I took that to mean that we’d better get my arm warmed up, or we’d be watching a Mario movie. I really hadn’t been paying attention. Paul Rankowski was already in the pen, observing me, planning out what pitches he felt I should throw to what players on the Philadelphia team. He, Yanni, and I would getinto that after a bit. I began with some short throws and wrist flicks to Yanni. Then I moved back, gradually increasing effort and velocity, working in various pitches such as curveballs, changeups, and fastballs. Yanni was giving me signs throughout the thirty-minute warm-up before the game began. The three of us discussed how to handle each batter for Philly. From getting fastballs in the zone, working in sliders, and not giving Hernandez a chance at a high fastball, as he thrived on those. They talked me up. Told me to breathe, stay calm, and trust my mechanics. We had a great battery. Confident and connected.
The crowd was lowkey tonight. They clapped politely as the PA announcer called out the visiting team's line-up and then our names, numbers, and positions.
I noticed the stands filling. Taking one final peek, I saw that Jari and his buddies had left the railing and gotten good seats behind the dugout, so with Yanni at my side, we all stopped talking and removed our hats for the anthem. I threw a few more pitches, rubbed my glove for good juju, and headed for the mound. The relief pitchers shook my hand and wished me luck. One of them could be called in later in the game to finish things out. That was for a myriad of reasons, from analytics to protecting our arms from injury. The days of a pitcher going all nine innings were a rarity.
Philly wasn’t making the playoffs either, so the atmosphere was one of mild apathy. Winning or losing wouldn’t make any big difference. As Paulie liked to say, we were here for the ice cream. Mostly. I did want to pitch well, go out with a win, and have Jari see just how good I was at this game. I glanced at the dugout and saw the three hockey players two rows back from where the team waited on long benches. A fuzzy feeling erupted in my gut. Not the time for fuzzies, though.
The first batter stepped up, a big guy named Bullman—the name fit—who liked to knock the leather off the ball if hecould catch a two-seamer. Right handed hitter. Weak against the changeup. I took a deep breath, visualized the ball leaving my hand to land in Yanni’s mitt, and took a moment to rub the rosin on my fingers into the pads of my fingers just a little more. Yanni flashed me four fingers. Yep, he was calling for the changeup, too—great minds and all that.
My body took over. Shift weight to the back leg, lift the front leg, gather energy, dive off the back leg, and perform a rapid whip-like motion to bring the arm forward. Release the ball at the peak for speed and control. Follow through with a deceleration of the arm. I’d done that move probably a million times over my career. I started playing this game with T-ball, and I was born to throw balls at people. It was a gift from the sports gods I was thankful for every day.
Bullman swung hard, missed by a mile, and the ump barked out the first strike. Yanni threw the ball to me and then said something to Bullman that made the big first baseman curl a lip. Typical. Yanni was a master at getting under a batter’s skin. His mouth ran steadily, usually with what the hockey players called chirps. Sharp, sometimes cutting, verbal prods to throw a player off his game. With that first pitch done, I felt the tension begin to lessen. The game was underway, and afterwards—if I was lucky—I could get Jari to meet me for coffee and a celebratory burger and fries. If he would eat junk. My season was nearly over, but his was starting. We’d see. First things first, though. Striking out Bullman to see him storm off like an enraged…well, bull.
Bottom of the sixth found me with two on base and Hernandez at bat. Yanni had decided it was time for a mound visit. I wished he wouldn’t. I disliked it when the coaches or my catcher interrupted my flow. Yes, the game was tied at four each with no outs for the away team. Yes, I had been growing sloppy since the fifth. Yes, my arm ached slightly. And yes, my focus waswavering between this game that meant nothing and the sexy hockey player cheering us on.
“So, when was the last time you jerked off?” Yanni asked when he arrived on the mound. I grunted. “That long. Okay, I got a towel and some hand sanitizer in the dugout, so let's get this asshole struck out, and you can jack off behind the water cooler.”
“Fuck you, Kallias.” The asshole. This was par the course for him, and Paulie, if a pitcher was rattled. Come out and tell a joke or make a crack about the batter’s mother. Anything that worked to calm us down.
“I feel good about an inside curve then that slider for this chump,” Yanni said, his mask atop his sweaty head, face covered with dark whiskers.
“Got it. Inside curve, then the backdoor slider. That’s good. I’m feeling good tonight.”
“Just pound the zone. Trust my mitt. We’re fucking Batman and Robin.”
“You said ‘pound’.” I couldn’t let it pass. I was a twelve-year-old deep down it seemed.
“You said ‘backdoor’.” Yanni jogged back to home base, snickering like fucking Beavis.
Hernandez gave him the oddest look before stepping back up to the plate. I blew out a deep breath. Inside curve. Inside curve. Inside curve. The pitch was dead on, sweet as granny’s candy, appearing to the batter as if it was going to be a ball before it broke sharply down and in, toward the inside of the strike zone. He took an awkward swing. The grounder was weak, rolling to the shortstop, who got the easy out at first. The crowd cheered. Okay, one down, two more to go. I suspected this would round out my night on the mound as Kitterman was warming up in the bullpen. I needed to get the next two out neatly and show Jari I was… what?
“A stud,” I whispered to myself, eying the next man in the lineup. Easy out. Their catcher was good, but his hitting left something to be desired. He went down in three swings, each one a fastball that he was sure he could knock to the river. “You are a stud,” I repeated as the DH stepped up to bat. Now that pitchers no longer batted, we faced a designated hitter who stepped in for the pitcher. A rule change that I didn’t mind because I hated always being the weak link in the offensive lineup. This guy was a slim, small dude who could run like the wind if given a chance. I didn't want to give him that chance.
My first pitch was a ball, the second a strike, and the third met the bat with a crack that made me flinch. My sight followed that round, white, hardball. The ball soared high and to the right, arcing downward and into the mitt of Jackson Toss, our left fielder. I sighed in relief, then made my way to the dugout, taking a moment to tip my cap to Jari before disappearing from view. I was now a spectator. The relief pitcher was on the mound as I started hitting the water hard.
One of the trainers handed me some menthol rub for my shoulder. I massaged some in as the seventh inning began. It sucked that we couldn’t have our cell phones in the dugout. I was anxious to hear what Jari thought of the game so far, but electronic devices were a no-no. Sign-stealing was a big worry, so no phones were allowed. I’d have to sit here on my hands until I got back to the locker room to text him about that maybe burger. I hoped he had been slightly impressed with my performance. I wouldn’t delve into why I was so worried about his being awestruck by my athletic grace and prowess. Nope. We wouldnotgo there…
It wasclose to eleven when I finally broke free of the press after our last win of the season. So many questions about my plans. I planned to play ball and maybe go have a damn burger with a new friend. Those were my plans. Jari had been incredibly kind to wait for me in a little micro pub in a corner on North 2nd Street called Jane’s Juke Joint. I’d had to stop myself from running to the bar; I was so eager to spend time with him. The place was packed with younger patrons. Younger, meaning under thirty. There were signs pointing to a rooftop seating area that I followed to find Jari sitting alone in the corner, watching a group of college kids playing beer pong. The atmosphere was loud and rowdy, making Jari seem horribly out of place. He was the polar opposite of rowdy.
“Hey,” I yelled over the hooting of the beer pong winners coupled with the thumping of a new song by Kehlani. “This place is gas.”
He cocked a slim eyebrow as I dropped down beside him at the small round table. “Yeah, I guess. It’s making my eyes ache.”
I chuckled and then removed my jacket. Giving the room a once-over, I finally found someone wearing an apron, so I waved.
“Where are your buddies?” I shouted at Jari to be heard above the music.
“They wanted to go to a club to wheel some chicks.” Some skinny guy bounced off the back of Jari’s seat, drunk out of his gourd, but still had the courtesy to belch out an apology. “They said this place was…”
“Gas?”
“Yeah, ‘gas’.” He took a sip of his orange soda. “They say the chili burgers are great, so I figured we could try it. We can leave if you want.”
“Do you want?”
“No, it’s fine. I like chili burgers.”
The server was still over at the bar talking to a girl with pink hair. I waved again. She nodded. “I think I may die of dehydration.”
