text: A PLACE ON THE HILL Jack Thomas strode from the bullpen across the outfield grass. The pitching mound was all he saw, oblivious to the crowd and its raucous mood. It seemed so far away. It was tough being a rookie in New York City, having to learn the hitters and finer points of pitching. Add to that expectations of New York fans and media for the large contract he received. Yet, what made it more difficult was replacing the iconic, aging relief pitcher, Tom Gorman. Baseball was a natural for Jack. His father began the serious play as opposed to soft toss when he was young. “Catch the ball or suffer the consequences,” his dad would laugh, the consequences- being hit in the face or other body part. Jack sported many bruises, to his mother’s dismay. She chastised her husband but she had seen the same process with their older son Zak and daughter Jen so she understood it would be no different with Jack. The walk seemed endless. Memories surfaced of the poorly-lit stadiums and long bus rides between Columbus, Rochester, Utica, and other minor league cities; meals at roadside greasy spoons; and the uncomfortable, lumpy bus seats. This fueled his determination to stay with the Clippers. Not even the attitudes of Gorman’s cronies could diminish Jack’s confidence. “I love baseball,” he told the bullpen, “and I’m good at it. If you boys can’t buy that and keep riding me because of your broken hearts, I’ll just have to do my best to win in spite of you.” The bat boy took Jack’s jacket. Coach Martin tossed the ball up and down from hand to hand like a juggler with too few balls while catcher Bill Kolasky pawed at the dirt in front of the pitching rubber with strokes of his big right foot, like a horse getting ready for a race. A fog of breath escaped from Coach’s mouth and it was then that Jack felt colder than he had since starting his warm-up pitches. “OK, Thomas,” Coach Martin started. “You’ve got one out, runners on first and second. We’ve got the lead. Let’s keep it!” Coach left the battery to work out the details. Kolasky began with the signals. A strapping specimen, his arms bulged with power. His voice was neither loud nor gruff but firm and in control. “OK, Big J, we’ve got the usual. One finger fastball, wiggle one splitter, two curve, three slider, and four for the change-up. With the runner on second, the sign will be the first after a fist unless I hit my chest protector twice, then it’s the second after the fist. Concentrate on location and don’t aim the ball. Just relax and you’ll be fine. Callahan is the first guy you’ll face. Just like we said pre-game, pitch him down and away so we can try to get a ground ball into a double play.” “One out, runners on first and second,” the umpire interrupted. “Snap it up fellas. My eyes go bad after midnight.” Kolasky hit Jack in the chest with his glove and returned with the umpire. It was lonely in that circle, Jack thought, and unusually quiet. The customary infield chatter was absent except for veteran first baseman Greg Nelson. “Come on hotshot,” Nelson barked. “Let’s see if you’re worth it.” Jack barely heard the remark. His focus was Callahan. Sweating now in the cool April evening, he turned to face the outfield, noting their positioning, while rubbing the ball methodically, wondering if a genie would appear to grant a wish. The umpire bellowed “Play ball!” Jack turned toward home plate after touching the rosin bag, toed the rubber and tugged at the bill of his cap. Kolasky flashed the signals. Slider, down and away. Jack rotated his right arm like a windmill to ease the stiffness. He didn’t like starting with a breaking pitch but also knew rookie pitchers didn’t shake off veteran catchers. He felt awkward in the stretch as he delivered the ball. The pitch sailed wide for ball one. Kolasky threw the ball back. Still no genie. A touch of the rosin bag, a tug of the hat, and Jack peered in for the sign. Fastball, outside corner. This time everything flowed nicely. Callahan pulled the pitch hard to shortstop. Pilato gobbled up the grounder from the dirt, flipped to Ramsey at second who threw to first to complete the double play. The fans stood and cheered! For the first time since entering the game, Jack heard the crowd’s cheers and chants “Go Clippers” echoing through the packed ballpark. As he walked to the dugout, he absorbed the environment. Some fans called for Jack to get the bums out in the ninth while others called for Gorman. A banner made from a bed sheet read “NY LOVES THE CLIPPERS” scrawled in big red letters stretched across the façade of the mezzanine. Now he was more relaxed, yet pumped by the excitement of the crowd and fueled by his own adrenaline. “How’s that!” Jack exclaimed slapping Kolasky’s outstretched hand. “Hey you know what they say in southern France, Jacko,” Kolasky replied. “You’re only as good as your last pitch. We’ve still got a tough ninth. Jack and Kolasky went over the scouting report on the Redbirds’ scheduled hitters. Shouts of encouragement rang from the other end of the dugout for Garcia who was at bat. Catcalls from the bench detailed the underbelly of the opposing pitcher’s ancestry. The battery was left alone. It bothered Jack as he glanced toward the players leaning on the top step of the dugout. He had always been a team player, well-liked by teammates for his laid-back personality and Oklahoma farm-boy humor, combined with his intense desire to win. His dad had taught him to play the game right, to respect the game. He saw himself as part of the old school, players who played for the love of the game instead of the almighty dollar. Of course, the millions of dollars the Clippers showered on him seemed to contradict that premise, but not in Jack’s mind. Perhaps the silent treatment would have affected his confidence if Coach Martin hadn’t talked to him during spring training when the wet behind his ears was still moist. Martin was a master game strategist and a man of few words, though he had a keen sense for knowing what to say and when to say it. In late March, the Coach asked to see Jack in his office. “Kid, you had a sore arm early in spring training. Since then you’ve proven that you’ve got a great fastball and all the tools. I’m gonna release Gorman since the brass sees him as deteriorating and, frankly, don’t want to cough up his option dollars. You’re my closer. It won’t be a bed of roses. The older guys will give you grief since they were attached to Gorman’s hip. You’ll have to deal with whatever happens. Gorman’s pals, the media, the fans will be all over every step you take, especially in New York. You’re gonna have to develop a thick skin and short memory. Like I said, you’ve got the tools. We’ll see if you’ve got the guts.” “I’ll give my best,” Jack replied. “I know I can help this team win. When I do, I’d say those boys will take to me like a hungry horse to a fresh bale of hay.” Coach Martin’s eyes never wavered as he gazed at the rookie. Those strong eyes and support stayed in Jack’s mind as motivation. Kolasky had started to run down the Redbird strengths and weaknesses. “You listenin’ JT?” he asked, not waiting for Jack to answer. “They’ll pinch hit for the pitcher so just blow the fastball by the guy because he’ll be colder than a penguin’s ass after huddling on the bench all game. Perez is next. He hits the low fastball so feed him sliders at the knees out of the zone or heat up high. He’s quick so he might bunt to get on then try to steal second. Gotta keep him off base. Boland and Logan both have trouble with off-speed and breaking pitches so change-ups, slow curves, and variations of the split can get them. Don’t make a mistake with the fastball to Logan or he’ll lose it. He’s the guy we don’t want to beat us. Best bet is to get the first three chumps out.” Jack heard Coach Martin’s voice above the clatter of spikes on the concrete dugout steps as the team went out for the ninth. “It’s your game kid. Get that first out and make it short so we can all go home.” Jack vaulted from the dugout. The intensity of the crowd had heightened. Ninth inning, game on the line. Butterflies filled his stomach. Each stride seemed shakier than the preceding one. His arm felt as limp as overcooked spaghetti and worries of the sore arm surfaced. There was the gnawing doubt that it would not respond in a crucial situation. A hopping fastball could straighten out and be hit a long, long way. On the mound, he was tight but loosened up after the eight warm-up tosses. His focus had returned. The left-handed pinch-hitter, Gonzalez, entered the batter’s box and looked eager to hit, waving his bat menacingly. He remembered Kolasky’s directive and fired three fastballs for strikes. On the third pitch, Gonzalez popped the ball to Nelson. Perez stepped to the plate. Jack knew he needed this out. Keep the speed off the bases. Keep Logan from taking a swing. “OK, JT, let’s have that same fastball right down the pipe,” Kolasky chattered, signaling for the curve ball low on the outside corner. The pitch found its target. “Strike one!” the umpire bellowed and raised his right arm. “Another wrinkle, Jackie, just like that one. Beautiful pitch. Beautiful pitch!” Kolasky pumped his fist. “This guy can’t hit. He’s too busy counting his money.” Kolasky called for the fastball inside at the letters. Perez swung and missed. Jack wasted the next slider, trying to get Perez to fish for a bad pitch. He tried again with the same result. Two balls, two strikes. Kolasky flashed the split-finger fastball. Jack started his motion and, as he let the pitch go, the location was off and the pitch didn’t dive. Perez jumped all over it, slashing the ball into right field for a single. “Damn,” Jack muttered. “One mistake and the jackrabbit gets on base!” Boland came to the plate and dug a toehold in the batter’s box. Perez danced off first, taunting Jack who straddled the pitching slab, glancing sideways at Perez. Jack tried to tune out the heckling from the opposing dugout, detailing his rural upbringing and who his parents might be. “Keep him close,” Coach Martin yelled from the top step of the dugout. Jack toed the rubber, whirled and threw to first. Perez got back easily. Jack went into the set position, looked over his shoulder and saw Perez had an even larger lead. Again, he fired to first. Perez dove back, barely ahead of the tag. The runner dusted off and chided “I’m going this time Chulo!” Kolasky wanted a pitch-out but Jack shook him off. He didn’t want to get behind in the count to Boland and walk him or give him a hitter’s count where he could zone a pitch. Jack wanted to jump ahead of him. He didn’t think Perez would be stealing after the two pick-off attempts. Kolasky signaled for a two-seam fastball, low and inside. “Going!” the first baseman yelled. Instinctively, Jack ducked to avoid being hit by the catcher’s throw to second. Kolasky hurried the throw and it sailed into center field. Perez sprang from his slide and advanced to third base. Jack threw the rosin bag down in disgust, thinking about the pitch-out he shook off. Four to three, one out, runner on third. He was in trouble. He had gotten into this jam. Now he had to get out of it. From the corner of his eye, the rookie could see Coach fidgeting in the dugout. The umpire called time and Jack’s heart sank as Martin began his deliberate walk to the mound. Jack scraped at the mound, feeling the presence of Coach Martin and Kolasky approaching. Kolasky got there first, assuring Jack he still had his stuff with a big swat of the catcher’s mitt to Jack’s chest. “Hey, JT, you’re King of the Hill. He got lucky.” Coach Martin came seconds later looking toward the bullpen to see if the lefty he had warming up was ready. The bullpen coach raised his cap to signal that the reliever was set. “What’s he got?” Martin asked Kolasky. “Fastball’s moving high in the zone. Slider’s breaking with good tilt. He just needs location and that’s the ball game Coach,” Martin folded his arms, pondering the situation, and then slapped the rookie on the hip, looking squarely into his eyes. “Show me what you’ve got kid. Get us a win.” A sense of renewed vigor filled Jack. “Thanks, Coach,” he blurted. Perez jabbered something in Spanish trying to distract Jack while Pilato and Ramsey shouted encouragement from the infield. “Go get ‘em Jacko. We’re right behind you.” Ah, the competitive spirit! No matter how tight-lipped they wanted to be to support Gorman, the urge to win made these guys open up with the infield chatter that was music to any pitcher standing on the hill. Boland was impatient to hit. Noting this, Kolasky signaled for an off-speed curve. Swing and miss, strike one. Another curve, outside for a ball, and a fastball fouled off made the count one ball and two strikes. Perez again attempted to unnerve the rookie with a dash down the third base line but Jack was in his rhythm and zeroed in on the target. He delivered a split-finger fastball dipping past Boland’s futile swing for the strike out. The fans went wild, bullhorns blasting above the roar of the crowd. They exhorted the Clippers to record the final out, the rowdy atmosphere drowning out the presence of Frank Logan lumbering to the plate. Logan could change the score with one swipe of his mighty bat. The pressure mounted as Jack concentrated on Logan. He remembers thinking how overblown game announcers made pressure. Heck, all you had to do was get the ball over the plate! Now, he realized the difference between pitching against the side of the barn with only the dog watching to facing a home run hitter in front of fifty thousand screaming fans with the game on the line. Logan stood with one foot outside the batter’s box, adjusting his batting gloves and making the rookie wait. Jack’s palms were moist and he reached for the rosin bag. Logan took his stance and pointed his big bat squarely at Jack. The first pitch went high and wide as Kolasky had to jump from his crouch to save the wild pitch as Perez dashed from third base. “Calm down, JT,” Kolasky yelled, pointing to his shoulder as a reminder to stay closed in his delivery. “Don’t get behind this guy.” He called for a slider, down and away. Jack took a deep breath to regroup and delivered the pitch. Logan was guessing fastball and broke his wrists on a half-swing for strike one. Home plate seemed smaller and farther away. Kolasky signaled split-finger. Mechanics and location Jack repeated. He followed through, saw Logan uncoil a powerful swing and foul the pitch hard into the first base stands as the ball dipped at the last second. “Good pitch, JT,” Kolasky shouted. “You’ve got him guessing now. Make him hit your pitch. Don’t give in!” The last one was too close for comfort. Kolasky pumped the ball back to Jack, making his hand sting as a reminder that these were big pitches. Logan called time out again. Jack wiped his right palm on his pant leg. He gazed toward home plate. Logan twisted his neck, pulling at the shoulder of his uniform, one foot in the box, the other out. The umpire’s hand was raised like a policeman stopping traffic. Kolasky continued his barrage of verbal wisdom. “He’s stalling, Big Guy. Can’t figure you out.” Logan finally swung his right foot into his stance. The umpire’s arm dropped. Jack peered in for Kolasky’s sign - fastball on the fists! What in the world was this big lug thinking? One slip of the wrist, one twist of the arm, and goodbye ball game. Should he shake him off again? No - no slips, no twists, just a 99 mile per hour four-seam moving fastball. That’s it! Jack nodded his head and began his motion. Nothing penetrated his focus. He whipped his right arm through, the ball zipping off his fingers. Logan hesitated just an instant. The ball rose in the strike zone. That one split second of indecision cost Logan. He topped the ball down the first base line. Nelson moved to his right, snared the ball and made the underhand toss to Jack covering the bag. Out number three. The game was over! Jack raised his hands in triumph as the fans erupted! Even Nelson grudgingly acknowledged the win. “Not bad for a rookie,” he mumbled after tapping Jack on the top of the head. Kolasky pounded Jack on the back. “Knew you had it, bro,” he repeated twice to emphasize his point, and then raised his eyes skyward in mock wonder. “The first one’s the toughest,” Coach Martin said as he shook Jack’s hand. “Good game kid.” “Thanks Coach, thanks for letting me finish,” Jack gushed. “Thought seeing that lefty in the bullpen might put a thump in your chest,” Martin winked. It was a good feeling, a moment Jack wanted to savor and one he’d never forget, holding the game ball tight in his hand. Even though it may have been just another game for most of these guys, and only one game in a long season, he knew it was his first step to establish his place on the hill.