Page 8 of The Battery
“Yeah, Leo, I get it.” I rolled my shoulder to remove his grip of my arm. He slammed down his mask and together we took to the field.
A night game, the blaring lights of the stadium brought day to the evening. I jogged up to the mound and rolled my neck. The nicotine coursed through me by the time everyone on the team settled into position. As always, my nerves had wrecked me while waiting my turn. But now, out in the open, my focus called the shots instead of my anxiety.
The Winds’ left fielder, Miguel Lopez, came up to bat, another hulking man that could rival the Spartan’s build. The call came over PitchCom: fastball inside.
I swallowed. Put the ball in my glove. A single heartbeat passed but the moment protracted as time slowed. The lights dimmed. The noise of the crowd quieted. Just me, the single thunderous beat of my heart.
Then, the sudden intake of breath through flared nostrils. Slight raising of my lips as I wound up, extended my leg, stretched, and threw the ball.
Fastball, high and outside.
Dammit.
Ball one.
Leo tossed the ball back to me. As I put my back to the plate, the next call came over PitchCom. Slider. I was ready by the time my cleats touched the rubber. The pace of the game had quickened over the years and our new communication devices served that purpose immensely.
Windup. Throw.
Crack!
Miguel hit a line drive to right field and singled on it.
I could feel Leo’s eyes on me. Judging the mistake. The slider hung over the plate. I threw it wrong. We made solid eye contact, but it was hard to read him through the mask. Cameras descended on me to criticize everything I did in postgame reviews. I didn’t dare communicate anything desperate to him. “I’m trying” would be the worst thing to say at this point.
Second baseman Juan Martinez was up next, a wiry fellow known to be as fast as a cheetah. Leo called for a changeup, down and away.
Come on, Cody, I told myself. I let the bite of cinnamon on my tongue remind me why I was here.
I pitched, but instead of down and away, it sailed up andin. Martinez hit and singled on it. Now the Winds had runners on first and second. No outs.
I looked to Leo again. Couldn’t get a read.
First baseman Carlos Rivera stepped up next. I rolled my neck as Leo called for a sinker. He wanted to induce a ground ball.
Do the thing, Cody. Do the thing.
Wind up. Throw.
But my sinker didn’t sink. It became a fastball, and a hittable one at that. Rivera smashed it down the left field line. Lopez made it to home plate, Martinez to third, and Rivera to second. We were now tied, two and two.
Batter four, a right fielder named Sanchez. Leo didn’t sink back into position as quickly as he usually did. He was staring, so I looked right back.
I’m trying.
He called for a curveball, low and away.
I threw a curveball, but it didn’t break. Instead, Sanchez hit a ground ball.
And then suddenly Freddie was there, scooping up the grounder as fast as a Tasmanian devil. He moved like a blur ashe scooped up the grounder and hurled the thing back to Leo, who expertly caught it in time to sweep at Martinez. Out.
Then, Leo moved like lightning. He exploded upward faster than I had ever seen him move. Every muscle in his body was taut as his tattooed arm snapped out and chucked the ball to third base a fraction of a second before Rivera reached it.
Second out.
The crowd cheered and a tension I didn’t realize sat between my shoulder blades released. I looked to Leo, who was bobbing his head as if he was about to say, “Let’s ride, motherfuckers.”
I nodded my head in the same fashion. We could do this.Icould do this.
