Page 40 of Fastball Fever
Amy gives me a final nod from her position.There's so much in that simple gesture—pride, faith, love.I nod back, a silent promise passing between us.I won't let her down.Not today.Not ever.Everything is on the line tonight.
An announcement booms through the stadium: "Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for our national anthem."
I remove my cap and hold it over my heart, staring at the massive flag unfurling across the outfield.The singer's voice soars through the stadium, and for a moment, everything else fades away.It's just me, the field, and this perfect moment of anticipation and pride in my country.
When the anthem ends, the crowd erupts.I retake my spot on the mound as our play-by-play announcer's voice thunders through the speakers."And now, taking the mound for your Jacksonville Admirals, number thirty-four, Chaaaaaarlie Braddock!"
The roar is deafening.I tip my cap to the crowd, to my parents, to Amy, to her mom, and then lock in.Game face on.The home plate umpire signals, and the first Altitude batter strides to the plate.
Jared's the leadoff hitter, of course.A wiry speedster who's stolen thirty bases this season.
I breathe deeply through my nostrils, letting the weight of the ball ground me.The seams press against my fingertips as I grip my four-seam fastball.The catcher flashes the sign—fastball, inside corner.I nod, just a little.
The stadium falls into that magical hush that only happens in the split second before the first pitch of a game—the kind that matters.Sixty feet and six inches separate me from making a statement.
I wind up, driving off the rubber with controlled power.My arm whips forward, the ball exploding from my fingertips at 95 mph, slicing through the air toward the inside corner of the plate.Jared's eyes widen very slightly.He wasn't expecting this much velocity, this much control, but he manages to swing.
Too late.
"Strike one!"the umpire bellows.
The crowd erupts, and I feel a rush of adrenaline surge through my veins.I catch a glimpse of Amy's face.She's beaming like the girlfriend of a fastball king whom she happens to love.This is what we worked for, the two of us together, the perfect matchup.
Jared steps out of the box, adjusting his batting gloves with a scowl.I can read his thoughts like they're written across his forehead: This isn't the same pitcher he faced six months ago.
The catcher calls for a slider.I shake him off.Not yet.I want to establish dominance with the fastball first.He nods, flashing the sign for another heater, this time outside.I wind up and stare down Jared.It's not about intimidation.It's about focus.I know exactly what I want to do with this pitch.
I go into my windup.My mechanics are flawless—the product of countless hours with Amy refining my delivery.This time, I push the fastball to 97 mph, painting the outside corner.
Jared swings and connects, but it's a weak ground ball to short.Our shortstop fields it cleanly and fires to first.
"Out!"the umpire calls.
One down.Twenty-six more to go.
I allow myself a quick glance toward Amy.She gives me a subtle nod—professional, composed, but I can read the love in her eyes.We both know what this means.My first batter I've faced in the World Series, and I've already retired the league's most notorious hitter.I've already proven all those commentators wrong.
Another guy strides up to the plate—a power hitter who swings for the fences.I work him inside, outside, changing speeds and locations.Three pitches later, he's shuffling back to his team's dugout, shaking his head after watching my slider freeze him for strike three.
Two down.
The third batter manages to make contact, but it's a lazy fly ball to center field.Our centerfielder settles under it easily, squeezing his glove around the ball for the final out.
Three up, three down.A perfect first inning.
The crowd roars as I walk off the mound, and my teammates pat me on the back as I reach the dugout.But I don't let myself get caught up in the moment.This is just the first inning of the first game.We have a long ways to go yet.
And I'm ready for it all.
Chapter Twenty-One
All for One
Another day, another chance to show Jared Morris that he's not the sultan of baseball.But this evening, things haven't been going great for me.The Altitude switched to their pinch hitter, and he's damn good.We're on Game Five tonight, so I've got at least two more chances to beat Morris into the ground.Can't say which team is doing the best because, so far, it's been a toss-up.
Come on, man, don't let the Altitude guys wreck your game.Gotta focus on the ultimate goal—winning the World Series.
I grip the bat tighter, watching the pitcher's eyes narrow as he winds up.The fastball comes screaming toward me at ninety-five miles per hour.Time slows.I watch the seams rotating, calculate the trajectory, and—
