Page 26 of Switch Pitching

James reaches over me to grab a handful of remotes, dimming the lights with one of them and turning on the TV with another.

“Movie time,” he says, scrolling through options before landing on a random new release. The movie starts, casting a soft blue glow over the room.

He doesn’t last three minutes. James falls asleep on my shoulder before the opening credits finish, and I can’t make a break for my room without waking him up. But with every second that passes, my brain is screaming at me. Don’t overthink this. He’s just a guy who fell asleep. It’s not a big deal.

Still, I can’t pretend that I don’t notice how solid he feels leaning into me. Why does this stuff always happen between us?

I decide to stay and wait a couple minutes before moving, but it doesn’t take long before I’m closing my eyes too. James is still sleeping beside me as I drift off, the ridiculous number of blankets cocooning us both.

10

JAMES

It’s opening day and we’re playing against New York. The air is electric.

And I’m in the dugout watching.

I’m pumped as hell but my arms are practically itching because I’m not out there. Every seat in the ballpark is packed and the noise is relentless, but I’ve got to stay focused if I’m called up to pitch.

Ethan is on fire. Balls are flying off his bat and he’s unstoppable in the outfield. He makes it look so easy. I always knew the guy was talented, but seeing him crush it? It’s something else entirely. I’m decent at batting, and I can field if I need to, but I rarely got the chance to do either when I played in university. Now it’s even less likely. Such is the life of a pitcher.

I lean forward on the dugout rail, my eyes glued to the field as Ethan gets called up to bat again. He’s got a muted, unreadable expression as he marches forward, his walk-up song blasting through the ballpark speakers. Ethan is intimidating. His height and that smolder must have pitchers shaking in their cleats.

New York’s pitcher winds up and I hold my breath. The ball hurtles toward the plate but Ethan swings at exactly the righttime. He connects and the sound echoes. The ball shoots up above center field.

He’s going for first. Now second, and he doesn’t slow down. After launching off second, Ethan sprints, launching into a slide and slapping the base before their third baseman catches the ball.

He nailed it.

The pitcher takes his time to refocus, wearing an almost imperceptibly sour expression. The first pitch comes in, and it’s a strike. Ethan’s fingers clench, itching to get home, but he’s got to wait.

The next pitch, and it’s a swing and a miss. Strike two. My gut tightens, knowing this could go either way.

On the third pitch, our guy makes contact, but it’s weak. I watch, almost in slow motion, as the fielder scoops it up and fires it to first.

Damn. That’s the inning. Ethan’s stranded on third. Still, not bad at all.

He jogs back to the dugout, a little winded but still sharp. As he passes me, I give him a solid pat on the back. “Awesome hit, man. You crushed it.”

“Thanks, appreciate it.” Ethan’s trying to play it cool, but the crinkle at the corner of his eyes shows his excitement. He was so worried about proving himself, but he’s showing everyone exactly why he deserves to be here.

The game goes on, intense and tight. Games against New York are always nail-biters and by the top of the seventh, we’ve fought hard for our 6-5 lead.

And then, just like that, I get the nod. Coach wants me on the mound. I steel myself for my first go as a pitcher in the big leagues.

The first couple of batters pass in a blur. I fire strikes and keep their batters on edge, but in the eighth inning, things start to slip. They tie the game, ramping up the pressure.

We’re tired, and the eighth inning ends without us putting in any runs. I march to the mound and give it all I’ve got, striking the next two batters out. Bending over, I hold my knees to catch my breath as New York’s next batter walks up.

When I straighten out and face him, I freeze. It’s Tomas Garcia.

Of course it’s fucking Garcia. The guy’s a nightmare. His batting average is insane, way above .300. He’s the last guy I want to see.

He steps up, calm and collected. Meanwhile, my pulse is skyrocketing and I’m trying to keep up my best poker face.

I can’t give him a fastball down the middle. That would be worse than intentionally walking him because the guy might hit a home run. I’m not trying to give him any footage for his highlight reel.

Something like this needs a creative solution. It’ll be risky, but if I’m gonna get him out, I need to give him something he’s not expecting.

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