A Swing and a Miss

Kevin York, 8, steps into the batter’s box and plants his feet. It’s opening day, Sunday--a day of faith, hope and hot dogs slathered in cheap mustard. He taps home plate with the tip of his bat, then cranks it around a couple times, as if winding taut springs inside his shoulders. Slowly he draws it back, his gaze steady as he awaits the pitch.

His dad, Dennis, 53, is in a booth behind the backstop keeping score. His mom, Karen, 39, is in the stands with his little brother, Kyle, 3. They are seated with other parents, many of whom are wearing caps, jackets and T-shirts in support of their team, the Indians.

A knot of emotions rides high in Kevin’s chest, near the base of his throat. There is excitement, determination, nervousness, anticipation. And there, in the center of it all, is fear.

He cannot leave behind the memory of two years ago, when he stood at the plate and was whacked in the noggin by a pitch. The ball glanced off his helmet, leaving him stunned. It was probably the sound, the shock of impact more than pain that was traumatic; but even now, as the pitcher winds up, a part of Kevin is prepared to hit the dirt.

The first pitch is a foot outside. Kevin watches it go by. Ball one. So far, so good. He doesn’t step out of the box, doesn’t take his eyes off the pitcher. There were times in the past when he stood there with no intention of swinging the bat. He strategized that the most probable means of reaching first was to draw a walk.

Other times, he stood at the plate and swung wildly at anything the pitcher served up. Whiff, whiff and whiff. Outta there. It never gets easier.

“Striking out makes me sad,” he says. It wouldn’t be so bad if it happened on rare occasion or even much of the time, but that is not the case, he says. “It happens to me all the time.”

This is Kevin’s third year in the Temple City Little League program, and he has never had a hit. There have been a few foul balls, and once he grounded out to second. Other than that, nothing. Zilch. Nada.

But on March 11, opening day, everything seems possible, and if hope can live in Wrigley and Fenway, then, certainly, it can reside in the heart of Kevin York. This is the year, he says. This is the year.

Kevin’s relationship with baseball is a complicated one. He finds himself wedged between opposing forces of love and hate, maintaining a tentative, shifting balance between staying and leaving.

It’s a game with many faces. On one hand, baseball is characterized by sweet nostalgia and romantic notions. Those with no love for Longfellow or Whitman are moved to tears by the poetry of the game, its hot summer nights and heavenly fields, its heartbreak and heroes.

There’s another side of baseball, however, that flat-out doesn’t care. It is ruthlessly dispassionate and has to do with cold, hard numbers--ratios, percentages, averages. This is the part that has been brutal to Kevin, punching him in the gut with each out, causing pain and grief, making him feel, at times, worthless. What gentle game would do that to a child?

But each spring Kevin forgives baseball, knowing that one hit could change everything, erase years of zeros and anger and tears.

So, at 5 feet even, he stands tall at the plate. There is only slight bend at his waist and knees. His stance is upright, like that of the matador.

The second pitch comes in high. High pitches are Kevin’s weakness. He can’t lay off of them. He swings hard and his bat cuts through the air a good 8 inches below the ball. One ball, one strike. Then, one ball, two strikes. Then, those dreaded words.

“Batter’s out.”

Even when the umpire doesn’t say them, there is that haunting pause after the ball smacks into the crease of the catcher’s mitt, when even in silence the realization explodes like gunfire in Kevin’s mind. “Batter’s out.”

After a while, the words might just as well be “Batter’s stupid,” “Batter’s ugly,” “Batter’s never going to get a hit. Ever.”

Kevin backs away from the plate. In some ways, it is best to be the last out of the inning. That way you can ditch your helmet and bat quickly, grab your cap and glove and head out to the field, where no one can see your eyes.

‘I Think This Is Going to Be My Year’

When Karen York asked Kevin if he wanted to sign up for Little League this year, she fully expected he would decline or, at least, waver. His response, however, was prompt and certain.

“I think this is going to be my year,” he said.

From the time he was born, Kevin has faced adversity. Born with a cleft palate, he had surgery as a baby and was left with limited hearing in his right ear. Kids have made fun of him in the cruelest ways throughout his life. “Dumbo,” they called him. He fears that a hearing aid would place him at greater risk of being ridiculed. Who needs that?

He has, in the past, been the class clown, easily distracted and, at times, disruptive. This year, however, he is more focused, his parents say. It has made a difference in school and on the field.

Steve Thorne, 43, the Indians’ head coach, describes Kevin as his weakest player, but it is not talent he lacks as much as self-confidence. The key is to get him to listen, to focus, to believe; and that, says Thorne, will allow his talents to emerge.

In the past, Kevin’s play in the outfield involved tossing his glove into the air and catching it, screwing his cap on backward and scanning the sky for airplanes. Sometimes he would dig holes in the grass with his shoes, oblivious to the action in front of him.

There was a game last year, says Karen, when the game was on the line, and Kevin was playing left field. He wasn’t paying attention, and the ball was hit to him. He didn’t even see it as it flew past him.

“Everyone was screaming at him to get the ball, and he didn’t even know it had been hit,” she says. “So the kid ended up getting a home run and everyone was upset at Kevin. Afterward he said he was never going to play baseball again.”

He quit before last season ended. “Sometimes baseball is fun,” he says, “and sometimes it isn’t. That was one of the times when it wasn’t.”

Karen has questioned whether her son places undue pressure on himself to be good at baseball because his father, a truck driver and reserve police officer, is also a high school umpire who has been around the game all his life. She played softball in college.

“Sometimes I worry that his first hit is more important to me than it is to him,” Karen says. “Then I wonder if it’s becoming more important to him because he’s reading off of me.”

“Baseball is a dream you never really give up on.”

Thorne, information systems manager for Shultz Steel Co. in South Gate, wrote those words and included them in the handbook he provides players at the start of the season. The most important lesson he wants to teach players has to do with developing a love for the game, an understanding of what it means to be part of a team working toward common goals. “If I can help them develop a passion for baseball, then I’ve done my job,” he says. “If they learn a couple things about the game along the way, that’s even better.”

Thorne has coached youth baseball for 10 years. The game is his passion and takes up a good chunk of his life. He spends 20 or more hours a week with the program.

“My grandmother was buried in her Dodgers jacket,” he says. “I haven’t missed a Dodgers opening day in 25 years. . . . Some kids got art, some got music or whatever. I got baseball.”

Some of Thorne’s passion already has rubbed off on Kevin, who now calls it his favorite sport. “This year,” he says, “maybe I won’t quit. Maybe I will. I don’t know, but I think I won’t quit this year.”

He also loves playing computer games and watching cartoons and animal shows on television. His favorite subject in school is math. He likes to read and make up words.

He has spent time in the off-season at the batting cage and whacking whiffle balls into the trees in his backyard. Nearly every day he takes a rubber ball and repeatedly tosses it against the back of the garage, locking his hands together and swinging them like a bat.

Two events give cause for optimism. In a practice game before the start of the season, he hit the ball over the opposing shortstop for a single. It was, he says, “the best thing that ever happened to me,” even though it was just practice.

That night, the Yorks celebrated with dinner at Black Angus. Kevin wore his practice uniform all weekend and insisted on wearing his sweatbands to school the following Monday.

Also before the season opener, there was word that some of the players might be sent down to a lower level of competition. When Kevin heard this, his reaction was that he might as well pack his bags.

But only one player was sent down, and it wasn’t Kevin. When he found out that he was to remain an Indian, he was overjoyed. Karen noticed how he seemed to walk a bit taller after that. Thorne explained to them that he believed in Kevin. Karen was overjoyed.

“Do you know what it’s like,” she asks, “to have someone finally believe in your kid?”

Putting His Practice to the Test--Again

It’s Game 2, against the Tigers. Thorne has been working on Kevin’s footwork, encouraging him to step into the pitch rather than back away.

Thorne typically addresses players as “gentlemen,” as in, “Gentlemen, let’s pay attention to the game.” or “Gentlemen, is everyone wearing a cup?” He calls individual players “Mr.” as in “Mr. York, what’s the count?”

While pacing in front of the dugout, Thorne will, without warning, ask a player what the count is, or how many outs there are or what the score is in order keep them focused on the game. Sometimes Kevin guesses, and sometimes he is silent, without a clue.

Thorne also calls players “pal,” as in “Today’s the day, pal,” which is what he says as Kevin prepares to bat.

“Today’s the day.”

As Kevin pulls on his helmet, his father approaches him from behind the bench and makes a swinging motion with his hands. He has been stressing to Kevin the importance of knowing the strike zone, swinging only at good pitches.

“You can do it,” he says.

Kevin steps to the plate in the third inning. The first pitch is a called strike. The second is low and away, and Kevin lays off. One and one. The third pitch is high, but Kevin swings hard and misses. Thorne is encouraged by the fact that he did not swing halfheartedly. He gave it all he had. He just missed.

The fourth pitch is sweet, belt-high on the inside corner. Kevin swings hard but late, pushing the ball toward the gap between first and second. It’s a line drive, well hit. Kevin watches it clear the infield.

“Run, Kevin!” Thorne is screaming from the front of the dugout.

“Run, Kevin!” Parents are on their feet.

Finally, Kevin drops his bat and takes off for first, but it’s too late. The right fielder, playing shallow, fields the ball and tosses it to first. Kevin has grounded out to right field.

His face reflects disappointment as Thorne walks over to congratulate him for hitting the ball. His expression changes as he walks to the bench and looks over at his parents, seated in the shade. For just an instant, there is a look of accomplishment that Karen will never forget. It takes her breath away. It is a look of absolute pride and joy.

Days later, he still glows.

“I still can’t believe it,” he says.

He can’t even imagine what it would feel like to hit the ball and reach first base safely. “If that day ever comes,” he says, “it will be the greatest day of my life.”

He takes inventory. It is late March.

“I have until May,” he says.

The Indians are 2-0 as they enter Game 3 against the Dodgers, who Thorne suspects is one of the weaker teams in the league. He shuffles his lineup, allowing members of the team to play different positions. Kevin, who turned 9 earlier in the week, starts in a familiar position--on the bench.

The Indians take an early lead. Each inning when the team comes off the field, Thorne gathers them together in a huddle. Kevin runs out to greet them. He stands next to Thorne each time and asks when he will get to enter the game.

Finally, in the fourth inning, Thorne tells him to get his glove. “You’re playing second base,” he says.

This is a huge development. The weakest players at this level typically play in the outfield. To be moved to the infield is one step from the promised land, the pitcher’s mound.

“Yeah,” Kevin says, as he reaches for his glove.

With the Indians holding an 11-8 lead, the Dodgers threaten in the fourth. With the bases loaded and one out, the ball is hit sharply to Kevin. He moves a half-step to his right and fields the ball cleanly, steps on second for the force out and holds the runner on third. It’s a series of properly performed defensive moves.

“Good job, Kevin,” Thorne yells. “You’re the man. Awesome, dude.”

The Indians get out of the inning, and teammates toss high-fives at Kevin, who bats that same inning with two runners on. The magic of his defensive prowess abandons him. Once again, he strikes out and takes a seat. The look on his face seems much too serious for a child. He doesn’t bother to remove his helmet.

“Head up,” Thorne says.

Brendon Karlson, the catcher, pats him on the back.

“Nice try,” he says.

Kevin remains quiet.

The Indians hold on for their third win. After the game, as is tradition, Thorne addresses the team and gives out a game ball. He describes a key defensive play that cut short a Dodger rally and lobs the ball to Kevin.

“Mr. York,” he says, “the game ball is yours.”

Skies Open Up on a Magical Day

In every child’s life, there should be a day like April 7. Rain falls hard at times throughout the morning, but by late afternoon the clouds pass, leaving a warm wash of sunlight on Kevin’s face in right field as Game 6 against the Cubs begins.

The week before, in Game 4, he had struck out in his only trip to the plate. Then, he was benched for most of Game 5 for cursing, grounding out to the pitcher in his only at-bat.

Still, Thorne, impressed by Kevin’s hustle in the outfield, is allowing him to play an entire game for the first time. It means he will get more chances to bat.

The Indians take a 4-0 lead in the first inning, and Kevin leads off the second. Karen is in the bleachers on the cell phone, doing play-by-play for Dennis, who stayed home to allow little Kyle to finish a nap.

Thorne stops Kevin on his way to the plate. He grabs a bat out of the dugout and hands it to him. It is slightly longer than the one Kevin has been using. He takes a couple of swings before approaching the plate and seems pleased with the feel.

New bat, same results.

Kevin fans, but not before hitting a foul ball.

“It’s coming, Pal,” Thorne says. “It’s coming.

His next time at bat, he hits another foul ball.

“Drive it, Kevin, drive it,” Thorne shouts.

Karen is back on the cell phone to Dennis. Kevin works the count to 2-2 before once again striking out. As he walks back to the dugout, he looks up to the sky and screams. Thorne stops him to offer praise. He is pleased that Kevin took three good cuts at the ball. There was no indecision, no holding back. He just missed the ball.

“That was very good,” he says, “excellent.”

Kevin doesn’t look him in the eyes.

In the fourth inning, Dennis arrives with Kyle, who has awakened from his nap. “Dad,” Kevin yells from the dugout. “Did you hear about the foul balls I hit?”

Dennis says he heard all about them and offers encouragement. Kevin makes note that it’s only the fourth inning and that he still has a couple chances at the plate.

He sits next to the water cooler, away from the other players. Thorne is pacing in front of the dugout. He whirls suddenly and looks at Kevin.

“Mr. York, what’s the count?”

Without pause, Kevin replies, “Three and two.”

Thorne smiles.

“Very good.”

Then, unannounced, with two outs and the Indians leading 12-2 in the top of the fifth, glory arrives. It is turning cool as Kevin comes to the plate. There is a stiff breeze blowing out toward left field.

Kevin taps the plate with his bat. The pitcher peers out from above his glove held close to his chin as he holds runners on first and third. The first pitch is in the dirt for ball one.

The second pitch comes in over the middle of the plate. Kevin swings late. He makes contact. The ball bounces toward first. With two out, the runners are moving, and this time Kevin is moving too.

The first basemen reaches down to his left but can’t come up with the ball. “Oh, yeah,” Thorne yells. Like a train pulling out of the station, Kevin slowly gains speed, his face all eyes as he chugs toward first.

Parents take to their feet in the stands, sensing possibilities. Karen and Dennis are cheering, their hearts racing. The ball rolls out to shallow right field. The runner from third scores. Then, unbelievable words are shouted by Thorne, who is waving his arms.

“Take second!”

But Kevin takes no chances. He holds at first, standing with both feet on the bag. He clenches his right hand into a fist in front of him and jerks it back. “Yes!” he growls.

Dennis York gives his son the thumbs-up sign. Karen is clapping and cheering. Kevin beams. On the next pitch, the ball gets away from the catcher, and Kevin takes second. Another passed ball moves him to third.

The Dodgers call time out and bring in a new pitcher. During the time out, Kevin is dancing up and down the third base line, staying loose, pausing to discuss strategy with Paul Brownell, the third base coach.

Karen looks at Kevin’s face. She has never seen such concentration on his face as he listens to Brownell. Ryan Brownell, Paul’s son, runs up two strikes. It looks like Kevin might be stranded. The next pitch, however, gets away from the catcher. Kevin heads for home. The catcher comes up with the ball and lobs it to the pitcher covering home.

Kevin slides feet first and looks up at the umpire.

“Safe.”

Kevin bolts to his feet and does a little victory dance before making his way to the dugout. Thorne extends his hand. His words are calm.

“Congratulations, man.”

Kevin makes eye contact, then takes a seat on the bench. “It felt great,” he says.

He leaves the park with his second game ball and the type of memory that lasts a lifetime. He has realized the reward for perseverance, the joy of hitting a ball, running the bases with heart afire and sliding safely, magnificently, into home.

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