Page 7 of Switch Pitching

“Damn,” I mutter, my hands tightening around the glove as I jog back to position. It’s like everyone in the ballpark is focusing on me. Even the floodlights seem to shine with laser-like precision, highlighting me and the aftermath of my mistake. My gaze stays fixed on the batting box, and I don’t look at anything else. I can’t deal with the embarrassment, not now.

The inning ends soon after, but on the way back to the dugout, I can’t shake the disappointment. Nothing can change the fact that I messed up.

I slump onto the bench, replaying the miss in my head. James scoots over next to me with an armful of water bottles, nudging me with his elbow as he sits down.

“Hey,” he says, thrusting a bottle in my face. “You’re good, man. It happens.”

My mouth firms up. “I should’ve caught it, that was totally on me.”

James leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Look, I’ve seen what you can do in training. You have skills, and one miss doesn’t change that. You’ll make up for it, trust me. Besides, we’re still tied, right?”

I let out a breath and give him a tighter nod. It’s what I needed to hear, but that miss is still swimming around in my thoughts.

The bottom of the fifth goes by fast. I’m not up to bat, so I lean forward against the railing to watch. A couple of our batters make contact but can’t get on base; it’s one of those games where every little thing counts and both teams are playing it tight. The score stays tied.

With my rest over, the next inning starts. I adjust my glove even though there’s no real reason for it. It’s something that helps me feel like I’m doingsomethingto make up for that fumble. As I head out of the dugout, I hear someone call out from behind me.

“Hernandez, you’re up!”

Pitching change.

I jog to center field and look back to see James emerging from the dugout. He’s walking toward the mound with a confident stride, his shoulders relaxed, and I can see the determination in each step he takes. I’ve seen the guy in practice, and he sure isn’t someone I’d want to face when I’m up to bat.

James settles on the mound and winds up. The crowd grows quiet, and the intensity in his stance is obvious. It’s almost like everyone is collectively holding in a breath, waiting to see what happens next.

4

JAMES

“You still have a month of training left, so don’t count on getting called up tonight.”

Yeah, right. Way to lull me into a false sense of security. It doesn’t matter though. I think. My heart’s pounding, but weirdly, I’m not that nervous, even though it’s my first time pitching in a major league game. This is my shot.

Still, I play it cool because I know how this works. I have to give the batters what they expect: a rookie pitcher who came straight from university, skipping right over the minor league. I’ll let them think I’m flustered, nervous, and terrified. A couple of slow practice wind-ups, an extra breath or two, maybe even a quick wipe of my forehead. All mind games, and I’m pretty solid with those.

Their next batter steps up with an annoyingly cocky grin plastered across his face. Alright, bud. Let’s play ball.

For the first pitch, I throw what looks like a simple, easy fastball right down the middle. He makes solid contact, and the ball flies into foul territory. Second pitch: another fastball to lull him into a false sense of security.

Now it’s the third pitch. If I play things right, he’ll strike out. I wind up, slow and a little unsteady, pretending to be nervous.I subtly fix my position and spring into the throw, the curveball leaving my hand just as I practiced. He swings late and off-balance, missing completely. Strikeout. For effect, I shrug and smile, as if to suggest that this was only a fluke.

We’re up by one heading into the top of the ninth, and I’m still on the mound. Even so, with such a tight game, I can’t slip up. One mistake, and we’re facing extra innings, or worse.

After an anticlimactic strikeout, Washington’s next batter steps up and locks eyes with me. I dig my cleats into the mound, gripping the ball tightly as I adjust my position before winding up and pitching. My fastball is solid and right on target, dashing straight toward the batter. He swings, connects, and sends the ball flying high into the outfield.

That’s not good.

My heart rate climbs steadily as I watch the ball race further and further away. I mutter frustratedly to myself, wondering why I gave the guy such an easy shot at scoring a home run. This is definitely not how I wanted my first game to play out, but as I keep reminding myself, these things happen. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Ethan. He’s tracking the ball and sprinting faster than any outfielder I’ve seen before. It’s coming down fast, but he’s faster.

Ethan leaps toward the ball, stretching his long arm up toward the sky. After a terrifying, stomach-churning two seconds, he snags it, all while managing to look super smooth in the process. Washington’s dugout deflates as Ethan jogs back to position, all calm and composed like he didn’t just make a game-changing catch. He tosses the ball back in, and I shoot him a nod. One more out. That’s all we need.

Back on the mound, I stare down the next batter. The tension is off the charts, but I push it aside and focus.

I can tell he’s dying to make something happen. Slowly, I wind up before releasing my first pitch. He swings, and the ball shoots toward the ground. It’s a hard grounder to our shortstop, who scoops it up cleanly. He pivots and fires it to first. The throw is sharp and Dave, our first baseman, stretches out, his foot firmly on the base as he makes the catch.

Out.

We did it.

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