Tom Perrotta - Nine Inches

LORI CHANG kept her perfect game going all the way into the top of the fifth, when Pete Gonzalez, the Wildcats’ all-star shortstop, ripped a two-out single to center. A raucous cheer erupted from the third-base dugout and bleachers, both of which had lapsed into a funereal silence over the past couple of innings. It was an electrifying sound, a collective whoop of relief, celebration, and resurgent hope.

On a psychological level, that one hit changed everything. It was as if the whole ballpark suddenly woke up to two important facts: (1) Lori Chang was not, in fact, invincible; and (2) the Wildcats could actually still win. The score was only 1–0 in favor of the Ravens, a margin that had seemed insurmountable a moment ago but that suddenly looked a whole lot slimmer now that the tying run was standing on first with a lopsided grin on his face, shifting his weight from leg to leg like he needed to go to the bathroom.

The only person who didn’t seem to notice that the calculus of the game had changed was Lori Chang herself. She stood on the mound with her usual poker face, an expression that suggested profound boredom more than it did killer concentration, and waited for Trevor Mancini to make the sign of the cross and knock imaginary mud off his cleats. Once he got himself settled, she nodded to the catcher and began her windup, bringing her arms overhead and lowering them with the painstaking deliberation of a Tai Chi master. Then she kicked high and whipped a fastball right at Trevor, a guided missile that thudded into his leg with a muffled whump, the sound of a broomstick smacking a rug.

“Aaah, shit!” Trevor flipped his bat in the air and began hopping around on one foot, rubbing frantically at his leg. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

I stepped out from behind the catcher and asked if he was okay. Trevor gritted his teeth and performed what appeared to be an involuntary bow. When he straightened up, he looked more embarrassed than hurt.

“Stings,” he explained.

I told him to take his base and he hobbled off, still massaging the sore spot. A chorus of boos had risen from the third-base side, and I wasn’t surprised to see that Carl was already out of the dugout, walking toward me with what could only be described as an amused expression.

“Well?” he said. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“The batter was hit by a pitch. It’s part of the game.”

“Are you kidding me? She threw right at him.”

Right on schedule, Tim came trotting over to join us, followed immediately by Ray Santelli, who approached with his distinctive potbellied swagger, radiating an odd confidence that made you forget that he was just a middle-aged chauffeur with a combover.

“What’s up?” he inquired. “Somebody got a problem?”

“Yeah, me,” Carl told him. “I got a problem with your sweet little pitcher throwing beanballs at my players.”

“That was no beanball,” I pointed out. “It hit him in the leg.”

“So that’s okay?” Carl was one of those guys who smiled when he was pissed off. “It’s okay to hit my players in the leg?”

“She didn’t do it on purpose,” Santelli assured him. “Lori wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t know,” Tim piped in. “It looked pretty deliberate from where I was standing.”

“How would you know?” Santelli demanded, an uncharacteristic edge creeping into his voice. “Are you some kind of mind reader?”

“I’m just telling you what it looked like,” Tim replied.

“Big deal,” Santelli replied. “That’s just your subjective opinion.”

“I’m an umpire,” Tim reminded him. “My subjective opinion is all I have.”

“Really?” Santelli scratched his forehead, feigning confusion. “I thought you guys were supposed to be objective. When did they change the job description?”

“All right,” said Tim. “Whatever. It’s my objective opinion, okay?”

“Look,” I said. “We’re doing the best we can.”

“I sure as hell hope not,” Carl shot back. “Or else we’re in big trouble.”

Sensing an opportunity, Santelli cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Hey, Lori, did you hit that kid on purpose?”

Lori seemed shocked by the question. Her mouth dropped open and she shook her head back and forth, as if nothing could have been further from the truth.

“It slipped,” she said. “I’m really sorry.”

“See?” Santelli turned back to Tim with an air of vindication. “It was an accident.”

“Jack?” Carl’s expression was a mixture of astonishment and disgust. “You really gonna let this slide?”

I glanced at Tim for moral support, but his face was blank, pointedly devoid of sympathy. I wished I could have thought of something more decisive to do than shrug.

“What do you want from me?” There was a pleading note in my voice that was unbecoming in an umpire. “She said it slipped.”

“Now, wait a minute — ” Tim began, but Carl didn’t let him finish.

“Fine,” he said. “The hell with it. If that’s the way it’s gonna be, that’s the way it’s gonna be. Let’s play ball.”

Carl stormed off, leaving the three of us standing by the plate, staring at his back as he descended into the dugout.

“You can’t know what’s in another person’s heart.” Santelli shook his head, as if saddened by this observation. “You just can’t.”

“Why don’t you shut up?” Tim told him.

Lori quickly regained her composure when play resumed. With runners on first and second, she calmly and methodically struck out Antoine Frye to retire the side. On her way to the dugout she stopped and apologized to Trevor Mancini, resting her hand tenderly on his shoulder. It was a classy move. Trevor blushed and told her to forget about it.

RICKY DISALVO was on the mound for the Wildcats, and though he had nowhere near Lori’s talent, he was pitching a solid and effective game. A sidearmer plagued by control problems and a lack of emotional maturity — I had once seen him burst into tears after walking five straight batters — Ricky had wisely decided that night to make his opponents hit the ball. All game long he’d dropped one fat pitch after another right over the meatiest part of the plate.

The Ravens, a mediocre hitting team on the best of days, had eked out a lucky run in the second on a single, a stolen base, an overthrow, and an easy fly ball to right field that had popped out of Mark Diedrich’s glove, but they’d been shut out ever since. Ricky’s confidence had grown with each successive inning, and he was throwing harder and more skillfully than he had all game by the time Lori Chang stepped up to the plate with two outs in the bottom of the fifth.

I guess I should have seen what was coming. When I watched the game on cable access a week later, it seemed painfully clear in retrospect, almost inevitable. But at the time, I didn’t sense any danger. We’d had some unpleasantness, but it had passed when Lori apologized to Trevor. The game had moved forward, slipping past the trouble as easily as water flowing around a rock. I did notice that Lori Chang looked a little nervous in the batter’s box, but that was nothing unusual. As bold and powerful as she was on the mound, Lori was a surprisingly timid hitter. She tucked herself into an extreme crouch, shrinking the strike zone down to a few inches, and tried to wait out a walk. She rarely swung and was widely, and fairly, considered to be an easy out.

For some reason, though, Ricky seemed oddly tentative with his first couple of pitches. Ball one kicked up dirt ten feet from the plate. Ball two was a mile outside.

“Come on,” Carl called impatiently from the dugout. “Just do it.”

Lori tapped the fat end of her bat on the plate. I checked my clicker and squatted into position. Ricky glanced at his father and started into his herky-jerky windup.