“Foster, walk us through the top of the ninth. Looked like you had command until the walked Richards. What changed?”
Foster doesn’t bother leaning into the microphone. “What do you want me to say? I was ahead zero to two, then I missed the plate and fell behind on the count fast. You can’t walk the first guy in the ninth. It’s on me.”
I look at both sides of me, and it looks as though no one else is going to take questions. Easton is just fiddling with his chains.
“Hayes, you’ve caught for Foster for a long time,” the next reporter says. “Did you notice anything off mechanically in that inning? Did you think about a mound visit?”
I push back my irritation. “Not really. His stuff was still sharp. The fastball had life. I think it’s more about pitch selection. I was trying to keep them guessing, but maybe I got a little cute instead of going right at them. That’s my bad.”
The next reporter I point at always comes right at us, so I’m not surprised when he sets his gaze on Decker. “Decker, that error on the routine ground ball—how tough is it to shake that off in the moment?”
Decker, unlike Foster, sits up and leans into the microphone. “Yeah, that was brutal. Ball took a weird hop, but I still gotta make that play. Ninth inning, two outs, you can’t give them any extra chances.”
I point at the next reporter, and he sets his sights on Easton. I’m not sure why he’s even here. Other than striking out, Easton had a great game.
“Easton, you seemed a little jumpy at the plate in the bottom of the ninth. Had you been more patient, you might have drawn a walk.”
“What exactly is the question?” Easton asks. The reporter opens his mouth to speak, but Easton quickly interrupts. “I’m a hitter. That’s the player I am. I’m not going to let pitches I think I can hit go by me.”
I point at the next reporter and inwardly groan because what else do you want? We sucked today, end of discussion.
“You’ve had three straight games where late innings got away from you guys. Is it mid-season fatigue? Mental struggle?”
Foster mumbles something that I think might have been fuck you, so I quickly shift closer to the microphone. “We’ve got the talent. It’s about trusting it and not trying to play hero. Baseball humbles you fast when you start forcing things.”
With all the usual questions out of the way, it turns into a kind of free-for-all with reporters standing and asking questions.
“Decker, what’s the message to the guys after a game like this?”
“Flush it. You learn from it, and you move on. No one in this room is quitting. We’ve got another game tomorrow. That’s the beauty of baseball. We get another chance to come out on top.”
The next reporter stands. “Easton, this loss drops your average under three hundred. How do you stay out of your head?”
Easton grunts. “I’m frustrated, obviously. We’ve all played this game long enough to know the grind. You keep showing up, and eventually it turns.”
“Last question,” our press guy says from the side of the room.
Thank fuck, I want to get out of here.
A reporter stands, and I’m not sure I’ve seen her before. She doesn’t look familiar. “Hayes, there’s been speculation that your recent hot streak at the plate has something to do with off-field happiness. After three losses, could it be your focus has changed?”
“Fuck’s sake,” Foster mumbles.
I thought that question was going somewhere good, until she did a one-eighty at the tail end.
“I think how I play has nothing to do with my girlfriend—except when I play well, of course.” I throw in a wink for good measure.
The room laughs, but the reporter remains standing, not seeming impressed.
“Some people believe a relationship during the season can be a distraction. How do you respond to that?” she asks.
“I don’t. The people speculating have never been in my shoes.”
The room is somber and still she’s standing. What the fuck does this woman want from me?
“Last last question,” our press guy says.
I inhale a deep breath.
