Matt hadn't fared well at the plate at all. Although his hitting had improved, he was nervous this afternoon. Baker was one of the fastest pitchers he had seen all season and he was just wild enough to scare most of the South Side hitters out of standing in the box and taking solid cuts.
In the top of the sixth, Baker himself was at the plate, facing White. And watching from the dugout it seemed to Matt that White was taking this matchup personally, much as he had done with Jake in that practice session before the season. He seemed to be throwing his entire body off the mound, trying to get some extra speed. Matt sensed that White was losing control of his emotions, but Coach Stephens didn't seem ready to pull him. Besides, without Jake in the lineup, the Stingers didn't have a sure-fire closer ready to step in.
Facing his pitching rival at the plate, White got behind 3-0 in the count. Now he was in trouble. He had to be good with this pitch, and Jamaal Baker knew it. The Mandela hurler was waiting for White to groove one and, when he did, Baker parked it over the right-field fence with a powerful swing. It was 1-0 Mandela, and the stands at South Side fell almost dead silent.
That was all the runs the Lions could manage in their half of the sixth, bringing South Side up to the plate. But Baker was still a force on the mound for Mandela, striking out Phil, Howard Berger and Dave Tanner in order.
It was now the top of the seventh in South Side's final game of the season and Coach Stephens knew the Stingers couldn't afford to put Steve White back on the mound. He had pitched well, but he was out of gas. The coach rubbed his chin and then made his decision. “Berger,” he barked. “You're throwing this inning. White, go to third.”
Howard Berger, a slope-shouldered redhead with a serious face, gulped. This was a pressure situation to be thrown into. Normally, South Side would have ridden Steve White all the way to the end of such a close game. Either that, or Coach Stephens would have moved Jake in to pitch the last inning. But Jake wasn't available. So Howard Berger was the man on the spot.
Berger walked slowly to the mound. Matt watched as Phil joined him there, his catcher's mask tilted up on his forehead so he could speak with Howard. The two talked for about thirty seconds, then Phil patted Howard on the back and ran behind the plate. After a few warm-ups, Berger was ready to go.
The Mandela dugout was pumped up. The Lions weren't in the running for a playoff spot, but they were clearly enjoying the chance to play spoiler on the Stingers' own field. Matt could tell the Mandela players and their coach sensed they would be able to jump all over Howard.
The Lion hitters were swinging away from the start. The first batter lined sharply toward third base. But Steve White had gotten a jump on the ball and his diving snag on the hard shot was the first out for South Side. Now just two more to go.
The first out and the chatter in the South Side infield made Howard suddenly seem more confident on the mound. He reared back and threw a hard first pitch to the second Mandela batter, who promptly launched a sharp single to shallow center field.
Now the Lions had a runner on first and only one out. They were already up by a single run and were looking to add some insurance. Matt glanced over at the Stingers' dugout and noticed Coach Stephens. He looked concerned.
Berger's sudden confidence seemed to have dissipated with that single pitch. Now he was wiping his brow and shaking his head. Phil looked at the plate umpire. “Time!” the ump called out.
Phil strolled up to the mound, baseball in hand. He chatted with Berger for a few seconds, then patted the pitcher on the back and handed him the ball. Phil was doing his job as the catcher and leader on the field. Berger once again had a smile on his face.
The reliever wound up and delivered a high fastball, slightly inside. But the Lions' batter swung hard anyway and the result was a hard-chopped grounder straight at Matt. He got a bead on the ball, charged it and gloved it smoothly. Mindful of the lead runner, Matt pivoted and tossed the baseball to Kevin Archibald who was covering the bag. Archibald jumped high to avoid the slide of the Lion runner and, in mid-flight, gunned the ball to Dave Tanner at first for the picture-perfect double play.
The play drew a huge cheer from the South Side stands. Matt looked up into the bleachers and saw his mom, smiling and waving at him. He scanned a few rows down and spotted Andrea clapping wildly.
The Stingers ran toward the dugout, eager to put their last at-bat to good use. Archibald was up first and he patiently drew a walk from Jamaal Baker who hadn't lost a bit of his speed but was growing increasingly wilder.
South Side had a runner aboard with Steven White coming to the plate. Jamaal smiled when he saw his pitching rival was next to face him. White grinned back. Matt knew that Steve would be pressing hard on this at-bat.
He was right. White was trying too hard to be the hero. In just five pitches he was on his way back to the dugout, having swung for at least two deliveries that would have clearly been balls. Pete Winters, the Stingers' left fielder, was next. He worked the count to three to two but then watched as the umpire inexplicably called a pitch that was well outside for a third strike.
The groans from the South Side dugout were audible. But Coach Stephens was having none of that. “Quiet, guys,” he growled. “The ump made the call. Now let's play baseball.”
Matt was already out of the dugout and in the warm-up circle, swinging away. He was up next with South Side's entire season riding on this at-bat. He had been mentally timing Jamaal's pitches while he waited for his turn. This kid was faster than anybody he had faced all season.
The walk to the plate seemed like it took about twice as long as usual. And suddenly, the noise in the bleachers, the buzz that had been there all game, was gone. It was so quiet, Matt could swear he heard spectators breathing.
He stepped into the box, got set and raised his bat up behind his shoulders. Baker wound up and uncoiled his long sinewy body. The ball arrived so fast that Matt barely had time to move away from a chin-high fastball that had come within inches of hitting him.
Ball one. It hadn't been a strike but it had Matt second-guessing, which was what Baker had intended. The next pitch came hard again, but this time it was right down the middle. Matt couldn't help himself. He had jumped backward, away from the plate, before he had even realized what he was doing. “Steeeerike!” the umpire yelled.
Matt stepped out of the box and shook his head. He was angry with himself. He took the sign from Coach Stephens at first base, telling him to hit away if the pitch was good. He looked in the dugout and found the face of Charlie, pressed against the wire mesh. “Like you can, Matt,” Charlie yelled. “Like you can.”
Matt mulled the words over in his head. If anybody knew what he was capable of, it was Charlie, having worked with him on all those Saturday mornings this year.
He stepped back into the batter's box, determined not to flinch at the next pitch. This one was well outside. The count was two and one.
Baker wound up again and delivered. The pitch was high and inside, and scarily fast. But Matt knew it wasn't over the plate. He resisted the urge to swing and took the pitch. “Ball three!” the ump screamed.
“Make him pitch to you, Matty,” yelled Coach Stephens. “Make him pitch to you.”
At the same time he was yelling for Matt to have an eye, Coach Stephens was signaling him to swing away. He knew that Baker would have to offer up something good on this next pitch. The Mandela pitcher couldn't afford to walk Matt and have two runners on base.
He was right. Baker wound up and delivered a blistering fastball headed right up the middle. Matt didn't have time to think or even blink. He simply reacted, swinging as hard as he could through the heart of the plate.
Crack! The ball rocketed off his bat, heading high over the first baseman's head and deep into right field. Matt was off and running hard and so he didn't see the ball bounce sharply off the white fence. Coach Stephens was sending him on to second so he kept running, oblivious to the fact that Archibald was coming home from third.
The Mandela right fielder fired a hard throw toward the plate, but it was too late to catch Archibald, who crossed home standing up. Meanwhile, Matt had been waved on to third. The Mandela catcher whirled and threw, trying to pick him off. It might have worked if the throw had been on target, but the ball sailed over the head of the third baseman. Winters motioned with his arms for Matt to take home.
The left fielder had been backing up the play, so the ball didn't make it far. He planted and threw toward the plate as Matt streaked in. About ten feet from home, Matt instinctively went into a slide, steaming over the plate just before the catcher's mitt tagged his hip.
“Safe!” the umpire bellowed, his arms spread outward. South Side had won the game, and Matt had provided the winning hit.
The Stingers dugout emptied, all of the maroon and white players circling Matt and slapping him on the back. Charlie limped out behind them and watched with a satisfied look on his face.
Matt was being jostled and pushed and noogeyed by his teammates, but he managed to shake free and yell at Charlie. “Saturday morning special, Charlie,” he said.
Charlie just smiled.
Nearly lost in the wild celebration of the South Side win was the fact that the Stingers still hadn't clinched a playoff berth. They still needed Central to beat Middleton in tonight's final game of the season if they wanted to finish first and make it into the regional tournament.
Because the Central Middle School diamond had lights, the league had scheduled this game between the Marauders and Wildcats for a 7 pm start. So the entire Stingers team had time to shower and change and walk the dozen blocks together to Central to watch the game that would decide their fate.
Coach Stephens couldn't join them. “I put enough time in with our South Side games and practices,” he said. “I think I'll go home and spend some time with my family. I'm sure you'll all let me know tomorrow how it turns out.
“But let's remember one thing,” the coach continued. “No matter what happens at Central, you guys had a great season. Going 9-1 in this league is tough. You accomplished a lot, whether we're in the playoffs or not.”
Although everybody was happy with the victory, the Stingers were a quiet bunch as they made their way to Central. Matt could sense that everybody was nervous. It wasn't easy to watch somebody else decide how your season was going to end.
They sat together in the bleachers, waiting for the game to begin. David Martinez, the junk-ball specialist, was on the mound for Middleton. Central was throwing a tall, skinny seventh-grader named Willis Brown. Matt groaned inside when he saw Martinez was pitching. Central would be hard pressed to win this one, he thought.
The game was about to start when Matt noticed a group of players coming up the steps of the bleachers toward them. It was the South Side girls' softball team, who were heading to the regional tournament the following week in Eton.
They were in full uniform, and Andrea was leading the way. “We came to root for you guys,” she said, sitting right beside Matt in the bleachers.
“But we're not even playing,” he said.
“So, we'll cheer for Central.”
The girls proceeded to cheer and whistle and clap for every good play the home-field Wildcats made. Normally, Central didn't draw many fans. This was probably the loudest support they had enjoyed all year.
The cheering seemed to pump up Willis Brown, the slender seventh-grade pitcher on the mound for Central. Through six innings, he was nearly flawless, throwing surprising heat and racking up eight strikeouts. And when the Middleton hitters did touch him, Central's fielders managed to get their gloves on the ball and make snappy plays to back him up.
Meanwhile, David Martinez was at his junk-ball best on the mound for the Marauders. The Central batters were twisting themselves into knots trying to figure out his baffling combination of off-speed pitches and curves.
The teams were scoreless heading into the seventh inning. And as each inning had passed without the Marauders scoring, the Stingers in the bleachers had grown more excited. Maybe Central did have a chance for the upset after all. Maybe, just maybe, South Side would be going to the post-season.
In the top of the seventh, though, bad luck struck Willis Brown. The freshman Central pitcher who had been so solid through six innings, beaned David Martinez, his pitching rival and the first batter of the inning, with a fastball in the shoulder, giving Martinez a free ticket to first base.
On the very next pitch, he grooved a fastball up the middle to Gustavo Martinez, David's much larger older brother. That proved to be a bad idea. Gus swung hard and drove the baseball deep into left field. Central hadn't been respecting the elder Martinez as a heavy hitter. The ball sailed over the Wildcat fielder's head, bringing David Martinez home. Middleton led 1-0.
The Stingers' visiting cheering section in the stands groaned. Steve White stood up and booed loudly, drawing some dirty looks from the Middleton parents. Matt was embarrassed, but he didn't know what to do about it. This was horrible sportsmanship on Steve's part.
“Sit down, White!” barked Jake who had walked over with his teammates for the game. “No need for that kind of stuff, right?”
Matt was proud of Jake. He was just a seventh-grader but he had developed into a leader on this South Side team, even if he hadn't been able to play the final two games of the year.
Middleton was unable to score again that inning and so, heading into the bottom of the seventh, the Central Wildcats trailed 1-0. If the Marauders could hold on, they would finish the season in first place and head to the regionals. If they couldn't, South Side would get that honor instead. Matt was so nervous sitting in the bleachers he could hardly breathe.