Page 39 of Fastball Fever
"Nervous?"Phil asks.
"Nah."I say that, but I feel a bit queasy."Well, maybe a little."
The locker room buzz still echoes in my head.Jared's smug face is plastered across every sports network this morning as talking heads drone on and on about how they're predicting the Altitude to take it in six games.Some rookie analyst even had the balls to suggest my arm was still questionable.That my injury might flare up under pressure.
"Braddock!"
I turn to see Jared sauntering across the field, doing warm-ups, that trademark smirk on his face.Six months of humility apparently wore off fast once they clinched their playoff spot.
"Ready to embarrass yourself in front of the home crowd?"he says, his voice just loud enough for nearby fans to hear.
I don't take the bait.No, I just smile and continue my stretching routine.Amy taught me that—the power of not engaging, saving my energy for what matters.
"What's wrong, lost your voice along with your fastball?"Jared taunts.
"Save it for the game, Morris," I reply calmly, meeting his gaze."Talking doesn't win World Series games."
His face hardens, but he huffs and turns away.I can't help but feel a small victory in that.The old Charlie would have fired back, would have let Jared get under my skin until my pitching suffered for it.
"Good man," Phil says with an approving nod, patting my shoulder."Save the heat for your arm."
The sun beats down on the field as we finish warming up.My arm feels strong, loose, ready.I rotate my shoulder, testing the once-injured joint.No pain, no tightness.Just power waiting to be unleashed.
I spot Amy by the bullpen, clipboard in hand, talking with one of the relief pitchers.She catches my eye and gives me a quick wink before returning to her conversation.That small gesture sends warmth through my chest that has very little to do with the Florida heat.
"Starting lineup, gather 'round!"Phil hollers.
The guys huddle up, and I take my place among them.We're a unit now, bonded through all the ups and downs of the season.I glance at the faces around me, these men who have become family.
"Admirals on three," our captain says, and we all put our hands in the center."One, two, three—"
"ADMIRALS!"we roar, and the crowd roars back.
As I jog toward the bullpen for final warm-ups, I catch sight of Jared in the visitor's dugout.He's watching me, calculating.I know what he's thinking.He's wondering if I'm the same pitcher he faced last time, or if I've found something new.
The truth is, I have.Something new, stronger, and better.
Amy meets me at the bullpen, her eyes bright with a mix of professional assessment and personal pride."How does the arm feel?"
"Strong."I flex my fingers around the ball."Better than ever."
"Remember what we worked on.Don't overthrow.Trust your mechanics."
"Yes, Coach," I say with a smile, and she rolls her eyes.
"Save the sass for after you win."
I take my position on the mound for my warm-up throws, feeling the firmness of the ball, a reassuring sensation.It's familiar, comforting.The catcher signals, and I nod, winding up for the pitch.The ball flies true, smacking into his mitt with a satisfying pop.
"That's what I call a perfect pitch, Braddock!"someone yells from the stands.
Six months ago, I was afraid my career might be over, and I wasn't sure if I'd ever throw a fastball over ninety again.Now I'm opening Game One of the World Series against the team that tried to break me.
The warm-up pitches feel like butter—smooth, controlled, powerful.Each throw builds my confidence.I'm in the zone, that perfect mental space where nothing exists but the ball, the glove, and the space between them.
"Two minutes," the umpire calls.
I scan the stadium one more time.The roar of the crowd washes over me like a wave.This is what I've worked for.This is why I pushed through the pain, the doubt, the endless physical therapy sessions.
