Page 10 of Always My Comfort

Exhale.

It did little to calm my racing heart or ease my nerves, but my muscles relaxed the slightest bit. I had to catch their eye.

We were playing against the team I wanted to be drafted into: the Atlanta Braves. They were fierce competition, but I wasn’t afraid of losing—not today. Wehadto win.

“You can do this, man. Here’s to throwing a record-breaking pitch.” Luke clapped me on the back. As he adjusted his hat, I saw the nerves in his eyes. Last year when we played this team, their pitcher, Richard Balmer, had thrown dirty and cost us the whole game, and the referee had sided with their coach.

We were all a little tense and anxious for today, but I was determined to show his coach I was better. He needed me more than him, and my coach understood my need for a change. He had a family at home, too.

“As long as you get us at least three home runs, buddy.” He grinned, white teeth bright in the dark pit.

“Yeah, no pressure, right? How many times have you thrown a hundred mile-per-hour pitch?” He scratched his jaw. “Oh, that’s right—you haven’t.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got it in you. I overheard Coach talking to someone on the phone about it. You just don’t believe in yourself.”

Hundred mile-per-hour pitches were rare but becoming increasingly more common. The Braves’ pitcher had yet to throw one, and I was hoping if I could, that would seal my fate.

Rolling my neck, the tight muscles loosened. I twisted my back, and the joints popped. “No time like the present, right?”

The stadium was packed. Our side was a brilliant sea of navy blue, yellow, and white, fans screaming as we exited the dugout. The cleat chasers held signs up, asking us to marry them, our jersey numbers printed on big cardboard signs. Cowbells rang, and adrenaline surged through my veins.

The other side of the stadium, decked out in navy, scarlet, and white, also cheered as their team joined us. We stood in line for the national anthem, my heart beating so loudly, I could barely make out the voice of the young girl standing in the middle of the field, pouring her heart out.

When the referee blew his whistle, the game started. Standing on the mound, I stared down the stretch to the other player. He was waiting for me—the whole arena was.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Raising my knee, I prepared for my first pitch of the game. Tightening my fingers around the ball, I exhaled, and the ball soared from my fingers and straight into the glove of the catcher.

The umpire raised his fist, signaling the first strike. The announcer’s voice filled the field, and a collective gasp rang from the Braves’ side of the arena.

Preparing myself again, I closed my eyes.

Inhale.

Silence fell across the buzzing arena.

Exhale.

I lifted my knee and twisted my body.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Pitching the ball toward the batter, I waited. There was a loud crashing sound as the ball connected with the bat, and chaos erupted as the ball went soaring. The Braves’ player drops his bat and ran like his ass was on fire.

He made the first home run of the game, and the crowd burst into cheer. Our side was deadly silent as I prepared for the next batter. The guy grinned at me, jutting out his chin with arrogance, trying to throw me off my game.

Like always, I breathed, honing in on the silence and letting it calm me. Pitching the ball toward the arrogant player, it hit the catcher's glove.

The umpire once again raised his fist. The announcer then informed the crowd of the strike. The batter scowled, tapped the dirt with his bat, and then lowered to his position. I waited for the umpire’s signal and then pitched the second ball to my catcher.

Again, the announcer let the crowd know of the second strike.

The player was now getting angry, his body tensing as I prepared for the third pitch. I rolled my shoulders and waited for my signal. Sweat rolled down my neck into the hem of my shirt. The thick material stuck to my back, and I itched to tear it off.

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