Curveball : The Year I Lost My Grip (9780545393119) (2 page)

If I had known it was going to be the last baseball game I'd ever play, I would have asked my mom to bring the video camera or something. But you never know that kind of stuff in advance. All you can do is play every game like it's your final shot at the World Series, and hope that for you, it isn't.

It was the summer after eighth grade. I was the relief pitcher, trying to close out a 2–1 victory in the league championship. All I needed to do was get through one inning without giving up a run. My best friend, AJ Moore, was catching, as usual. We were the two best pitchers on the team. Actually, we were the two best pitchers in the league, and the two best catchers — which meant that when I pitched, he caught, and vice versa. It was a unique situation, having two best friends pitching to each other all the time. I mean, really unique, the kind of
unique that gets written up in the newspaper. The kind of unique that makes the town's high school baseball coach come out to scout our post-season games.

The kind of unique that girls notice. AJ and I were the golden boys of eighth grade. He actually was a golden boy: almost six feet tall, with blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a relaxed smoothness that came from knowing everyone loved him. I wasn't literally quite as golden. As in, I was a five-foot-three Jewish kid with black hair, pale skin, and glasses. AJ was a power-throwing righty; I was a sneaky, deceptive lefty. AJ was a natural catcher. I had to work my butt off behind the plate, which was made harder by the fact that I was the only lefty catcher at our level in the whole league. Generally, coaches frown on left-handed kids becoming catchers, so you have to be really, really good at it if you ever want to get any playing time at the position.

Off the field, the differences between us were just as obvious. Where AJ was smooth, I was prickly. He smiled, I brooded. He could laugh things off, but I
took everything too seriously. He liked winning, but I lived to win. When we lost, he would scowl at the time but get over it when he left the field. I would go home and punch my pillow for half an hour. Fortunately, I had two things going for me that helped my social standing: I was an athlete, and I was AJ's friend.

Anyway, the way things were supposed to go in this game was that I would blow away the first three batters I faced, in order, and we would win the Lehigh Valley Knee-High Baseball League title for the second year in a row. The high school coach would be so impressed with AJ and me that he would make us starting pitchers on the JV team when we got to ninth grade. AJ had pitched six great innings to get us this far, and now I was on the mound. All I had to do was the usual.

I tried to ignore the stabbing ache in my left elbow. That pain, which had been with me all season, was my biggest secret. Nobody knew about it, and I mean nobody. Not AJ, not any of my coaches, and certainly not my parents. If the coaches knew, they
might not let me pitch. And if my parents found out, forget about it. They would absolutely freak. Mom would rush onto the field and be all like “My baby! MY BA-A-A-BY!” Then I would basically have to move to Canada.

Ever since AJ's massive growth spurt in seventh grade had left me a whole head shorter than he was, I had been overthrowing the ball. I knew it, but that was the only way I was going to compete, keep getting batters out, and — hopefully — make the high school team. So I would throw fastball after fastball until it felt like my elbow was getting mashed up in a meat grinder, and then I'd mix in a couple of curveballs, which felt even worse. On the other hand, at this point I figured I was only nine good pitches — three strikeouts — away from a whole winter of rest and recovery.

Nine. Freaking. Good. Pitches.

The first batter was easy. AJ had gotten him out twice with nothing but fastballs, so I figured he would jump all over my first pitch. AJ signaled for a changeup, and the guy pounded the ball straight into
the ground. It rolled about three feet in front of the plate. AJ pounced on the ball and whipped it to first. One away.

Batter Number Two was no problem. AJ hadn't shown him anything but fastballs, either. I had a feeling he'd lay off the first pitch after what I had just done to the leadoff dude, and I was right. I threw a change right in there for a strike. I knew he'd jump on the second pitch. AJ signaled for another change, down in the dirt. I missed my spot completely and threw it high. Luckily, the kid swatted at the ball, and hit a soft pop-up to third base.

The third batter stepped into the box: their first baseman. A hard-hitting lefty who had already hit two doubles off of AJ. I figured that was all right. Lefties have trouble hitting left-handed pitching. All I had to do was get one fastball by him. Then I could throw a curveball right at his head. He would flinch, but the ball would break down and away from him, and hopefully end up on the inside corner of the strike zone. Follow that with an inside changeup, and I'd be done.

AJ put down one finger in the classic catcher's sign for a fastball. I took a deep breath, wound up, and hurled the ball as hard as I could. Something clicked in my elbow joint, like there were two pennies snapping past each other in there. It took every ounce of determination I had not to grab my arm and whimper. The batter hit a screaming liner down the left-field line, maybe three feet foul.

Wow, this kid had fast hands.

AJ put down one finger again. I shook my head: There was no way I was going to get another fastball past this kid. Even if my arm didn't explode in the process, I just couldn't throw hard enough. AJ trotted out to me, put an arm around my shoulder, and muttered, “What's going on, Peter?”

“Nothing. I just don't think I can get another fastball by him.”

“Dude, I'm telling you, this kid killed my off-speed stuff. You have to bring the fastball.”

“AJ, I can't.”

“What do you mean, you can't?”

I just looked at him. “You're hurt, aren't you?” he asked.

I looked away. “It's fine,” I said. From the corner of my eye, I saw the home-plate umpire stand up straight and start heading toward the mound. It looked like meeting time was over.

AJ sighed. “All right, Pete. Curveball in?”

I stared right into AJ's eyes, trying to thank him without thanking him. “Curveball in.” AJ trotted back behind home plate, the ump got settled into his crouch and pointed his finger at me — the “Play ball!” signal — and I toed the pitching rubber. It was time for business.

The curveball felt very nearly as bad as the fastball had, with that same horrible bony click in my elbow. But the batter flinched and whiffed. Then I threw the inside changeup exactly where I wanted it.

Unfortunately, the guy didn't swing. One ball, two strikes. And I didn't have anything left to throw at him. AJ put down the changeup sign again, but I knew the kid wouldn't swing at a change unless I put it right down the middle of the plate. I shook my head. AJ put down the fastball sign — what choice did he have? I shrugged him off yet again. He looked at me. I looked at him. Clearly, we had
both done the math. There was nothing left but the curve.

AJ jogged out to me again. This time, our coach came out of the dugout. Coach got to me first. “Whaddaya doin', Petey? Give 'im the fastball. Let's win this thing and go get some pizza.” AJ started to say something, but Coach silenced him with a glare. I nodded. Sometimes in life, even when you know it's going to hurt, you just have to throw that fastball.

While Coach walked back to the bench, and AJ got himself set up again, I took a little stroll to the back of the mound. I bent over, picked up the rosin bag, and tossed it up and down a couple of times. My knees were a little shaky. My arm throbbed worse than it had ever throbbed before. I took a deep breath, dropped the bag, stepped up to the rubber, and tried to tell myself positive thoughts:
It's only one more pitch. How bad can it be? You can be a hero or you can be a wuss. And Peter Friedman is no wuss.

The batter stepped into the box. The ump pointed to me. AJ got his glove down around the outside corner of the strike zone. I went into my windup. As
my hand turned behind my left ear, I felt another of those strange penny clicks. I gasped, closed my eyes for a split second, and whipped my arm forward as hard as I could. Maybe a thousandth of a second after the ball left my hand, my elbow locked up completely. I fell to my knees in front of the mound. As bad as the pain had been before, this was a whole new experience. I saw lights flashing in front of my eyes.
Don't cry
, I told myself.
You are on the field in the middle of a game. You. Will. Not. Cry.

I tried to look around and figure out what had happened with the pitch, but things were starting to get blurry. Also, I noticed I wasn't on my knees anymore. Somehow, I had fallen all the way forward, and there was cool dirt against my right cheek. I had the feeling people were talking. They might even have been shouting. But it all kind of sounded like underwater music or something. Then hands were on me.

AJ said, “Pete! Pete! Can you hear me?”

I was afraid that if I talked, my voice would have that crying sound to it, and everyone would know I
was weak. But I was even more afraid someone might try to move my elbow. “It's my arm. Don't move my arm!”

Then Coach was kneeling next to me. I forgot about the arm for a second. “Did I get him?” I muttered. “Is it over?”

“You did great, Pete. It's all over. Now I'm just going to try and sit you up, all right? AJ, support his head. Ready? One, two, three …”

They rolled me up and over, and the whole world spun like I had just gotten off the mother of all roller coasters. Now I was on my butt in the grass in front of the mound, facing first base. The batter was standing on the bag. I whirled back around to face Coach. “Wait, I thought I got him,” I said. Now my voice was starting to tear up. I saw Coach gesturing to our dugout, and noticed that the assistant coach was on his way up the steps with a first-aid kit. My parents and grandfather were all right there, too, leaning against the chain-link fence, looking painfully scared.

Coach said, “Pete, I'm going to move your arm around a little bit, OK? Just tell me where it hurts.”
I wanted to shout, “No-o-o-o-o!!” but I knew I was about a half second away from bawling my eyes out, and now the entire team was standing in a semi-circle around me. Coach took my hand and rolled my wrist maybe half an inch.

I heard a strangled, high-pitched scream. I wondered where it was coming from for an instant, until I realized my mouth was wide open. Everything started going black around the edges, and I was slumping over again. The last thing I remember seeing was that hitter, standing on first base like he owned it.

One day later that summer, six weeks after my elbow surgery, my grandfather picked me up before dawn on a surprisingly cold and windy Saturday to go on a little photo safari. For years, we had gone hiking together with cameras pretty often. When I wasn't playing sports, you could usually find us together snapping pictures of nature scenes, old-fashioned trains, or whatever else Grampa thought I might like — but this day was different. Grampa wouldn't tell me where we were going, or even how long we would be gone.

I mean, I didn't care. All I had been doing for weeks was sit around the house, watch sports, eat Cheetos, and complain. Except when I was at physical therapy, where I would sweat, grunt, and complain. My parents kept trying to find stuff for me to do, but the only things I was even remotely interested in doing
were things I could never, ever do again. I mean, I was supposed to be in my seventh summer of baseball camp for the whole month of July, and my fifth summer of basketball academy for most of August.

But when you're not allowed to go anywhere near a ball, it's kinda hard to get your money's worth out of sports camp. So that's how I found myself trudging along in the dark behind Grampa, schlepping a heavy backpack full of camera equipment up the side of a mountain somewhere in the Pennsylvania stretch of the Appalachian Trail. Aside from the backpack, I also carried a tripod in my good hand. Grampa was carrying a camera bag, plus a separate canvas knapsack full of sandwiches, drinks, and whatever other provisions my mother had thoughtfully forced him to lug uphill. Mom meant well, but I was pretty sure she believed I would starve if I spent three hours in the woods without a gajillion calories of snacks on hand.

Grampa led me through woods, over areas of broken rock, into and out of moss-covered clearings, and finally out into the open. I gasped. We were
basically at the top of a cliff. There was a field of gigantic boulders, and then … nothing. Grampa picked his way carefully over several of the rocks, and I followed. Now we were right near the edge, looking out over a deep valley. Actually, it was almost a canyon. The sun was coming up, but we were facing north, so it was still pretty dark below us.

Grampa gestured for the camera bag and tripod, and without speaking, I started helping him set up. I still didn't know why we had to be on a cliff this early to take whatever pictures he wanted, but I had been helping Grampa shoot pictures for what felt like forever, so I knew the general drill. For the next few minutes, Grampa gave instructions. Grampa was never big on talking about anything but photography when he was getting ready to shoot. He did this for a living, and he never messed around when there was a camera in his hand.

“Peter, get me the Nikon with the two-point-eight telephoto lens. No, the longer one — the four hundred.”

Wow, that was a serious lens. I mean, a couple thousand bucks worth of serious. Long zooms are expensive, and lenses that let in a lot of light are expensive. Lenses that are long and bright — forget about it. I was kind of nervous about putting something that valuable on a shaky tripod … on a boulder … on the edge of a cliff. I raised one eyebrow, and Grampa said, “What?”

“Uh, nothing. I just … I mean, I'm wondering what the heck we're going to be shooting that you need such serious glass for.” “Glass” is the generic photographers' term for lenses, especially the really good lenses you put on fancy professional-type cameras. Most of the time, when we went out into the woods to take pictures of deer and snakes and stuff, we could get pretty close to the animals, and the light was good. So why take a chance and bust out with the super-pricey lenses?

Grampa sighed, settled his long body down so that he was sitting on one fairly flat boulder and leaning back against another, and asked me to put the tripod right in front of him. Then he squinted at
me in the slanted light that was coming from behind him over the rocks. Between the angle and the way he was silhouetted against the dawn, I couldn't be sure, but I almost thought I saw my grandfather wink.

“Eagles,” he said, leaning forward to look through the camera's eyepiece. “We're shooting eagles.”

“Eagles? How do you know we're going to see eagles here?”

“Easy. This valley is right along their seasonal migration route. On a good day, something like fifteen eagles fly by this lookout.”

“Is this a good day?”

“Could be. It's windy enough. Coffee?” He reached into the backpack I'd been carrying and took out a thermos and two cups. Mom would have totally disapproved of her father giving me coffee, but he'd been doing it for years whenever we went out on our photo missions. When I was a little kid, when Grampa came to pick me up, I would always ask if we were going on a Man's Journey. He would always say, “That's right. I'll be the big man …” Then I would say, “And I'll be the
other
big man!” Then I would laugh my head off.

Guess you had to be there.

I sipped my coffee. You'd think a tough old guy like Grampa would drink it black, but actually he loved cream and sugar. It was like having a mug of warm ice cream. We didn't talk for a long time. That might have been the best thing about being with him: You didn't have to think of stuff to say every minute. We could spend three hours together cleaning lenses, or editing photos on the computer, or even just driving in his SUV to some wildlife preserve in the middle of nowhere, and it never felt uncomfortable.

I might have dozed off a little bit, because the next thing I knew, my coffee was cold, the sun was up over the ridgeline, and I had to pee like a bandit. I looked over at Grampa, and he was sitting perfectly still, except for his eyes. His eyes were scanning the sky from left to right, then back again. I stood up and walked down the trail to find an unobtrusive place to urinate.

When I got back, Grampa was fiddling around with the camera. I knew what he was doing, because I would have thought of it, too. Now that the sun was getting higher, he was screwing a polarizing filter on
to the end of the lens so that the sky wouldn't look too bright or washed out if an eagle came flying by. “So, Grampa,” I said, “have you ever done this before? I mean, you've never taken me here.”

He smiled. “I've been coming here at least twice every August for thirty years. Once, when your mom was a kid, I started to get bored of shooting nothing but parties, so I picked the hardest shot I could think of and vowed to get it someday. I mean, people get married all the time, but an eagle coming over the mountain, right at sunrise? That's a once-in-a-lifetime deal … a major challenge. You always have to challenge yourself, Pete. Remember that.”

“And you always come here alone?”

“Every time.”

“Then why —”

“Why are you here, Pete?”

“Well, yeah.”

He didn't say anything for the longest time as his eyes flicked back and forth along the horizon. Then I understood. “Mom told you to talk to me.”

He nodded.

“About what?”

“Your arm. Your plans. School.”

“What are you supposed to be telling me? My arm hurts and I probably can't pitch again. What plans am I supposed to have? And what about school? It will start, and I'll show up every day and go to classes.”

Grampa poured himself a refill. He always said that after forty years of shooting weddings, he could stand still in a tux for six hours without a bathroom break, and from what I'd seen, that wasn't an exaggeration. It was like the man had an entire extra bladder hidden away in some other dimension or something. In tense situations, it meant that you would always, always squirm before he did.

“Pete, your mom and dad are both concerned about you. They wanted me to tell you that we're here for you if you need anything.” Grampa looked a little bit embarrassed; he wasn't a big emotional-speech kind of guy. “Oh, and … well … you need to join a club.”

“A club? What kind of club?”

“Dunno. Your mom got a brochure from the high school, and it said freshmen are strongly encouraged to participate in after-school activities. So, if you aren't going to be doing sports …”

“Great. Maybe I can join the knitting society.”

He gave me his devastating Blue-Gray Eyes of Death stare.

“Chess club?”

The eyes were still upon me.

“Irish step dance?”

Grampa sighed. I never could take it when Grampa sighed. “Fine,” I said. “Tell her I'll look into it, OK?”

He nodded, ever so slightly, then turned back to searching the sky. Grampa used to have the sharpest vision of anybody in the world, by the way. For the next hour or so, every few minutes I would see a big bird, jump up, and point. Grampa would mutter, “Hawk,” and keep looking. Apparently, we weren't there to shoot hawks.

At one point, I asked, “How long are we going to sit here?”

“Why? Got a date?” He smirked.

We waited some more. I took another trailside bathroom break. I paced back and forth across the rocks. I crept forward to take a peek over the edge of the cliff. I took out the spare camera body we always carried, fished around for Grampa's 85mm portrait lens, and started shooting candids of my grandfather from various points among the rocks.

God, I was restless. I swear, I could never shoot weddings. Plus, my left arm was aching. The doctors said it would do that for at least another month, as the cartilage regenerated to replace the piece that had broken loose inside of my elbow joint in the spring. Ugh.

Then Grampa said, “Pete.” I looked over, and a huge, amazing bald eagle was flying right toward us.