were prepared. They knew his fastball was in the high-eighties and knew he would be relying on his breaking balls. I expected them to tee-off on Rafael.
But the tall right-hander looked masterful on the mound. He threw a hanging curveball for strike one, then snuck two fastballs low in the zone to get two swinging strikes. The next batter looked equally fooled, as did the one after that. Rafael returned to the dugout having struck out all three batters with just eleven pitches.
“Boys,” Rafael said when he reached the top step of the dugout. He was addressing the whole team, and everyone quieted down. Because when the ace of the team spoke, you listened.
“Boys, I’m only going to need one run from you tonight.” He held up one finger. “Just get me one.”
“You heard the man!” Darryl said energetically. “Let’s do some damage!”
Rafael sat next to me, and I whispered, “That’s the cockiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“I meant it,” Rafael said. “I’ve got it tonight, Natalie. I can feel it. The lower velocity is helping me.”
I scoffed at that. “You sound like my mom when she told teenage-me that guys didn’t actually like big boobs, and that I was prettier without them.”
Rafael gave a start. “She told you what?”
“I was a late bloomer. I was flat-chested until I was seventeen. Mom told me that was okay, but she was just trying to make me feel better. That’s what you sound like when you say you’re better without your fastball velocity.”
He smiled. “I’m serious. When I’m throwing ninety-seven, I know I can reach back and try to blow a fastball by a hitter. Since I can’t do that, I’m locating my pitches better. Using finesse rather than brute force. I think I can get through a few innings unscathed.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said, reaching under the bench to retrieve my binder. “Let’s go over the heat maps for the next three batters.”
Rafael’s fastball velocity never went above eighty-eight for the rest of the game, but it didn’t need to. The reduced velocity on all his pitches meant they moved more than normal, and it threw the Dodgers off-balance. His two-seamer moved down-and-in against righties. So did his changeup, but even slower. His slider went in the opposite direction, and he threw a big, sweeping curveball that started at the batter’s eye-level and landed down around the ankles.
What he had said in the dugout wasn’t empty boasting. He was on. He rarely left any pitches out over the middle of the plate. He nibbled on the corners, never giving the Dodgers anything good to hit. By the third inning they grew impatient and frustrated.
It was a gutsy display of athleticism. Someone whose arm wasn’t at a hundred percent, yet he was battling out there with sheer willpower alone.
A big part of it was that the Dodgers weren’t prepared. They had probably expected Gallaraga to pitch tonight, and had studied his arsenal before the game. Rafael’s style of pitching was completely different.
It wouldn’t work forever. But that was okay because it only needed to work tonight.
Rafael mowed through the batters in the fourth inning, then the fifth. The only baserunner he had allowed was the walk he gave up to start the game. He strutted around the mound with confidence. He didn’t look like a pitcher whose arm was injured. He looked like the ace from the first game of the season six months ago.
There was just one problem: our offense couldn’t get him any runs.
Martinez, the tall Chilean pitcher for the Dodgers, looked elite. He mowed through our lineup with ease, matching Rafael every inning. Darryl drew two walks against him, but was stranded on first base each time. The only hit we got was a double in the sixth inning, which was wasted when the next two batters struck out.
After seven innings, the score was zero-zero. There was only one hit in the entire game. Rafael was pitching a no-hitter—and we still might lose the game.
“Pitch count?” the manager asked me before the eighth inning.
“Eighty-nine,” I replied. Normally we pulled a pitcher when they neared a hundred pitches… But nothing about this game was normal.
“He still looks good,” the manager said.
“It’s too high for comfort, though. Keep him on a short leash.”
The first batter in the eighth inning was left-handed. Rafael started him off with a slider. The pitch began at the middle of the plate and then darted to the left, toward the batter. He didn’t