The bat hits the ball differently—a dull thunk that tells me he broke it. The ball climbs in a tight arc toward left field, and the outfielder doesn’t even bother turning his back to the infield. He just drifts, stops at the warning track, and watches it clear the wall by a good ten feet.
The crowd explodes.
Jake jogs the bases like he owns them, and when he gets back to the dugout, he hands his bat to the batboy and shakes his head. Yup. He cracked the bat.
I applaud with the rest of the guys in the bullpen. But because it’s Jake, I’m probably not the only onepretendingto cheer for the guy.
Coop comes up next and ropes a double down the right-field line, sliding into second like he’s auditioning for a baseball commercial. The inning stretches on, a couple more hits, a sac fly, the usual early-spring chaos while pitchers are still finding their command.
When the third out finally lands in a glove, I sit back down on the bullpen bench and pull off my hoodie, the heat starting to get to me. The bullpen gate creaks open, and I glance up, expecting a batboy or one of the coaches.
It’s Jake.
“Left my backup down here,” he says to the bullpen attendant, tapping the rail. “Mind tossing it up?”
He leans on the rail, nodding toward the field. “How you liking the game, Fischer?”
“Nice hit, man. You’re gonna make my job easy,” I say, because I’m a grown man who can be civil to his secret girlfriend’s public boyfriend, dang it.
He chuckles. “No offense, brother, but I’m not thinking about youanytime. Not at the plate. Not off it.”
Jake and I resemble those videos of a chihuahua barking at a German Shepherd through a glass door, and then the owner opens the door, and the chihuahua whines, knowing it’s about to get devoured, but instead, the German Shepherd just looks down at the cowering little dummy and then snuggles with the owner.
Scottie’s the owner.
Logan would have a better metaphor, but I barely passed fourth-grade English, let alone college. This is as good as it gets.
“Got it,” I say, smiling. “Still, good hit.”
He snorts, takes the backup bat from the bat boy, and jogs back toward the dugout.
By the sixth inning, we’re up 5–2, and the bullpen phone rings. The coach answers, nods once, and hangs up.
“Start getting hot.”
I grab a ball and step back onto the rubber in the bullpen. Down the strip, Logan’s already up, too, rolling his shoulder, getting loose. If I’m going in the eighth, he’s going in the ninth.
I like our odds.
For now. While we’re still on the same team.
I don’t let myself think about what happens if that changes.
When the manager points to the bullpen in the eighth, I leave the bullpen to applause. Not walk-up music. Not fireworks. Just business.
Here comes the setup man.
The Arizona sun bakes my skin on the long jog to the mound. Vendors shout over the low hum of crowd noise. Somewhere near third base, a kid is banging a mini bat against the railing in a steady rhythm. The air smells like sunscreen, hot dogs, and dirt baking under cleats.
None of it rattles me.
This is what I’ve worked toward my whole life. Playing with the pros. Facing major league hitters. Having my name on the back of a jersey that kids wear to games. I thought it would feel louder. Bigger. Like the world would tilt the first time I ran in from the bullpen to protect a lead.
It turns out, pitching against the pros is still pitching. It’s still sixty feet, six inches from rubber to plate. The mound is still ten inches high, the strike zone still seventeen inches wide—if the ump’s as good as Bruce Fischer.
And I’ll keep throwing heat.
After a quick warm-up, I toe the rubber and look to the catcher for the sign.
