“Yeah, my girlfriend. She just got guardianship of her nieces and nephew.” Saying it that way is easier than trying to say cousin once removed and explaining the whole situation.
He nods and glances at me. “You seem really… good.”
“I am.” And I am. It makes me a little afraid that something bad is coming my way.
He smiles briefly, then dismisses me by not talking anymore and concentrating on the game.
I get the rest of my gear on and get ready to go. When the inning ends, I jog out and meet Taz on the mound. He shakes me off all the time, but since this is likely his last inning in this game, I’d like us to be on the same page, even though he thinks he knows more than I do. It pisses me off, as if I don’t do my research.
“You don’t have to visit me. I want to start with the curve,” he says.
“Your sinker is looking good today. I say we start with the sinker and then go into a slider.”
He’s shaking his head before I’ve finished my sentence. “Curve, four seam, slider.”
“No sinker?”
I hate dealing with pitchers like him. Makes me miss Foster. He was by far the best pitcher I ever caught for. When he was at the mound, it felt a little more like a partnership. He always took my opinion into account.
“Not unless I’m at full count,” Taz says.
I lower my mask to hide my expression. “You got it.” On the way back to the plate, I grumble, “And I bet you last one fucking batter.”
I squat in place. I still call the sequence I want, but Taz shakes me off, so I purposely give him two more pitches just to piss him off.
I get ready for the pitch, and he throws a curve that hangs too long. Bedard is too good a hitter not to grab hold of it. I hear it echo off the bat, and Taz is already hanging his head before the ball sails past the ivy wall and into the bleachers.
And that makes Milwaukee down by one, which means we’re in trouble.
Ripley walks over to the mound right away, shaking his head. I jog over, as does our infield.
Easton and Decker glance at me because they know the problems I always have with Taz.
“Interesting call on the first pitch.” Ripley doesn’t look at Taz or me, and I hope he saw Taz shake off my suggestion. He holds out his hand, and Taz puts the ball into his palm with a little more force than necessary and walks off the field.
We all pat his back, but he pouts as he always does. Such a fucking baby. He’s been in the league long enough to be pissed but know he still has to act mature about it. He pitched a great two innings in relief, and now the closer will come in and finish it off.
All the fans clap for Taz as he heads to the dugout, and we remain circling the mound, waiting to see who is coming in from the bullpen.
The lights of the stadium go out, and we all look at each other.
Ripley fights a smile. He definitely knows what’s about to happen.
The stadium lights come back on slowly just before the Jumbotron flashes ALL ABOARD! in bold, blinding letters. A train engine bursts from the shadows on the screen, wheels sparking as it barrels down tracks of pure lightning, racing straight toward the fans until it feels as if it might crash through the screen.
“Oh shit,” I say under my breath.
Easton’s eyes widen, and he turns to me.
I shake my head. I had no fucking clue.
“What the fuck?” Decker shouts over the music.
The music volume comes down a bit.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the stadium announcer says, “it’s closing time. Please rise and welcome to the mound the Chicago Colts’s newest closer… number fourteen… FOSSTTEERR ‘The Reaper’ DAVVIISS!”
Foster jogs out of the bullpen and stops at the edge of the infield to let the umpire check his hands and glove for any illegal sticky shit.
