, exactly—that Coach Bateman’s drinking had gone off the rails. He’d always been known to enjoy a drink, but his wife Martha had managed to keep him in line. When he lost Martha, he lost control. His players, who once revered him and were proud to report they played for Walker Bateman, now referred to him (behind his back, of course) as W.B. It stood for whiskey breath.

The umpire called “play ball” and the bottom of the seventh got underway. Teddy Sullivan promptly walked the first batter on five pitches; he was running on fumes. Alex called time and walked slowly out to the mound. The infielders trotted in to join the meeting.

“Okay, Teddy. We’re gonna make a change. You pitched a great game, son.” Teddy handed Alex the ball. “Denny, I want you to close it out for us. Teddy, you’ll go to shortstop.” He handed the ball to Denny.

Denny Thornton lifted the ball above his head and looked toward the grandstand where his father was sitting next to the group of scouts. All eyes in the group around the mound turned toward Dennis Thornton Sr., “Big Denny” as he was known, who—after a dramatic pause—flashed a thumbs-up. The pitching change was approved and all the scouts scrambled to break out their radar guns.

“Okay, Coach. I got this.” Denny flashed his cocky grin and got ready for his warm-up pitches.

The players trotted back to their positions and Alex headed for the dugout. Geez, what if his old man said no? What then? He had encountered obnoxious, intrusive dads before, but never anyone quite like Big Denny Thornton. The man was intent on reliving his glory days through his son.

Little Denny got the first hitter to pop up to second base and then struck out the next two with his low-nineties fastball. Game over and a league championship for the Braves!

The players celebrated around the mound and Alex let them enjoy the moment. Then he rallied them to line up and shake hands with their opponents. As he chatted with the opposing coaches, he could see Big Denny holding court with the scouts up in the grandstand, basking in his son’s latest moment of triumph.

Alex directed the team to pack all the gear and load it onto the bus for the two-hour trip home. He assigned two of his seniors to make sure everyone got a sack lunch and a carton of milk, and then he turned his attention to finding Coach Bateman.

“Hey, Teddy.” The player trotted to his side. “Do me a favor, hustle over to the men’s room and see if Coach is in there.”

“Yes, sir. No problem.” Sullivan jogged away in the direction of the low concrete structure that housed the restrooms. He entered the men’s room and a few seconds later, emerged and gave an urgent wave. Alex double-timed it across the grass to where Teddy was standing. “He’s in the stall, Coach. I think he passed out.”

“Okay, thanks. Go on back to the bus, and don’t say anything. Okay?”

“Sure, Coach.”

He knew it was pointless to ask the young man to conceal the situation. The team was well-aware of Walker Bateman’s problem. Alex went into the men’s room and bent down quickly to see that someone was, indeed, sitting in the stall. He banged on the door, loud enough to draw attention. “Coach? Coach Bateman? You okay in there?” No response. He repeated the pounding and called out again. Still no answer. Alex was worried now. He saw that the sink was situated next to the stall and that he could get a foot on it and hoist himself up to look over the partition. As he pulled himself up and looked down at the man sprawled across the toilet, Bateman’s eyes snapped open.

“Jeezus! What the hell are you doin’ up there?” He looked at Alex as if he were a crazy man—or a pervert.

“Game’s over, Coach. Time to get on the bus and head for home.”

“Well, hell. Did we win?”

“Yeah. Congratulations, Walker. Another league championship.”

Bateman unlocked the stall door and walked out on shaky legs. He was tall and lean and his face was deeply tanned from too many hours in the sun.

“Are you going to be okay, to walk to the bus?” Alex resisted the urge to take his arm and steady his progress.

“Hell yes, I’m okay.” He straightened his cap and adjusted his thick wire-rimmed glasses.  “Did Sullivan finish the game?”

“No. I brought Thornton in to close.”

“And his old man approved?”

“Yep. Gave us a big thumbs-up.” Alex smiled.

“That son of a—”

“Come on, Walker. Let’s go home.”

And with that, they started across the grass to where the bus sat waiting at the curb, the engine running, the entire team watching their progress. Alex held great affection for this man who had been such an important part of his life. He felt a lump in his throat as they moved carefully toward the bus. It was the longest walk he could remember.

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The bus rolled along the freeway heading north through the light traffic on a Tuesday evening. The sun was setting on this early-May day and Alex hurried to finish posting all the stats in the official scorebook before darkness fell. Walker Bateman leaned his head against the window and snored softly. Alex thought back to the years when he had played varsity ball for Coach Bateman. What a great experience that had been. In his mid-thirties now, Alex still maintained contact with many of his old teammates. They had taken great pride in wearing the Braves’ uniform.

There were just two more games left in the season and then Coach Bateman would fade into the history of Valley Vista High, leaving behind a trophy case full of memories. Alex had been assured that he was in line to succeed his old coach and mentor. This had been his dream since coming onboard six seasons ago as assistant coach. He flexed his neck and shoulders and then reached back with his left hand to massage the knotted muscles. The stress of the game and finding the old man passed out in the men’s room had taken its toll.

He thought about the handful of scouts at the game that day, guys he’d known for a long time, several of them going back to his playing days. How did they stand the constant travel, running around the countryside, everyone looking for the same thing? They all wanted a genuine, blue-chip, five-tool player; a kid who could run, throw, field, hit, and hit with power. Those elusive five tools!

You wouldn’t think it would be that difficult to find, given the number of kids playing the game, and yet it was hard, damn hard. They generally settled for players missing one or more of the big five, hoping they would grow and develop power, or learn to hit the curve ball, or suddenly gain a step or two of foot speed. The search went on and on, looking for the next Mike Trout, or the next Bryce Harper.

Now the scouts were sure they had found their man and his name was Dennis Thornton, Jr. No question about it, at six two, one hundred and eighty pounds and still growing, young Mr. Thornton was a five-tool guy. But in Alex’s mind, a question mark remained. Would he become the next Mike Trout? Or would he squander his talent and opportunities on—what had Tug McGraw called it?—“wine, women, and bong”?

Alex closed the scorebook and tried to relax.

_____

 

“Hey! Hey, knock it off back there!” The bus driver was staring intently at his rearview mirror, shouting to a group of players seated near the back of the bus. “Come on, you guys. Knock it off.”

Alex spun around in his seat in time to see wadded-up lunch bags and milk cartons flying back and forth across the aisle. “Hey, you heard the man. Cut it out.”

The trash continued to fly along with the laughter and shouted put-downs. Alex jumped up from his seat, the large scorebook still in his hand and strode toward the back of the bus. The trash fight stopped quickly.

“Look, you guys are going to pick up all this crap. Nobody gets off the bus until it’s cleaned up. Got it?” Alex waited a few seconds and then turned around—just in time to be hit in the forehead by a tightly wadded lunch bag thrown by none other than Denny Thornton. The young man broke into his patented grin.

Alex drew the scorebook back with his right hand and slapped a hard backhand against the side of Denny’s head. “You son of a bitch!”

It was dead quiet on the bus. The right side of Denny’s face turned bright red. The grin was gone. “You callin’ my mom a bitch, Coach?”

Alex froze for a moment, then turned to the young men seated around him, ignoring Denny Thornton. “You guys heard me. I want this mess picked up before we get off the bus.”

He moved back down the aisle and took his seat behind the bus driver. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. Oh my God! What have I done? Coach Bateman continued to snore in the seat next to him.

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Coming soon: Part 2. What is Tool Six? And does Alex Wayne have it? Don't miss the conclusion.

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