An Unsung Hero
The Oxford Dictionary defines a hero as "a person, typically a man, who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements or noble qualities." The world is full of heroes, both real and fictional. Society reveres its war heroes, its courageous firemen, its brave policemen and the common man or woman who rises above an occasion to accomplish the extraordinary. Both children and adults find athletic achievement heroic. Baseball has had its share of heroes: Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Lou Gehrig, Hank Aaron, Ted Williams ... the list goes on and on. We cheer them when they win; we cry when they lose; we honor them when they retire; we mourn them when they pass.
Few people would classify Hal Sweetin, the arrogant relief pitcher, as a hero even though he is considered one of the greatest players of his generation, From an early age, the brash young man thought only of himself. Family, friends, fans and teammates mattered little to him. It was as though he suffered from tunnel vision: he saw his goal ahead of him and everything else faded in the periphery.
His failings as a human being aside, his skill on the mound was exceptional. It was his Little League coach who first noticed the incredible pinpoint control the youngster exhibited.
"You can thread a needle with that baseball," he told the boy.
"I'm gonna be a pitcher when I grow up," Hal replied confidently.
"With an arm like yours, you might indeed make it to the majors. I can see you winning twenty games a year easily."
"I don't want to be a starter. I'd rather be the best closer in baseball."
"A closer? That's an odd choice."
"Not really. Most teams have four or five starting pitchers in their rotation. Then they've got a few relievers but usually only one closer: one go-to guy who's expected to get the job done. And he always comes in at a high point in the game. No team calls in its closer when it's ahead or behind by more than two or three runs. A closer comes in when the game can go either way, and a talented pitcher can save or win the game with a few good pitches."
"No one player, no matter how talented he is, wins a game," the coach said. "It takes an entire team."
A condescending smirk appeared on the boy's face and he answered, "I've heard that before along with 'winning isn't everything,' 'crime doesn't pay' and 'it's better to give than to receive.' People say all sorts of things, but that doesn't make them true."
The coach shook his head. Although the lad clearly possessed superior athletic ability, he had a great deal to learn about sportsmanship and humility.
* * *
As Hal grew older, he honed his skills. He threw the ball faster and with greater accuracy. When a major league scout watched him pitch during a high school championship game, he was more impressed by the teenager's stellar performance than he had ever been by a professional pitcher.
"Son," the scout told the seventeen-year-old hurler, "you've got what it takes to be the next Mariano Rivera."
Rather than be flattered by the compliment, Hal was offended.
"I'm not the next anybody," he said haughtily. "I'm an original, not a newer version of someone else. Besides, Rivera never won a Cy Young award or made MVP, and I intend to do both."
"You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you, kid?" the scout asked, amused by the pitcher's cocky attitude.
"Damned right, I am."
"And what will you do if you wind up spending your career in the minors, never making it all the way?"
"That ain't gonna happen, so why worry about it?"
When the scout passed on the recommendation to his organization to sign Hal Sweetin to a contract and pay him a one million dollar signing bonus, he did so mainly because he believed the pitcher would be an asset to the team. However, a part of him wanted to test the young man's mettle. Sure, not a single high school student had ever gotten a decent hit against Hal, and the only run ever scored while he was on the mound was the result of two errors by his infield. But would his luck hold out when he faced seasoned pros?
Here's your big chance, kid, he thought with amusement when the pitching prospect signed his name on the contract. Now let's see if you really have what it takes to make MVP.
* * *
It was soon evident to the scout and front office personnel alike that Hal Sweetin's hubris was justified. After less than a year in the team's farm system, he was called up to the majors. At the end of his first full season, he won the Rookie of the Year award along with a World Series ring. This honor was eventually followed by both a Cy Young award and the MVP. Yet despite his many accomplishments, few fans idolized him, and nearly all of his teammates disliked him immensely.
"I don't give a damn what people think of me," he told an ESPN reporter. "This is baseball, not a popularity contest."
Hal's abrasive personality made him unpopular both on the field and off. Women, even baseball groupies, were turned off by his conceit. In fact, the game's best closer was so universally hated that when Roseanne Biggler from the Grant a Wish charity wanted to arrange for a terminally ill child to meet with Sweetin, Nolan Mallick, the ball club's general manager, reacted with stunned disbelief.
"The kid wants to meet Hal. Why?"
"I don't know. Our organization asked the boy what he wanted most in the world, and he said to meet Hal Sweetin."
"Yes, but surely there are more ... pleasant players he could choose."
"He's obviously a fan."
"If he is, then he's in a true minority," Nolan grumbled and then hesitantly agreed to Roseanne's proposal. "I'll see what I can do. Almost every athlete I know would say yes without hesitation, but I'm not so sure about Sweetin. I doubt even a terminally ill child can move him."
* * *
"What am I supposed to do with a dying kid?" Hal asked coldly when Nolan approached him about the meeting.
"I'll have him brought here to the stadium. You give him an autograph, get your picture taken with him, talk to him for a few minutes and then I'll take it from there. I'll get him a good seat for the game, a jersey, a few hot dogs and some souvenirs from the team store, and then I'll introduce him to the rest of the club."
"Christ! Is this necessary? Is there something in my contract that says I have to babysit cancer victims?"
Mallick winced.
"No, you're not contractually committed, but this is a chance to make a sick kid happy."
"If that's what I wanted out of life, I'd have become a doctor."
"Don't you ever do anything for other people?" the general manager cried with frustration.
"Yeah, I win baseball games. Isn't that enough?"
"More often than not, you save the game but the starting pitchers get the wins."
"Save, win—call it what you want. If it weren't for me, the team would lose."
Nolan was left in an unpleasant situation: either convince Sweetin to accept the offer or go back to Roseanne Biggler and tell her baseball's top closer could not spare a few minutes out of his day to meet with a dying child.
I can't see breaking that poor little boy's heart, he thought. There must be some way I can talk Hal into doing the decent thing.
Nolan racked his brains trying to come up with a convincing argument, but he could think of no bribe or threat to use against the pitcher. Finally, the best he could do was utter a cajoling "please."
"Please do this for me," he pleaded, just short of getting down on his knees and begging.
"Why is it so important?"
Since he did not feel Hal was capable of ever understanding his altruistic motives, Nolan lied.
"It's great PR, and you could use it."
"I don't need to kiss up to the fans or the press. I go out to the mound and do my job. That's all that matters."
"It's good for the team. It makes the whole organization look good."
Sweetin gave the matter some thought.
"It'll be scheduled for a game day, right? When I already have to be at the stadium?"
"Yes," Nolan quickly agreed, his hopes for a positive response rising.
"All right," the pitcher grudgingly agreed. "One autograph, one picture and a few words. Five, ten minutes—tops! Got that?"
"Yeah, I got it. I promise you it'll be over quickly. Thanks, Hal. Thanks a lot."
"Sure. Oh, and, Nolan? One more thing," the closer said as the general manager took out his cell phone to call Roseanne Biggler and confirm the details.
"What is it?"
"You're gonna owe me for this."
Nolan managed a weak smile. He had no doubt the pitcher would see to it that he made good on the I.O.U.
* * *
The meeting was held in the team's clubhouse. In attendance were Sweetin, Nolan Mallick, Roseanne Biggler, seven-year-old Ricky Nettleton and his parents, two photographers and the team's press secretary. When the boy entered the room, Nolan's eyes filled with tears. He was no doctor, but he could tell that the child did not have long to live. Ricky was as thin as a refugee from a concentration camp, his hair had fallen victim to chemotherapy and there were dark circles around his large, sunken blue eyes.
"Hi, there," Hal said, apparently the only one in the room not affected by the pitiful sight. "So, you want my autograph, do you?"
The boy nodded his head, as though the act of speaking would exhaust him.
"Sure thing," the pitcher said, scribbling his name on an eight-by-ten photograph with a Sharpie marker.
When Sweetin handed the signed picture to him, Ricky Nettleton finally spoke.
"My daddy says you're the best closer in baseball."
"He's right," Hal said immodestly.
"He also says you're the biggest bum in sports."
Mrs. Nettleton turned away in embarrassment, and her husband blanched, wishing his son was not quite so honest. The other people in the room smiled and tried to keep from laughing out loud.
"Yeah?" the pitcher replied with a piercing look at the boy's father. "Well, I'd like to see your old man strike out the heart of the Yankee batting order in a World Series game."
"He says you don't care about anybody but yourself," the child continued, his father cringing with each word his son spoke. "But I think he's wrong."
"You do?"
Hal honestly did not care what the kid or his old man thought. He was the best closer in baseball, the best pitcher, in fact. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he would eventually eventually be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.
"I think when the time comes, you'll do the right thing."
What an odd thing for the child to say, Nolan thought with a frown.
An uncomfortable silence pervaded the room. Hal did not respond to the boy, not even with an inappropriate comment.
The general manager, however, who was better qualified to handle an awkward situation, stepped forward and asked enthusiastically, "Ricky, would you like to go meet the other players on the team? I understand they have a few surprises in store for you."
The child expressed no joy or eager anticipation. He merely nodded his head.
"Good, let's go to the locker room."
As the visitors were leaving the clubhouse, Ricky turned and addressed Hal one last time.
"Remember, when the time comes, you must do the right thing."
Later that evening, after leaving the ballpark at the conclusion of the game, Sweetin drove directly to the general manager's house and stormed into his home office.
"Don't you ever ask me to do anything like that again!" he shouted. "That kid gave me the creeps!"
"No more terminally ill kids. I get it."
"And the nerve of his old man calling me a bum! What the hell has he ever done with his life? The guy's probably in debt up to his eyeballs, and he has the nerve to criticize me!"
"What does it matter what his father thinks? You never care about other people's opinions."
"And what was all that crap about doing the right thing when the time comes? It was weird!"
"Okay, just forget about it!" Nolan said, anxious to get the pitcher out of his home, for the truth was he found the entire situation a bit eerie himself.
* * *
Hal Sweetin did not let Ricky Nettleton bother him for long. Like so many other people that had come and gone in his life, the dying child and his father were consigned to the shadows of the periphery of his tunnel vision. The express train that was his baseball career continued on track toward its eventual terminus at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York.
Another MVP. Two more Cy Young awards. After ten years in the majors, his tally of saves and wins continued to grow, and his ERA was almost nonexistent. No hitter had ever gotten a homerun off him; in fact, only one lucky batter had ever gotten an extra-base hit. He had lost neither his pinpoint accuracy or his speed, nor had he lost any of his egotism.
Novice Sports TV journalist Pepper Heinz looked on her opportunity to interview Hal Sweetin as a mixed blessing. On one hand, she was eager to finally conduct her first televised interview; on the other, she dreaded having to pose questions to a man whose reputation for discourtesy toward the press was legendary.
Hal hated interviews, especially with female reporters. As far as he was concerned, the only place for women in professional sports was cheering in short skirts with pompoms at football games. With Pepper asking the same boring questions dozens of journalists had asked before her, Hal's mind began to wander.
"And when the time comes, will you do the right thing?"
Sweetin, who had been slouching in his chair, suddenly sat bolt upright.
"What did you say?" he cried, frightening the reporter with the crazed look on his face.
Pepper repeated her question.
"I asked, 'When the time comes for you to retire from baseball, what do plan on doing with your life?'"
Hal's eyes took on a glazed, faraway stare. His mind was obviously not in the television studio.
"Mr. Sweetin? Is there something wrong?"
"The little boy ...," the pitcher mumbled. "I'd forgotten about him."
"What little boy is that?"
"I don't know what he meant. When what time comes? And what is the right thing I'm to do?"
Unsure of how to proceed, Ms. Heinz looked to her director for help. Just as he was going to cry "cut," Hal came to his senses.
"What's that you asked me? What I plan to do when my career is over?"
"Yes," Pepper said, relieved to have the interview back on track.
"I have no definite plans, but I'm sure I'll remain in baseball in some capacity or another."
Given the strong, widespread dislike of Sweetin throughout both leagues, Ms. Heinz doubted anyone would offer him a job off the pitching mound.
After the taping of the Sports TV interview, Hal hurried out of the studio and into a waiting limo.
No more interviews for me, he thought. The bitch knew about the kid, and she deliberately misread her question the first time. I know I didn't imagine it.
The fact that Pepper had heard about his meeting with the cancer-ridden child did not surprise him. Any one of the people in the clubhouse that day could have spoken about Ricky Nettleton's strange statement. Hell, Sweetin wouldn't put it past the general manager to leak the information to the journalist. But what he could not fathom was why. Unable to come up with a decent reason, Hal was determined to put the matter out of his mind.
I don't have time to think about the interview, the reporter or that kid. I've gotta get to the airport and catch a plane for the East Coast. Tomorrow's a big game in front of a sell-out crowd. I want to shine if I'm called in to save the game.
* * *
More than forty thousand fans crowded into the old stadium, not to see a game between their team and the division champs, but to pay homage to Roy Deakins, one of the best loved players in the game. After more than twenty years in centerfield, Deakins was retiring, to the disappointment of not just his team's fans, but to baseball fans in general.
Roy, who would retire with a lifetime batting average of .302, had won three batting championships in his prime. For the past two years, however, his numbers had steadily declined. He still had a good swing, but he lacked the speed to run out the ground balls. Not only was his offensive play suffering, but he also had difficulty making catches in the outfield. Consequently, he decided his team would be better off with a younger, faster player in centerfield.
On the day he was being honored by his team, Deakins showed up at the stadium feeling like Lou Gehrig, the self-proclaimed "luckiest man on the face of the earth." His elderly parents were present as were his siblings, his beloved wife of eighteen years and his three children. Both former teammates and opponents were also present to wish him well in his retirement and thank him for his contribution to the game.
Hal Sweetin sat in the bullpen with his fellow pitchers, watching the pregame festivities. Unlike everyone else, he was bored by the celebrities and former baseball players who heaped praises on the retiring centerfielder.
"You'd think he was Babe Ruth, for Chrissake," Hal muttered when the owner of the team presented Deakins with a new custom-fitted SUV.
"Wait until you see the celebration they're gonna hold when you retire," one of the relievers teased the closer. "I'm sure I speak for all your teammates when I say it'll be a day to rejoice."
Sweetin was about to issue a scathing retort, liberally sprinkled with four-letter words, when he glanced up in the bleachers beside the bullpen and saw a young boy staring down at him. His heart pounding, the pitcher put his glove up to his brow to reduce the glare and squinted to get a better look. It was him! Ricky Nettleton's lips moved, and despite the loudness of the cheering crowd, Hal clearly heard the boy's words: "When the time comes, you must do the right thing."
"No, it can't be him! He must be dead by now."
"Dead?" his teammate asked, mistakenly believing Hal was referring to the elderly man who had stepped onto the field. "That's the baseball commissioner. He may sometimes act like he's brain dead, but as you can clearly see, he's alive and well."
Sweetin blinked, and noticed there was no little boy in that section of the bleachers, just a group of beer-guzzling college students.
"I need a drink," he said, his face ashen.
"You look like you could use one," the reliever observed. "But it can't be anything stronger than Gatorade until the game is over."
It was another twenty minutes before the audience rose from their seats for "The Star-Spangled Banner," followed immediately by the announcement of the visiting team's lineup. In the bottom of the fourth, Hal took another side trip into The Twilight Zone. He looked up to watch a homerun ball sail into the stands and caught sight of the centerfield scoreboard on which a video of a seven-year-old boy was being shown.
The child spoke directly to him: "I know that when the time comes, you'll do the right thing."
"I gotta get out of here!" Hal cried, jumping up from his seat.
"Are you nuts? You can't leave in the middle of a game. That homerun just tied it up. You're probably gonna be called in to pitch."
"I can't! How can I be expected to deliver after what's been happening?"
"You are crazy," the reliever said, feeling no compassion for his insufferable teammate. "Maybe you ought to see a doctor."
The thought of his phenomenal career coming to a sudden inglorious end brought him back to his senses.
Concentrate. That damned girl reporter has got you all shook up. None of it's real.
By the top of the seventh inning, the home team had gone ahead, only to lose the lead to the visitors, who tied it up again in the eighth. It was the bottom of the ninth, and the score was three-three. To no one's surprise, the manager picked up the phone in the dugout and put in the call to the bullpen.
"Send in Sweetin."
As usual, the crowd booed when the closer's name was announced on the public address system. Despite the earlier incidents that had shaken him up, Hal was at the top of his game once he stepped on the pitcher's mound. Not even mistaking both the bat boy and the ball girl for Ricky Nettleton shook his concentration. The first two men he faced were struck out in six pitches. Certain of coming out of the inning unscathed, he faced the third man.
The batter hit a slow grounder that should have been an easy out, but the shortstop threw the ball wild, and the batter made it all the way to second on an error. With two outs in the bottom of the ninth who came to the plate but Roy Deakins, the man everyone was there to honor.
In what was to be the former slugger's last career at-bat, the crowd was on their feet cheering. It had been a long and distinguished career that was coming to an end. There were tears in many eyes, both in the stadium and in the television audience.
To Hal Sweetin, it was an easy out. He knew Roy's weakness: a high fastball on the inside corner. Even if Deakins was able to get a piece of the pitch, the most he could hope for was a popup at the plate. Hal smiled smugly, more than forty thousand people were undoubtedly praying for a miracle, as were the millions watching at home or in sports bars across the country.
Hal stood on the mound and waited for his catcher's signal, knowing full well he would put down one finger for the fastball.
When the time comes, you'll know what to do.
It was a low whisper, barely audible, and it seemed to come from the Rawlings baseball in his hand.
This is the time, Hal instinctively knew.
After his windup, Sweetin threw the ball right down the center of the plate, directly where Roy Deakins could hit it with the meaty end of his bat. The resounding crack of wood on ball seemed to reverberate on the playing field until all sounds of the game were drowned out by the cheering of the fans. The runner on second scored, and Roy Deakins was heralded as the hero of the game for the final time.
The teams left the field, and sports reporters closed in on the players in the dugouts. Not one of them sought an interview with the losing pitcher. Baseball's attention was on Roy Deakins and the story-book ending to his extraordinary career. No one spoke to Hal Sweetin in the locker room either. Oddly, his teammates treated him with respectful silence.
As he headed toward the players' parking lot, the closer ran into the club's general manager.
"Ricky Nettleton was right," Nolan Mallick said. "When the time came, you did the right thing."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Hal said unconvincingly.
"Not once in ten years has Roy Deakins been able to hit against you."
"He got lucky. What more can I say?"
"You want to know something really weird?" Nolan asked. "Ricky Nettleton wasn't a fan of yours. His favorite player, oddly enough, was Roy Deakins. So why do you suppose, when he was given one wish to be granted, he asked to meet you?"
Not surprisingly, Hal Sweetin had no answer.
* * *
For many years to come, baseball fans fondly recalled Roy Deakins's last game and his surprising game-winning hit. Many people hinted that the opposing reliever, baseball's premier closer, had deliberately thrown a pitch the former centerfielder could hit. It was whispered that Sweetin had given Deakins a going-away gift that had made millions of people happy. No one, however, guessed that a terminally ill seven-year-old boy was the true unsung hero of the day.
I don't care if it does have a 27-foot-high chocolate fountain, Salem. You can't ask the Grant a Wish charity to send you to the Bellagio; you don't have a serious illness!
