My hands sweat. I don’t care about my left hand—the one wearing the glove. It’s the throwing hand I rub repeatedly on my pant leg.
My heart pounds in my ears and I fight off a wave of dizziness. The smell of burnt popcorn and hot dogs drifts from the concession stand, and my stomach cramps. I stayed out too late last night.
Taking a look at the scoreboard, I watch as the temperature rises from ninety-five degrees to ninety-six. Heat index has to be over one hundred. In theory, the moment the index hits one-o-five, the umps should call the game. In HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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theory.
It wouldn’t matter if the temperature was below zero. My stomach would still cramp. My hands would still sweat. The pressure—it builds continually, twisting my insides to the point of implosion.
“Let’s go, Ry!” Chris, our shortstop, yells from between second and third.
His lone battle cry instigates calls from the rest of the team—those on the field and those sitting on the bench. I shouldn’t say sitting.
Everyone in the dugout stands with their
fingers clenched around the fence.
Bottom of the seventh, we’re up by one run, two outs, and I screwed up and pitched a runner to first. Damn curveball. I’ve thrown one strike and two balls with the current batter.
No more room for error. Two more strikes and the game’s over. Two more balls and I walk a batter, giving the other team a runner in scoring position.
The crowd joins in. They clap, whistle, and cheer. No one louder than Dad.
Grasping the ball tightly, I take a deep
breath, wrap my right arm behind my back, and lean forward to read Logan’s signal. The HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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stress of this next pitch hangs on me.
Everyone wants this game done. No one more than me.
I don’t lose.
Logan crouches into position behind the
batter and does something unexpected. He
pulls his catcher’s mask onto the top of his head, places his hand between his legs, and flips me off.
Damn bastard.
Logan flaunts a grin and his reminder causes my shoulders to relax. It’s only the first game of the fall season. A scrimmage game at that. I nod and he slides his mask over his face and flashes me the peace sign twice.
Fastball it is.
I glance over my shoulder toward first. The runner’s taken a lead in his hunt for second, but not enough to chance a steal. I cock my arm back and throw with a rush of power and adrenaline. My heart thumps twice at the sweet sound of the ball smacking into Logan’s glove and the words “Strike two” falling out of the umpire’s mouth.
Logan fires the ball back and I waste no time preparing for the next pitch. This will be it. My HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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team can go home—victorious.
Logan holds his pinkie and ring fingers
together. I shake my head. I want to close this out and a fastball will do it, not a curve. Logan hesitates before showing me two peace signs.
That’s my boy. He knows I can bring on the heat.
Keeping his hand between his legs, he
pauses, then points away from the batter, telling me that my fastballs have been straying outside. I nod. An understanding to keep placement in mind with my speed. The ball flies out of my hand, punches Logan’s glove right in the middle, and the umpire shouts, “Ball!”
I stop breathing. That was a strike.
The fence rattles as my teammates bang on it, screaming at the injustice. Shouting at the umpire, Coach stands on the verge of no-man’s-land between the dugout and the field.
My friends on the field whistle at the bad call.
The crowd murmurs and boos. In the
bleachers, with her head down and lost in prayer, Mom grasps the pearls that hang around her neck.
Dammit. I yank hard on the bill of my hat, HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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trying to calm the blood racing in my veins.
Bad calls suck, but they happen. I’ve got one more shot to close this out. One more…
“That was a strike.” Dad steps off the
bleachers and heads to the fence right behind the umpire. The players and the crowd fall silent. Dad demands fairness. Well, his version of fair.
“Get back in the stands, Mr. Stone,” the ump says. Everyone in this town knows Dad.
“I’ll return to my seat when we have an ump that can call fair. You’ve been calling bad this entire game.” Even though he said it loud enough for the entire park to hear, he never raised his voice. Dad’s a commanding man and someone this entire town admires.
From behind the fence, Dad towers over the short, fat ump and waits for someone to make right what he views as a wrong. We’re carbon copies of each other, my dad and I. Sandy hair and brown eyes. Long legs. All shoulders and upper arms. Grandma said people like Dad and me were built for hard labor. Dad said we were built for baseball.
My coach steps onto the field along with the coach from the other team. I agree. The ump’s HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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been calling bad, on both sides, but I find it ironic that no one had the guts to say anything until Dad declared war.
“Your dad’s the man.” Chris walks onto the pitcher’s mound.