Austin James: Playing For His Life (Entry 16)

April 15, 2009

A man in a blue overcoat approached Blanchard in his orange seat. Blanchard said something quickly, and the man was gone up the stairs and down a tunnel, out of sight.

Austin got the ball back from Jack, flipping it into the air with the web of his glove before grabbing it with a bare hand and playing with the seams as he walked up the back of the mound again.

Philip remained on one knee, watching Austin as he stood on the rubber again. Jack set a target on the black of the other side of the plate, knee high again. Austin was ready to gas it again. His mechanics felt rote, easily repeatable as though his limbs simply did it on their own. As he came forward, a quick sensation came over him that — be it the height of the mound, the well manicured dirt, the stiffness of the rubber — he felt like a horse, stronger than ever, more in control than he’d ever felt.

The Hicksville mound was sandy, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as those of schools on either shore, particularly Long Island’s south shore. Wantagh, Merrick, Freeport…all these places had mounds that may as well have been on Jones Beach. You sunk, you slid. He had it out with coaches at Merrick when, after his left ankle buckled upon landing in the sandy stuff, he dug dirt off the mound himself the next inning, casting it around the infield grass.

Here it was like the mound was part of him, pushing him on. He heard the seams as he released the pearl with a pop into Jack’s mitt again, cutting across the front corner.

Screw the best 10…I could throw like this all day

Blanchard still wasn’t speaking. But he could see Philip was in thought, and he knew what he was thinking.

“Philip!” he called, with a waved hand, his gnawed stogie between two fingers.

Philip went through the door and behind the plate, sitting two seats from Blanchard, a habit he’d always had, particularly at movie theaters…if there’s an open seat, give yourself the room, he figured.

Austin circled the mound again, looking over his shoulder to where his father had moved. Now he was curious, his mind racing.

“Throwin’ gas,” Philip said, seeking to gauge Blanchard.

“What else does he have?” he replied.

“Tell him what you want to see…changeup, curveball”

“Nope.” Blanchard said. “If he’s confident in them, HE should decide to throw them.”

Austin got up top again, and it dawned on him Jack wasn’t putting any signals down. Still fastballs?

This is where it got tricky. Austin knew his curve was erratic. His changeup was his best pitch, but it’s deception he felt would be somewhat lost without a hitter up there. Otherwise, it just looked…well…slow.

Philip flexed his hand again as he watched, hoping Austin would catch on. He went into his motion, square and full of drive again, arm a perfect 3/4. A brief puff of dirt shot from Jack’s glove as another fastball cut the dead center of the plate, again at the knees. Hard…good location…

Philip cursed under his breath. Blanchard grinned subtly as a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Something to believe in, Jess?” the man asked. The tall, slender man was in his mid-50’s, with salt and pepper hair, clad in a charcoal gray suit and red tie under a beige overcoat.

Blanchard tipped his head back.

“Low 90s, Bob,” he said. “Hopefully, he’s getting ready for the goods.”

Philip listened in. “Knee-high 90s ain’t ‘goods’ at 18, sir?” he inquired.

“Live arm is good,” Blanchard drawled. “Live mind is better.”

Philip looked back out to Austin, who was watching them as he made his way onto the rubber again.

“Philip James,” Blanchard said with an extended hand as he swept it across his chest to the man who had just joined them…”Bob Scheffing.”

The two shook hands, exchanging pleasantries.

Blanchard eased back into his seat.

“He’s General Manager.”

Blanchard had beaten Austin to the first curveball.

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