Nothing has changed in the measurements. Still sixty feet, six inches from here to the glove. It’s not Roddy’s glove, but Kyle Durbin is a lot like Roddy. He’s thirty-three and pissy. I can pretend.
“Batting for the San Diego Padres, number sixteen, Miguel Arenas.”
It’s a home game, so it’s our announcer, and he’s pretty straightforward as he announces our opponents. It’s almost comical because Miguel won a Silver Slugger award last year, and he has fans everywhere. The applause and screams as he steps up to the plate sure feel like I’m in San Diego instead of Texas.
But I’m not.
And it’s still sixty feet, six inches to strike one.
I dig at the dirt in front of the rubber to get the perfect feel, the right balance of traction and release. My cleat settles in and I lean forward to study my first situation. My first pitch in the majors. My mom is holding her breath somewhere. My dad is holding my mom.
“Let’s do this,” I whisper.
The call comes through the PitchCom. Fast ball. High and outside. I nod and bring my glove into my chest, feeling the ball in the leather. My first pitch in the majors and fucking Kyle Durbin wants me to throw a ball.
I wind up, my mind races as my motion takes over, and I release the ball straight into Kyle’s glove. Only it never snaps into the pocket. It cracks off Miguel’s bat, and I flip around and try not to throw up all over the mound as a hundred-and-four mile per hour liner zips down the third baseline and lands . . . five inches foul.
“Fuuuuuck,” I mutter as my eyes shut.
I pull my hat from my head and run my forearm over my forehead. I’m sweating more than usual. That was a close one.
I pivot in time to catch the ball Kyle fires back at me, his mask up on his forehead, his frown set into his cheeks. Yeah, he may as well be Roddy.
I lift my glove in apology. I’ll tell him I missed my spot. I’ll blame it on nerves. But truth is, I did it again. Just like Roddy said. I didn’t fucking listen.
The PitchCom comes in with another fastball, high and outside, and I chuckle to myself. My first pitch was a strike of sorts, but not the kind I want. High and outside it is. Right you are.Listen to your catcher, Hunter.
I wind up and fire the ball to Kyle, and Miguel swings through it for strike two. The crowd roars. Most of the fans behind the plate on their feet. It’s my first start. I’m the guy. The best there ever was or will be. And they are all behind me.
My upper lip flickers with the need to smile, so I give in to the asshole smirk I know it must look like to Miguel. I’m sure the commentary about this first batter, my first faceoff, is full of color. I’m sure my reputation is being set right now. I’m all right with being the guy who smirks his way through trouble, as longas I’m the guy who comes back stronger. Who throws harder. Who pitches smarter.
The PitchCom calls for the slider, and I feel the threads of the ball in my glove. I keep the smirk in place as I imagine the words they’re saying in the booth.
You have to wonder when it’s a kid like this on the mound. So much hype. Can he handle it? Twenty-three is young to be facing guys who have World Series rings in their vaults. And Silver Slugger awards, to boot. Then there’s this guy—Hunter Reddick—number one draft pick. And despite all the experience standing at the plate in front of him, he seems cool and unfazed. He seems ready. And I gotta tell you, Texas fans, I believe he is. This is our guy. And he’s going to make this a summer to remember.
I wind up, my body following the years of training that led me here, my arm stretching back, my step forward strong, leg straight, quads engaged, elbow like a rubber band, ready to work. The ball flies through the air, the threads spinning so fast there’s no way Miguel can get a read on this. He’s going to swing. He’s going to miss. And then . . . he does.
“Hell, yeah!” I pump my fist as Miguel shakes his head and glances at me on his way back to the dugout. He touches the brim of his hat, a tiny tip for respect, and I nod back at him.
“I want that ball!” I shout, and Kyle tosses it to the coaching staff to put somewhere safe for me to give to my mom. She deserves this token. It’s hers as much as it’s mine. Dad can have the next one.
“Pretty solid way to introduce yourself to the fans here in Arlington, Hunter Reddick,” Amy Tidings, the local affiliate reporter says before pushing her microphone toward me.
I chuckle and glance over my shoulder where Kyle is still changing out at his cubby.
“I’m only as good as my catcher, really. I feel lucky to have a guy like Kyle Durbin catching for me. I was in good hands. Though, I missed my spot that first pitch. That one . . . That scared me,” I say through a nervous laugh.
“It scared all of us, I think,” Amy says. “It’s nice to hear such respect for your teammate already. I know you’re the new guy here, but that has to go a long way in the clubhouse, I'm sure. What has the welcome been like so far?”
I glance around the locker room, and most of the guys are busy in their own worlds while I’m chatting with a reporter about my seven-inning outing.
I shrug.
“Good, I think. It will take a while to not feel like the new guy. As long as I do my job and help the guys get the win, that’s all that matters.”
“Well, you certainly did that today,” Amy says, her eyes shifting to my left just in time for me to catch sight of the cooler about to be tipped over my head.
“Oh, damn!” I shout, and try to duck out of the way. It’s no use, though, and ice-cold water soaks me head to toe. It’s colder than the wrap around my arm.
