Page 102 of Wild Catch
I remove my mask and raise it in a mocking salute that gets me even more booing. It doesn’t stop even when their Eagles take to the field, like it’s much more important to shit on me than to cape for their actual team. Normal bird mentality.
I can spot my brother jogging over easier than anyone else. We look uncannily similar for brothers that aren’t twins, the exact same frame and near identical faces. His nose has a tiny bump on the bridge that I don’t have, his eyes are naturally wider, and mouth thinner. But that’s my square jaw on his face and the same set to our eyebrows. He keeps his face fully shaved and his hair short in a similar style to our dad’s.
But the biggest difference is that his eyes are dead. Looking at Lewis is the same as staring into a Victorian doll’s glass eyes. I sigh, annoyed that he, of course, has to take the spot on the Eagles line that faces me.
“Look who we have here, my beloved little brother.” He shows that empty smile of his.
I put my mask again and don’t respond.
Unfortunately, Lewis turns his attention to the guy next to me, who happens to be our starting pitcher. “Cade Starr? I’m Lewis Kim, it’s so great to meet the pitcher who is making waves in the league right now.”
Starr ignores him too. Instead, he covers his mouth with his glove and asks me, “Doesn’t he know we’ve already met?”
I also cover my mouth with my glove. “That’s his way of saying you’ve been insignificant to him so far.”
“Should I be flattered or pissed?” But the cowboy sounds neither—he’s amused.
“Whatever makes you pitch some cannons tonight,” I respond.
We quiet down for the national anthem, sang by the woman who opens for every Eagles game since before I was a rookie, and in the blink of an eye the game is starting.
I can feel Lewis’s laser beams trained on me as I crouch for the opening pitch. “Play ball!” the umpire calls.
I signal for Starr to throw whatever he wants—fastball, curve, cutter or even the slider he’s been practicing when he thinks I’m not watching, I don’t care. But it has to come in right here, I tell him with my glove positioned in the middle of my chest.
Bold? Maybe.
Foolish? Certainly.
But if it works, the Eagles are going to get raging angry at missing a pitch down the middle, and that’s what I’m betting on.
Besides, if it goes awry we now have Miguel Machado in centerfield, where most of the Eagles bat toward. And the guy is as much of a homerun machine as he is at catching hits or would-be-homers.
Starr winds up, his throwing arm pretty compact behind him and— “Strike!”
My mouth twitches. I’m tempted to buy him a pizza for this alone.
The second pitch goes in a similar fashion and by the third, the Eagles’s leadoff is so annoyed that he swings as wide as a pee wee playing for the first time. More booing ensues and I am healed. Whatever funk I was in, it’s in the past.
The best part is that I don’t have to deal with my brother directly during the game since he’s not a two-way player. His designated hitter comes in next, a guy who often competes against Machado for the All-Star homerun derbies. Convention would dictate that I make more cautious plays against him, but that’s not what makes me the catcher I am.
I, Logan Kim, am a little shit.
I call for an inside pitch, the least fave position for sluggers who like to swing big. Starr throws a nice cutter that stumps most batters, but this Eagle guy connects.
The ball hits the bat wrong. Instead of going forward, it shoots back at me like a bullet.
I can see it in slow motion, like watching a movie on TV. Rather than dodging it and risking it hitting somewhere worse, I stay put and brace. The ball hits on the inside of my left thigh. The speed makes the ball change course like I’m a human pinball machine, but my thigh changes the angle. The ball spins back and I catch it with my bare hand behind my right thigh.
“Strike!”
The stadium roars—or is that booing? I don’t give a shit.
Wincing, I stand up and toss the ball back at a gaping Starr. I can’t tell what our basemen are screaming over the noise. But I do hear the batter’s voice clearly.
“What the hell just happened?”
“A strike, is what,” I respond, taking my stance again.
