Page 25 of The Battery
He answered without hesitation. Practically spoke before I finished saying my words. “Changeup. Drop it out of the zone. He’d expect the velocity of that fastball.” He turned and looked at me. “Then we play it by ear after that.”
Realization seemed to come to him in that moment. His brow climbed an inch up his forehead. “That is, um, if you agree.”
That bastard. I actually felt the urge to smile. I hated when people got me to do that. “Your call, Hill.”
He gave me a wicked grin. A wave of something hit me when I saw it.
Too cutewere the words that came to mind. Followed immediately by,Ah fuck.
I turned away from it and leaned into my default personality. Not here. Not now.
We took to the field and, per our new little tradition, fist-bumped when we split to our respective stations. I had only performed my sick PitchCom beat session once since it’s debut. An away game against the Jacksonville Barracudas had gotten tense and I needed to snap Cody from his spiral. It worked and we won, but I couldn’t use that feature too often. Since then, however, anytime a player screamed, “Fastball, fastball,” the entirety of the team knew to respond by shouting, “Cur-cur-curveball.” Management playfully cursed us out for it.
Duggins came up to bat, a gruff man with a grizzly beard and arms thicker than my thighs. I sent Cody’s suggested call for a slider and, as he predicted, Duggins swung. He missed and we got our first strike.
I sent the call for a fastball, up and in. The change in Duggins’s eye level forced him to adjust to inside the plate. Another swing and a miss.
Cody remained calm and collected. A point of pride hit me. These two weeks had proven invaluable to his career. Incrediblehow someone can launch to excellence with just the smallest nudge of encouragement.
Third call—changeup. The ball dropped out of the zone with the intent for Duggins to swing over it. As Cody anticipated, Duggins was expecting the velocity of the fastball. Another swing and a miss. Third strike.
Cody reset. I stood to stretch and roll my neck when I saw the next batter. I fought through a sudden wave of disgust and—as much as I had to admit it—fear.
The Brawlers first baseman walked up to the plate. Quinn was a six-foot man, golden blond hair, sharp features. Handsome, truly. Well built. And a horrible, disgusting bigot. It was him, and him alone, that started the all-out brawl last season between Brooklyn and New England. I hadn’t been there due to my ACL tear. Quinn called Romo a fag to his face after the rumor mill made sure everyone knew of Romo’s secret life. Romo swung his first punch ever and decked the asshole right in the jaw. Then both teams emptied onto the field as chaos erupted.
Here we go, I thought as Quinn finally stepped up to the plate after languidly adjusting the straps of his gloves. Cody remained calm at the mound. I wasn’t sure if he was aware of how this guy could act, but we were about to find out.
I sent the call. Fastball, inside. Cody threw and the ump called it a ball.
Then Quinn stepped out of the batter’s box to, again, adjust his gloves. This was one of his tactics. Needless delays.
Back in, I called for a slider, low and away.
Swing and a miss, though it was a close call. Cody’s throw just nicked the corner.
Quinn growled out a frustrated sigh and stepped outside the batter’s box. He then looked at the umpire. “That was outside. Come on.”
“I said what I said, Quinn. Let’s keep going,” the umpire said.
“Yeah,you said,” Quinn repeated in a mocking tone. He gestured toward Cody. “Superstar over here with his pitches.” He laughed, shook his head, then stepped back to the plate.
I called a changeup, down and in.
Second ball. Then Quinn stepped outagain. I clamped down on my frustration, since I knew this was his game, but Cody hadn’t experienced it yet. I saw his face pinch together.
Come on, Hill. Don’t spiral on me now.This could be an opportunity for him to show management his calm underunnecessarypressure, a special kind of lesson people didn’t always experience.
Quinn seemed to adjust his stance when he stepped outside, but at the same time he had his head pointed toward Cody and shouted just loud enough for him to hear, “Watch that clock, kid!” referring to the pitching clock. We only had so much time to work with. He stepped back inside. Cody rolled his neck and rolled his right shoulder more than he usually would.
Fourth pitch. Fastball. High. And the third ball.
Againhe stepped out, his fourth time doing so. This time, Cody threw up his arms and put his back to Quinn.No. No, don’t let him see he’s getting to you.Over the past two weeks, I had been successful in coaching Cody how to ignore the Assholes. How could he not see the same lesson applied here?
Quinn was smirking at Cody, clearly delighted his psychological game was working.
Cody gestured to the plate as if he could get Quinn to hurry it up. Wrong decision.
Quinn dropped his head back and let out a laugh. “Oh, sonowyou know where the plate is?”
