Page 138 of Wild Pitch
Now both Beau and Socci touch their noses and their chins. I do the same, tellingthemto stop freaking out.
There’s no damn way I’m walking Machado. He’s going on three outs no matter what.
“Do it for the pizza!” Lucky screams behind me, and more voices rise from the in- and outfield to remind me that pizza is at stake.
That actually more than pizza is. That our revenge on Ben Williams is in my hands—or well, in Kim’s until he throws the ball back. That the public’s attention depends on this at bat. That this game will set the tone of our season much more than the opening game will.
And that it’s all on me.
I raise my glove so I can hide the savage grin on my face. Kim lifts his mask and narrows his eyes at me like he knows exactly what’s going through my unhinged head. He shakes his and finally tosses the ball back to me.
In a fraction of second, I drop my expression back to blank and catch the ball. Kim crouches down and signals for a run off the mill curve at level with Machado’s waist, close enough to him that it will still be annoying. I like the idea. I still wait until the pitching count almost runs out to throw it.
This time Machado reacts. I grow tunnel vision as his bat swings. My leading foot lands. The ball dips inward. He whiffs it.
“Strike!”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” I mutter to myself when I catch the ball back from Kim. And because I enjoy being a little shit, I make direct eye contact with Williams as I raise one finger so the fielders know we have one strike.
His molars grind, and that makes me feel so warm and fuzzy.
The next one is another ball that should’ve been a strike if the umpire hadn’t partied too hard last night. If I throw one more ball, I’m going to walk Machado. And if one of the next batters gets him home, I’m not getting pizza on Kim’s dime tonight.
Speaking of him, he makes the sign for me to throw another curve at the lower corner by Machado’s knees. That’s a risky spot. The umpire hasn’t liked any of the pitches we’ve thrown too close to Machado, but he’s choking up on the bat like he expects one of the fastballs that the umpire called as balls.
My heart rate is high, like it would be after pitching six full innings and starting a seventh. But it’s not exceptionally high like it would be if I was truly afraid of the batter, or if I was gassed.
I’m gonna trust Kim’s call and give it my all.
Nodding, I wind up, my body acting like a whip that draws force from motion. The ball slides off my fingers and follows the right path.
Machado connects with it.
As I land, I turn to watch the trajectory and my eyebrows rise. It goes up into the blue sky of the early afternoon. Fans rise from their seats to catch it—but they’re all in the foul post section.
“Foul!”
“Wow,” I mutter, watching Kim under a new light. That asshole orchestrated a strike via a foul. He knew Machado would bat it to that exact position the second he choked up on the bat and played him like a fiddle.
This is why Williams made the wrong call by moving to the Riders. No matter how many more millions they pay him, he just doesn’t shine without a catcher that polishes him. A catcher that is now going to buymepizza.
I raise my index and pinky fingers for the fielders. Two outs, baby.
Also three strikes so… full count, I guess. Full pressure.
My blood boils in excitement. This is the moment I’ve been preparing for my whole freaking life. Since I started playing in the street in front of the orphanage with the other kids. Since I was officially allowed to join the pee wees because they played in a ballpark literally a block from the orphanage. Since my middle school coach started teaching me different ball grips. Since my high school coach told me that I had what it took to go all the way. Since I rubbed two neurons together and figured Williams’ departure was my opportunity.
And of course, this is when Kim signals for the cutter. Straight to the center.
I agree that we should go for broke. We’re not a battery of cowards.
I turn my face to the Orlando Wild dugout and fully ignore the manager. My eyes fall on Hope’s face as it pokes from over the barrier. She nods at me, also telling me to challenge the batter.
What else can I do but obey my woman, huh?
Facing Kim again, I nod and this time I don’t wait out the pitching count. That’s not the mind game we’re playing on Machado here. He’s in for a lil treat.
I’ve never compared my wind ups in much detail but I have the feeling like this is the best one in my life. When the ball releases from my hand, I already know it’s going to follow the perfect course, even considering the warm wind that blows against it. Machado swings, twisting his bat low like heknows this is a curve of some type. My lips start stretching. His bat rotates. The ball keeps spinning. The bat moves in perfect timing.
