Page 44 of Wild Pitch
His face twists with disgust. “It’s not like you’re my girlfriend, Starr.”
“Thank goodness. I’d be miserable.”
The umpire gives us a pointed look and we both head over to our positions.
At the top of the mound, I take one look at the dirt under my feet and annoyance bubbles up my throat. I let it escape in a whispered curse. Whatshisface has always been a stomper, a real bull on the mound trying to mark his territory. He digs his toes deep with his support leg, and then drags his heel with the landing one, turning the dirt into an uneven shitshow I’ve never been able to stomach, since I’m entirely the opposite. My windup wastes too much energy with its big motion and I can’t afford losing anymore with uneven footholds. Not to mention, it throws me the hell off because the holes in the dirt increasemyrisk of injury, not his.
And this is just one of the reasons why I can’t stand his freaking face. For years, it felt like I was the only one with the problem, but now that he’s gone other players and some staff arefeeling a lot more comfortable with sharing stories. That’s why I really want to defeat his fancy new team with my cutter. Alas.
Huffing, I take a moment to even out the dirt with my foot. Somehow I’ll have to find the way to hold the Riders back with my old pitches.
Well, not just me. I lucked out in keeping the weapon that made Ben Williams the forty-million-dollar pitcher he is now. And that’s Logan Kim.
He crouches down at the same time that the umpire calls play ball, and the first sign Kim gives me is a fastball with top backspin, the one I threw in my hometown that no one got to clock. The Riders are starting with the top of a lineup full of sluggers that won’t balk at a good fastball, so I guess we’re just going for a fielders game rather than a pitcher’s game.
Fine. I have no real problem with that. I’m used to not being the star of the show, but it doesn’t mean I’m giving up on that goal.
I nod and glance back for a second. The outfielders move in just enough, knowing that this is gonna be a whole ass carnival soon.
Facing out front, I wind up big time, sucking in air to give me even more explosive power. The ball slides out of my fingers in a way that leaves them tingling—in a good way. The ball crashes in a nasty thud against Kim’s mitt, echoing around the stadium. I land right in time for the beautiful view of the batter swinging and missing so hard that he falls to one knee.
The crowd erupts as the umpire calls, “Strike!”
I stay stoic but on the inside I’m hootin’. That was fun.
Kim returns the ball and I pluck it from the air with my glove. I sweep around the dirt again and just in case, check the dugout. Apparently the success of that fastball worked against me because Beau shakes his head again, still no cutter.
Good freaking gravy.
Unfortunately, my All-Star, super trustworthy catcher calls for a curve that leads to an unfieldable grounder and a runner on first. Another head shake from from Beau.
The contest is tighter with the second batter, but the three balls and two strikes situation ends in another runner on base thanks to a bit too much sweat in my hand. Grunting, I grab the rosin bag and toss it around until enough dust coats my hand. I blow the excess away and face my catcher once more.
Really?I wish I could ask him to his face. But another curve? He does know we’re in the heart of the batting order, right? Like, it’s only their best batter after this, another damn All-Star, and they already have two runners on base.
Yet, Kim signals for the curve again. And to twelve o’clock.
Like, I get it. I’m a southpaw. That angle’s gonna be ugly for a right-handed batter, but these dudes can hit it.
“Here goes nothing,” I sing song to myself without moving my lips.
Crack!
Well, look at that. We just set a perfect chessboard for the next batter, Miguel Machado, to step up to the plate and send us packing.
The crowd loses their collective shishkebab as the superstar slugger walks up to the plate. This ridiculous beast was last year’s MVP for the whole league, and so far has batted four home runs even though we’re only a month into Spring Training, with a .500 batting average and a .603 on-base percentage, on pace to break several kinds of records this season alone.
There’s only one pitch in my arsenal that is noxious enough to give Machado any pause, and it’s the one apparently Beau wants to preserve for a perfect world.
We are, in a succinct word, screwed.
Machado doesn’t even whiff at the first pitch, a solid two-seam that would stump the bottom of the Riders lineup. But thenext curveball does us in. The jerk doesn’t even use aluminum bats, yet he hits it so hard that his wooden bat cracks and the ball still flies like a rocket to the sun.
I don’t even have to turn to know it’s a damn grand slam. I rub my ear as the Riders fans scream their throats raw, glorying in our obvious defeat.
Kim stands up and signals for the fielders to come over as well, and I sigh. It’s only the fifth inning but I wouldn’t be surprised if they want to pull me right this second. Meanwhile, the four Riders round the bases and step home in succession, jumping to high five one another like this is their show and theirs alone.
“Hey,” Kim calls my attention.
