Page 38 of Big Pitch Energy

I smiled and nodded, making noncommittal sounds of agreement, but inside, my stomach was tying itself in knots. The conversation continued around me with talk of road trips and game schedules, of counting down days until the guys came home, of planning their lives around a baseball calendar that stretched from February to October if they were lucky enough to make the playoffs.

I knew this was Sam’s life when we got involved. I knew it came with travel, distance, unpredictability. But now that I was seeing it up close—the team, the schedule, the time apart—it made things feel more real. More complicated.

These women had made their lives fit around baseball season, but even they admitted how hard it was sometimes. At least they live in the Waves’ home city, which meant they got to be together for home games and off days. But it still came with its own challenges.

I live in Starlight Shores, an entire state away. I have a life there, a business. Clients who depend on me. Friends. Roots.

How could I just give up everything I’ve wanted my whole life?

Chapter Eleven

Sam

The indoor bullpenat the Fayetteville Waves training facility is a mix of old-school grit and cutting-edge tech. The artificial turf underfoot is pristine, the kind that practically dared you to mess it up. To my right, a row of high-speed cameras blinked awake as I stepped onto the mound.

Ray stood a few feet away with his arms crossed, trying hard to look casual, but he wasn’t fooling me. Lenny Gill, the Waves’ pitching coach, stood hunched over a clipboard with Max Rigsbee, the team trainer, their voices low and serious. Kenny Hanover, the owner’s son, hovered nearby talking on his phone. Elmer Jarvis, our manager, watched it all with his usual unreadable expression that he wore like a uniform.

And then there were the doctors. A whole line of orthopedic specialists lined up at the back like a panel of judges. It was the most lab coats I’d seen outside of a hospital.

Since high school, I’ve pitched in front of scouts, coaches, and stadiums filled with fans. But this was different. This feltlike a final exam with my whole career hanging in the balance. One solid bullpen wouldn’t erase the past year. But a shaky one could undo months of rehab, hours of doubt, and every damn step it took to get back on this mound.

Rubbing the ball between my palms, I exhaled slowly, and stepped onto the rubber.

I gave a small nod to Jorge, my catcher for today. He plays for the Baby Waves as the Triple A team is called and happens to be a local.

“Alright, Sam,” Lenny said, “Let’s start easy. Eight warm-up fastballs, just to get loose.”

I nodded, took a deep breath, then threw the first of eight four-seamers, easing my arm in, feeling the ball spin right out of my hand.

Jorge caught it clean, gave a short grunt of approval, and fired it back.

I settled back on the rubber, took a breath, and let the second pitch fly, this one sharper, snapping into Jorge’s glove with a clean, solid pop.

By pitch eight, I was settling into a rhythm.

“Alright,” Lenny said. “Let’s mix ten, fastballs and changeups. Show me both sides of the plate.”

I worked through the set, focusing on command. A couple fastballs hit the glove exactly where he set up. The changeups came out smooth, tailing off late.

“Nice arm speed on the change,” he said, still not smiling, but more engaged now. “Let’s go slider next. Give me eight.”

I adjusted my grip and got after it. The first one sailed a little. I tightened up the next throw and it had a sharp, late break.

Lenny didn’t interrupt, he just tracked velocity and location, checking boxes on the clipboard. When I finished the set, he finally spoke up.

“Give me ten heaters. Show me what you’ve got.”

I fired ten fastballs at Jorge, each one popping his mitt with a solid thwack. They sounded like the right velocity, but Lenny stayed quiet behind the radar gun, and I wasn’t about to lose focus just to chase a number.

“Last ten. Mix ’em. Add a couple curveballs. Throw what feels right.”

So I did. Fastball. Slider. Changeup. A curveball that arced in low and froze Jorge just long enough for a reaction.

He stood, lifted his mask, and tossed the ball back to me.

“That one was dirty.”

I smiled in response as he got back into position.

---