The Catch (2 page)

“No problem.”

“Great, great. Okay, you rest up tonight. I'll talk to you after the game tomorrow.”

After the call, I wondered if this guy was some kind of scout, or maybe just a fan. Dad had called him a “business friend.” But that didn't mean much because I had a pretty sketchy idea of what Dad's business even was. My older sister, Melina—we call her Mel— would joke about it sometimes. Every time we tried to pin Dad down about what he did, we got a different story: “Oh, it's not interesting, just business.” Or “Buying and selling. You know, investments.” Or the colorful version: “I guess you could say I'm a gambler.”

Our mom died from cancer when we were both in grade school, and we'd had what Dad called “governesses” ever since to take care of stuff at home. A lot of times, before we had licenses, Sal would drive us to school and practices, and sometimes his concern for our well-being was almost motherly. In fact, behind his back Mel called him Aunt Sally, which was especially funny if you saw him—six feet four inches, 250 pounds, and very hairy. So we weren't on our own, and Dad was home a lot, unless he had a business trip; his main office was in our house. He worked hard. And while we never felt rich, we always had whatever we needed.

 

 

After supper, some of the guys who had family with them went out to movies or shopping. I went to my room, which I was sharing this trip with Shotaro Mori, one of our pitchers, usually in relief. As a roommate, Shotaro was low maintenance. He was—during the Palm— having a passionate affair with his Xbox. So he was gaming, and I was just chilling in the room when Mel called.

“Hey, little brother, you got me in trouble!”

“What do ya mean?”

“One of the girls here has a kid brother on the Eagles. And you definitely rained on her parade.” Then she laughed. Mel's laugh is special. “So,” she went on, “where did you find that catch?”

“I don't really know. I saw it was gonna be hit, and I just took off running.”

Mel is the best athlete in our family. Since girls don't get to go very far in baseball, she got into softball when she was twelve. Today she's playing shortstop for Arizona State University, which is one of the best women's softball teams in the country. There's talk of her being an All-American. Mel's been on TV a lot more than me.

Then I told her what Wash had said. I just couldn't seem to let that go.

She listened and then said, “Yeah, that's what coaches are for, keeping your head small. Our coach is always telling us to think past the play. But you were spectacular.”

“Thanks, sis. Coming from you that means a lot. Well, we've got the Eagles again tomorrow. Hope I can get you in some more trouble with your friend. Whichever one of us wins goes to the finals.”

“Wish I could watch. They haven't offered you a TV contract yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. I'll call tomorrow night if I can. Good luck, bro!”

That night as I went to sleep I was thinking about the Eagles, trying to remember anything that would help me the next day. What the next day would actually bring, though, I could never have imagined.

CHAPTER
4

T
he game was scheduled for 10:00 A.M. They tried not to have games in the heat and wind of the early afternoon in the desert, and they were saving the evening for the first game of the finals. With luck, we'd be playing twice that day.

On the bus to the field Coach Harris had a few words for us. I'd seen Coach look better, but he always seemed to wear the tension on his face before a big game. He'd probably been up all night trying to figure out ways for us to win.

“Okay, men,” he started. “You've seen this team before. Every guy is fast. They play small ball better than anyone else you'll face. And they're pitching Scott today.”

The team was quiet. He meant Troy Scott, a skinny, six-foot-five-inch kid who could bring a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball. Which set up his other pitch—a changeup. Not much of a curve, but he didn't need one. Our hitters would be guessing between fast and slow.

“Wash and I were looking at film last night,” Harris went on. “What did we see, Wash?”

Wash stood up. “Sometimes,” he said, “not always, Troy tips his change. Watch his glove. Sometimes he'll squeeze it around his pitching hand, like this, before he starts his windup.”

Harris resumed. “Infielders, be on your toes. These hitters know how to work the ball. Outfielders, play smart. You know
they
will. Pay attention to their base runners. Know the situation. Know the score.”

We got to the field at nine o'clock and started warming up. The Eagles arrived not long after us. And there were a lot of fans for a morning game. Usually we had a few team family members, but today there were quite a few people I didn't recognize. The Catch had probably gotten some folks interested.

One guy sitting in the front row behind our dugout stood out. He was fat and red-faced, fifty or so years old. He wore a white suit, a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt, a red tie, and a white, broad-brimmed hat. Even though it was early, the day was hot—we were in the desert after all—and this guy's suit was already a mass of wrinkles. He had a white handkerchief the size of a towel, and every so often he'd take off the hat and wipe the sweat from his shaved head. He looked uncomfortable in the midst of all the shorts and T-shirts in the stands.

There was one other person I noticed, sitting up a few rows behind the plate in an orange halter-top. When she saw me look up that way she waved. You guessed it: PEPPERDINE.

Phoenix was the home team today, and they played like it. We had Carson Jamison on the mound, and he'd been sharper. Carson may not be as great as he thinks he is—
nobody's
that great—but on a good day, if he pays attention to our catcher, Nick Cosimo, he's effective. Carson throws strikes and mixes his pitches. Today, though, his control was suspect. He walked two in the first inning, two in the second, and the leadoff hitter in the third.

Walks are almost never good, but a team like Phoenix will eat you up if you give them base runners. Example: Bottom of the first. First batter walks and then steals second on what turns out to be the third strike on batter two. Nick throws to the base, but even with his powerful arm it isn't close. Third batter drags a perfect bunt down the first baseline. He legs it out, and now there are runners on the corners with one out.

The next batter flies to left, deep enough that left fielder Darius McKay can't keep the runner on third from tagging up and scoring. He throws to second to keep the other runner at first. But Carson walks the next guy, so there are runners on first and second. With two out, Carson hangs a curve that gets lined into right. The lead runner scores, the other one goes to third, and there are once again runners on the corners. When the next batter pops up to the infield, they're done. But we've given up two runs that really boiled down to Carson's lack of control.

Meanwhile, Troy Scott was rolling for Phoenix. Darius got a leadoff single in the first and stole second, but the next three batters struck out. In the second, with one out, I managed a single on a bloop fly. Then Zack Waddell struck out. Nick was up, and Scott blew two heaters by him for strikes. Nick took a time-out and then got back in the box. On the next pitch I spotted—and fortunately Nick did too—Scott squeezing his glove twice around his pitching hand before he started his stretch. Nick waited and parked the changeup in the left-field seats.

But we played catch-up all morning. After seven innings the Eagles were up 5–3, and Scott was still ringing our guys up, including yours truly in the fifth.

I led off the eighth, looking for the fastball. With the game near the end, some power pitchers get impatient and just start throwing as hard as they can to get it over with. I guessed right and lined the ball deep to the gap in right. It was a triple. Zack then flew out to center, and I tagged up easily to score. 5–4.

But that was it. We couldn't make up the difference. The Eagles were in the finals. We'd be playing for third.

CHAPTER
5

“D
anny, that was a hard-fought game. I'm sorry you fell a little short.”

It was the fat guy in the now very rumpled white suit. He had sweat stains under his arms and across his back, and he was still wiping his head with the hankie. He had come down to the dugout right after we'd shaken hands with the Eagles. He'd had to wait a minute, though. PEPPERDINE had arrived first.

“Sorry, Danny,” she said. “Nice triple, though.” It turned out her name was Kayla. She was a freshman communications major at the college she had advertised so excellently. She lived with her parents in Malibu, just a mile from school. I hoped we'd talk a while, but she saw White Suit waiting and just said, “I'll be at the game tomorrow” before she left.

The suit had a strong accent, maybe German, and introduced himself as Jack Strauss. “Actually, that's my name for doing business in America,” he said. “My name at home is Joachim Strausshoffer. I spoke with your father yesterday.”

“Yes, sir, he mentioned you'd be here.”

“Good, good. Look, it's getting hot out here. You probably want to get back to the hotel and clean up. I wanted to talk to you about a business proposition.”

“Business? Me?”

“Yes, yes. You can meet me maybe for a late lunch? I'll be in the restaurant at your hotel at 1:30.”

“Sure.”

As he walked away, I noticed he had a black shoulder bag with a logo on it—a gold cat inside the letter
O
.

I found the team bus and settled in by a window for the short ride back to the hotel. In a few seconds I had almost dozed off— the game catching up with me—when I was suddenly aware of Coach Harris in the seat next to me.

“Hey, Danny,” he said. “Good game. Who was the guy in the suit?”

I told him the man's name and that he said something about business. “I'll know more this afternoon,” I said. “The guy knows my dad.”

“Did you notice the man purse?” the coach said.

“Yeah.”

“The logo—the cat?—that's Ocelot. A German company. They make high-end sports gear. They're big in Japan. Anyway, keep your nose clean.”

 

 

Back at the hotel I showered and changed. I waved at Shotaro and the Xbox he'd become obsessed with playing and laid down for a quick rest. Good thing I set my phone alarm—when it went off I was well on my way to a long nap.

The restaurant was separate from the dining room where we had team meals. This place was all crystal and linen tablecloths, with deep green carpeting and a view of the pool. It seemed like everyone in the room was fit and tanned and ridiculously good-looking, except for Jack Strauss, who waved to me from a seat by the window. I made my way over and he stood up, extending a pudgy hand. I ordered a $20 burger and a soda; Strauss got a salad with fruit and goat cheese and a bottle of Perrier. I was noticing this stuff so I could tell Mel about it later.

“Well, Danny,” Strauss said at last, “let me tell you about my business. I represent Ocelot. We make all kinds of sports equipment and gear for all kinds of athletes, from amateurs to elite players like yourself. And we market all over the world. We are just now beginning to do business in America.”

I nodded.

“For some time, we've been watching the amateur baseball scene here, and we've noticed you. I'm not just trying to flatter you, Danny, but you have a great deal of talent, and something else. A kind of flair. And you're likeable. When you made that catch the other night, people were impressed, but I think they were also happy for you. Anyway, we certainly noticed how you could help our company, and vice-versa.”

“How?”

Strauss smiled. “Suppose,” he said, “suppose when you made that catch you had been wearing some kind of gear with our Ocelot logo. How many people do you think saw that catch?”