Page 34 of Wild Pitch
“Can I have your autograph?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“My grandma pitches better!”
“Hell, my grandma has more balls!”
I do my best not to roll my eyes because I have no doubt some eagle-eyed fan would notice. And normally I wouldn’t give a rat’s furry ass about hecklers—or actually, I do. They fuel the very strong pettiness in me and push me to shut their yaps. Which I can’t really do when I’m here and not on the mound of this very unimportant game that’s happening in my hometown.
And that’s the crux of my real annoyance. I really wanted to throw the cutter here as a very clear way of telling everyone herebless your heart, asshole.
Pirela crouches down again, extending one leg out probably to stretch his knee. He signals for another fastball, this time right against the chest of an imaginary right-handed batter. At least this isn’t a coward’s pitch, so we’re starting to get somewhere.
We don’t have a pitching clock here so I take my time positioning the seams of the ball where I can throw the nastiest pitch. Let’s see how they like that.
The noise around me fades into a dull, unrecognizable cacophony in the background. I keep my eyes on the catcher’s mitt as I wind up, my right leg rising high for a full extension. My arm’s like a whip that puts a downright dirty backspin on the ball that shoots off from the tips of my fingers like a bullet. I land, keeping my eyes on the white blur as it slams with a violent sound and enough force to make Pirela reel back—and land on his ass. Not my fault he wasn’t in the proper stance to catch.
But it was a strike for freaking sure.
I straighten myself up and after that, the next to recover is Pirela. He whispers, “Wow.” And the word seems to echo because suddenly the audience has gone quiet.
I run my thumb under my nose to collect the sweat that’s pooled above my lip, and straighten the dirt with my cleat.
“Whoa, how fast was that?” someone from the audience asks.
My personal record is one hundred two point five miles per hour. This one felt better. So maybe one-oh-three.
Pirela swings back to his feet and lifts up his mask. He opens and closes his mouth, shakes his head, and decides to walk over here instead. He deposits the ball on my waiting hand gently and looks up at me.
“I’m gonna have to ice my hand after this, you jerk, but that was cool. Don’t do it again.”
I snort. “You sound like you’re hanging out with Kim too much.”
“He’s not wrong, you pitchers need to be reined in.” He wrinkles his nose. “Back to normal fastballs, okay?”
“Bleh.” I sneer.
Pirela taps my chest with his mitt before heading back to his spot and I have no choice but to suck it up because catchers are the boss on the field, and if I step out of line they tell on me with our grand-boss, our manager.
The game ends with a close win for us and I head back to the dugout next to Pirela, leaving behind the hecklers and cheers. This town hated my very existence when I was growing up—white trash abandoned orphan that I was—and now even the cheers and admiration feels like a personal insult. I didn’t ask for any of it when I was a kid, but is this the only way to earn some respect? To throw a ball really fast? What will happen the day I retire? Will I go back to being the dreg of this town?
I’m not a spitter, but I hack up a good glob and launch it at the ground before reaching the dugout. I can’t wait to brush the dirt off my shoes and get on the plane out of here.
A couple of innings of light pitching don’t require much upkeep after, aside from a shower. The debrief is quick because we have to drive down to the airport right away, and frankly I’m so eager that I’m the first one out of the facilities. Which is a mistake.
“Cade! Over here!”
“Can you sign my ball?”
“Let’s take a selfie!”
“Would you sign on me? I promise I can keep it real for you, babe.” This one is a woman who pulls down at her top to a hefty expanse of her chest. A mom nearby physically turns her son’s head away from the display.
I rub my eyes, asking the heavens for patience—which is what I should’ve had in the first place. If I’d waited for the rest of the team to come out, I could’ve used them as cover from the crowd. But I also shouldn’t show any cowardice to these people, so I have no choice but to play nice.
Not boob lady, though. I turn my back on her and pick a kid who’s waving his regulation ball toward me.
“Hey, little cowboy,” I say as greeting, crouching like a catcher so he doesn’t have to stretch his tiny self over the fence.
