Read Online Angels Walking by Karen Kingsbury - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Kingsbury
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Sluggers had felt it when the season began that year. If ever a team had the chance to win it all, it was that one. Surrounded by boxes and with hours left in the place he called home, Tyler closed his eyes and like a favorite movie, the memory played again.
They were a bunch of twelve-year-olds that summer, old enough to be skilled at the game and too young to be distracted by love and life and longing for something more.
There was just baseball and that was enough.
Marcus Dillinger was his best friend that year. Like Tyler, Marcus was the only boy in his family, so the two of them joked that they were twins. Never mind that Marcus was black. When people raised their eyebrows, Marcus would wink at them. “You can see the resemblance, right? We have the same pitching arm.”
That much was true.
Tyler and Marcus ruled the mound from the beginning of the season through the playoffs. They were serious when they pitched and silly in the dugout—not old enough to understand the stakes. They chewed pounds of bubblegum and drank gallons of Gatorade and held contests to see who could spit sunflower seeds the farthest.
Back then all of life smiled down on Tyler and Marcus. First, they had been given the good fortune of growing up in Simi Valley, California—one of the greatest hotbeds for baseball talent in all the country. For Tyler and Marcus, it wasn’t a matter of whether they would play baseball.
It was a matter of when.
Some of the greats of the game had come through Simi Valley. Long before the town’s little boys turned four, most parents dreamed about their sons joining the fabled ranks. That’s how old Tyler and Marcus were when they joined Simi Valley T-ball. Their parents became friends, taking turns driving to practice and bringing snacks for the team—game after game, year after year.
The boys attended different schools, but that didn’t matter. They were brothers on the field and they swore they’d be best friends forever. By the time they were twelve, Tyler and Marcus could play any position. But they were money on the mound. Both of them had been clocked throwing fastballs in the high 70s, and Tyler had pitched one game where the coaches clocked him at 82 miles per hour.
“We’re going pro, man, you and me!” Marcus would sling his arm over Tyler’s shoulders. “We’ll wind up on the same team and no one’ll ever beat us.”
That year it was easy to believe.
When post-season began, all of Simi Valley knew what the boys hadn’t quite figured out: they really were unbeatable.
Tyler’s dad and Marcus’s dad were both coaches for the Sluggers. At home barely an hour passed without some sort of coaching or encouraging or reminding Tyler of how to throw and what to eat and which exercises would keep him best conditioned for the next game.
For the most part, Tyler took his father’s advice. It was too soon to resent his father or accuse him of loving the athlete more than the boy. No, that year there was only baseball and winning and dreaming about tomorrow.
Nine other teams—including one from Canada, two from Mexico, and one from Japan—made up the tournament. As always, Japan was the team to beat.
Tyler took a deep breath and relaxed into the chair. The pain pills were kicking in. He could still see it all, the grassy knolls of Williamsport, the crowds that had trekked there from all over the world. He could still feel the humidity that late August, still hear the cheers from the fans.
It all came down to the final game against Japan. That day in the dugout for the first time since the season started, maybe for the first time ever, Tyler and Marcus understood the stakes.
They had a handshake back then, one they had started in coach-pitch ball, when they were only six. There in the dugout that August day before the game against Japan they did it again, their eyes locked. Opposite hands clasped, two chest thumps, a fist bump, a linking of the arms and the No. 1 symbol. All in perfect
They were a bunch of twelve-year-olds that summer, old enough to be skilled at the game and too young to be distracted by love and life and longing for something more.
There was just baseball and that was enough.
Marcus Dillinger was his best friend that year. Like Tyler, Marcus was the only boy in his family, so the two of them joked that they were twins. Never mind that Marcus was black. When people raised their eyebrows, Marcus would wink at them. “You can see the resemblance, right? We have the same pitching arm.”
That much was true.
Tyler and Marcus ruled the mound from the beginning of the season through the playoffs. They were serious when they pitched and silly in the dugout—not old enough to understand the stakes. They chewed pounds of bubblegum and drank gallons of Gatorade and held contests to see who could spit sunflower seeds the farthest.
Back then all of life smiled down on Tyler and Marcus. First, they had been given the good fortune of growing up in Simi Valley, California—one of the greatest hotbeds for baseball talent in all the country. For Tyler and Marcus, it wasn’t a matter of whether they would play baseball.
It was a matter of when.
Some of the greats of the game had come through Simi Valley. Long before the town’s little boys turned four, most parents dreamed about their sons joining the fabled ranks. That’s how old Tyler and Marcus were when they joined Simi Valley T-ball. Their parents became friends, taking turns driving to practice and bringing snacks for the team—game after game, year after year.
The boys attended different schools, but that didn’t matter. They were brothers on the field and they swore they’d be best friends forever. By the time they were twelve, Tyler and Marcus could play any position. But they were money on the mound. Both of them had been clocked throwing fastballs in the high 70s, and Tyler had pitched one game where the coaches clocked him at 82 miles per hour.
“We’re going pro, man, you and me!” Marcus would sling his arm over Tyler’s shoulders. “We’ll wind up on the same team and no one’ll ever beat us.”
That year it was easy to believe.
When post-season began, all of Simi Valley knew what the boys hadn’t quite figured out: they really were unbeatable.
Tyler’s dad and Marcus’s dad were both coaches for the Sluggers. At home barely an hour passed without some sort of coaching or encouraging or reminding Tyler of how to throw and what to eat and which exercises would keep him best conditioned for the next game.
For the most part, Tyler took his father’s advice. It was too soon to resent his father or accuse him of loving the athlete more than the boy. No, that year there was only baseball and winning and dreaming about tomorrow.
Nine other teams—including one from Canada, two from Mexico, and one from Japan—made up the tournament. As always, Japan was the team to beat.
Tyler took a deep breath and relaxed into the chair. The pain pills were kicking in. He could still see it all, the grassy knolls of Williamsport, the crowds that had trekked there from all over the world. He could still feel the humidity that late August, still hear the cheers from the fans.
It all came down to the final game against Japan. That day in the dugout for the first time since the season started, maybe for the first time ever, Tyler and Marcus understood the stakes.
They had a handshake back then, one they had started in coach-pitch ball, when they were only six. There in the dugout that August day before the game against Japan they did it again, their eyes locked. Opposite hands clasped, two chest thumps, a fist bump, a linking of the arms and the No. 1 symbol. All in perfect
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