Page 71 of Wild Pitch
“Strike! One out!”
Mumbles travel up and down the dugout. Of course we’re happy for a first out at the bottom of the sixth inning against Lewis Kim’s team. Of course.
But where’s the damn cutter?
The audience grows rowdier as the cleanup batter of the Eagles steps to the plate, doing some practice swings that are meant to intimidate our pitcher. This guy is a 6 foot 7 giant with all the power of batting the ball way out of the park and into the parking lot. He’s already done it once during Spring Training.
“This is it,” I say, because there’s literally no one better to stump in this lineup than this guy.
The first pitch is the same curve that struck out the previous Eagle. My heart stops as the batter connects. I follow the course and relax. The line umpire calls a foul.
The batter settles for the second pitch and Logan crouches again to signal. Starr gives no response other than starting his windup with the exact same movements as every pitch before.
Except this ball doesn’t drop.
And then a millisecond before the bat can connect, it drops like freaking lead.
Logan catches it square in his mitt, hovering a millimeter above the dirt.
“Strike!”
“Holy—” someone screams in the dugout.
“Dude, did you see that?”
“That was brutal!”
“Is there a replay?”
“Dude.Dude!”
If I was a cartoon, my jaw would hit the floor.
While the dugout is a flurry of euphoria, the stands are eerily quiet as Logan returns the ball to our pitcher. I squint, trying to make out Starr’s expression. There is literally nothing in it, no sign of glee at throwing such a wild pitch that it has completely stupefied everyone in attendance.
Pitchers usually have several balls under their arsenal—often different types of fastballs and curves. Until now, Cade Starr had good enough weapons to keep him a regular in the majors. But I think I just witnessed the moment he really becomes a monster.
And because his battery partner is another monster, their third pitch is another cutter that makes the Eagles’ cleanup swing and miss by a mile.
Literally every Wild player and staff member screams their throats raw—including me. I don’t even know what I keep shouting, but I can’t stop myself. If anything, seeing Starr lift his hand, index and pinky up to signal two outs to the outfield, makes me louder. My pulse races as the next batter steps up to the plate. Wedging one foot between the padded planks of the railing, I hoist myself up so I can scream through the clearing above.
“Go wild, Cowboy!” I yell.
He throws another two-seamer by the batter’s chest that gets another strike. It feels like time or space are warping, because everyone else moves fast, the voices blend into a single scream, and yet Cade Starr is calm as he receives the ball and nestles it in his glove. He runs the palm of his left hand against his pants to wipe the sweat, and winds up again.
“Strike!”
“One more!” I shriek, my voice breaking embarrassingly.
Starr catches the ball again and he turns to the dugout. I know it’s to watch for any signs from Beau, so does the rest of the team, but we’re all feral in this moment.
“Kill ‘em, Cowboy!”
“For the pizza!”
I have no idea what that’s about but I also parrot, “For the pizza!”
Starr tosses a nod before turning back to Kim, who crouches down. They’re an aggressive battery that doesn’t tend to wait out the clock. And so Starr throws again and?—
