feels perfect about that one, from its release to delivery. The hiss of the pitch and the foomp of it hitting Ez’s mitt, followed by the bellow of the umpire. “Striiiiiiike!” he yells, animated with a hand gesture.
That sound, it’s what relief sounds like.
Blowing out a breath, I focus on the commotion in the stands, the cheering that comes next, and the whispers in the dugouts. Our team freaks out, jumping up and down, whistling at me, and clapping, but I don’t know why. They can’t be that excited over a strike.
The umpire tells Ez something, and he nods, returning the ball to me. I look down at it and wonder what the speed was on that one.
“Two more! Two more, Reins,” Ez says, throwing the ball back to me. “Give me two more, just like that!”
I don’t dare look into the dugout again or into the stands. That pitch had heat on it, but I have no idea what the speed was. When baseball’s right for me, I can feel everything. A nick on the surface of the ball. A gob of mud under my spike, under the foot from where I’ve driven from rubber. The wind on my face. The sweat on the back of my neck. All of it.
It’s as if I’m not playing a game at all, but it’s my own heartbeat. The pulse that keeps everything moving for me.
I throw another, and one more, with just as much speed to end the inning. Trevor smiles at me, the barrel of the bat in his hand, shaking his head. No longer two for two, I give him a head nod.
In the dugout, Ez stares at me with a goofy look, the entire team patting me on the back. “What the fuck are you staring at?”
“Huh?”
“I said, what the fuck are you staring at?”
“You,” he says, winking at me, his arm slung over my shoulders. “I’m staring at you, baby.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.” He points to the scoreboard that lights up with the replay and the flashing speed. “And you, ya fuckin’ beefcake, just threw 105.”
The two pitches before that one, 102, 103.
I act unimpressed and shrug it off, but damn, my heart’s racing. Had I really thrown that hard in a game?
I look to Chiasson. He gives me a nod and slaps his hand to my shoulder. “Get ’em, kid.” Little impresses Chiasson. If it does, he doesn’t let on, but tonight, that stone-faced, sunglasses-at-night-wearing motherfucker locks eyes with me and smiles.
I return the nod and smile. Maybe he’s forgiven me for fucking his daughter? Not likely, but a 105 mile an hour fastball might have at least weakened his grudge against me.
We begin the inning by securing a four-run lead, and I even hit a home run through left field. For someone who hasn’t been batting much lately, that’s impressive but has nothing on my pitching the remainder of the game. I shut them down. Two-seam fastball, four-seam fastball, changeup, slider, curveball. It’s all there for me, and we end up winning 8-4. Best game I’ve had all year.
In the clubhouse, the team stands and applauds me. I walk in with a grin and sit at my locker, the roar in my own head drowned out by the guys around me.
Before the press is allowed in, the guys are lit, the win their only concern. “Dude!” Noah stands in front of me. “You just broke the record in the majors.” He points to the doors of the clubhouse that will soon open, and the press will be let in. “They’re going to fucking freak out. You’re gonna get so much pussy over this.”
Ha. Like that will fix anything, but the idea is one I’m not opposed to.
I glance down at my phone when it vibrates with a text from my dad.
Dad: Good job, kid! You amaze me every day. So proud of you!
And another from my aunt Sway, who follows my career about as closely as my dad does.
Aunt Sway: Duuuude! 105!
You know who doesn’t send one?
My mom. I doubt she even knows what day of the week it is.
“Where are we heading tonight?” Ez asks, looking to Forest for an answer. “We need to celebrate! And I need some slob on my knob.”
Slob on my knob? Just when I think he can’t get any nastier.
Forest shrugs one shoulder. “Dude, did you see Lowry’s swing. It’s ugly.” For a guy who spends hours in the cages, and even more time watching tape of his own