Page 63 of Switch Pitching

As expected, it doesn’t take long for someone to notice. This far into the season, injuries become way more common. Will jogs over. “Yo, Ethan! What’s up with the tape? You hurt or something?”

Ethan glances at me, then back at Will, his expression calm despite the obvious discomfort. “Nah, it’s only preventative,” he says smoothly. “Figured I’d be careful after some tightness I felt in my wrist after the game against Seattle last week.”

Will nods, satisfied with the explanation. “Smart move, man. Better safe than sorry.”

But then, Dave, one of the other outfielders, jogs over and gives Ethan a once-over, a smirk crossing his lips. “Preventative, huh? Looks like you were hitting the weights hard. Or maybe it’s something else?”

Ethan shrugs, playing it cool. “I’m only trying to stay in the game. You know how it is.”

Dave chuckles, nodding knowingly. “Sure, sure. Don’t overdo it, okay?”

I can tell Ethan’s holding back a sigh of relief as Dave jogs off, and I shoot him a reassuring smile as we start our own warm-up, tossing the ball back and forth.

“You’re handling it well.”

Ethan catches the ball and nods, tossing it back. “Thanks. I just have to keep my head down.”

We settle into a steady rhythm, the afternoon gradually warming as more players join the field. Despite the earlier tension, Ethan falls back into his usual focused state, the nerves fading as we settle into our routine.

As we end the practice, I jog over to him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Nobody’s gonna ask about it anymore. Focus on the game.”

Ethan nods, a determined glint in his eye. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

We head back into the dugout to get ready for our game against Tampa. They’re good, but that’s part of the challenge.

The first few innings are tight. Our starting pitcher is on fire, sending balls that leave their batters swinging at air. I stay focused in the dugout, tracking every hit.

Ethan’s got his game face on: intense, but with his uniquely quiet confidence that I’ve come to recognize. He’s fielding like a machine as always, tracking down every ball that comes his way.

But by the middle of the game, things begin to shift. Tampa’s batters adjust, figuring out our pitcher’s rhythm. They chip away at our lead, putting runners on base. The tension builds witheach pitch, each crack of the bat that sends the ball flying barely out of reach.

Then the call comes in. It’s my turn to go up. My heart races as I head to the mound at the top of the sixth.

Their first batter digs in and I size him up.

First pitch: fastball. He fouls it off. Second pitch, he chases, missing by a mile. I’m ahead now, so I go for the knockout. I wind up and fire a curveball. He swings through it for a third strike. One down.

The next two hitters don’t fare much better. A groundout and a lazy fly ball to center, and just like that, the inning’s over. I walk off the mound with a spring in my step, but the game is far from over.

We manage to erode their lead in the bottom of the sixth. Ethan comes up with two outs and a runner on second. He digs in, eyes locked on the pitcher. The first two pitches are balls, high and inside. The third pitch is a fastball right down the middle. Ethan doesn’t miss. He connects, the runner scores, and Ethan slides into second. We’re down by one.

But the seventh inning is rough. I’m back on the mound, and my arm’s feeling it, but I push through. They’re still leading by two, and the clock’s ticking.

By the bottom of the ninth, we’re still down by one. Two outs, Dave on first, Sven up to bat. I’m back on the bench, my arm wrapped in ice, knowing the team has it under control. The pitcher winds up and throws a breaking ball low and away. Sven swings. And misses. The shortstop scoops it up, tosses it to second, and that’s the game.

We lose.

The silence in the dugout is heavy. Guys are muttering to themselves, shuffling into the locker rooms with tight, frustrated movements. We fought hard, but it wasn’t enough. It’s part of the game, though. These things happen.

Ethan and I share a look as we grab our stuff. There’s no need for words; we both know what it feels like to lose. It’s only one game. We’ll be back out here tomorrow, ready to go again, but for now, it stings.

As we head back to the locker room, I give Ethan a quick pat on the back. “We’ll get ‘em next time, man.”

Ethan nods, his jaw set with determination. “Yeah. We will.”

I take a quick shower, change, and start packing up my stuff. Ethan’s doing the same, and I walk over to sit beside him. Neither of us says anything for a moment.

“Sure was a rough one,” he says.

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