Page 49 of The Battery
I was learning. Something he wanted out of me. One of the keys to the locks around his presence.
The bottom of the fifth inning hit with roar throughout the crowd. Brawlers red splashed the stadium with enough color to send a bull into the stratosphere. Like Brawlers games when we were in Lexington, the stands were mostly full, the fans enamored with the ancient rivalry between our teams. Because the two runs we each scored occurred during the first inning, the fans were thirsty for more. It was my job to both ignore them and prevent the Brawlers from scoring. No pressure.
First batter stepped up to the plate, hulking giant of a man who had murder in his eyes. I had no desire to countermand anything Leo would send my way for these guys. He called for a curveball. The pitch dropped out of the zone, swing and a miss. A fastball came next, high in the zone that the ump called a ball. I sent a second curveball that the batter fouled off. He was looking mighty pissed and agitated at that point. Good.
I launched a nasty fastball on the outside corner. Third strike. The batter spat and walked away while shooting daggers at me. I neither preened nor jeered. Just a flat, Leo-inspired stare.
Second batter, a bad piece of work Leo had warned me against on account of the man’s dirty plays. Leo called for a slider, which I threw perfectly. Swing and a miss. Changeup next, which the hitter missed badly, like he really thought he was going to send it into the clouds. Leo called in a fastball, high inside, which got a hit. Only it popped up to the second baseman, who caught it for an easy out.
The third batter, a known instigator, tried to rile me by stepping out of the box in a blatant play to disrupt the rhythm Leo and I had going. Leo remained calm and cool, which I drewinspiration from. When he called for a fastball, I sent a nasty one his way. The batter made solid contact, but it went directly to the shortstop, Freddie, who fielded it cleanly, sent it to first, and got us our third out.
The boos and jeers carried me all the way to the dugout.
“Drop the smirk,” Leo told me when we got under the safety of the ceiling.
“I wasn’t,” I snapped back.
“Yes, you were.” Cold, demanding. This man’s uncanny ability to switch personas still baffled me. “It wasn’t a dumbass grin but I could see a little smugness. You gotta watch that shit, Hill. Brawlers will make it their mission to wipe it from your face.”
“Fine,” I said, though not as angrily as I once would have. He was right, after all. I started into the hallway that would bring me to the guest bullpen.
“Hill,” Leo called after me. I spun to see half his body poking around the concrete corner. I spun to look at him. The big idiot winked, his face as unreadable as the concrete itself. But the way that one eye fluttered at me.
I rolled my eyes and jogged back to the bullpen.
Bottom of the sixth found us with an angrier crowd. Chanting had started, followed by the chorus from “Somebody That I Used to Know” by Gotye in dedication to Leo. Oh, how the fans loved screaming those lyrics when a picture of Leo in Brawlers red came on the jumbotron. We bumped fists and I found myself singing along. It was catchy, if nothing else.
But Leo wasn’t the only one to escape the crowd. Stupidly, the text “Cody Hill? More like Cody Bump” scrolled on the jumbotron. I actually laughed a little. What a horrible, terrible joke. It was almost funny how dumb it was.
I put it all aside. Tasted the cinnamon on my gums. Let the crowd fall away in all their fanfare and noise. Just me and Leo. I liked that.
First batter, known for his clutch hitting, took a fastball for our first strike. I mixed in a slider next that he swung for, giving us strike two. A second fastball went too far outside for ball one. Leo called for yet another fastball, which I threw with perfect precision. The batter managed to ground to third on that, but it was fielded and thrown to first for the out.
The crowd noticeably amped up their jeering. It punched through my usual defenses and crept into the periphery of my awareness. A moment of concentration sent them away as the second batter came to the plate. He laid down a bunt on a slider and exploded from the plate for first on legs like a cheetah. But my Leo was faster. He charged the ball before Freddie could get to it, barehanded it, and launched the thing like a missile to first. It happened so fast—in a blink, really. It takes a runner on average about four seconds to reach first base and Leo zipped to action faster than that.
My compartments blurred, seeing him play like that. A professional athlete working on instinct. It was pure sex.
Focus.I told myself.
The third batter was one of the Brawlers fastest runners. Leo called for a fastball, which was hit to centerfield. Mr. Perfect was out there waiting and he could have painted the Mona Lisa while he demonstrated, with ease, catching the ball. Third out.
The booing crashed through my walls. Leo was right about the smirking. I kept my face plain as we reached the dugout. Alas, in classic Leo fashion, he still pulled me aside near the corridor leading to the bullpen. “Don’t listen to the crowd.”
“How did you…?”
“You crinkle your nose when something is too loud,” he told me. At that, I gave him a baffled look. “It’s only gonna get louderin the seventh inning, especially if we don’t score any runs and we’re still at two ’n two.”
“Don’t crinkle the nose, got it.”
I saw his right arm twitch, as if he wanted to lift his hand up. I bet he did. Grab my nose or something silly to break the tension.
“Quinn is gonna be the first batter. You ready for him?”
“Been waiting all game to show that fucker up.”
A single, curt not from Leo. “Good.” I saw his pupils dilate a fraction. He liked the assertiveness. I would have to remember that.
I watched the Riders do just as well as the Brawlers did while I was throwing. That is to say, not well at all. I went back to the dugout and went up onto the field for the bottom of the seventh with the score still tied. The boos from the crowd were cacophonous. I wasn’t sure I could block this level out.
