Twelfth Angel (5 page)

“Thanks, Rose. See you next week.”

I returned to my desk and sat, chin in the palms of both hands. What was I doing? Maintaining the grounds? For what? Dusting and vacuuming the house? Rick’s toys being picked up? Why? What difference did it make? Damn! Damn! I jerked open the lower-right-hand desk drawer and stared at the ugly loaded gun. Same old questions exploding in my head. What was there to live for? Who was there to live for? Who? On my desk was the aged brown baseball, its cover cut and scuffed, that Bill had stumbled over and handed me as we were leaving the baseball park. I picked it up and held it against my cheek.
Oh, God, please help me!

V
 

O
n Saturday morning I had already walked down the driveway and was leaning on my mailbox, waiting, when Bill pulled up in his old Buick. He looked both surprised and pleased at seeing me but said nothing as we rode along, for at least five minutes. Then, still staring straight ahead, he shook his head several times and said, “I’m very proud of you, old buddy.”

“Well, I think it would be wise if you withhold judgment for now. I’m not sure I know what I’m doing or whether I’ll be able to see this thing through. The odds are great, Bill, that I’m probably going to let you down and run away from this commitment, and sooner rather than later. You’ve got to understand and be ready if I can’t hack it.”

Bill reached down and handed me a Masonite clipboard that had been next to him on the car seat. “I
typed up a list of all the player applicants last night so that you can make notes while you’re evaluating the various kids in the tryout. That red number before each name will be on a piece of heavy paper pinned to the back of each boy’s shirt, which should make it easier for the coaches and managers who are judging talent to identify the kids and jot down their opinions and ratings for each of them. We’re trying it this year for the first time. Should make the Monday-night player draft a lot easier and certainly speed it up.”

“And what’s this other number, the one after each name?” I asked.

“That’s the boy’s age. Just to refresh your memory, the magic date is August first. Kids must be nine before that date and not thirteen until after that date in order to play—ages nine to twelve, as it has always been. By sheer chance we happen to have no nine-year-old applicants this year, but there’s a good mix of tens, elevens, and twelves.”

“Some of these names are underlined. What’s that all about?”

Bill grinned. “Well, I figure the other three managers have a little jump on you since they’ve lived here for years and know most of the kids. Also, they all managed last year, so they’ve got a pretty good reading on the available talent. The names I underlined are the twelve kids I think are the most outstanding athletes. The three names with double underlines are the best three pitchers, at least as I remember their performances from last year. But this is your team,” he said, patting my knee,
“and your flock of Angels will all have been selected by you.”

“However, you will share your expert opinion with me, correct?”

“If you ask for it,” he said, smiling.

As soon as we stepped out of the car, in the Little League parking lot, I could hear them—the children—shouting, laughing, calling out to their fellow players, accompanied by an almost rhythmic thump of baseballs being caught in leather gloves. It was still early, but obviously most of the playing candidates were already on the field doing whatever they believed was necessary to attract some manager or coach’s attention.

It had been one thing for me to walk out on a quiet and empty field the other afternoon with Bill, but this was much tougher. I don’t know what I expected, but the kids didn’t look much different or sound much different or even act much different from the way my young buddies had, almost thirty years ago, when this field had been the most hallowed ground in the entire world to me. I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds, and tried to remember my very first Little League tryout. I was just a few days past my ninth birthday, nervous and frightened, and my dad had driven me here, to this same field, in his pickup. Just before I turned away from him, in the parking lot, and ran out on the diamond for the first time, he extended his hand, smiled and said, “Break a leg, son!” I knew what he meant because that strange phrase had come up at dinner one night, and mother had patiently explained to both of us
that those words were how show people always wish each other good luck before a performance. Break a leg!

“John?”

I opened my eyes. Bill was several yards away and frowning. “Are you okay?”

I shrugged my shoulders and nodded. He pointed toward the first-base dugout. “Let’s go meet the league officials while we’ve got time.”

Boland Little League’s president, Stewart Rand, was already an acquaintance, since he was an officer in the local savings bank and we had met on that morning when Sally and I had opened our checking and savings accounts. He rose from the dugout bench when he saw us approaching and extended his hand toward me before Bill could say anything. “Mr. Harding, I can’t tell you how pleased we are to have you with us. We all welcome you, with open arms, as well as extend to you our deepest sympathy. Thank you for your willingness to share your time, your effort and your considerable baseball knowledge with our youngsters. I’m certain they will be better players and citizens because of your counsel, leadership and example. Forgive the speech”—he grinned—“but I truly mean every word of it. You are a very special man, and I’m glad we’ve got you.”

I mumbled my thanks. Then Bill introduced me to Nancy McLaren, the league’s secretary-treasurer, followed by three members of the board, the other three managers and their coaches as well as several parents, all of whose names I forgot soon after the introductions.

At last, in response to a single shriek from a whistle that had been hanging around President Rand’s neck, the players ceased their throwing and running and noisily took seats in the lower rows of stands behind the dugout. Parents, who had been scattered throughout the grandstand, now began moving to positions in upper rows, behind the boys, in order to hear, while the league president waited patiently for everyone to get settled, waving and nodding constantly to people calling out his name. When the chattering in the stands finally subsided, he raised his right hand and said loudly, “Good morning, parents and players and friends of Boland Little League. My name is Stewart Rand. As this year’s league president, I welcome you to the opening session of what will be our forty-fourth year as a chartered Little League. That means that, through the years, we have proudly sent several thousand of Boland’s youth out into the world, imbued, we hope, with qualities of teamwork, fair play, courage, persistence and discipline that have made them better adults and better citizens.”

Stewart Rand paused, smiled and then said, “We have a good deal to accomplish in the next couple of hours or so and we shall try, with the generous assistance of our managers and coaches and several parents, to give every player an opportunity to show what he can do at bat, on the bases and in the field. And, while all that energy is being expended on our historic field, our four team managers, upon which so much responsibility rests for the next two months, will also be moving around the field from group to group, observing and judging and
making notes so that on Monday night, at the draft, they will be able to assemble four good competitive teams for our exciting twelve-game pennant race.”

Bill and I had been standing, with the other managers and coaches, behind Rand. Bill turned and said softly, “I’ll get together with you later.” Then he moved slowly toward the league president just as Rand was saying, “And now I’m going to turn this morning over to an old friend of mine and many of you, Bill West, who will coordinate the various activities.”

The tryouts lasted until well past noon. Each player was allowed half a dozen swings at the plate, hitting pitches tossed by one of the coaches who had the unique ability to throw ball after ball in the strike zone. During the long hitting session at least six boys took their turns behind the plate, catching. Four were allowed on the infield at one time, while the batting was taking place, and they were told to go to their position of choice and to field anything that was hit toward them. While all this was happening, another coach and parent were stationed in deep right field, behind the foul line, hitting towering fly balls to a second group of youngsters. After perhaps forty-five minutes the outfield group came in to the dugout, batted, and then assumed positions in the infield, while those who had been batting and playing the infield moved to the outfield. As all that organized chaos was transpiring on the field, another, smaller group had gathered behind the first-base dugout, where there was a pitching rubber and plate. They threw to catcher candidates for more than half an
hour while all four managers watched intently. Often, at the request of a manager or coach, another young athlete would be called in from the field and asked to pitch for several minutes with the emphasis on control—how many pitches were near or over the plate.

Not until just before noon did I get a chance to confer with Bill. Swinging a bat as he would a golf club, he came over to me and said, “Well, skipper, what do you think?”

I handed him my clipboard, saying, “Pretty tough to really evaluate all these kids in just a couple of hours, but I did take a crack at grading them numerically, ten down to one, plus jotting down a few comments to help me remember some of them on Monday night at the draft.”

He studied my board for several minutes, nodded and handed it back. “John, you don’t need any advice from me. What did you do about pitchers?”

I handed him the clipboard again and said, “I marked the best pitching prospect P-one, the next P-two and so on, but of course everything will depend on when we get to draft. Whoever drafts first will no doubt go for my P-one, he’s that much of a standout.”

Bill nodded. “You’re absolutely right. Todd Stevenson was not only the best darn pitcher in the league, last year at age eleven, he also batted over four hundred, hit five or six home runs and played first base when he wasn’t pitching. He was very special. Didn’t you say you were rating the kids from ten down to one?”

“Yes.”

“But there’s nothing next to this kid’s name,” he said, handing the clipboard back to me.

“I know. Number thirty-six. God love him, he’s so tiny and slow and uncoordinated that … I just didn’t know what to put down. But he never quit, never stopped running and never seemed to get down on himself after missing pitch after pitch at the plate. Do you know him?”

Bill leaned closer to the clipboard and squinted.

“ ‘Timothy Noble.’ No. Must be a new family in town.”

I pointed toward the group in center field still taking turns catching fly balls from a coach’s bat. “Third from the left, Bill. In those baggy pants. See him? Your list shows he’s an eleven-year-old, but he’s got to be the smallest player on the field.”

As we were talking, the little guy moved away from the other players, who turned and watched, nudging each other and snickering. Obviously the next fly ball to be hit was his to catch. Leaning forward, he flexed his knees and pounded his right fist into his glove again and again.

“My God!” I said half aloud.

“What’s the matter … what am I missing?” asked Bill as he glanced around the outfield.

“Nothing … nothing.”

How could I tell him that Timothy Noble, not much bigger than my beloved seven-year-old, looked just like Rick from a distance as he crouched and leaned forward on his toes, waiting. The coach swung his bat and arched a long fly ball toward Timothy, who circled
helplessly beneath the ball, waving both his arms toward the sky. As the ball descended, he first turned to his left, then to his right and began to run, but somehow his feet got tangled and he fell headfirst onto the grass while the nearby group of players moved close to each other, almost in a huddle, with several holding their hands over their mouths as they fought back giggles.

A few minutes later the youngster failed, once again, to get under a fly ball hit to him, and it landed several feet away. He raced toward it, picked it up and threw it back toward the batter. The ball landed no more than forty feet from where Timothy had been standing and the other players turned away, smiling. Timothy momentarily brushed the back of his right hand against both eyes.

“He sure is tiny,” said Bill. “How old did you say he was, according to our list?”

“Eleven.”

“Well,” sighed Bill, “he’s certainly going to be a challenge for the manager and team who end up with him. Probably will be one of the last kids drafted. Still, according to the rules, he’s going to have to be played in each game, for a minimum of six defensive outs, and he’ll have to go to bat at least once per game. I’m afraid that any balls hit in his direction, wherever he’ll be playing, even for two innings, could prove very costly.”

We looked up to see Timothy Noble on the move again. This time he overran a tall, lazy fly ball that dropped behind him. As he tried to stop suddenly, his
tattered sneakers slipped on the grass and he fell, tumbling over onto his side. Still, he jumped up quickly, wiped the grass clippings from his T-shirt, yanked down firmly on the bill of his old baseball cap, retrieved the baseball, ran in several steps toward the coach who had hit it and threw the ball with so much effort that he fell over backward. The ball, after completing a small airborne arc, rolled along the grass until it finally came to rest at the batter’s feet. Those who were watching cheered loudly while they mockingly applauded. Timothy Noble turned, faced his hecklers and tipped his cap.