swing at it, and it would have been a ball. But instead, the batter leaned his right elbow down into the strikezone and allowed the ball to glance off his protective elbow guard.
The rules stated that a batter had to attempt to avoid being hit by a pitch. They couldn’t simply stand there and take it, and they certainly weren’t allowed to lean in. But the home-plate umpire held both hands up to signal a dead ball, and then pointed to first base to signal a hit-by-pitch.
“No!” Rafael shouted from the mound. He gestured with his elbow. “He leaned into it!” A barrage of shouting and disagreement flew from our dugout, and my voice was as loud as anybody.
Rafael was walking toward home plate, shouting louder. Before he could get himself ejected, our manager sprinted out of the dugout and got in the umpire’s face. He argued for a solid minute while boos rained down from the fans.
“What kind of horseshit call is that!” I yelled. “Get your head out of your ass, blue!”
When our manager had given the umpire an earful, he turned away. But instead of coming back to the dugout he slowly walked to the mound. He glanced at me and patted his left arm. That meant he wanted Hallaway to come into the game.
I picked up the bullpen phone and said, “Get Hallaway up.” Then I jogged out to the field to meet the manager at the mound. All four infielders converged on Rafael, surrounding him protectively.
“Don’t pull me,” Rafael told the manager. “That hit-by-pitch was bullshit. I can get out of this.”
“We’ve got Hallaway ready to go,” he replied.
“Give me one more batter,” Rafael begged. “Let me finish what I started.”
The manager glanced at me. So did Rafael, Darryl, and the rest of the infielders. I felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on my shoulders. It was the eighth inning of the World Series. The go-ahead run was now on base with no outs, and our starter was nearing a hundred pitches.
But that starter was Rafael Rivera, a man who loved me. A man who I loved back just as fiercely. Hallaway was already jogging out I knew what I had to do, and it crushed me to do it.
“You did your job,” I said. “You gave us seven scoreless. That’s more than anyone could have asked for.”
Rafael recoiled like he had been punched. “You’re gonna pull me in the middle of a no-hitter?”
“We’re here to win the World Series. Nothing else matters.” I held out my palm for the ball.
Rafael stared at it for a minute, then slumped his shoulders. He placed the ball in my hand and walked off the mound.
I could have gone back into the dugout with him, but I waited. It was an unspoken tradition to allow a starting pitcher to walk back to the dugout alone, to give the crowd a chance to applaud them. And cheer for him the crowd did. Everyone in the stadium slowly rose to their feet. The applause rained down on him, louder and louder until it was a deafening roar. The shoulders that had slumped moments before now stood tall. Rafael held his head high as he crossed the foul line. Before dipping into the dugout, he reached up and tipped his cap to them, acknowledging their praise.
I felt myself choking up at the sight. Not because I regretted pulling him, but because of how proud I felt.
Only after handing the game ball to Hallaway did the manager and I return to the dugout. Rafael was hugging each of his teammates, and his eyes were red and emotional.
I sat on the bench and stared straight ahead. The trainer helped Rafael put an ice sleeve on his arm, and then he sat farther down on the bench. Away from me.
Win this game, I thought. That’s all that matters.
Hallway raised my blood pressure by throwing three straight balls to the next hitter. The batter swung at the next pitch though, popping up to the third baseman. During the next at-bat the runner tried to steal second base, but our catcher fired a laser across the diamond and the runner was narrowly tagged out.
Hallaway struck out the third batter, ending the inning. Our team erupted with excitement, not least of all Rafael who was waiting on the top step of the dugout to high-five Hallway.
“Oh shit,” Darryl said. “They’re bringing Joel in.”
I saw that he was right. The door in the outfield wall opened and