Have Glove, Will Travel_ Adventures of a Baseball Vagabond - Bill Lee [102]
So what if he can’t catch my fastball anymore? He can still buzz one under my chin whenever he’s of a mind to.
The right-handed batter swaggered to home plate and crouched into a stance that mimicked the Seattle Mariners’ designated hitter supreme, Edgar Martinez. Feet set far back in the batter’s box, hands cocked at the waist, head down with his eyes riveted on the pitcher. Scouts had yet to give me a rundown on this masher, but I assumed he liked the ball low, as he only measured four feet tall. Six-year-old Hunter Lee. My grandson.
We faced each other during an impromptu batting practice on a deserted Scottsdale field in between games of the father-son tourney. Aunt Annabelle, all seventy-two years of her, squatted behind the plate as our catcher while my father stood over her calling balls and strikes. Except Dad did not have to open his mouth. Hunter wore me out, going with each pitch with the patience of a pro and smacking line drives to every field.
“Hey, you’re a pretty good hitter,” I told him.
“Yeah, well, I can hit you.”
Oooh, cocky! I admired that—up to a point. And Hunter had just passed it. Time for a tough-love pitch. I jammed the Wiffle ball deep between my fingers and threw a wicked-ass splitter that flashed up in his eyes as it reached home plate. The ball plunged straight down before skipping in the dirt. Hunter wildly swung over it.
“Grandpa,” he said in a voice full of pout, “you didn’t throw me a strike!”
“That’s right, my boy. Next time you’ll remember not to swing at everything.”
I know. I should have played Wilfred Brimley, the doting grandfather, and just let Hunter keep raking me. But baseball is a hard game. Best he learn that now.
My son Andy pitches for our team in the Scottsdale tournament, but he also occasionally catches. In a game against Los Angeles in 2001, he impressed all of us with his athleticism. The score was tied 4–4 in the seventh inning when our opponents put a runner on third with only one man out. Andy came out to the mound and reminded me to keep my pitches down. We did not want the batter hitting any deep fly balls to score the go-ahead run.
I threw three straight sinkers to run the count to 2–1. My next pitch got away from me. It passed through the strike zone, but much higher than I intended. Good thing the batter was looking for another sinker. He swung under the ball for strike three. Too bad Andy had been looking for that sinker as well. The ball soared past his glove, past the umpire, past everything until it hit the wrought-iron railing at the bottom of the backstop screen and bounded eight feet into the air.
With the runner bearing down on home plate, the common impulse for an inexperienced catcher is to quickly retrieve a ricocheting ball by jumping for it. That’s a good way to muff the catch. Andy maintained a professional’s cool and waited for the rebound to plop into his mitt. He somehow shoveled the ball from under his armpit to me waiting at home plate.
Andy’s toss reached my glove just as the runner dipped into his slide. He plowed into me with such force, the collision flipped us into the air. I landed on top of him. We rolled around near home plate, a gaggle of thrashing limbs. When the umpire at last saw I had retained possession of the ball, he ruled the runner out.
Great piece of teamwork between my boy and me. Makes a father proud.
The competition in the father-son tournament is lively and entertaining, so rambunctious at times, the unexpected passes for routine. Last November, a team the Lees played went all the way to the championship final against Sacramento. We entered the bottom of the third inning losing 1–0 with no one out. I led off with a weak single