Three Six Three
Three Six Three
by John Frain
June. College World Series. We hugged a one-run lead heading into the bottom of the eighth. A win would send us to the national championship. A loss sent us home.
The heart of the Bulldogs lineup was due to face us in their half of the eighth. We’d defeated the Bulldogs in a non-conference game early in the season, but Coach reminded us their clean-up hitter missed that game. Then again, Coach motivated us by coming up with reasons we might lose every game.
No need to motivate me.
First pitch, their batter put the DeMarini logo on a low fastball and hit it where no one should when playing us. Eddie Griffin sucked up baseballs like a vacuum and his throws across the diamond were as smooth as a stone skipping across a river. This time, his throw from short came low. A golden opportunity, but I wasn’t ready. Instinct took over, and I dug the ball out at first a half-step before the runner crossed the bag.
Wasn’t often I bailed out Eddie. Players called him Circus, a nickname Coach hung on him during a post-game “rah-rah” some of the guys bought into. Eddie had delivered a particularly acrobatic performance: an unassisted triple play. A jaw-dropping, anti-gravity catch of a line drive up the middle where he rolled into a somersault and bounced to his feet to tag second base before the runner got back, and then tagged the runner sprinting from first. Both baserunners, like the rest of us, gave Eddie no chance to make the catch. He might’ve earned the nickname, but I still called him Eddie. He called me Chad, and he wasn’t the better player between us.
Felix Muñoz, reliever from Mexico who tutored a few teammates, gave up a one-out double. Next, he was too careful with their cleanup hitter and walked him, setting up my moment with runners on first and second.
The Bulldogs’ catcher lumbered to the plate like Paul Bunyan, a bat for an axe. The hushed crowd held a nervous combination of fear and energy. Muñoz would pitch low, try to induce a double play. He dug his spikes into the mound. Rotated his neck. Peered in. He had one great pitch in his arsenal, a sinking fastball with ferocious movement. Behind the plate, Winslow tapped twice on his right thigh: Pitch away. Muñoz checked the two runners and delivered.
The ping of the bat, long anticipated, still jolted me. The ball took one hop halfway down the first base line and hurtled toward me. I gloved the ball, pulled it out with my bare hand and turned to fire to Eddie Griffin covering second base to start a double play. A maneuver I’d made thousands of times in practices, hundreds more in games. My concentration peaked. This one had to be flawless.
I pointed my left foot toward second base, just like the instructional films, and snapped a throw that traveled with the smoothness of an ascending jetliner. Mr. Rawlings picked up elevation from the moment it left my hand. I shouldn’t have been watching it. Should have hustled back to first to cover for the double play, but like a guy slugging a majestic home run, I couldn’t resist admiring the beauty of my throw. Eddie didn’t even jump for it. He spun to make sure our left fielder, Van Manning, was backing up the play.
The wild throw surprised Manning. Without seeing our shortstop jump – or, more likely, seeing I had delivered the throw—Manning failed to move in enough. Our slim lead evaporated with my throwing error. The guy on second crossed home and, when Muñoz cut off the throw from left field and threw to the wrong base, the runner from first scored to put the Bulldogs ahead. Muñoz glared at me, fire in his eyes, blaming me for his errant throw. He retired the next two batters with his wicked fastball, but the damage was done.
Our ninth inning assignment was daunting, trying to beat a closer who hadn’t given up a hit in Omaha. Hell, he’d only let one runner reach base in those games, and now he stood between us and the national title game. His body dwarfed the red mitt on his hand, which isn’t to minimize the mitt.
I led off the ninth, a chance to atone for my error. My mind distracted, I fouled off an O-two pitch, which brought my head back to the game. I whiffed on strike three at my ankles to cap an 0-for-four night. That wasn’t unusual, it was unheard of. First basemen, we butter our bread hitting line drives and home runs or we watch from the bench. The two batters behind me fared no better, and we went down one-two-three. Our season ended one game shy of the title contest, and my junior year ended on that swing.
***
In the clubhouse, hours after the game, Felix Muñoz, the pitcher tagged with the loss because of my error, talked in Spanish to a reporter about ten feet away. They glanced my way. I spit sunflower seeds and turned to my locker.
“Tough ending.” A voice said behind me. “The bad toss.”
The reporter.
“Yup,” I said, no interest in engaging him.
“You guys scout Parker?” The guy who hit the ball on my error. “Great defensive catcher, but the guy runs like a fire hydrant.”
“We scout everyone.” The only reason I was still here was for a team meeting. Didn’t need it, but when Coach called a meeting, you attended.
“Couldn’t figure out why you rushed the throw with Parker running. Heat of the moment, you forgot maybe, huh?”
I rose, bumped the guy’s shoulder, and walked past him.
“Coach say anything to you yet?” It was Eddie Griffin, still in uniform.
“About what?”
Eddie kept walking, down the tunnel toward the field like he wanted to play again.
Coach must have had a scout in his office. They were watching Eddie and me. Eddie had to work hard to keep up with a natural like myself. There was a time I admired him for it, but reality was simple: he needed to be more gifted. That’s why he always hit the books. Needed a fallback. We’d become fast friends first time we met as wide-eyed freshmen. Drifted apart over time. It disappointed him as much as me, yet neither of us had the capacity to stop it. I tried to help him in the cage a few times, but it gets tiresome giving instruction to someone who isn’t picking up on the lesson. By the time our junior season started, we barely spoke. I sometimes longed for those freshman days when the game was simpler, there were fewer expectations, and everyone could see I was a better player than Eddie.
***
Behind me, our athletic director called my name. Mr. Sheets in khakis and a white oxford shirt, black wingtips. Odd look for a locker room. He asked me to come into Coach’s office, which meant a scout wanted to set something up. In one report, taped above my bed, a scout called me “can’t-miss.”
Scouts might have wondered if I’d committed to playing another year or declaring eligible for the draft. I’d promised my mother I’d stay my senior year and graduate.
Mr. Sheets held the door. Coach pointed to a chair across from his desk. Mr. Sheets remained standing to my right.
“Petrie mentioned something interesting,” Coach said.
Petrie scouted for Baltimore.
“Was talking about The Play.”
The Play? My error? Coach already named it?
“Scouts watch the game different from you and me. It’s why I listen.” Coach sermonized like a minister. He stayed calm whether we won on a walk-off or lost on an error, a good steadying influence for a bunch of instant-reaction college kids. Since he was preaching about scouts, I figured one must be nearby.
“A grounder to third,” Coach spouted on, “you and I and the fans, we watch the ball until the third baseman fields it. Then we watch him gun it to first. Not a scout though. If Petrie’s scouting you at first, he wants to see how you react. On a ball to third, he’s eyeing your footwork, your stretch, the target you give.”
“Sure. And he was watching today?”
Coach popped a pretzel into his mouth. Spun the bag toward me and raised his eyebrows.
I shook him off, pitcher to catcher. Peered over at Mr. Sheets covering third. Why was he even here? If a scout wanted to meet a player, Coach always played intermediary.
“Petrie was scouting Wally Parker that play,” Coach continued. “Their catcher?”
I nodded, trying not to relive the humiliation of The Play.
“He had a stopwatch on Parker. Check his speed, home to first, if speed is the right word. Great defensive skills, but you can’t teach speed, right? That’s the rap on Parker, slow as an ox.”
“Fire hydrant.” I snickered.
Coach glared, melting my smirk away. He didn’t appreciate a player commenting on someone else’s ability. You watched that around him.
“Anyway, Petrie clicks off the stopwatch and notices something odd. Only Parker’s foot touched first base. Your foot wasn’t near the bag.”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Yeah, okay.”
Coach shrugged. “Petrie didn’t get it. A three-six-three ends the inning, puts us three outs from the title game.”
So quiet in this office. No sounds of banging bats or snapping towels. No one roamed the hallway outside with the constant clacking of metal cleats on the concrete floor. The air weighed heavy on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Had he seen me admiring my errant throw instead of hustling back to the bag for the double play?
“Due respect to Mr. Petrie’s baseball knowledge, but I had no play at first.”
Coach ignored my comment, like he already had an outline in his head to follow. He swiveled his chair toward Mr. Sheets.
“When a lefty pitches, he falls toward third with his follow-through. Makes it harder to cover first on a grounder to the right side of the infield. We’ve all witnessed that. Couple of our guys, Muñoz included, they fall a little further than I’d like, but that’s another issue. Petrie said our first baseman” – now Coach swung back toward me – “should always cover first when a lefty is throwing.”
Coach praised Petrie like he’d discovered a new concept in defensive baseball. Maybe Petrie would suggest we move the infield in for a play at the plate and Coach would applaud him for that too. Petrie could pack for Cooperstown if Coach had a Hall of Fame vote.
“My throw was off,” I said, trying to instill some reality into the discussion. “My error, I admit, but there was no reason to cover first when there’d be no return throw.”
“Right,” Coach nodded. “Same thing I said. He looked satisfied.”
I nodded and breathed out a heavier sigh than I should have.
“But I wasn’t satisfied. Coaches, Chad, we get something in our head, and we can’t sleep or eat or take a dump until we get our head fixed. I’ve seen the film six times. Know what bothers me?”
When was the scout going to get here? My palms were moist, and a bead of sweat formed above my lip. I wouldn’t risk wiping it off.
“You didn’t cover first base because you knew it was going to be a bad throw. But you didn’t go for the cut off either, did you, Chad?”
I squinted to buy time, as if I didn’t understand his point.
“I didn’t notice during the game because, like I said, I don’t watch like a scout. Didn’t even see it through five viewings. But the sixth time, I let the film keep running. That’s when I caught it. You let Muñoz take the cutoff. If you knew the ball wasn’t coming back to first, you also knew there’d be a play at the plate. I’ve coached you for three years, Chad. You can turn the three-six-three in your sleep, but I’ll allow a guy can make an error now and again.”
“I apologized, Coach. What do you want me to say?”
Coach picked up another pretzel and dropped it in his mouth. He chewed loud and deliberate, and I wanted to shove the fucking bag down his throat. More perspiration formed on my lip, glistening against the cool air.
“They approached Circus,” Coach said. “Same two guys, I’m sure. Wanted Eddie to throw the game and figured he’d be the right guy for it. Best player on our team and all. They couldn’t get Eddie in their pocket though. Couldn’t get our best player, so they started working their way down. When did they get to you, Chad?”
The beast inside me stirred to life.
“Circus didn’t want to screw up his future,” Coach added, “so he came to us. Smart player, Eddie. You can see that on the field every day, game or practice. Now we get to see it off the field too. Scouts like that in a player.”
He droned on, his bait failing to lure me into a confession. I’d been flawless. They might wonder how an all-conference player could botch such an important throw, but that wouldn’t prove anything. Mr. Sheets spoke. Standing, he looked down at me. In an office, his clothes and wingtips looked powerful, not out of place.
“You almost got away with it, Chad. You know what did you in?”
He probably didn’t even understand the game, spending his time with the football and basketball programs. But he stole my concentration just enough that I couldn’t stop my hand from wiping my lip and rubbing the sweat on my jersey.
“It was your fist, Chad.” Mr. Sheets paced as he spoke. Blocking the door? “A split-second after you threw the ball wild to second, you pumped your fist. Involuntary reaction, I’m sure. You were celebrating your poor throw. That’s why we studied closer.”
“And guess what we heard, Chad?” Coach leaned into his desk. The gray stubble of a day-old beard rose through his flesh. Disappointment filled his eyes. I clasped my fingers together, another involuntary reaction. My jersey itched, daggers pricking at me.
“You pointed at home plate behind Muñoz’ back so it looked like that’s where you were directing him to throw. We still had a chance to get the runner at home and keep the game tied. But you yelled tres in Spanish. Pointed home while yelling in Muñoz’ native tongue for him to throw to third.”
I might have let a smile slip at the compliment. The beast inside me was coiled and hissing, but I calmed it. There was no advantage to staying in this meeting any longer. I rose from the chair and turned toward home. I’d be safe there.
“I don’t know how much you got for it, Chad. Couple hundred? Couple thousand? Small amount to mortgage your future.”
He thought I did it for the money? Sure, I’d get a payoff, but Coach was the one who’d forced my hand. The moment he wrote in Eddie Griffin’s name as our MVP was the moment I focused on getting even. The payment was a bonus, but Coach had nowhere to look but the mirror to assess blame. Soon, I’d be a major league ballplayer and he’d still be a second-rate college coach with no championship. Justice served.
“You can’t prove a thing,” I said. Besides, they needed me if they wanted to return to Omaha next season. I reached for the door, surprised to find it open. Figured Mr. Sheets had locked it during his pacing.
“I might not be able to prove it,” Coach said, his goddamned voice still calm. “But I didn’t have to.”
Didn’t?
“I showed the film to Petrie. He nodded when he heard you yell in Spanish. There’s that. And, of course, Mr. Sheets here is the person who decides your scholarship.”
***
That was the last I heard from Coach. It was my mom who got the letter from Mr. Sheets rescinding my scholarship, suggesting I finish my education at a different institution. Mom couldn’t understand why I did it, and I couldn’t explain. Did you need the money? Only my fielding error showed up in the box score, Mom insisted. My real error never did. That happened before the first pitch, talking to those two men about throwing the game. The conversation repeats over breakfast or dinner until I sigh and roll my eyes to suffocate the talk.
I’ve batted over .400 the past two seasons, highest on our team both years. It’s mostly other delivery and short-haul drivers, but a couple office guys suit up as well. We play Friday nights after work and keep talking about practicing, but it’s only talk since we don’t have a coach to organize us. I don’t let Mom attend. She doesn’t understand how embarrassing it would be.
The Friday night games supply a diversion, but sometimes I find myself wondering what might have happened if those two men had never approached me. They’re gone, the money is gone, and my future – well, you never know…
Last I read, Eddie Griffin was getting called up from AAA ball in Norfolk, his first crack at the bigs. I don’t think he’ll cut it, and he sure won’t hit .400 like I’m doing.
John Frain writes short fiction (example above!) while he works on his debut crime novel. He learned his love of baseball from his father, growing up with the Cardinals in St. Louis. If you enjoy splashing a little humor into your day, you might follow his flash fiction on Twitter @Frainstorm.
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