Page 1 of Fastball Fever
Chapter One
The Fall from Grace
The humid Florida air wraps around me like a suffocating glove as I stride onto the mound at Jacksonville's Admirals stadium.The air is alive with restless cheers and the occasional whistle.The people are waiting for me—for my fastball to blast Nolan Ryan's record to smithereens.Sweat clings to my skin, fusing my uniform to my back, but I ignore it.As I zero in on home plate, the aroma of salt drifts in from the ocean miles away.I can smell the asphalt from the parking lot too.
How long has it taken me to get to this moment?Years.My steadfast training and determination brought me to this day in this stadium.I've been waiting for it all my life, that's how it feels to me.
This is a no-brainer, kid.Shatter that record.Then you can move on to destroying Aroldis Chapman's fastest pitch too.
Piece of cake.
Now it's time for the windup.
I position my feet shoulder-width apart and raise my hands to chest height, getting ready for the pitch.A gentle sway follows.I step forward at a forty-five-degree angle, allowing my hips to pivot slightly while my right foot rotates inward to align along the rubber.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Jared Morris charging down the line, smirking like the jackass he is.
The crowd, they're here for me, roaring and chanting as if I've already won the game.They're cheering for the new fastball king—for me, Charlie Braddock.But I haven't even thrown the ball yet.My pulse races in anticipation.But that doesn't matter.I won't let it matter.So, I stare straight ahead at the catcher's mitt, blocking out the noise of the crowd.My arm aches just a little, enough to remind me that I'm not the twenty-one-year-old I used to be, not anymore.I ignore the thought and focus on the pitch that will change my future and make me into a legend.
Aiming.Concentrating.My gaze narrows as I run through the motions in my head, owning the moment before I pitch that ball for real.The dirt shifts beneath my cleats.An insect buzzes past my ear.The weight of the stadium seems to bear down on me—in a good way.The entire stadium is holding its breath in anticipation, and so am I.
It's now or never, and never's not an option.
A strange sensation ripples through me, and I swear I can hear Nolan Ryan breathing down my neck from whatever Texas ranch he's hiding out on these days.I wouldn't mind if he could hear the sound of my fastball whizzing past him.It'll put me on top of the list of fastball legends.After eleven years in the majors, I'm on the cusp of achieving the dream.The kid who grew up in the Iowa cornfields can do something more than slop cows and scrape manure off his boots after all.My dream is so close.I'mso close.
I scan the bases one last time.
Jared Morris waits at home plate, leaning off first like he owns the whole stadium.He probably thinks he does.The moron grins like the smug jerk he is, flashing me that white smile from across the diamond.It's not like the play means anything.They're up by two runs.He's just rubbing my nose in it, staying on base to rattle me.Staying on base to piss me off, actually.
Yeah, it's working.A little bit.
"C'mon, Charlie, let's go!"Coach's voice booms out from the dugout.
I jerk my head in that direction.I've got seconds before he decides to walk me and end this.Seconds to make the pitch of a lifetime.But I know I can do it.I mean, I've done it a thousand times before, though not with my legacy on the line.So…I take one more breath and twist my shoulder into the windup.Keeping my mind blank, I let muscle memory take over.My body knows what to do.
Everyone in the crowd seems to hold their breath along with me.I push off the rubber and…Jared Morris barrels toward me like a frigging freight train.His gleeful expression distracts me at the crucial second when I let the ball fly.
Time stretches out like a bad dream that won't let me wake up, forcing me to experience every detail of Jared's obnoxious grin as he runs toward me.Then the sensation of time slowing snaps like a rubber band, and suddenly, he's so close I can see the treads on his shoes.
I can't move.It's a nightmare.A fucking nightmare.
As if it's become autonomous, my glove shoots up to stop him.But it's too late.His shoulder slams into me hard.I'm airborne for what feels like one endless moment of unbelievable shock.As I smack down on the grass with a grunt, a sharp pain knifes through every nerve in my shoulder, the pain sharp and raw.I clutch at my arm, gritting my teeth.
Something else falls onto the grass beside me.The ball.The one that was supposed to break records today.I stagger backward, dazed from the pain.Then a wave of dizziness hits me, and I nearly fall down.
Most of the crowd boos and points their fingers at Jared, but the minority gives me the full-on loser treatment.Fans of Jared Morris, obviously.They even throw food at me.I know I'm making faces like some rookie on his first day of spring training, but I can't stop it.Jesus, Ican't stop it.
Then the crowd spontaneously erupts into cheers of a different kind.They shout, "Charlie!Charlie!Charlie!"
As I stagger onto the red sand of the diamond, I can't figure out what's happening.My shoulder hurts like hell, that's all I know.I squeeze my eyes shut, and I can hear my own heartbeat throbbing in my ears.Surreal spots and colors dance behind my lids like psychedelic galaxies.
Coach jogs up to me, placing a firm hand on my left arm to steady me.He's careful not to touch my right shoulder.
"I'm okay," I hear myself say.But it sounds far away and tinny, like a cheap speaker at a discount store.
"Take him into the locker room!"someone yells above the stadium noise.
That sounds like Phil Schreier.Jeez, if the team manager is here, I must be in bad shape.Several of my teammates have followed us into the locker room.I slump down onto a bench.
