the mound. Putting aside the rivalries involved, I was incredibly proud of my friend. He had started off the season afraid that he would be sent back down to triple-A, and now he was one of the best closers in baseball. He had come so far this season.
But despite that, I would take him out if I had to. I knew he was thinking the same thing of me. We would meet and get a beer after the game regardless of the outcome, but we wouldn’t show any mercy until then.
The roar of the crowd was a constant, deafening noise in the air. Everyone was on their feet for the ninth inning. The game could end on any pitch. One swing of the bat and the Texas Rangers would win their first World Series.
Our catcher was up first this inning, but he wasn’t a great hitter so our manager sent Calhoun out to pinch-hit for him. Joel quickly got ahead in the count with two strikes. The third pitch was a cutter inside which Calhoun fouled off, cracking his bat in the process. He retrieved a new bat from the dugout, then fouled off three more pitches. He didn’t make good contact on anything, but he was staying alive—and wearing Joel down in the process.
Finally Joel left a fastball too far out over the plate, and Calhoun was able to turn on it and rope a single into left field. He clapped his hands as he ran down to first, and pumped his fist toward our dugout where we were all cheering.
The next batter stepped to the plate and immediately held out the bat to bunt. There was no point in hiding it—the whole world knew we would be trying to bunt the runner over. Which is exactly what he did on the first pitch: he dribbled a bunt down the third-base line, which the fielder scooped up and fired to first for the out. But it moved the runner over, and we jumped and cheered and clapped in the dugout.
The winning run was at second base with one out. There was a batter ahead of me, but depending on what he did I might have a chance to drive the winning run home. It was a scenario every kid in the world fantasized about. Game seven, bottom of the ninth. Stepping up to the plate with a chance to win the World Series with one swing. Goosebumps ran up my tattooed arms as I retrieved my bat.
Before I could walk up to the on-deck circle, Natalie tugged on my sleeve. “I need to talk to you.”
“Now? I’m a little busy, Natalie.”
“It’s Joel,” she said insistently. “He’s tipping his pitches.”
44
Natalie
Joel’s pitching motion was relatively simple. He held the ball with both hands in his glove and raised it to eye-level. He kept the glove there for a second or two before stepping forward to throw the ball. I knew his pitching motion like the back of my hand because I had helped him work on it earlier this spring. If I closed my eyes I could picture the entire motion.
Which is why it stuck out when he hung his head a little bit lower. Not a lot, but his head was tilted forward just a little bit more. He didn’t do it all the time. Only before he threw a fastball. When he threw his cutter, he didn’t tilt his head forward at all.
It wasn’t an intentional thing. It was completely subconscious. A good pitching coach would notice it and correct it immediately. But so far, the Dodgers coach hadn’t come out of the dugout. I thought I saw it in the eighth inning, but I wasn’t sure. Now that it was the ninth, and Joel had pitched to a couple of guys, I was certain beyond any doubt. He was tipping his pitches.
My mind raced. Had he been doing this all series? I hadn’t noticed it until tonight. If I told somebody, it would absolutely destroy Joel. If I was the one to reveal his weakness at this point in the game, it might eliminate any chance of the two of us being together. He might never forgive me.
But I couldn’t keep it to myself. I was a member of the Texas Rangers staff first, and Joel’s lover second. Joel himself had made that perfectly clear. It was true.
Darryl was about to walk up to the on-deck circle. Before he could, I raced over and grabbed his jersey. “I