Page 45 of Fake Love

What will happen when I pitch in the majors again? What will my head feel like then?

The worst part of all of this, my support system isn’t here. My mom isn’t here because it was so last minute and she didn’t want to fly, which I understand. But Jen isn’t here either, and for some reason knowing that she would be in the stands would have been somewhat relaxing.

After the aquarium, I tried my hardest to convince to come to Sacramento with me. Mostly for appearances and so people could question who I had in the stands. For the most part, she agreed.

She went to all of the San Jose games but she has yet to come to one in Sacramento. It doesn’t bother me that she hasn’t, mostly because she is visiting her parents a few hours away.

Not having her here today though is hitting me roughly and I don’t know why. It’s not like she has seen me play outside of these past two weeks.

It has to be my first full game that I’m pitching in nine months that has me all over the place.

I look at the clock above my locker and see that I only have a few more minutes before I have to head to the field.

Cranking up the volume on my headphones, I try to lose myself in the music. I concentrate on every single note and word that is said and forget about every little thing that I’m about to do.

I forget about the game.

I forget about the sport.

Everything that is messing with my mind, I try to silence it and just concentrate at the task at hand.

Getting in the zone.

It works. I get so lost in the music that I don’t realize that it’s time to head to the field until the pitching coach comes and taps me on the shoulder.

With a nod, I grab my glove and throw my phone and headphone into my bag and follow him out of the clubhouse and into the dugout.

Even with it being May, the wind has a bit of heat to it, nothing like the wind back in Chicago or San Francisco for that matter.

I get a few pats on the back when I walk through the dugout and place my stuff down. I can already feel the crowd and I know that as soon as I get on the field, I’ll be able to feel it more.

“Think you're ready to throw a whole game?” one if the infielders, whose last name is Brown, asks.

By the smirk on his face, he’s trying to taunt me.

For the few days that I’ve been here, I’ve come to know that Brown's only mission is to get called up. He doesn’t care much about his teammates, as long as he looks good that’s all that matters. From what I heard, he was almost called up last year, but the team went with another infielder.

I try to ignore him as best as I can, especially tonight, but I play nice.

“I’m ready.” I tell him.

And it’s not a lie, I feel ready.

“Are you sure? You look a little green, but don’t worry, I have your back out there.” With a smirk on his face, he gives me a salute and walks away.

I watch his retreating figure and vow that I will pitch a game where I won’t need him to have my back.

The pre game ceremony starts and after the first pitch is thrown and the national anthem is sung, it's time for the players to be called onto the field.

With me at the helm of it all.

“Tonight's starting pitcher, Maddox Bauer!”

The second that my name is called and I step foot on the grass, the stadium roars with cheers and boos of ten thousand people.

Some are here to see me succeed, others are here to see me fail. Much like I am to Brown, I vow to throw a game that will have those here to see me fail change their mind.

I take a few practice throws and the ball glides out of my hand just like I want it to. It hits the catcher’s glove where I want it to.

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