Page 95 of Diamond Ring
Of the many cruel things about baseball, there’s perhaps none crueler than collapsing a hundred-and-sixty-two-game season into a single-elimination playoff game.
Jake sits in the Union Stadium bullpen as Charlie wavers on the mound. It could be the cold October rain, the effect of fifty thousand New Yorkers, or just sheer bad luck. Whatever it is, Charlie is pitching like he isn’t a future Hall of Fame candidate, no bend to his curveball or harmony to his mechanics. Alex jogs out to the mound for a confab—again—this one shortened by umpires who, either sensing the press of the crowd or just freezing their fingers off like everyone else, motion for them to wrap it up.
The bullpen phone, an actual telephone with a noise like an ambulance siren, rings. Martinez answers, nodding, looking around to pick who’ll be unlucky enough to have to pitch on this wet, screaming evening.
“Fischer,” he yells.
Jake tries not to wince. Because Courtland spent that morning giving an all-hands-on-deck speech. Every pitcher is available, every bench player primed to go. Including Jake, because fifth starters become one of two things in the postseason: relief pitchers or chaff. Given the option, Jake’ll pick the former, though he’s less certain of that as he does his circuits on the standing bike, as he tosses a towel to warm up—as he hopes, pleads, prays that whatever is flattening Charlie’s curveball doesn’t come for him too.
His necklace hangs damply against his skin, metal conducting the cold, interrupting the layer of Vaseline he coated his neck and chest with to help combat some of the chill. He pulls the chain out, then tucks it between his undershirt and jersey, pendant looped around a button the way Alex first showed him, years ago.
Alex, who Jake fell asleep against on their cross-country flight and woke to find reading a book about parenting. Who after that trip to Rhode Island hasn’t asked him about his plans for next season, a boundary like an invisible membrane between them.
Who sets up behind home plate, ready to receive whatever Jake throws, as the bullpen gate swings open, Jake’s cue to go in.
“You good?” Martinez yells. Like Jake has much choice in the matter.
Except he does, because he’s here and not contemplating his retirement or leafing through community college course catalogs or doing whatever the fuck awaits him after baseball. He’s here because he chooses to be, to be cold and wet and probably unsuccessful, but if they put a ball in his hand, he’ll pitch ’til they take it from him.
So he begins the long jog across the outfield.
Union Stadium is a corporatized din, as disorienting as Times Square but without any of its negligible charm. He ascends the mound, then, with some hesitance, ducks to drag his finger through its granular soil.
Guys trace stuff in the manicured dirt all the time—names, tributes, messages. Reminders of why they’re here.Matt, he thinks, but can’t bring himself to write. A small stone sits next to the rosin bag, one that must have escaped the grounds crew’s notice as they combed the field. He grasps it momentarily, rock smooth against his palm. With it, a flash of Matt’s face the time they spent hours up in a tree, talking, before attempting a careful descent.
I’m here so I’m going to be here.
A thought that sits across his shoulder as he rises, as he accepts the ball when Alex tosses it to him, followed by a brief exchange of warmup pitches. The first batter comes to the box. Alex gives the sign for a fastball that Jake throws for a strike. Then Alex calls for a changeup. Jake tosses one, glacially slow, velocity matching the cold air around them, one that should leave Alex plenty of time to field it.
Except.Except.
Alex sets up in the wrong place or Jake throws to the wrong location or the ball is moved by the collective psychic efforts of fifty thousand people, because Alex has to scramble to fetch it out of the dirt.
Fuck.
Jake replays the past few seconds, wondering if they’re just stuck in an inescapable repeating loop. At least Sisyphus never had to pitch on an abbreviated warmup.
Alex’s leg guards clop as he approaches the mound. Jake braces himself for an apology. For misplaced sympathy. For the mocking reminder from the stands about the last time this happened in an elimination game.
“So,” Alex says, when he’s there, mitt muffling his face, “Marianne found these mushrooms that she can’t identify. You think she should eat them?”
“What?”
“Do you think Marianne should eat the mushrooms she found in the backyard?” Like Jake misheard him.
“Thought we were gonna talk about that changeup.”
“Hard to see because of the rain.” Alex shrugs. “Maybe I put down the wrong sign. Shit happens.”
Shit happens. And Jake has to laugh, a weight tumbling off his shoulders.
Alex retreats to home plate and sets up, clapping his glove. An ease to his movements, like they’re playing catch in his backyard, one that makes it simple to throw a pitch for a fly-ball out.
The next batter works a walk, advances to second on a steal—Alex’s throw a breath too late—then to third on a sac fly. Two outs. Jake just needs another to escape the inning. But of course, Zach sneaks a single up through the infield, driving in a run, and Jake can’t even be that mad at him.
Jake gets another out, then retreats to the dugout at the inning break. Courtland comes over and shakes his hand, the indication Jake’s done for the game. Jake should ice his arm, shower off the rain. Instead he finds Alex in the tunnel between the dugout and the clubhouse, balancing a tablet as he tries to warm feeling back into his hands over a space heater.
Jake takes the tablet, scrolling at Alex’s indication, while Alex rubs his palms together. “Thought you were a hardy New Englander.”
