Pshh. Am I in? “Let’s fucking go.”
nine
Easton
Onemoreout.
That’s all we need to win. To clinch our spot in the Division series.
It’s top of the ninth, we’re up by one, and the other team’s go-ahead run is on third.Just one more out.
The next batter walks up to the plate and slaps the bat on the inside of his cleats before settling in the box. He’s a big guy. He homered in the fifth. I’ve been watching him. He rips it when he hits it right, but his timing is off. He swings too late, which means his hits have been coming my way every time he’s up.
One more out.
It’s mine. I can feel it. I’ve never felt more at home, more in sync with anything like I do with baseball. It’s like a sixth sense, a second language I speak.
Our closer throws a pitch. Swing and miss.
I stretch my head from side to side, roll my shoulders. I shift on my toes, knees slightly bent. Ready.
Next pitch—crack!
My eyes zero in on the ball, and I sprint to my left. I think it’s going to end up going foul. It’ll be close. Either way, I might still be able to get it.I will.
Shit, it’s too high, going too far. My plan forms before my brain even realizes what my body is doing. I leap into the padded side wall, launching myself up and extending my arm as far as I can, gaze never leaving the ball. My body lengthens, stretching to its limit, and the glorious weight of a baseball slams into my glove. I tighten my glove and hold on for dear life as the world spins.
I’m falling, no sense of up or down, tumbling over the right-field foul wall. Hands and arms and bodies are everywhere, jostling me, grabbing at me. The ground is coming at me like a charging bull. Fuck.
Something—or someone—slams into my chest. My head connects with the ground? A seat? I suck in a gasping breath, and the world tilts back into focus, my equilibrium finally righting itself.
Fans holler, a chaotic mix of cheers, “Holy shit”, “Is he alive” melding together. I stand on wobbly legs. My cheek is screaming in pain, but I lift my glove high, clutching the ball. I can barely hear through the crowd’s roar and the blood thrumming in my ears.
My team sprints toward me, and I can’t help the shit-eating grin from spreading over my face. Yeah, I did that. No big deal. Lil awkward ol’ me. One hell of a ballplayer.
Shane slams into me, grabbing my thighs and hefting me into the air.
“That was fucking epic, Winters!” someone shouts.
“Playoffs, baby!” multiple guys cheer.
“I thought you died, man,” someone else says
I land back on my feet, subject to a never-ending assault of backslaps while we all jog to the dugout. The adrenaline has me soaring. I’m sure once it comes down my face is going to hurt like a motherfucker.
“Nah,” Shane says. “Nothing can take down this cowboy.”
We share a grin.
A little while later, we’re all in the locker room stripping down, and Coach comes in. “Michaels, Winters. My office. Five minutes.”
Shane glances at me, eyebrows disappearing behind his sweaty, overlong blond hair.
I’m probably getting ahead of myself, but I think this has to be good. Both Shane and I have been having a great debut. Draftees don’t always get playing time their first year since they show up when the season is almost over. Both Shane and I have, though, and with this win, the Tampa Surge has clinched a playoff spot, so we’re looking at even more chances to prove ourselves.
Shane has been like a superhero at shortstop. I swear the guy is made of rubber; he’s so fucking bendy. And he’s fast. He stole home today. I saw the way our coaches glanced at each other afterward.This kid’s got talent.
I quickly shove my mess of sweaty hair under my ballcap, and Shane and I make our way to Coach’s office. He motions to the chairs in front of his desk. After we’re settled, he drops his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers.
