Page 4 of Diamond Ring
“Tell Fischer to get up and working,” Courtland yells.
No one moves. The shout was aimed in Alex’s general direction but not—he thought—at him. Unless he’s supposed to get on the bullpen phone as some rookie rite of passage. Sweat begins to prick along the back of his neck.
Courtland hollers again, and Alex turns, trying to act like he’s reaching for a handful of seeds, when their pitching coach brushes past him to get at the phone, then barks Fischer’s name into it.
At least one of them will get to play. Because it’s Alex’s first game—but it’s Fischer’sFirst Game. Alex tries to swallow his disappointment and manages to nearly choke on a sunflower shell.
He migrates to the dugout railing to watch. Fischer runs in for the fifth inning, carrying the attention of thirty thousand spectators on his broad shoulders. He grins like this is a Little League game. The scoreboard briefly transforms to show video, its caption advertising his debut. A camera pulls in, showing his TV-ready smile as he rosins his hands and begins his warmup pitches. The team clearly wanted to make a big deal out of this—a video package plays clips from their interview earlier, Alex’s answers carefully excised.
Somewhere in a crowd of green-jerseyed fans, Alex’s aunt and cousin are waiting for him to play. He gave Sofia a wad of bills before the game, like he could remedy all the lean times by paying for ballpark snacks. Marianne didn’t come with them, not able to miss work. Alex considers how he might introduce them to the team—this is my Aunt Sofia, who adopted me after my dad died in a car accident.This is Sofia’s girlfriend, Marianne. This is my cousin Evie, who’s Marianne’s biological daughter. A family at odds with Fischer’s whole apple-pie-and-mom persona, one that’s too messy to explain in scoreboard clips.
Out on the mound, Fischer completes his warmup pitches, readying himself to confront the hitter, who comes into the batter’s box with ashow me whatcha got, kidlook.Fischer shows him, a fastball so good someone near Alex whistles. Followed by a biting changeup. Then a big hooking curveball, and the guy slinks back to his dugout on a three-pitch strikeout with considerably less swagger. Another batter, then another, and Fischer sits them down like it’s no harder than breathing.
Afterward, he comes to the dugout. The big leaguers ignore him as a form of congratulations; their coaches shake his hand, an indication his relief appearance is over. He grins stadium-bright as he posts up next to Alex.
Alex should say something, even if what he wants to say isI want to play too. “That was some pretty good pitching,” he offers.
“Thanks, man.” Fischer doesn’t move away from him; he’s standing close enough that their shoulders brush. “Feels weird to be here. I didn’t think it would, but that third deck”—he shakes his head disbelievingly—“it’s like being at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Yeah.”
“They tell you when you’re going in?” Fischer asks. As if it’s guaranteed that Alex will get to play. As if coaches and managers are in a rush to accommodate him.
“Nope.”
Maybe Fischer senses his unease, or maybe he’s just thirsty, because he gets Alex a Gatorade along with one for himself, then raises his cup in a mock toast. “Us rookies gotta stick together.”
“All right.” Alex drinks his Gatorade and Fischer sips his own. They stand there for a while, watching the game, Alex’s pulse jumping every time Courtland yells. An inning later, he’s resigned himself to spending his first big-league game on the bench. Itsucks. Sofia is very into him naming how he’s feeling, then taking that out on something—a sledgehammered wall, his guitar, a baseball—things he can’t do standing in a dugout. So he stews, shoulders getting stiffer and stiffer until—
“Angelides, get up.” A holler from Courtland. Simple as that: he’s about to go pinch hit in the majors. Alex scrambles his bat from a cubby, his heart a drum set as he takes his practice swings in the on-deck circle.
Fischer was right. It feels like standing at the bottom of the ocean, a sea of fans looking down at him, possibly wondering who the hell he is or possibly not caring, as he makes his way to the batter’s box.
The field looks bigger than the one he played on yesterday, even if the dimensions are exactly the same—ninety feet between each base laid out in a perfect diamond. From sixty feet and six inches away, the pitcher comes set.
Something in his stance rankles Alex’s nerves, maybe the casual way he’s looking at Alex as if to sayWhoever this rook is, I’ll show him how we do it in the bigs.
Alex gathers himself, bat defiant on his shoulder. He almost smiles when he sees the pitch: a fastball, big as a grapefruit. He plants his feet and twists his hips, then makes contact, a pleasing reverberation down his arm, roping a single into right field. He runs—well, catcher runs—to first base and tries not to stare up at the stadium. Tries to keep his heart slow in his chest as the scoreboard announces,Alex Angelides, first big-league hit.
His pulse hasn’t quite settled when the inning ends and he jogs back to the dugout.
The veterans ignore him—a compliment made even better when Fischer grabs a towel and pretends to wipe him down, as if Alex worked up a sweat standing on first.
“Stop.” Alex laughs and shoves the towel away, which only makes Fischer do it more.
“I’m pretty sure that someone got the ball.”
Right, theball, something Alex can encase in plastic and save. Something no one can ever take from him.
That floating feeling carries him through the next inning, Fischer next to him, chattering about howexcitingeverything is, an enthusiasm that spills over into Alex. That he’shere. That he fucking made it.
The feeling gets pierced when Fischer adds, “Sorry about the interview earlier.”
Alex’s shoulders rise. “What about it?”
“It’s your first game too. They could’ve planned better.”
“Didn’t mean to intrude on your spot.”
