Page 8 of Pitching for Keeps
"You marked that last pitch as a backdoor slider for a swinging strike three."
I look down at my scorecard. Yep, there it is in my handwriting. "Lucky guess?"
Jay strikes out the side in the second inning. Then again, in the third. The crowd is getting louder with each out, and I'm trying so hard not to react like I know what's happening. But when he hits double-digit strikeouts in the fourth, I can't help myself.
"Come on, Jay," I mutter. "Keep it low, he's a low-ball hitter."
The batter grounds out weakly to first.
"How," Megan says slowly, "did you know he was a low-ball hitter?"
"I... ESPN?" I try weakly.
"You think they cover Triple-A scouting reports on ESPN?"
"Maybe?"
"Oh my word. Just stop it."
I slump in my seat. "Fine. I might know slightly more about baseball than I said."
"Slightly more?" She grabs my scorecard. "You have his pitch count broken down by type and location!"
"It's really not that complicated once you understand the basics?—"
"You were his good-luck charm!" The revelation hits her like a lightning bolt. "Oh my gosh, you were the girl who sat behind home plate at every game! The one in his jersey!"
"Megan, please?—"
"The one who made those signs! 'K Counter' with the little tally marks!"
"That was a long time ago?—"
"No wonder he's been so weird about you all week," Greg interjects. "He mentioned he had a bad stretch after college, but wouldn't say why."
I wince. I know exactly what bad stretch he means. I was there, hiding in the visitor section, watching him fall apart on the mound after we broke up. He kept looking for me behind home plate, and I kept sliding lower in my seat.
Jay strikes out the side again in the fifth. Fifteen strikeouts through five innings. The stadium announcer mentions it's a career high, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from correcting him—Jay struck out sixteen in the conference championship junior year.
"This is incredible," someone behind us says. "He's unhittable tonight!"
I know why. It's the same reason he pitched lights-out in college when I was there. The same reason his best games always came when he knew I was watching. Some athletes have physical tells when they're on—Jay gets this tiny smirk after each strikeout, like he's sharing a private joke with someone.
He's doing it tonight. After every K, that little smirk aimed at our section.
"I need air," I announce, standing abruptly.
"But it's the seventh inning!" Megan protests. "Don't you want to see?—"
"Bathroom. Back in a minute."
I flee up the stairs, but instead of the bathroom, I find myself at the concourse railing where I can watch without being watched.Jay's at nineteen strikeouts now, one away from the league record. The crowd is on its feet.
He steps back on the rubber, and I see him do it—the thing he always did before the biggest pitches. He touches his glove to his chest, right over his heart, then looks toward our seats.
I'm not there. But I'm watching. I'm always watching.
He throws a curveball that breaks so sharply the batter's knees buckle. Strike three. Twenty strikeouts. A new Austin Stars single-game record.
