It’s the last day of April, and that wouldn’t be exciting to most people, but to six of us on the Colts, it ends a month-long bet between the infielders and outfielders. The winners get bragging rights and an expensive steak dinner.
“You just need to hit a double and we’ve won.” Easton pats me on the back, coming into the dugout after Decker hit him home.
Now we’re in a tied game with one out in the bottom of the ninth. Decker is on first, Torres is up to the plate, and I’ll come in behind him. We just need to get Decker home.
“What the fuck has gotten into you guys?” Drew is stewing on the bench since we turned the tables on him and his outfield buddies, taking the lead in our little bet.
“Listen, DICs, this competition was your idea.” Easton puts his helmet in the box, fixes his chains, and shakes out his hair before marking another five slashes on our makeshift scoreboard.
The fans out there would either think it’s funny or irresponsible, or maybe just childish, that we’re competing with one another over who can tag the most bases in a month.
“Will you stop calling us DICs!” Ian grabs his helmet because he’s up after me.
“It’s not our fault the first letter of all three of your names spells out DIC.” I give Ian a shit-eating grin.
Our best day during spring training was when Easton figured that out. The nickname stuck immediately.
“We don’t call you HED,” Drew grumbles.
Easton’s eyebrows raise at me, as if asking, do we even have to dignify this ridiculousness with a response?
“HED makes no sense. DIC does.” Easton does end up responding because he likes nothing more than some good banter. Although Drew doesn’t really offer the competition Easton thrives on.
“You guys have sucked all month, and on the last day of the month, you hit the ball like you’ve got horseshoes up your ass.” Drew is pouting, as usual. Sometimes I think it’s because between Easton, Decker, and me, we have the three biggest contracts on the team. My yearly beats Drew’s, but he’s young. If he’s going to make it in the league, he’d better ditch this whiny-ass attitude.
Everyone shuts up as Torres steps up to the plate, talking shit to Greer.
I set up in the on deck circle, listening to Drew and Easton having it out behind me. I’m surprised Vega hasn’t told them to cut the shit by now. He’s entertained our game, but I think it’s only because he thinks any competition between us will make us try harder.
Torres sees one strike and two balls before he hits a deep grounder to third and gets tagged out, but Decker makes it to second. I need a double to get Decker in to win the game—and the bet.
“Let’s go, Haymaker,” Easton shouts.
I look over to Paxton at third for my sign.
Even a month into the season with a decent batting average, the minute my cleats land in the batter’s box, I start sweating. I haven’t found myself in this kind of game-making situation yet this year. Every performance still feels as though it’s a plus or minus on my contract extension for next year.
I run through the same drill I always have—run my bat along the outside of home plate, slide my feet, digging the front of my cleats into the ground. I ignore the shit talk from Greer, forcing myself to stay in the zone. Be calm, be patient, and do what you know you can do. I just wish the internal pep talk made a fucking difference. I’m still playing scared, which will never work long term for me.
The first pitch comes in—a strike just outside that I’ve struggled to hit my entire fucking life, so I let it go right by. I step up again, Greer continuing to talk shit, asking me where he should go tonight to find all the hot women since he figures I’d have a good hookup.
Fuck him.
The second pitch comes in, and it’s way low, making Greer drop to his knees to block.
“Fucking hell,” he grumbles.
“You look like you’re used to being on your knees.”
Ramos is getting tired on the mound, but Arizona will let him stay since there’s only one out left to go. If I can throw Greer off and he misses a ball low in the dirt, it could get Decker to third and in scoring position.
“From eating your girl’s pussy,” Greer says. “Get ready, I see you going on a bender after you fuck up this opportunity to win the game.”
I clench my jaw, the dig at my behavior last year hitting its mark.
The pitch comes in, and it’s a ball, inside and high. Greer has to pop up to get it.
“Your boy is off,” I say. “Go have a mound visit. Don’t worry about me.”
