Page 35 of The Battery
But fear got the best of me. We had been doing this for so long. I couldn’t stop now, no matter how much I wanted to fist-bump his face.
I started with a fastball that got smashed to Romo in centerfield, but Mr. Perfect, Romo, caught it for the first out. I got two strikes out of the second hitter from a fastball and a curveball. The third pitch sent a line drive that inched into foul territory. A curveball got strike three. A lefty came to bat next, and I sent my own call to Leo before he could send his suggestion. That marked the first time I had done that. I had my own remote at my hip but had yet to use it since I still considered myself under Leo’s guidance.
He didn’t put up a fight. A sent a series of sliders and curveballs at the batter that worked him up to a full count. Then, I gave it to him—a fastball that he only managed to ground to third, where it was fielded and thrown to first. Third out. We closed the inning without allowing any runs.
“We didn’t agree on that,” Leo said to me as we walked back toward the dugout.
“Felt right. And it worked out. Get over it.” I left him in the dugout to return to the bullpen for a breather. The Assholes pointedly left me alone, as they had been prone to do lately since I showed them their antics wouldn’t work. I bided my time by leaning against the fencing and watching Romo smash a homer. Leo was phenomenal as well. I couldn’t deny that. Where Romo was a tiger, fine-tuned and spirited, Leo was a bear, gruff and forceful. He made it to third on a line drive to left field. Felt like he had all the time in the world to make it there.
They extended my performance for the seventh inning. Management said I was hot and there was no way in hell they’dwant to stop me from showing my meddle. Once again, I stood with Leo while he geared up.
“Newell is up to bat first,” Leo grunted at me. “He’s aggressive. Bat outta hell when he’s up first. We should—”
“PitchCom exists for a reason,” I interrupted. “So use it.”
I jogged onto the field. That petulant, stupid, idiotic child in me really doubled down on wanting to keep my arms at my side.
But my inner sportsman just wouldn’t allow it. I fist-bumped Leo and went to my spot.
My control was sharp. I started with a fastball and slider that gave us two strikes with Mr. Bat Outta Hell. A got a ball out of a curveball on the third throw, and then he smashed a fastball that drove into right field. He singled on that one and my ego took a hit. Leo was right. The guy was aggressive and hungry.
Leo called a changeup to keep the second batter guessing, since there was a runner on first. After a foul ball, he hit a grounder to Freddie who fielded it and tagged second for a force out. And, with that Freddie speed of his, he threw to first for a double play. He danced on his cleats like he wanted to wine and dine the dirt itself.
The third batter came up and I felt my confidence build. I washotand I needed to keep striking with that red poker. Leo called a curveball, but I rejected it and suggested a fastball. He accepted and I sent it his way. Strike one. Then, a slider just off the plate. Ball one. Another fastball, this smoking its way to Leo’s mitt and a second strike.
I felt the previous play in my bones and felt easy about it. Leo wanted a fastball. I wanted a changeup.
And my changeup got us our third strike.
I jogged back to the dugout. Plenty of ass-slaps and congrats to go around. The skipper pulled me aside for a personal note of how proud he was. I felt the comment hit me square in the chest,fill me with helium, and send me to the sky. I floated down the steps of the dugout into the corridor.
By the end we had won the first game of the series and people continued to give me smiles and words of praise in the clubhouse. Even Shoji of the Assholes reluctantly gave me a backhanded compliment, which I reversed and wrote down in my book of accomplishments.
After showering and dressing, I stuffed my backpack with my things and got ready to leave. The skipper was in the clubhouse having a quiet conversation with Romo and a pitching coach. Romo’s eyes found me and then he nodded his head for me to come over. I hefted the backpack against one shoulder and walked up to them.
“Hey, kid,” the skipper said. “Gonna start calling you the Anchor. Great game kid, great game. Come in a little earlier tomorrow, all right? We need to chat through some strategies.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. Romo patted me on the shoulder and congratulated me on a good game for the hundredth time.
The night was hot and sticky. The sun had long since set and heat wafted from the pavement that had baked all day under a cloudless July sky. As the door slammed shut behind me, I gave myself a moment. The staff parking lot had only a dozen cars dispersed throughout designated spots. Tall lamps dotted the hardscape with overly bright lights. A siren briefly shouted in the distance.
I dropped my head back and looked up. I couldn’t see a lot of stars due to the stadium lights, but I saw a half moon hanging out just fine and happy. I blinked, as if the movement could take a picture for me and burn it into memory. I knew I was not yet through the gauntlet and obstacles would still try and knock me from my path. But I was just as far in as I would be out and when you’re there in the middle, really, what was the only option left?
The door to the clubhouse swung open behind me. I knew it was him without ever looking. Funny how that always happened. Almost like the spectral hand of fate continually nudged our directions…
He stepped up next to me. In his left hand he carried a duffel bag. He wore those damn shorts again and a loose tank that gave me full view of the tattoos on his chest. Not that I needed to study them much anymore. The cap on his head was pulled down low, as if he expected paparazzi waiting for him. I spotted his behemoth of an SUV not too far from my own car, a midsize sedan in the closest color to Riders’ blue I could find.
Leo moved forward without saying anything, made it two steps, then stopped. He turned and said, “Review the playbook tonight. Brush up on my setup man notes.”
“Sorry I snapped at you,” I said, then shut my jaw. Where the hell did that come from? Who made me speak like that?
He turned out his lower lip and gave a slight shake of his head. “Don’t apologize, Hill.”
Because you never would?“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” I nodded sharply, as if that would dismiss a man who did whatever he wanted. “Setup man notes. Got it.”
He spun about, then paused, turned back around. “I meant what I said. About reliable mechanics. It wasn’t a dig to say you’re not clever. I’m sure you are in your personal life but I see everything through the lens of the game. Okay?”
I about fell to my ass. I think that was the closest to an apology I would ever hear from the man, but I’d take it.
