Story #10: "The Knuckleball Artist" (Chapter 16)

High school physics, a Ferris wheel that slipped its axle, Lutheran Liquor & Lottery, a spun quarter, a deserted schoolyard, and a baseball-sized hole in a mascot's ear.

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CHAPTER 16

PHINEAS THROWS A NO-PITCHER

Reginald wasn’t exactly a master of threats, but he was pretty sure “stay out here, kid, and pitch or raise your hand and coach” was in the ballpark of a good one. He was sure—he thought he was sure, he sure hoped he was sure—that by the time he returned to the dugout, the kid would have his hand raised higher than a girl who hadn’t been called on since report cards went out.

“You’ve got this, kid. Looking real strong out there.” Reginald still hadn’t turned, but he gave two quick coaching claps like he was trying to turn on a living room lamp.

Now, if you’ve followed the game of baseball, you’ve seen pitchers go into windups so ridiculous the laws of high school physics can’t keep up, and the moment Reginald gave those two little claps, Phineas went into a doozy.

It started off in extreme slow motion to give his coach time to turn around and witness it. Then, at the exact moment when he should have sent the ball on its way, Phineas pretended it was glued so tightly to his hand he couldn’t let go. Faster and faster, that ball began to windmill him around like a Ferris wheel that slipped its axle.

Stepping down into the dugout, Reginald saw the kid circling third base out of the corner of his eye.

You better believe those same farmers who hadn’t had a chuckle since the American Flag Caucus at the diner, saw the rains clear at least over in the Lutheran Liquor & Lottery bleachers. When Reginald looked at the stands, it made him wince. As laughter went, you might say it was more “at” than “with.”

Phineas got himself so dizzy from watching his arm spinning in circles, he fell smack down on the pitching mound like a spun quarter.

“Come on kid, stop it with all this.” Reginald called out from the dugout. “Just raise your hand where I can see it, and we’re done.”

Phineas did not raise his hand.

He lay on the pitching mound with his eyes closed and his tiny glove at his side. When he did finally get up, he looked at his coach for the last time that inning. His glasses were crooked on his face, but instead of his usual shenanigans, he stared at Reginald like they were the last two people in the world.

Reginald wished something awful the kid would say “nope, nope, nope” or take a bow, or straighten his glasses, but he didn’t do any of that.

He said no.

After that, the real protest began. Phineas turned around and launched, and I mean launched, the ball towards the outfield. The baseball went a good ten feet in the direction of shortstop.

The kid’s next throw sailed out to right. The next went through the concession stand window. The next into the parking lot. The throws weren’t getting any closer to the direction of home plate, but every throw was a good ten feet further than the last one. Phineas was walking runners around the bases like they were spinning on a May pole. He gave up run eleven with a shot that clanged off the Iowa State Flagpole. Reginald had no doubt where all this was headed. The kid was aiming to hit the fifteen-run Little League Mercy Rule.

And every time Phineas went into a Ferris wheel, the madder he got, and the further the ball went. As wild pitches go, he was astonishingly accurate. First, it was the zero in 13-0, then Cheerless Charity’s outfield advertisement. Mid-cartwheel, Lutheran Liquor’s mascot took a pitch to his paper mache head, and even the Cougars moms, who generally kept a low profile weeknights, went caterwauling.

But by now, the kid wasn’t looking in the dugout or listening to the uproar in the stands. He was throwing a baseball to a friend he didn’t have, on an overcast day, in a deserted schoolyard.

“Come on, kid. Raise your hand. Raise your hand,” Reginald was whispering to himself, and then he was yelling to himself, but he could hardly be heard over the howling.

Everyone knows team mascots can be more than a little mean, and maybe everyone in the ballpark misheard him, but it caught like wildfire. Probably because it was muffled by the baseball-sized hole in his ear, but it sure sounded like, “He’s going to throw a no-pitcher!”

“No-pitcher! No-pitcher! No-pitcher!”

“No-pitcher, no-pitcher” was too much for Reginald. He was overwhelmed by memories of his disastrous debut at Yankee Stadium. He remembered his very last pitch all the way into the radio announcer’s booth. That’s when he knew his one-strike career was over.

He lowered his head and slow-walked to the mound that same way the old Yankee manager did when he pulled Reginald. Reginald barely had time to think it, but he still thought it: it’s no fun being on the other side of this, either. Twenty-one years, and that was a thought that never occurred to him.

Now, I’m not saying Reginald wanted to lose the bet with Phineas exactly, but by the time he got to the mound, he knew he didn’t want to win it either. Reginald gave up wanting the kid to coach the team. He’d have to figure out something else.

“Kid,” Reginald said. There was more to what he wanted to say somehow, but “kid” was as far as he got.

When no more was coming, Phineas threw the ball so far and so hard it bounced off a truck on IA-22.

“No-pitcher! No pitcher!’ Everyone else had pretty much wrapped up, but the Cougars moms were still going strong, partly because the Luther Liquor & Lottery mascot had gone over to the bleachers to make a big show of conducting them.

At the mound, the umpire interrupted the huddle so he could hand Phineas another ball. Phineas grabbed it before Reginald could stop him.

“Give me that ball, son. I’m taking you out. You’re going to hurt someone.”

Phineas took off his glasses and wiped his face suddenly in the crook of his arm, and turned even further away from his coach.

“I’m not done.”

It was a mutter.

In the history of baseball, there was only one other time a pitcher was more done than Phineas was done, and Reginald was there. He could still hear the Yankee Stadium cheers and they were not the nice kind.

Then, instead of handing the ball over, the kid dropped it to his feet and began dribbling the ball towards home plate with the instep of his non-dominant left foot.

“Stop it, Phineas,” and by this point Reginald would have done anything to stop it.

The kid yelled back over his shoulder. He sounded older now, and not in a good way.

“I’m not done.”

And he was not done.

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