“Whooweeee, so you’re practically a college drafted starting pitcher, you must have one helluva arm on ya.” Sarcasm oozed from Ace’s lips as easily as his drawl. He leaned over, spit his gum into the trash can by my feet and then grinned. “Stick with me, kid. I’ll show ya the ropes around here.”
I was psyched that Ace Newman was a fellow Beast. A notorious player, he had a short fuse and loud temper. He spent plenty of time screaming in the umpires’ face, throwing bats against the fence, and even threatening other players. He was a wild card, but one of the best players in the league. I knew very little about the owner, Rhett Hamilton, and had yet to meet him, but if he had the money to score Ace Newman, and the balls to try and control him, then he must be a pretty powerful player himself.
The whistle sounded from outside the locker room door, and Coach poked his head inside just long enough to yell, “Let’s go!”
“Good to have you on the team,” Marty Peters said as he walked by. He was a first baseman from Atlanta. Not the most impressive player, but there were rumors of a bad breakup that led to his falling stats last season.
“Thank you, glad to be here,” I replied and then followed the rest of the team — my team — onto the field.
It was surreal walking back to the mound, this time with players I’d watched for years. Ace picked up a bat and headed to home plate. “Show me what you got, kid,” he shouted.
My palms were sweating as I picked up the ball next to my feet, then stretched out my arm and shoulder, loosening up the tight muscles. I continued to stretch as I waited for the catcher to suit up. Ace pounded his bat into the dirt, kicked a clearing for his feet and pushed dust over the plate as he waited for me to wind up my pitch.
“You ready, hot stuff?” he yelled.
I nodded. “Ready.”
Shit.
Was I ready?
This was Ace Newman, one of my favorite players. A fucking idol in my books. My skin began to crawl and my forehead beaded with sweat. I watched as he crowded the plate, a move that I knew was meant to taunt me. I glared past the sun to the catcher who was offering up a variety of pitches. I shook my head at each one until he suggested the four-seam fastball. I found my opening over the plate and wound up before sending the ball out of my hand.
“What the fuck?” Ace screamed and tossed his bat on the ground. The ball had barely missed him, his hips tucking back just in time.
“You’re crowding the plate, Ace,” Marty yelled from first base. “Not a smart move with a south paw.”
“He better learn how to handle it,” Ace countered and switched to the left side of the plate. One of the best switch hitters in the league trying to mess with my head. “That is, if he wants to play with the big boys.”
Ace picked up the bat he’d thrown on the ground and repositioned himself back over the plate. It was obvious he wasn’t going to take it easy on me, and even more evident that he didn’t believe I belonged on the same field with him. I clenched the ball in my hand, sweat dripping onto the cowhide as I stared into Ace Newman’s eyes.
The catcher went through his signals for pitches once again, and with each one, I shook my head until he motioned a knuckleball. I nodded and positioned my fingers around the ball. I wound up and let loose. I watched as it flew straight towards my target. The ball found the opening over the plate, and he took his swing. And missed.
“Lucky throw,” he snorted before taking his position back at the plate, this time not crowding it, leaving me plenty of room for my strike zone.
I nodded towards the catcher as my index and middle finger positioned over the seam for my famous forkball. I threw it hard, and Ace swung just as it dropped diagonally, violently, and without warning. I just got my second strike.
“Not bad, kid,” Ace yelled out, tossing the bat aside.
“If you’re all done playing, let’s get warmed up,” the coach said sarcastically before shooting me a smile of admiration.
It was obvious that Ace was testing me, hoping that I would fail, but I hadn’t. Something told me it wouldn’t be that easy to get on Ace Newman’s good side.
Coach blew his whistle and told us to run the bases. Ace was fast, faster than the others, but I was a close second. He picked up the pace as he looked over his shoulder. His expression displayed the irritation of me being so close behind. Ace was used to being the center of attention, the big man on campus, so to speak. I’d read plenty about his temper and knew he didn’t play well with others, on or off the field, but something about him intrigued me.
Coach Griffin, although seemingly nice when we first met was a drill sergeant on the field. He had us doing calisthenics and agility training for over an hour, then batting practice before another hour of hard exercise. I was exhausted when he blew that final whistle. “Alright, go clean up,” he yelled.
The locker room smelled of sweat and cologne. Since I hadn’t pitched other than the few tosses to Ace, I skipped icing and post-practice rehab to head straight for the bank of showers in the back.
“Impressive,” Ace said, sliding in beside me to the free shower.
I had to admit, I had an “oh shit” moment so big I thought my damn head would explode when I thought my hero was admiring my dick, ass, or both. My mind raced, trying to decide how to handle it. When he added, “Hell of a good arm,” I stuck my face under the water to wash away the panic.
“Thanks, you certainly weren’t taking it easy on me out there,” I said and tossed a glob of shampoo on my grimy hair.
“Would you want it any other way?” he asked in that cocky way of speaking I was quickly getting to know.
I said nothing, just rinsed the suds from my hair and turned to look at him. He smiled his famous asshole grin. “C’mon kid, you’re gonna get it a lot worse than that out there soon enough.”
I knew that was true. This wasn’t college anymore, or even the minors. This was the majors, and some of the players I would be up against had decades of experience.
What did I have?
Ace shut his water off and quickly wrapped his towel back around his waist. He wasn’t much older than me, maybe six years, but he looked to be every bit in as good shape as me.
As I was getting dressed, I heard Ace asking Marty out for drinks. They didn’t exactly strike me as a pair that would hang out.
“Come with us,” Marty said, looking my way.
“Can’t tonight,” I admitted. “My girl is finally coming into town, supposed to be here in a few hours.”
“Don’t be a pussy!” Ace chimed in with a smirk. He held his towel in his right hand, twirling it until it made a tight point at the end. Snap! I dodged, but he whipped it perfectly, the end bringing up a three-inch welt on the cheek of my ass.
“What the fuck was that for?” I yelled, forcing myself not to rub it. Damn it. Thought I was finally out of high school.