Page 79 of The Battery
Then at last our time came on September twenty-eighth. Our second of three away games at Annapolis. The blue and white stripes of the Hawks would face off against the blue and bronze of the Riders.
*
We had all collected in the guest clubhouse in various states of readiness. The air was thick with pre-game jitters of a different kind. There’s an aura of anticipation when it comes to clinching a postseason spot, which we did not do. A new type of anxiety fell upon us, like a rushing avalanche of white powder. If wewon the game tonight, we’d clinch a Wild Card spot. One of only three coveted positions available for those who didn’t make postseason. Likely we’d have another opportunity to clinch, but we did not want to squander this first opportunity.
Light conversation undulated through the team as we finished getting ready. I stayed near the senior-most veterans like Rome, chatting idly about strategy. This marked our second of three games against the Hawks. We just won against them last night. Wewouldwin again tonight.
Cody hung out with the Assholes. He’d shoot me a look every now and again that I was happy to catch. He emptied his adoration into those gazes while I didn’t budge a fraction in my “piss off” stare. I knew he loved it. He told me as much on multiple occasions.
“Reminds me of when we first met,” he said to me. “And I know all the wheels in your head are spinning while you pretend not to care. It’s hot.”
I caught sight of one of the Assholes going to the entertainment center at the edge of the room. A stack of electronic equipment controlled the monitors scattered throughout the room as well as a soundstage worth of speakers. I dimmed my brow, curious as he connected his phone to one of the receivers. He fiddled around with a few of the knobs.
Then, music. A heavy bass line. Everyone stopped talking at the sudden intrusion of sound. The thumping beat was then accompanied by rapid-fire synth chords…
And then a soprano and a tenor belting out familiar words. “Fastball, fastball, cur-cur-curveball.”
I exhaled and shook my head as I lowered it. Someone had commissioned a techno remix of the fun little song I had created to get Cody to shake off his nerves.
Everyone was screaming the lyrics. Many of them while jumping. Dancinghorriblybut cutting loose nonetheless. Iremained still, arms crossed, staring at Cody, then Rome, then Freddie. Our little clutch of friends who originated the song, now for all to share.
Anticipation vanished, replaced by electric excitement as the song looped through for a second time. Energy built on energy, a compounding effect that almost—almost—made me want to join in the churning bodies of my jumping teammates. I remained on the outskirts of it with Rome. Cody and Freddie were in the thick of it, jumping into the mess, slapping backs, grabbing hands, screaming and cheering and singing, all at the same time.
And I cracked. The sight, the sound, a smile broke across my face. I can’t dance, but I can nod my head. So I moved my head to the rhythm and walked in slow circles to get myself as amped as the rest of the team.
The time came and the entirety of the Riders left the clubhouse as a mass of blue and bronze. Rome and I brought up the rear, the tall man moving with a confidence I had seen before.
“We’re gonna win,” I said to him.
“Ain’t no doubt,” Rome replied. He slapped me on the back. “You know I was worried when they first told me you were joining the team?”
We were in the concrete corridor that led to the dugout. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Rumor has it you moved a couple of pieces on the board to put yourself here.”
“It’s true. You see, I have this unquenchable thirst for the great Romolo Moretti.”
He elbowed me hard and I actually winced. “Well, I’m glad you made it on over.”
“I’m not one for sentiment,” I said. We were nearing the exit. “But, I came here to win. I wasn’t expecting what I found.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
We were at the top of the stairs. The buffoons were still screaming the lyrics to my song, drowning out the shitty pop music the Hawks were pumping through their stadium speakers.
“A new family,” I said.
We lined up along the third base line for the national anthem. I saw Cody all the way down at the end. Typically, veterans stood together on one side, rookies and relief pitchers at the far end. I’d see him plenty enough during the game so I didn’t make an effort to catch his eye.
After, most of us went back into the dugout. Rome was up first to bat and I was on deck. I stepped into the circle. Many would take a few practice swings while waiting, but I preferred to study the Hawks pitcher as well as the catcher. Like most teams, they used PitchCom. The devices weren’t mandatory, but it was hard to shake them once you realized the ease of communication with special signals.
The Hawks were not a rival, per se, but they were cold and calculating. Fierce competitors in all the right ways. They likely would not catch a Wild Card spot, but everybody knew this was our first chance. I wouldn’t blame them for putting up a hell of fight just for the sake of competition. It’d make our win all the sweeter when it happened.
Rome made it to second on a line drive to left field. That man could move like the wind. It reminded me of his blurring speed when he ran toward the mound after Cody was hit.
I stepped up to the plate. Both the starting pitcher and the catcher were four-year veterans on the Hawks. They were specifically brought up from the minors together as a single unit. I knew a thing or two about batteries, so I had a slight advantage here to understand how these two could practically communicate without doing or saying anything. They knew me. My reputation. I wasn’t a home run hitter like our boy Rome, but I could raise the stakes when I needed to.
And I always had an eye for pitchers.
