Pencils behind ears, stat books in hand, the coaching staff crunched the numbers. Above, in the stands, parents crunched, too. In the announcer’s booth, a couple of old, sturdy-jawed WASPs crunched live for the eyes and ears of the entire world. Everyone was hard at work, trying to find a way to prevent the boy with the unprotected arm from pitching the end of the final game of the Little League World Series.

From his spot on the bench, deep in the sunken dugout, Yaz, the boy with the unprotected arm, crunched the numbers as well, and came to the same conclusion as everyone else. It was the bottom of the 14th inning, still a tie ballgame, and all of the rest of the arms on the team—by Code 714F of the Little League Baseball Association’s rule book—now stood under protection, sealed from the pitching mound, so as not to damage them prematurely. Their innings were spent; if any one of them hurled another pitch, the game would be forfeit.

He felt a pat on his back. It was Johnny, the catcher, whose face didn’t hide his worry. Yaz looked past him down the bench and saw the rest of his teammates. None of them looked confident, either.

You see, dear reader, Yaz wasn’t a pitcher. He wasn’t much of a player, either. He was the head coach’s son, used to non-competitive bench activities like chewing sunflower seeds, chatting nonsense to the opposing team’s pitcher, and making up clever nicknames for everyone’s mom.

Johnny pointed out of the dugout and Yaz saw, beyond the field, hovering over the center field wall, the jumbo screen, projecting something he’d never seen before, something he’d only ever imagined in his dreams. It stunned him; the thousands of LED lights were reproducing his own stumpy form. Those were his cheeks, shiny red and puffed squirrel-like with seeds. That was his rally cap turned inside out on top of his head.

It was then that Yaz became not just sure, but sure sure. He would pitch. Yaz was no dummy.

Nor, dear reader, was he under the impression that his place on the team was anything other than pure nepotism, though he wouldn’t have put it in those terms. Yaz didn’t like the fact that he was only on the team because his dad was the coach, but he’d come to terms with it, as his therapist often said. Sure, at times his comparative lack of skill filled his heart with a heavy blue sap. After all, his dad had played in the Major Leagues, while the only trophies on the boy’s shelf were for his work with the Young Thespians, which wasn’t the same, at least in his household.

And his parents named him after Red Sox great Carl Yastrzemski, for crying out loud. No pressure.

So, sometimes in the early morning and late at night, when his mind was soft and warm and without armor, the obvious questions searched Yaz: why did he have to be the proverbial apple that fell from the branches like a hanging curveball, why did his Granny Smith have to smack so hard off his father’s knobby wooden roots that it rolled all the way to a different orchard? Why couldn’t he have been born more like his father?

It was frustrating to Yaz. At times humiliating. But over the years, he’d survived, and even flourished, because the tree his apple came to rest beneath fruited trickster charm by the bushelful. The boy with the unprotected arm was king of the dugout dirty joke, prince of the postgame card trick, master of the secret shaving cream puff on the lid of the oblivious power hitter’s cap.

And his teammates loved him for it. In the dugout, he ruled.

But, dear reader, people with his skill set never got serious screen time on the ballpark Jumbotron during the Little League World Series. And for the last fifteen seconds—he’d been counting each tick—his mug had filled that jumbo screen like some titan of sport. His! It was a trip. He liked how he looked up there in the lights. It felt like something he could get used to. He almost forgot he had to pitch.

But then the screen blinked, and began showing a player from the opposing team strutting out onto the field, a player whose apple had planted snug within the mighty grove from which it fell. Sadaharu Oh III. Grandson of Japan’s all-time home run leader.

From the dugout, Yaz watched as the Hamamatsu Minami Tigers’ cleanup hitter prowled around inside the on-deck circle. The perfect miniature of his legendary patriarch took hungry swings with an orange-and-black Easton Youth Power Brigade S1-12. He was hungry for fat pitches. Yaz’s specialty.

“Don’t look at him,” interrupted Yaz’s father. His muscular form blocked the screen from his son’s view. “You’ve got this,” he said. “Strike that kid out and send them all back to Japan.”

Yaz nodded and tried to find some confidence in his father’s encouragement. But there was precious little. He smelled the mint chewing tobacco on his father’s breath and wished it didn’t gross him out.

“Son,” he continued, “you might not believe it, but I’ve known it’s in there, just waiting to emerge. Be a hero today.”

A hero. Today. Right now. Unlikely.

But he had no choice. So he squinted his eyes, pressed tight his protective cup, and stood up in the way he felt a champion would. And for a moment, he willed a part of him to believe his father’s words. Maybe this opportunity had arisen in order that he could finally show his stuff. Maybe he could be a hero. He doubted he could ever really sustain any level of success at baseball, but maybe he could get lucky. Maybe something magical would happen.
But the little confidence he’d mustered was short-lived. As Yaz strutted out on to the field, chest artificially puffed, heart pounding, and crossed over the chalk lines and onto the diamond, the whole situation once again began to feel ridiculous. The myth his father had just spewed: pure bull. That he was going to triumph. That somehow, despite all his previous errors, all those seasons filled with snafus, his lifelong litany of hardball blunders, this moment would be different.

Be a hero today, he thought. Yeah, right. Hah. I’m gonna get this Sadaharu Oh guy out. Sure thing.

Yaz resumed walking to the mound. What sucked the most was that he realized how important this moment was to his father. Yaz feared he would not be able to laugh this failure off, as he had so many other of his son’s attempts at sport. Because, for his father, arriving shortly was a moment more important than any other: the glory moment. Yaz was no dummy. He knew his father still hoped he’d be a boy for whom those moments existed. He knew his father still hoped his son would be like him.

“Just feel it,” he heard his father yell from the bench.

The smell of popcorn butter blew in from the stands. Yaz took a deep breath and climbed the mound. His fingers had become damp and sweaty and sticky on the inside of his glove. Feel it, his father had said. He’d been saying that to Yaz for what seemed like his entire life. Yaz blinked, shook his head, and took another deep breath. Feel what? Some sort of mystical strand of DNA hiding in his cells, some lost key that could unlock the buff and quick and fast that had eluded him all this time, if only he could feel it? Sure. Right.

Yaz felt the eyes of everyone in the stands watching his every move, and wished he had pockets to stuff his hands into. He looked down at his cleats and pants and saw how dreadfully clean they were. He knew it: he was not a pitcher, hardly a player, and right then and there the small, long-suffering part of his heart still holding out with the hope that he might someday be like his father coughed once and croaked.

But, dear reader, Yaz didn’t give up. He found the will to climb the small dusty mound and stand up straight at the top. He kicked dust off the white rubber. He closed his eyes and thought might as well get this over with.

But then, when he opened his eyes and looked up, something had changed. The bright lights now seemed not overwhelming, but warm. The eyeballs all on him didn’t feel like threats; they seemed to beam goodness. And how had he missed the sheer pomp of it all, what with the signs and banners and cameras and, of course, the Jumbotron?

His ears popped and he heard voices, hollering encouragement. Just a handful, but they cheered for him. He’d never gotten the opportunity to perform for a crowd even a tenth this size with the Young Thespians. And yet here he was. Maybe not the stage he liked, but a stage nonetheless. Maybe not under the circumstances he wanted, but still. This was a genuine moment.

He punched his glove with his fist and a swell of applause burst from the crowd. He nodded again and received the same response. Then he thought to himself, why not, and he lifted both his hands into the air, as if to say Behold! You have asked for the boy with the unprotected arm, and here he is! Enjoy!

And he began turning. And he turned and turned, arms in the air, facing all around him the crowd, which with his spinning began to swell and then roar. The blink and shutter of thousands of cameras started to flicker with Morse code messages of love.

As he spun, he caught sight of his father by the dugout, waving his hands manically and yelling no, no. He also glimpsed Sadaharu Oh III in the batter’s box, shaking his head in disgust. They were disappointed. They were growing angry. But Yaz didn’t care, not now—maybe he would later—but not now. Forget them, he thought. This is my moment. Not the next moment. They can have that one. And who cares if the entire world only treasures the next moment. This one—the moment before the moment—is all mine. And Yaz kept spinning. And after he stopped, he leapt from the mound and led the crowd in a round of the wave. They loved it. They’d never seen anything like it.

Dear reader, the boy with the unprotected arm, Yaz, milked it. Because he was a smart boy, and he knew eventually the umpire would come out and stop him, and he’d have to toe the rubber, wind up, thrust forward, and let that white globe spin end over end toward the plate, where he knew it would seek young Sadaharu Oh III’s bat like a hot lover. Because in the end, pitches like his were meant for folks like the elder Sadaharu Oh to crush; pitches like his were meant to be swatted deep into the upper deck by people like his father; pitches like his were meant to help boys like Sadaharu Oh III triumph in their moments, those boys who had to miss all the fun dugout tricks due to all their pesky hitting and fielding responsibilities, those boys who could never understand the play of play ball, those serious boys who were still years from understanding what it’s like to have no need for protection.

 

Ross McMeekin’s fiction appears or is forthcoming in publications such as Shenandoah, Passages North, Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, PANK, and Tin House (blog). He received a MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts, edits the literary journal Spartan, and blogs at rossmcmeekin.com. He lives in Seattle with his wife and daughter.