The first batter is a veteran utility guy, known for working counts. I start him with a four-seam fastball up and in. Ninety-seven. He fouls it straight back.
My second pitch is a slider off the plate. He chases. Strike two.
He battles the next two off, spitting on a changeup that fades just below the zone. Full count.
I come set, feel the seams against my fingertips, breathe deep, and fire another fastball, this one painted on the outside edge. He watches it.
Strike three.
He doesn’t like the call, and maybe he shouldn’t. Bruce Fischer would have called it a strike, though—I know that much.
When his manager challenges the call, the automated ball-strike system confirms it: strike.
That’s baseball for you.
From the mound, I naturally glance toward the stands behind home plate. Scottie is on her feet with everyone else, clapping, her fire-red jersey intense against the dark blue seats.
Even that doesn’t get in my head.
I can’t tell if that’s a feature or a bug.
Because no matter what happens here, it’s not live-or-die. It’s win-or-lose. The only real stakes are rich people getting richer and which fans go home happy. Nobody’s life hinges on whether I hit my spot. Nobody’s future shifts if I blow a save in March.
Nothing I do on this mound will make Scottie swap Jake’s jersey for mine.
That realization settles over me as calmly as the next sign from the catcher.
I rub up a new ball and feel the raised seams under my thumb. The leather is warm from my hand. Familiar and comforting.
I look at Scottie for a split second before winding up, and she’s looking at me with more intensity than she did Jake, clapping, calling, “Go, Fischer!”
But she’s not wearing my jersey.
I could throw harder, faster. I could give this crowd something to talk about.
But I’ve been throwing ninety-eight my whole career, waiting for the right moment to let it go. I’m not doing it for a Spring Training crowd.
I’ll throw one-oh-two when the mound is all mine.
***
I finish my inning with one guy stranded on base but no runs, the lead maintained exactly as planned so the closer can do his thing. And today, that closer is Logan.
I exit to warm applause from the crowd, and on the way into the dugout, Coop is waiting for me.
He slaps my back. “Atta boy,” he says.
I high-five and fist-bump a couple of others jogging down the steps. And when I get to Jake, I’m not sure he’s even going to acknowledge me, but he surprises me by extending his forearm.
I bump it with mine.
“You didn’t blow it, TikTok kid! Good for you.”
With a chuckle, I nod. “Thanks, man.”
But a couple of the other big leaguers snort. “TikTok kid. I like that,” the starting pitcher, Rafi Martinez, says. “Good game, TikTok kid.”
Rafi is legendary and just told me I played a good game. Is it an “achievement unlocked” moment, though, if it came with a crappy nickname I really hope doesn’t stick?
