Page 9 of Wild Pitch
“Yeah?” I ask, confused out of my mind.
“Since when can you pitch a cutter?”
“Man, I don’t know. I woke up one morning right after Christmas and said, you know what my life needs right now? A cutter for my knife set.”
“Shut up, clown.” He runs his free hand down his face. “Are you telling me you’ve only been pitching this for two months?”
I hide my face with my glove, because this is pitcher-to-catcher only. “Of course not, you bonehead. I’ve been trying to make the cutter happen for like two years. I’m just finally getting the hang of it.”
Somehow that calms his tits a bit. “Oh. Okay, that’s better. I was about to drag you for messing up your form this close to the season.”
“Nope, same form as always. In fact, that’s why it’s not fully game ready.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “I knew that was a fluke.”
“And yet I bet on it working. Fifty-fifty fluke.”
“This is why I can’t stand pitchers,” he mumbles with a slow shake of his head. “You’re all cocky bastards.”
“Bless your soul.”
“Excuse me, do you need some tea for your little chat?” Rob Beau, our manager, calls from the bench. In case we misunderstood, he mimics the act of pouring tea into an imaginary teacup.
“Fine,” Kim grouches. “Give me only cutters. I’m going to personally write a report on whether you have what it takes to carry the season.”
“Just don’t miss them. I’d hate to write a report on howyoudon’t have what it takes to be my catcher.” I smirk.
He tosses a middle finger and once he gets in position, we get to work.
I wish I could say I threw one perfect cutter after another, but that would be a lie and lying is bad manners, which is one of those things orphans get in more trouble for than anyone else. Like I guesstimated, about half of my pitches are absolute tire fires that would’ve cost us bases or runs. By the string of expletives coming out of Kim’s mouth, I’d say runs.
The other half, though, were solid strikes. And that’s good enough odds for me.
Larry Socci, the pitching coach, calls it for me once I’ve hit my average count. I can keep going but there’s no point in pushing myself this early. I’m not one of those reckless daredevils who have to be dragged away from the mound. I’m not in this for short term success.
Beau rubs his salt and pepper beard, eying me like he can’t quite tell what species I am as I approach the bench.
“Cool down your shoulder,” is all he says as I step under the shade, his attention back on the rest of the pitching practice.
Boo hiss, I think to myself. Where are my words of affirmation, coach?
“Wait.”
We all turn to the female voice.
This time it’s not Garcia, who pauses from pulling the shoulder ice pack from a cooler. Instead, it’s Rosalina Mena, our social media girl.
“Can I record a couple of videos with Starr before he takes off his shirt?”
I refrain from asking if it wouldn’t be better to record them after that, because I’m a damn gentleman.
“Fine.” Beau nods at her before turning to me. “But ice right after.”
“Yes, sir.” I pick myself up and stride after Mena.
“Hey, Garcia. Come here,” someone else calls from the field and she takes off so fast, she cuts through my path.
Back to avoiding sharing oxygen, I see.
