Triple Play - Cassie Cole Page 0,25

Then Rafael’s Rookie of the Year award was announced. The team manager accepted it on his behalf since he was warming up, but they showed him on the jumbotron and he waved as the crowd cheered. I was next to him on the jumbotron, so I crossed my arms and tried not to look awkward.

The national anthem was played by some country music star I had never heard of. Rafael continued warming up while they sang. Nothing interrupted a pitcher’s focus, not even patriotism.

After that, all the trainers and coaches returned to the dugout. I patted Rafael on the back and said, “Focus on your pitch location. This is just like any other game.”

He chuckled and shook his head.

“What? Still nervous?” I asked.

“I was just thinking how it’s weird to get patted on the back instead of the butt.”

I immediately blushed. “I’ve touched your butt enough already, don’t you think?”

He grinned. “There’s no such thing as too much butt touching.”

I laughed and walked back to the dugout with the other coaches. On the way there I passed a section of front-row seats on the first baseline that was roped off from the rest of the stands. The owner’s box. Jeff Delorian was a middle-aged man with gaunt features and a slender frame. He wore a full suit and vest, and had one leg crossed over the other while he spoke to another suited man in the seat next to him. He looked like he belonged in a board meeting more than a ballpark. His sunken eyes gazed around the field with boredom.

His gaze fell on me, and I quickly stared straight ahead as I descended the steps into the dugout with the rest of the team. I took my spot at the very end of the dugout. Everyone was standing on the top step, looking out on the field while waiting for the game to begin. Out on the field, the home plate umpire made a gesture.

The game announcer came on the PA system and said, “Now taking the field… YOUR TEXAS RANGERS!”

The team jogged out of the dugout to tremendous applause and cheers. It sounded louder down here at field level, but it might have been my imagination.

The announcer went through the lineup. “Batting fourth, at first base, Darryl Bryant.”

The crowd cheered extra loud for him.

I watched Rafael jog in from the outfield. His uniform was crisp and white, with “TEXAS” across the front in blue and red lettering.

“And on the mound today, Rafael Rivera.”

I watched him throw a few warm-up pitches, while the opposing batter stepped up to the plate. There was an excited buzz in the air. After a long winter of waiting, baseball was finally here.

And now that I was a member of the team, I was more nervous than when I was just a fan.

The batter was ready. The home plate umpire nodded in agreement. Rafael took a deep breath, let it out, and then began his windup. The ball zoomed across the space, sixty feet and six inches away, and smacked into the glove with a loud pop.

High. Ball one.

The next pitch was another fastball, closer than the first but still too high. Ball two. I could feel the excitement go out of the crowd. This wasn’t the best way to start a season.

Rafael took a few moments to dig his cleats into the mound, finding his right push-off point. He glanced over at the dugout.

I flashed him a thumbs-up.

He hesitated, then removed his glove and squeezed his hand into a fist. I counted to ten with him.

“The hell’s he doing?” Coach Schultz muttered next to me.

The next pitch was a fastball right down the middle, which the batter took for a strike. The batter took a huge cut at the next pitch for a swing and miss. Then Rafael threw a curveball that started up around the batter’s eyes and dropped into the catcher’s glove for strike three.

The crowd roared with approval. I pumped my fist in the dugout.

The next two batters were quick outs. One popped-out to the shortstop on the first pitch, and the other batter grounded-out to Darryl Bryant at first. Rafael walked back to the dugout with a clean inning on the scorecard, three up and three down. He sat by himself in the middle of the bench. None of the other players talked to him, and they gave him a few feet of room on either side. It was common knowledge not to bother a pitcher in the