Page 8 of Trip Through Your Wires

“About time,” the batter says with a huff when Cruz turns his from the stands and looks down the line.

“Are you ready to go down swinging?” I reply confidentially, flashing Cruz the sign for a Fastball, which he shakes off.

“No.” The batter spits on the ground and adjusts his stance. “Just done watching your pitcher eye-fuck the blonde in the stands. Not that I blame him. Girl is hot.”

I shake my head and give Cruz another sign—a Splitter—which he also shakes off. “I’d watch that mouth if I were you.”

“Oh yeah?” The batter kicks his back foot again, sending dirt flying. “And why is that?”

I flash Cruz another sign and he shakes it off, too. “Come on, Cabron,” I mumble, before flashing him another, which he accepts with a nod.

“Because…” I adjust my stance and position my glove in anticipation of where the ball will land. “That’s my sister you’re talking about.”

Talking smack is one thing. Talking about or hitting on a teammate’s girl is another. Last winter, a townie gave his phone number to our right fielder’s girlfriend while we were at a dive bar close to campus. When she gave the number back to him, he called her a tease and left. Of course, half the team followed him out to the parking lot and after that, let’s just say he went home with piss on his pants and that napkin shoved in his mouth.

If Coach had found out what happened, he’d have benched every one of the guys involved. But there’s something about being the best team in college baseball. No one wants to mess with the magic that brought home the championship and not one person at the bar said a word about what happened that night.

“Suggest you keep your eye on what’s coming down the pike,” I say with a laugh.

As Cruz winds up, the batter grips the bat tighter, and when he delivers his pitch, the ball sails toward us at the same velocity as a Hardball but with no movement. A Slider. A pitch that’s beautiful and hard as hell to hit.

As it approaches the plate, the batter swings, but the ball breaks sharply, catching the corner of the plate. It lands in my glove with a pop and I squeeze my glove around it.

“Strike three,” the ump calls with a raised fist. “You’re out!”

The game is over, and we’ve won. With this one in the bag, we’re undefeated headed into regular season play, which means the likelihood of scouts coming to next week’s opener is high.

I stand from my crouching position and remove my helmet and mask with one hand, while holding the glove and ball in the other. “Next time, eyes on the ball, friend.”

The batter tosses his bat to the ground and removes his helmet with an angry scowl as I make my way over to the pitcher’s mound.

“Nice game, brother.” I clap Cruz on the back and he flashes me an ear-to-ear grin. “How’s the arm?”

“It’s good,” he nods, moving it around slowly.

Pitching a complete game is a lot of work, not to mention dangerous. Fatigue usually sets in midway through a game, with a pitcher’s arm toast by the later innings. That’s why pitch limits exist. So player’s don’t burn their arms out.

Once upon a time it wasn’t unheard of to see greats like Nolan Ryan, Jimmy Palmer, and Steve Carlton throw more than two hundred pitches a game. These days, pitchers get relieved long before their arm gets tired to prevent injury.

Cruz’s arm, however, defies reason. He keeps his pitches consistent in early innings, saving his stamina for later, throwing the kind of heat in final innings you would expect from a closer. He doesn’t worry about pitch limits because he’s known for shutting batters down quickly. In the case they do get a hit off him, our infield is second to none. At least, it was when Cal was at shortstop and Marcus, third.

The new guy filling Cal’s spot, a transfer from Cal State Fullerton, is doing a good job, but the infield chemistry hasn’t quite gelled. It’s weird not seeing Cal in between Cruz and Marcus in my line of sight or hearing his drill sergeant voice call out plays.

I still can’t believe one of my brothers betrayed another for money. Sure, someone else paved the way for Cal to turn on Cruz, pumping him so full of steroids he didn’t know which end was up. But the fact remains—Cal was determined to ruin Cruz’s life and that shit didn’t fly with me.

Still, I can’t help but wonder how he is. The four of us were inseparable once, and it’s hard to just stop caring about someone that was like a brother. From what Marcus has shared, Cal has apparently learned a lot in rehab, and wants to meet with Cruz to make amends. But we’re more likely to see Hell freeze over. As far as Cruz is concerned, Cal doesn’t exist. He betrayed him by helping Royce attack Ellery and if it were me, I’d probably feel the same way.

I don’t know what Cal plans to do with his future. Baseball isn’t in the cards, that’s for sure. No team wants to pick up a player with a history of juicing. But I hope he finds a way to make up for what he did, in whatever way that he can.

When the outfield finally joins the infield at the mound, Coach walks over, says a few words about a job well done, then reminds us not to party too hard over the weekend. He wants us in top shape for next week’s opener and promises Monday’s practice is going to kick our ass.

Once he’s done, the team fans out in different directions. Some of the guys make their way toward the clubhouse to hit the showers, while others head to their cars, leaving just Cruz, Marcus and me.

“Alright, I’m out too,” Marcus jerks his head toward the club house. “I’m headed to the shower, then off to the airport.”

“What?” Cruz looks over at him. “I thought you were going to the party with us tomorrow night?”

“Naw man, raincheck. Allison called this morning and asked if I could come for the weekend. I’ve got a free ticket from all those frequent flier miles I racked up last semester, figured why not. Besides, four’s company, but five’s a crowd.”

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