Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Three Strikes and You're Dead (2 page)
“The manager uses him in the outfield every now and then to keep his bat in the lineup, but the regular outfielders complain when they have to sit one out. No one wants to miss a chance to play. Besides, Ty likes the action at shortstop. It’s a busy position and he thrives when there’s lots to do.”
“I guess he’ll have to learn to be patient, then.”
“Not for long. At least I hope not.” Meg lowered her voice and leaned closer to me. “We heard there was a scout from New York down here last week talking to the manager about Ty.”
“So he has a good chance to move up to the major leagues?”
“Most likely Triple-A first. The Rattlers are in the Chicago Cubs’ farm system. They have a good Triple-A team here in Arizona, too. Of course, there’s always the possibility of a trade to another major-league ball club. It doesn’t matter who he ends up playing for as long as he makes it to ‘the Show.’ That’s what the kids call the majors—‘the Show.’ That’s what we’re all praying for. Everyone tells us how talented he is. All he needs is a little more experience, and he’d get it on a Triple-A team once he’s out from under Junior and Harrison Bennett. If he does, it could be less than a year before he gets called up.”
“Does he have a say in who he wants to play for?”
“He’d be happy with any team, I’m sure. He loves the Cubs and their history.” She laughed. “Everything except their inability to get to the World Series. Naturally, his heart’s set on playing in New York, for the Mets or even the Yankees.” Meg shivered despite the heat. “To be candid, I kind of hope he’ll get to see another part of the country—San Francisco or Tampa or St. Louis, rather than New York.”
“But wouldn’t playing for a New York team bring him closer to your home in New Jersey? You’re only across the river from the city.”
“True, and we do love to attend his games. But New York is a big city with big-city temptations, and it’s too close to Jersey City, where he had all that trouble when he was younger. I’d like to see him stay away from those kinds of influences. He’s still so young and impressionable.”
Ty Ramos had been only eleven years old the first time he was brought up before Judge Duffy on a charge of juvenile delinquency. His mother, who lived in the Dominican Republic, had sent him to live with an uncle in New Jersey, hoping to give her only son the benefits and opportunities of a life in the United States. Instead, the uncle, who worked two jobs to support his own children, had little time to watch over yet another youngster. Ty was left to fend for himself in a school where he didn’t speak English and where teachers were overwhelmed by a student body with myriad problems. Outside, on the streets, was no better. The young boy learned to endure beatings from older bullies, most of them gang members, who demanded his jacket and gloves in the winter, his baseball cap in the summer. He hid his lunch money in his shoes until they took those from him as well.
Homesick and angry, he was a magnet for trouble, fighting in school, staying out all night, stealing change from his uncle’s pockets and fruit from the corner grocery. He joined the gang that had tormented him; carried a knife in his boot; and earned money by warning the drug dealers when a police car turned the corner, and by delivering messages for the owner of a local bar, a low-level mobster who liked it that his errand boy didn’t understand enough English to testify against him. That wasn’t really true anymore, but Ty let him believe it was.
Judge Duffy watched as an innocent first-time offender began to develop the makings of a hardened career criminal, and he felt he had to intervene. Ty’s situation reminded the judge of his own childhood in a poor neighborhood in Trenton, where he had to fight hard for respect and even harder to finish his education. Sending Ty back to the Dominican Republic was not an option. His mother had moved, and no one could locate her. Sending him back to his uncle would only perpetuate the problems. Foster family after foster family rejected the boy as too disruptive to keep. But Judge Duffy saw a spark in Ty that the others had missed. Beneath the shield of resentment that the teenager wore like armor, the judge recognized a yearning to fit in, and he thought he might be able to reach Ty Ramos.
The first couple of years with Ty at the Duffys’ sprawling suburban New Jersey ranch were daunting. More than once Meg thought Jack had taken on more than they could handle, but through a combination of love and discipline, they began to see a change. Ty’s transformation was helped by a new high school away from his old friends and enemies, one with strong academics and an even stronger sports program. Ty blossomed once he joined the baseball team, first as a catcher—the only boy willing to catch the streaking fastball of the team’s star pitcher—and later as a first baseman. But he was to shine brightest at shortstop, the perfect position for his quick moves and uncanny ability to read the batter accurately.
There was no question of college when Ty graduated from high school, although not due to lack of achievement. He wasn’t an honors student, but he’d acquitted himself well academically, passing all his tests with respectable grades, even the English literature exam, on which he’d scored an 89. But Ty had found his home in baseball, and an offer from the Cubs to join its Rattlers farm team had sealed his future—at least the immediate future.
“We’re back, and Buddy Washington is in the dugout talking to his shortstops.”
Ralph Trienza peered into the monitor as the camera trained its lens on the manager seated in the dugout. “Okay,” Trienza said, “he’s given the signal. Ty Ramos will pinch-hit for Junior Bennett.”
A round of cheers greeted Ty as he climbed the stairs from the dugout, picked up two bats, and swung them, choosing one and dropping the other before taking his place at home plate.
“There’s no love lost between those two,” Doug Worzall said into his microphone. “Ramos and Bennett have been battling all season for a permanent slot at shortstop. They’re not exactly friendly competitors, according to people close to the situation. That was a tough call to yank Junior.”
“But a good one for the team, Doug. It’s hard going up against Evans, a left-handed pitcher. Now, we’ll see if Ramos can pull it off. A hit here would put the winning run on base and bring up Carter Menzies, who’s three for three today. But if Ramos fans, it’s the end of the season for the Rattlers. Tough position to be in. There’s a lot riding on those shoulders.”
A chorus of boos swelled up from the vicinity of the left-field fence. Meg took my hand and squeezed it.
“Those boo-birds out there are from San Pedro,” Doug Worzall announced as the camera panned a contingent of Texon fans wearing yellow-and-red shirts, the team colors, and waving WE’RE #1 foam hands.
“Here’s the first pitch. It’s a swing and a miss. That ball was outside, out of the strike zone. Looks like Ramos might be a little anxious.”
“That corner is the pitcher’s favorite, Ralph. Evans has left a lot of Rattlers swinging at that curveball.”
“C’mon, Ty,” Meg whispered, watching her foster son intently. “You can do it.”
“Here’s the windup. It’s outside. One-and-one.”
Ty used his bat to knock dirt from his cleats and twisted his right foot into the batter’s box. He nodded to the umpire and squinted at the pitcher, taking a practice swing.
“Ramos is an interesting guy, Doug. He was born in the Dominican Republic. That country has baseball in its blood. It’s the national passion. They’ve contributed more ballplayers to Major League Baseball than any other nation outside our borders, and with a population of less than nine million. Amazing, isn’t it?”
The next pitch was low and outside, a ball.
“Those population numbers are almost the same as New Jersey’s,” Trienza said. “And don’t forget, that’s where Ramos was raised. He was an all-star on his high school team, took them to the state championships.”
“He’s looking to take the Rattlers to the league championships now. Here’s the pitch. Ooh, he fouled that one off his instep. Got to sting. Two-and-two.”
The pitcher took off his mitt and rubbed the new ball between his hands, pinching the top with his fingers as if he wanted to smoothe out the leather. He stretched, put the glove back on, leaned over, and stared at the catcher, shook his head, then nodded and threw the ball. Ty jumped back as the ball whizzed by close to his head. He stepped out of the batter’s box and swung his bat twice.
“That was a close one, Doug. Evans was giving him a warning there—don’t crowd the plate. It’s a full count, folks, in the bottom of the ninth with two out. This next pitch could decide the game.”
Worzall laughed. “I’m feeling nervous myself, Ralph,” he said. “Imagine what Ramos must be feeling now. The whole team is counting on him. That’s a lot of pressure for a young player.”
“But he’s poised, Doug. Mature for his age. Let’s see what he does with this pitch.”
Ty tapped home plate with his bat, tugged on the peak of his cap under the batting helmet, and stole a glance at Meg. A small smile played around his lips. He adjusted his hips, swaying from side to side, lifted one shoulder after the other, then settled down into his batting crouch and waited. The pitcher wiped his lips, set the ball at his waist, reared back, raised his right leg, and hurled the ball toward home plate.
Ty swung. There was a loud crack as his bat connected with the ninety-mile-an-hour fastball. The crowd rose to their feet, and Meg and I joined them to watch the ball sail toward the right-field wall. The Texon outfielder skipped backward, keeping his eye on the ball, then turned to watch it clear the fence and bounce on the street outside the stadium.
“Home run! The ball game’s over. Ty Ramos hits a homer to end the game. The Rattlers have won the championship, with Ramos’s long ball bringing in two runs for a four-three victory over the San Pedro Texons. Here come the tying and winning runs down the third-base line. The San Pedro Texons will have to wait another year. The Mesa Rattlers are the Pacific West Double-A champions!”
Meg gave me a hug, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, Jessica. He did it! He won the game! I’m so excited. I’m so proud. I knew he could do it.”
“Congratulations, Meg. What a wonderful day for you and Jack.”
“Oh, I know Jack saw this. He’s watching our boy on TV.”
Around us, fans were jumping up and down, screaming and laughing, giving each other high fives. The cheerleaders bounced onto the grass, doing back flips and somersaults. The team mascot, an oversized character in a carpenter costume, wiggled his hips and pumped his fist in the air. Ty’s teammates poured onto the field to greet him as he crossed home plate.
With one exception. Junior Bennett spat on the ground, threw his glove across the dugout, and stomped off toward the locker room.
Chapter Two
Ty whooped and shivered as the ice from a bucket of Gatorade was spilled down his back. The floor was flooded. Whatever liquid was available—water, soda pop, juice, rubbing alcohol, and a few smuggled-in bottles of beer—had been used to anoint the team members, and not a few of the guests who’d been intrepid enough to enter the locker room and join in on the postgame festivities. Meg and I had congratulated Ty, who’d ushered us to a bench away from the melee. “You’ll be safer here,” he said, grinning. “And drier.”
“I almost took Jessica’s hand off when you were at bat,” Meg told him. “I squeezed it so hard.”
Ty smiled at me. “You okay, Mrs. Fletcher?”
I waved my hand in the air. “It still functions,” I said. “What an exciting game! I’m glad I got a chance to see you in action. Very impressive.”
“I was just happy I got to go in,” he said. “I would’ve hated sitting on the bench the whole game.” He glanced back at the sounds of cheers and whistles.
“You go on and celebrate with your teammates,” Meg said. “We’ll see you later at the dinner.”
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