Page 152 of Hot Streak

But now, as he gazed out over the pristine green field, the place he’d always felt the most at-home, he didn’t know that he could do that again.

If the Rogues won, they’d head to Vegas and the playoffs for the minor league championship.

If they lost, the team would disband for the year.

Jackson would have played his last game of baseball.

But it was so much more than that, Jackson thought as he took one final practice swing, it was so much more than just him and this stupid record.

These guys would be playing next year—or trying to.

Heading to the playoffs this season might not make or break next year’s season for them, but it sure couldn’t hurt.

If Jackson got his homer, all he’d get was a name on an obscure plaque somewhere, on a few websites nobody visited, and the knowledge he’d done it. That was it. But this was these guys’ future careers at stake. Not his own. Theirs.

Don’t go for the homer. Just a hit. Just a base hit, that’s all we need. A spark to start a fire.

Jackson walked up to home plate and dug his cleat into the dirt. Lifted his bat.

It certainly hadn’t gotten easier, between the last at-bat and this at-bat, but right now, he felt as settled about it as he ever had. More relaxed, yet also more intently focused, now that he’d decided the record didn’t matter.

That this team mattered.

The calls of his teammates from behind in the dugout faded away.

The world narrowed, to just him, his bat, and the pitcher, sixty feet away.

They’d brought in their closer, hoping that his speed and skill would be enough to get it done.

He pulled back, eyes shadowed beneath his cap, and threw.

Strike one.

Almost nobody threw as fast as Connor, but this guy could give him a run for his money. The ball had practically been smoking as it hit the catcher’s glove.

Jackson re-settled, tightening the velcro straps on his gloves, digging his cleat more forcefully into the dirt.

Baseball had a simplicity he’d always loved.

You hit the ball. You throw the ball. You catch the ball.

It was a backyard game, transposed to a stadium. But if you stripped away all the bells and whistles, it was the same as what he and his friends had done on long shadowed summer afternoons.

He raised the bat again.

This time he expected the heat.

But he’d also seen plenty of pitchers in the minors who could throw a fucking fastball but couldn’t place it where they wanted to, if it would save their life. Or their ERA.

Connor was one of those rare entities who could do both, which was why he was already heading out, heading up.

Next year he’d pitch in a baseball stadium twice the size of this one, so pristine and perfectly maintained it was like a temple.

The fastball came in low, and Jackson, with all his strength, checked his swing, arms vibrating with the effort of holding back when he’d already committed to swinging.

“Ball,” the umpire called out behind him.

The pitcher made an impatient movement as the catcher threw the ball back and he caught it mid-air.

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