Page 48 of Big Pitch Energy

I hope you can make it.

Because I can’t imagine going through all of spring training without seeing you.

I love you.

Sam

I read it again.

And again.

And again, until the paper was soft from my fingers and my tears had blurred the ink in one corner.

When I finally slid the letter back into its envelope, the ache lingered, stubborn and raw, but underneath it, something new was taking shape. A quiet clarity, steady and sure, pushing past the uncertainty.

Chapter Fourteen

Sam

I steppedout of the dugout and took my time walking across the field, like if I moved too fast this all might vanish. After blowing out my elbow eighteen months ago, I spent the better part of that time wondering if I’d ever take this walk again.

Looking around, I took in all the sights of Victory Park, wanting to savor the moment. Chalk lines cut sharp as knives down the baselines, and the outfield grass was striped so perfectly it almost looked fake. The air was thick with a mix of baked dirt and pine tar, and somewhere close, the smell of grilling burgers wove through the afternoon air.

As I reached the mound, I bent down and picked up the rosin bag, feeling its familiar weight in my palm. Dropping it behind me, I toed the rubber and spotted Leo standing behind home plate sixty feet six inches away. I held up my glove and he tossed me the ball.

I’ve thrown thousands of pitches during rehab and nailed an almost flawless bullpen session in front of the coaches, trainer, and doctors. But this is real.

I threw my eight warm-up pitches, each one snapping into Leo’s glove with a solid pop. My fastball’s feeling tight, and that curve’s got a sharp eleven-to-five drop like I want. The ball felt alive in my hand, as if it remembered me, just like I remembered it.

Leo jogged out to the mound and Jack and Monte joined us.

“You look sharp, Sam. Just like old times.”

Jack clapped me on the shoulder.

“Keep it simple and trust your stuff.”

“You got this,” Monte said.

We all bumped gloves and I settled onto the mound, alone with my thoughts. I took the time to mentally give myself a little pep talk because this is what I’ve been working toward for eighteen months. No matter what happens, I have to trust myself. Trust the work, trust the rehab, trust that I’m ready.

The umpire gestured for play to start and the first batter stepped into the box.

The noise from the crowd faded into a dull roar, a distant hum beneath the pounding of my heart as I tuned them out to focus. Leo crouched behind the plate, signaling for a fastball.

With a quick nod, I started my windup, pulled my arm back, then brought it over the top and followed through, landing right at the edge of the grass. I watched the ball smack right into Leo’s glove. He didn’t have to move a muscle.

Strike one.

Next pitch was a curveball that made the batter jump out of the box, but it landed right on the outside corner.

Strike two.

After a slider in the dirt, Leo put down the sign for another fastball that I placed right on the inside corner for called strike three.

The crowd cheered. And even though it's a fraction of the size of First Allegiant Bank Park, it's no less enthusiastic.

The next batter stepped up to the plate, cracking his knuckles like he was ready to send one into orbit. Leo gave me the sign for a fastball low and away. I nodded, wound up, and put it right where it needed to be, sliding across the corner like it was on a string. Strike one.

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