Free One Shot at Forever by Chris Ballard Page A

and said, “Drop down and give me twenty,” Shartzer’s response would have been, “You pitch this ball. I do more pushups and sit-ups at home when I’m done than you do all week. Don’t give me that.”
    But Sweet felt like more a mentor than an authority figure. Despite his laissez-faire attitude, he also struck Shartzer as a man who knew baseball, respected the game, and understood that coaching was about discovery, not dictates. “Try holding the bat in your fingertips so you’re quicker and stronger and they can’t throw it by you on the inner half of the plate,” Sweet told him. Or, “When you’re hitting, pretend you’re on the mound. What would you be throwing here? Why? Then be ready for it.”
    The proof, as Shartzer liked to say, was in the goddamn pudding: The team was piling up victories. Winning games was one thing, though. Gaining respect was another.
    By May 9, when the Ironmen hosted Argenta, they were 10–2 and on the verge of the postseason. It was a gusty afternoon and the wind blew northeast, out toward left field, giving wings to any ball pulled down the line. It was Heneberry’s turn on the mound, and after three innings he was already in a 4–1 hole. Then, in the top of the fourth, a tall, muscular Argenta player named Mike Ferrill stepped to the plate with two men on. It was one of those days when Heneberry’s off-speed pitches were wandering, held up even further by the wind. After sending a couple breaking balls into the dirt, Heneberry had no choice but to pitch to Ferrill. He left one up in the zone and Ferrill sized it up and reared back. The impact of bat on ball made the kind of booming, resonant crash little boys dream about when hitting imaginary home runs in their backyards. Said Heneberry: “Oh shit.”
    The ball gained elevation as it went, soaring above the infield, over the discus pockmarks, and past the running track before finally touching down on the football field, which doubled as deep, deep center. It traveled so far that the Argenta base runners slowed to a leisurely trot as they rounded third base. And so it was that Denny Hill, an Argenta outfielder, sauntered in to touch home plate and, as he did, turned toward the Macon bench and, loud enough for all to hear, posed a question.
    â€œThey found that ball yet?”
    At third base, Shartzer’s face reddened; as he saw it, he was the only one allowed to make fun of his teammates. He took three quick steps toward Hill and pointed his finger. “Don’t you ever do that again, fat boy,” he yelled. “Because the next time you’re going to face me.” Then, for the rest of the inning, Shartzer muttered under his breath, stockpiling anger. By the time he came to the plate the following inning, he was practically twitching. He crushed one to center and stretched it to a double. From his perch on second base, Shartzer turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, you find that ball yet?” he yelled, a refrain he would continue to utter after every Macon hit and, as it turned out, every time he saw Ferrill or Hill for years afterward.
    Energized, the Ironmen bats came alive. They cut the score to 8–6 and then, with the bases loaded and two outs, Heneberry came to the plate, hitting ninth as usual. The Argenta pitcher threw the first two balls off the plate to start out 2–0. This did not sit well with his coach.
    Slamming the scorebook into the fence, the coach marched out to the mound.
    â€œThis guy couldn’t hit it if you put it on a tee. Just throw it over the damn plate!”
    And so the Argenta pitcher did. Remembering what Denny Hill had said earlier, Heneberry reached back and swung with everything his bony arms could manage. He met the pitch head-on and yanked it down the left field line. The ball sailed over the infield, then instead of alighting, as most of Heneberry’s hits did, it kept