Triple Play - Cassie Cole Page 0,80

front foot, and his massive body twisted. The bat hissed across the plate with impossible speed. For a brief moment I was annoyed with him for allowing himself to swing at the first pitch. For being stubborn.

But his bat swung low and then high, like an uppercut punch, practically golfing the baseball a few inches off the ground. The sound was like a gunshot. Illuminated by the bright stadium lights, the ball soared through the air toward left field. It was so high that I didn’t think it would clear the outfield fence—I thought it would be caught by the left fielder.

Before the ball landed in the stands, Darryl flipped his bat like a discarded toothpick. “How’s that for just getting on base!” he shouted excitedly at us as he jogged down first base.

The ball cleared the outfield fence for a home run, and the crowd went crazy.

The phenomenon was called a walk-off home run because it was the only time the opposing players walked off the field. Normally at the end of an inning, the outfielder and everyone else came jogging back to the dugout. But when the home team hit a home run that immediately ended the game in the ninth inning or extra innings, nobody jogged. They slumped their heads and walked back toward the dugout like defeated men returning from war.

The indoor fireworks went off, and the theme from The Natural boomed from the speakers around the stadium. The bright lights flickered and strobed as Darryl Dingers made his home run trot around the bases. The Rangers in the dugout leaped the barrier and ran to home plate to meet him the moment he stepped on the plate. As Darryl rounded third and headed home, he removed his batting helmet and flipped it over his shoulder, then leaped into the pile of white Rangers jerseys.

Growing up in DFW, I had been to a lot of Rangers games. But I had never been to one so loud. The crowd noise was deafening, so much so that we couldn’t hear the music blasting from the stadium speakers.

“Pay this man!” Rafael shouted as he joined the pile. “Give this man the contract he deserves!”

The team’s elation was infectious. Two players grabbed the Gatorade jug from the dugout and tried to douse Darryl, but they missed and the contents drenched the poor news reporter who was trying to interview Darryl. It was the happiest I had ever seen everyone.

We had the momentum in the series from that moment on.

Carter gave a solid performance the next night in game four. He threw strikes and pitched to contact, just like the plan we had discussed, and gave up three runs in six innings. Not an elite performance, but it was what we considered a quality start. Putting the offense in a position to win.

It was more than enough for them. Darryl smashed another home run and drew a pair of walks in the game, and we won 5-3.

The next day when I arrived at the ballpark to help Gallaraga warm up, I found someone else waiting in the bullpen. Rafael was standing against the wall, spinning his arms in a circle to stretch out.

“You’d better be here to watch Gallaraga,” I warned.

“The trainer cleared me to throw from the mound,” he said, sounding like he had practiced exactly what he would say to me. “If my arm feels good, I can throw.”

“Does it feel good?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

He stopped spinning his arms and grabbed his glove. “Just let me throw. I have to see how my arm feels. I need this, Natalie.”

I sighed and grabbed the catcher’s gear. “Fine.”

Once I was covered in protective gear, I squatted behind the plate in the dugout. “Give me a fastball to start. Minimal effort.”

He threw a fastball across the plate. The radar gun on the wall registered the speed: 75. He was throwing nice and easy to warm up. I relaxed a bit.

After he had thrown five of those, he held his shoulder and rolled his pitching arm in the socket. “I can tell I’m still off. But there’s no pain or discomfort when I throw.”

“Alright,” I said skeptically. “Try giving me a normal fastball. Ninety-five percent effort.”

I went into the catching position, and he stepped through his windup. He raised his left knee until it almost touched his chin, then stepped forward to fire the fastball toward me. As soon as I felt it hit the padding of my glove, I