“You’re right,” I responded. Iambetter. When I looked toward home plate, I cracked a faint smile. Jason glanced over his shoulder and gripped my biceps tightly.
“Strike. Him. Out. If there’s one man in their lineup that you can’t let get past you, it’s Atley. He’s cocky enough, you’ll be hearing about it for the next twenty years.”
I nodded and straightened the bill of my cap. Jason was right, as usual. And the man knew what to say to spur me into action. We’d paired up so many times, I allowed myself to close my eyes for a few seconds, and Jason was crouching behind the plate when I opened them.
Mason settled into the batter’s box, and unless it was a trick of the light, the man winked at me. It wasn’t anything sexual, more of a “Hey buddy, it’s good to see you. I hope you don’t mind that I’m getting ready to send your ERA through the roof,” type of gesture.Cocky son-of-a-bitch.
He’d been my best friend for the past seven years. We met when he was a wet-behind-the-ears rookie and I was quickly becoming a staple in the triple-A pitching rotation, but right now, my only objective was to take him down.
Jason signaled the pitch and I shook it off. Mason would be expecting a fastball. He was a closet geek who loved analyzing numbers and statistics for fun. While most players cheered for their teammates, he’d sit back and mentally tally the pitches thrown so he’d have an idea of what he’d be up against when it was his turn at-bat. He used to boast that he could figure out a pitcher’s preferences and pattern within the first inning.
We decided on a sinker and I centered myself before throwing a textbook pitch. I swore I heard the zing of Mason’s bat cutting through the air as he swung and missed.
He shook his head as he got into position and I knew he knew what I was doing. Jason signaled for another sinker and I nodded.
Strike two.
The count was stacked in my favor, with no balls and two strikes. There was no doubt that Mason assumed I’d change it up, which was exactly why I didn’t. It was a gamble, but one desperation made worthwhile.
Everything about the pitch felt perfect, right up to the point where Mason connected with it.
Shit!
I scrambled toward first base, ready for Keith Henderson to toss me the ball for the out. He fumbled before scooping the ball and lobbing it to me. The ball connected with my glove at the exact moment Mason’s foot crossed the plate and we both looked to the ump for the call.
“Out,” he hollered as he sliced his hands through the air.
“Getting old and slow, Atley,” I goaded him as he muttered something under his breath.
“I’ve got your old right here,” he responded, cupping his groin crudely. I shook my head as I made my way back to the mound, my spirits slightly raised.
It may not have been what Jason wanted me to do, but keeping Mason from getting on base was a turning point for me. If I didn’t let him get in my head, there was no reason to let anyone else there, either.
The rest of our team worked together like a well-oiled machine to get the final two outs of the inning and we made our way back to the dugout.
I watched as Kevin Green knocked one into the bleachers to start the second inning. As much as I wanted to hate him for taking Eric’s spot on the roster, there was no denying he had one hell of a swing. We all congratulated him when he got back to the dugout and I made my way to the stairs, ready to do my part to stretch our two-run lead.
To make up for my mediocre performance on the mound, I had to do something from behind the plate. Henderson ran as if he were in the Olympic trials, losing the race to first base by a split-second.
Nothing was riding on my performance at the plate, other than my own desire to do something, anything, to make up for that first inning. I waited out the pitches, collecting a strike and two balls before making contact with a curveball.
As I hustled to first base, I was in shock that I’d even hit the ball. My disbelief only grew as I watched the ball sail past me into the Bulldogs’ dugout. I practically sauntered to second base, happy to be able to sit back and relax a bit before being forced to do a damn thing.
It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t a run, but I was in a good position.
“You got lucky,” Mason grumbled as I stretched my legs a bit.
“I think Colfax knew how much you wanted to see me and this was his way of giving us some time,” I quipped, rubbing a bit of salt in the wound over the fact that Chicago was having a worse game than we were.
Townsend slapped Sully on the back before jogging back to the mound.
“Yeah, that’s it. He’s good that way.” He turned his attention back to the game as Jason walked up to the plate.
The third base coach shot me a disapproving look and I shrugged. We might be on opposite sides today, but that wasn’t going to stop me from talking smack with a friend.
I’d like to say we turned the game around and had the defense to keep the Bulldogs from scoring, but that’d be a lie. The second through fifth innings weren’t much better than the first, and Stu pulled me from the game with one out in the sixth.
Our saving grace was that the Bulldogs continued to struggle as well. We held onto our lead, winning by one run. I was credited with the win, but I wasn’t sure I deserved it after my lackluster performance.
