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.

“This one looks interesting, Dad.”

“Take it. You’re a great writer.”

Austin jotted down the course number.

“How many do I need to take?” he asked.

“Full time is 12 credits. Four classes.” his dad replied.

Austin needed one more. He had signed up for a statistics course, an English course and a journalism focus course. Had he intended on staying for 4 years, he would’ve taken all required classes, but since he was figuring he’d be out soon, via one draft or another, he was going to take classes he liked.

“Anatomy…I love that stuff.”

With that, Austin wrote the last course number on his sheet and brought it to the administration desk. The middle-aged woman behind the desk had to make a couple of calls. Austin was asked for his social security card and some other personal information. Nobody asked about his draft status, just as his father said.

“Not their problem,” he reasoned. “As long as I pay tuiton, they couldn’t care less what you do.” He was right.

Paying for it was something Philip didn’t even think about. Marge was set in a good teaching position. His construction outfit was well-regarded on the Island, and business was never dead, even if it slowed. And if he had to, he would’ve taken a second job. Whatever it took.

“Glad to have you with us, Austin,” the woman said warmly. “Welcome to St. John’s.”

And with that, Austin was now a registered student with full-time status at St. John’s University. That could get him a deferment until at least the end of the semester in May, unless the military held that his date was called when it was called regardless of misplaced paperwork. He knew he should be preparing for boot camp, and the military knew it, too. If they tried to withhold a deferment, they would have a good case.

But Philip’s thought was, with all the national backlash against this war, if he put up a fight about this, made it public if the military tried to force Austin in, threw as many legal obstacles in the way as he could, it would be an unsavory position for the military to be in. At least that was part of the thought.

Philip knew the military well enough to know a few things. One, Austin was right…they WOULD ultimately come for him. But he also knew that, by the time whatever the clerical error was was straightened out, he and Austin would likely have a couple of weeks before they were contacted. If he was lucky, it would take up to a month.

He needed two weeks. Two weeks to get Austin into classes. Two weeks to talk with attorneys, get a plan set up for when they come for his son. Two weeks to call the scouts who were interested, and tell them Austin’s back in the game. But in the back of his head, one thought wouldn’t leave.

Nobody’s gonna touch this with a 10-foot pole

“So what now,” Austin asked.

“Home,” his dad replied. “Got some calls to make.”

The sun was half down as Margaret and Philip James readied the dinner table. Actually, Philip was at the table while Margaret laid out the plates and silverware. Occasionally, he’d move something, just so he could say he did something to contribute.

Beyond the sound of rattling plates and crashing pots and pans in the undersink cabinet, another sound pierced the dusk every few seconds, seemingly perfectly spaced apart.

Pfffffffffffffttt SMACK!!!!
Pfffffffffffffttt SMACK!!!!
Pfffffffffffffttt SMACK!!!!

“Boy’s hummin’ it tonight, Marge,” Philip said. “Good thing I hung that mat as a target, or the kid would knock down the damn garage.”

Margaret checked on her pot roast and placed a pair of bowls, for vegetables, on the dinner table. She thrust open the silverware drawer, roughly grabbing far more than she needed before slamming it shut.

Pfffffffffffffttt SMACK!!!!

“DANG!” Philip yelped excitedly as Margaret stampeded through the kitchen, checking on everything without really checking it, just knowing the motions of what needed to be done.

Pffffffffffffttt SMACK!!!

“Eat yer heart out, Gibby,” Philip bellowed again, now looking out the kitchen window to watch the show.

There, in a faint yellow light cast from atop the back porch and the last glimmer of fall’s daylight in suburbia, Austin James stood next to a cracked white bucket of baseballs — some old and tattered, a dozen brand new as a gift from his dad, and another 20 or so used but usable — like a machine. Bend, grab, straighten up, glare, set, windup, release…

Pffffffffffffttt SMACK!!!

Austin had just turned 19, but he was built like a man. 6’2″, 198 pounds largely composed of trunklike legs. In virtual silhouette, his frame somehow looked even more impressive. With each release, a workmanlike grunt emitted, sounding more like someone chopping wood than throwing a threaded pearl.

But this was work…the only work that had interested Austin since his first game at the age of 6. Everything since then was leading to this point.

The second-phase of Major League Baseball’s amateur draft was to be held in January. And Austin James, from the hardly-baseball-hotbed town of Hicksville, Long Island, was ready.

He and Phillip had driven, taken the train, done whatever they could that summer to see as many scouts — hell, as many baseball people — as they could. Nobody was scouting Hicksville, that was for sure. So he went to them. And he impressed.

So now he waited, full of tunnel vision about his future.

After a long pause, he grabbed another ball. He dropped it when he tried to pick it up, rattling around the bucket, letting Philip know he was at the end.

Philip opened the back door.

“Let it fly, A.J.”

His son nodded without looking, climbed the dirt mound Philip shoveled together 62 feet from the garage…60 feet 6 inches from the old gray mat with the white box painted on.

A picture of balance, Austin delivered…

Pffffffffffffftttt SMACK!!!!! ….

BOOM!!!

“Sweet Jesus,” Philip howled giddily. “Atta Boy A.J.!”

Through the mat, right in the center, cutting a smooth, perfect circle through the wood of the side of the garage.

“MARGE!!! Did you SEE that, Marge. Someone’s gonna take him…I just KNOW it…someone’s gonna take my boy!”

CRASH!!!

Philip whirled around as a salad bowl struck the wall, shattering everywhere.

“SHUT UP, Phil,” Marge hollered. “Just SHUT UP about it!”

“What the hell did you do that for?” Philip barked.

“Someone IS going to take him, Philip,” Marge shouted back, starting to sob. “They’re going to take his dream and they’re going to take him from us.”

Philip was confused. A.J. looked toward the house from outside as he collected the mass of balls near the garage.

“What are you talking about?” Philip asked. “This IS his dream, and they’re not…”

“NO!!!!” Marge cried back. “I don’t mean baseball will take him, Philip. I mean THEM!!!”

Marge pointed to the small television on the kitchen counter. On it was the president…Richard Nixon…and images from Vietnam.

It was November 1969. And the nation’s first draft lottery since 1942 was about to be held.