Scott Pratt - Injustice for all

My name is Joe Dillard, and Im leaning against a chain-link fence watching a baseball game at Daniel Boone High School in Gray, Tennessee, on a spectacular, sun-drenched evening in early May. The sky is a cloudless azure, a mild breeze is blowing out toward left field, and the pleasant smell of fresh-cut grass hangs in the air.

There are five of us watching the game from our spot near the right-field foul pole: me; my wife, Caroline; her best friend, Toni Miller; my buddy Ray Miller (Tonis husband); and Rio, our German shepherd. The Dillards and the Millers have been watching our sons play baseball together for ten years, alternately rejoicing in their successes and agonizing over their failures. Rio is a relative newcomer-hes been around for only three years-but he seems to enjoy the games as much as we do.

Ray Miller and I have much in common. Were both lawyers. After many years of practicing criminal defense, I switched to prosecuting a few years back, while Ray remains on what I now call the dark side. I rib him on a regular basis about defending scumbags, but I know he does it for the right reasons and I respect him. He doesnt cheat, doesnt lie, doesnt try to pull tricks. He tends to see things in black and white, much as I do. We both despise the misuse of power, especially on the part of judges, although Ray is a bit more venomous than I in that regard. Were close to the same age, and were devoted to our families.

We watch the game from our position in the outfield, away from the players and the other parents, because none of us wishes to distract our sons. We dont yell at them during games as other parents do. We dont criticize the umpires or the coaches. We just watch and worry. If something good happens, we cheer. If something bad happens, we cringe.

My son, Jack, is the star hitter on the Boone team. Rays son, Tommy, is the star pitcher. Back in November, both of them signed national letters of intent to continue their baseball careers at the Division I collegiate level. Jack signed with Vanderbilt, and Tommy signed with Duke. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

This evenings game has been intense. Its the finals of the district tournament, and if Boone beats Jefferson High, they move on to the regionals. If they lose, their season is over. Jack doubled off the left-center-field fence in the first inning with runners on second and third to put Boone up 20. Jeffersons cleanup hitter hit a solo home run off Tommy Miller in the second. Jack came up again in the fourth and hit a home run, a long moon shot over the center field fence, to put Boone up 31. In the top of the fifth, Tommy walked the leadoff hitter, and the next guy laid down a bunt that Boones third baseman misplayed, leaving Jefferson with runners on second and third with nobody out and their cleanup hitter coming to the plate. Tommy threw two great pitches to get him down 02, but the next pitch got away from Tommy just a bit and hit the batter in the thigh. Jeffersons coaches, players, and parents all started screaming, accusing Tommy of hitting the kid on purpose. It looked as though a fight might break out, but the umpires managed to calm things down. Jefferson scored two runs when the next batter hit a bloop single to right field, but then Tommy struck out three in a row. The game is tied, with Jack leading off for Boone in the bottom of the seventh, the final inning in a high school game.

Theyll walk him, Ray says. I turn and look at him incredulously. Hes wearing sunglasses that shield his dark eyes. Hes an inch shorter than I at six feet two, but hes thicker through the chest and back. His long brown hair, beginning to gray, is pulled back into a ponytail, and his forearms, which are leaning against the fence, look as thick as telephone poles.

Youre nuts, I say. They dont want to walk the leadoff man in a tie game in the last inning. Theyll pitch to him.

Jack digs into the batters box and takes his familiar wide, slightly open stance. Hes a big kid, six feet two inches and a rock- hard two hundred ten pounds. He has a strong jaw and a prominent, dimpled chin- a good baseball face, as the old-time scouts would say. Hes crowding the plate as he always does, daring the pitcher to throw him something inside.

The first pitch is a fastball, and it hits Jack between the eyes before he can get out of the way. I hear the awful thud of the baseball striking his head all the way from the outfield. Jacks helmet flies off. He takes a step backward but doesnt go down, and then starts staggering slowly toward first base. The umpire, as stunned as everyone else, jogs along beside him, trying to get him to stop. I sprint down the fence line toward the gate, watching Jack as his coaches scramble out of the dugout to his side. By the time he gets to first base, I can see blood pouring from his nose.

I make my way through the silent crowd and onto the field. Jacks coaches have taken him into the dugout and sat him on the bench. One of them is holding a white towel over Jacks face. I see immediately that the towel is already stained a deep red. The coaches step back as I approach.

They did it on purpose, the head coach, a thirty-year-old named Bill Dickson, says. They havent come close to hitting anyone else.

I bend over Jack and gently remove the towel. His head is leaned back, his mouth open, and hes staring at the dugout roof. The area around both of his eyes is already swelling, and theres a deep, nasty gash just above the bridge of his nose. Hes bleeding from the cut and from both nostrils.

I put the towel back over the wound.

Jack, can you hear me?

Yes.

Who am I?

Dad.

Do you know where you are?

Boone High School. Dugout.

Whats the score in the game?

Three-three, bottom of the seventh.

Has anyone called an ambulance? I say to Coach Dickson.

Theyre on the way, but it always takes them fifteen or twenty minutes to get here.

I can sense someone beside me, and I turn my head. Its Ray, Caroline, and Toni.

He all right? Ray asks.

Hes coherent.

Let me see.

I pull the towel back again. Caroline gasps, and a flash of anger runs through me like an electric current. How could they do this? Why would they do this? Its just a baseball game, for Gods sake. Jack has been hit dozens of times in the past, but never in the face. And Coach Dickson is right; their pitcher displayed excellent control until Jack came to the plate in the seventh. They hit him intentionally.

I gently replace the towel and look at Ray. Im thinking seriously about grabbing a bat from the rack and going after Jeffersons coach.

You dont want to wait for an ambulance, Ray says. We need to take him now.

Why?

His pupils are different sizes. Theres already a lot of swelling. Ive seen this before, Joe. He might be bleeding internally. Ray was a medic in the navy for eight years, so he knows what hes talking about. At that moment, Jack leans forward and vomits on the dugout floor.

We have to go, Ray says. Right now.

Caroline and Toni rush off to get the cars while Ray and I each drape one of Jacks arms over our backs and lift. Coach Dickson holds the towel in place to try to slow the bleeding as we walk Jack out through the gate. Just before we reach the parking lot, he loses consciousness, and I feel a sense of dread so deep that I nearly pass out myself.

He regains consciousness after we put him in the backseat, but during the ride to the hospital, hes in and out. He keeps saying his head feels like its going to explode. I call the emergency room on my cell phone along the way, and theyre waiting when we arrive. They take Jack immediately into a trauma room, and in less than ten minutes theyve taken him to surgery. A doctor comes out to talk to us briefly. He says Jack is suffering from an acute epidural hematoma. In laymans terms, he says, Jacks brain is bleeding. A neurosurgeon is going to perform an emergency craniotomy to drain the blood, relieve the pressure, and repair the damage.