Page 55 of Fastball Fever
"Strike three!You're out!"The umpire's call is music to my ears.
The Admirals fans erupt in cheers once more.I allow myself a quick fist pump as I catch the return throw from the catcher.Decker stalks back to the dugout, his face like a thunder cloud.One down.
Somebody new approaches the plate, but my mind is still on Decker and that torpedo bat.The way he adjusted so quickly to its weight tells me he's been practicing with it.I squint at the batter, trying to determine what sort of bat he's using.I groan.Damn, he's got a torpedo bat too.This won't be the last I see of it tonight, that much is certain.
I strike out the next batter with three straight pitches, barely registering the mechanics, but I can tell he's getting the hang of his new toy.My body knows what to do even when my mind wanders.The third batter grounds out to short, and just like that, the inning is over.
As I jog back to the dugout, the cool mountain air fills my lungs.The elevation makes everything feel different here—the ball carries farther, breaks differently.Home field advantage for the Altitude in more ways than one.
"Nice work, Braddock," Amy calls out as I descend the steps into the dugout.She smiles, giving my arm a light punch.
"Thanks, Coach."I grab my water bottle and take a long swig.My teammates surround me, offering fist bumps and words of encouragement.
Tripp slides onto the bench beside me."That torpedo bat's something else, huh?"
"Yeah, it really is.Johnson's already adjusting to it."I wipe sweat from my forehead with my sleeve."How are we supposed to counter that?"
"Same way we always do.Pitch smart."Tripp's confidence is unwavering, a quality I admire."Besides, we get a crack at them too.They're available to both teams."
Something about it still doesn't sit right with me.Baseball's always been about the purity of the contest—pitcher versus batter, skill against skill.These new bats feel like they're tilting the scales.
Guess I'm just behind the times.
Our batters head to the on-deck circle as we're up to bat.I watch our leadoff hitter, Marcus, examining one of the torpedo bats with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
"You planning to try it?"I ask him.
He hefts the bat, testing its weight."Might as well.If they're using them, we need to keep up.Right?"
"Guess so."But I can't shake my unease.It isn't solely about keeping up.It's about what these bats mean for the game going forward.
The Altitude's pitcher, Santiago Vega, is a shrewd lefty with a wicked slider.He stares down Marcus as he steps into the box with his torpedo bat.The first pitch is a fastball that Marcus fouls off awkwardly, the bat's unusual weight distribution throwing off his timing.
"It's all in the follow-through!"Tripp calls out.
Marcus adjusts his grip, nodding.His second swing connects better—a sharp line drive that the shortstop barely snags.One out.
I lean forward on the bench, studying Vega's motion, the way the ball leaves his hand.If we're going to beat these guys, I need to pick up every advantage I can.
Our second batter, Rodriguez, steps up with a traditional bat.Bold choice.He works the count full before slapping a single through the gap between short and third.A murmur runs through our dugout.The old ways might still have some merit.
"See that?"I nudge Tripp."Traditional bat, traditional hit."
"Yeah, but watch this," Tripp says, nodding toward Jameson, our power hitter, who's approaching the plate with a torpedo bat in hand.
Jameson's swing is a thing of beauty—fluid and powerful, connecting with the ball just below its center.The crack reverberates through the stadium as the ball rockets toward the outfield.The torpedo bat's distinctive profile follows through as Jameson watches the ball soar.
For a moment, I think it's gone—a home run in the first inning would set the perfect tone.But the thin mountain air plays tricks.What would be a sure homer in Jacksonville hangs just long enough for the center fielder to make a leaping catch at the wall.
"Damn!"Jameson slams his bat down as he returns to the dugout.
"At home, that would've been gone," I tell him, offering a consolatory pat on the shoulder.But we've locked horns with the Altitude many times, and we never suffered this type of problem.
"Yeah.Altitude Park's a bitch."Jameson examines the torpedo bat with newfound respect."Got good pop, though."
Our next batter strikes out, ending the inning scoreless.As I walk back toward the mound for the second inning, I can't help but glance at the Altitude's dugout.Their players are huddled together, talking strategy.Decker catches my eye and smirks, tapping his torpedo bat against his cleats.
Game on.
