“The mound thing. Where you turn into a different person.”
“That’s called pitching.”
“It’s called whatever it is, and you’re the best in the league at it, so find it.” He heads back to the plate. “And, Steele, check the GF section when you come out. Third row. Aisle seat.”
My chest tightens. “Mack…”
“Just check it.” He drops into his crouch position before I can say anything else.
The dugout before the first pitch has its own specific energy, with guys bouncing on their heels, headphones in, headphones out. Someone eating sunflower seeds with the concentration of a man defusing a device. Rivera is crossing himself three times ina row at the far end. Martinez is doing the same stretch he does before every game, the one where he looks like he’s attempting a move from a contemporary dance workshop.
I sit with my eyes on the field and run through the lineup in my head. Eastern Phoenix Raptors, top of the order, leadoff hitter who’s been getting on base at a .388 clip for six weeks, followed by a two-hole hitter who doesn’t chase. Then their three, four, and five, with power, patience, and a contact hitter who puts the ball in play no matter what you throw at him. I’ve faced this lineup twice this season. I know exactly where each of them lives in the box, exactly which pitches make them uncomfortable, exactly where I need to be, and where I don’t.
My arm is ready.
My head is the problem.
Coach Bishop comes down the dugout and stops at my end. He doesn’t sit. He stands with his hands in the front pocket of his jacket, looking out at the field, and I wait because, with Bishop, the conversation starts when he decides it does.
“Arm good?” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I want you to do something for me tonight.”
“Whatever you need.”
“I want you to pitch your game.” He turns his head slightly, not looking at me directly. “Not the angry game you’ve been throwing for a month. Not the performance you put on when you’re trying to prove something. Youractualgame. The one you throw when you’re settled.” He pauses. “You settled?”
The honest answer is,I’m getting there.
“Yes, sir.”
He makes a sound that might be skepticism or acceptance. With Bishop, it’s often both. “Good. Because I need you presentfor nine innings, not for two and a half before whatever’s in your head takes over.”
“Understood.”
He moves back down the dugout without further comment. Two minutes later, he stops and looks back. “Steele.”
“Coach.”
“You’ve been carrying a lot this season.” He holds my gaze for exactly three seconds. “Put it down for the next nine innings.”
He doesn’t wait for my response.
I take the mound in the bottom of the first, and everything is exactly as it should be.
The crowd is deafening. The stadium lights blaze white against the evening sky. Sixty feet six inches of perfect sightline between me and Garrett’s glove. The mound is packed and firm under my cleats, worn smooth in the spot where I plant my pivot foot, mine and every pitcher who came before me on this dirt.
The leadoff hitter steps in.
Garrett calls for a fastball. I shake him off, not because it’s wrong, but I need to feel in control of something immediately. He flashes the curveball. I nod.
I go into my windup.
The ball leaves my hand wrong.
I know it the second it goes. The grip was half a rotation off, the release point a fraction too early, and the pitch hangs up in the zone like something embarrassed of itself. The leadoff hitter, .388 on-base percentage, patient, disciplined, takes it for a ball without flinching.
