Two more, I tell myself.
The sun has started to set, and the slight change in heat brings a much-needed relief to the field. I roll my shoulders back, nodding again at Diaz.
Slider.
No.
Curveball.
I pause at that, rolling my shoulder again to see how badly it’s screaming at me. I could do a curveball. I dip my head side to side at him, letting him know I’m considering it, and he twists his hand to indicate a knuckle curveball.
Bingo.
His bat barely flinches when the ball flies by; the sound of another strike hitting Diaz’s glove brings a smile to my face. Theroar from the crowd is deafening. Our league hasn’t had a season like this in years. It seems like every time the championship is within our grasp, we fall short. An injury. Illness. Everyone has an off day at the same peak time.
Every post-game interview includes the same questions—What does this feel like? Do we think we’ll make it? Am I ready to pitch for a higher league if I get called up?
Every answer has been a resounding,“Hell yeah,”from my mouth, but when I pace the mound, getting my head in gear for the next—and hopefully, final—throw, I notice a small pinch in my shoulder that I had hoped I wouldn’t feel.
Tucking my glove under my opposite arm, I bring my hand up to squeeze the joint. My eyes dart to the dugout where the athletic trainer now stands next to the coach; both of them look ready to step that first foot onto the field.
A few months ago, I started to notice a clicking in my shoulder joint when I threw a particularly fast fastball. I brushed it off at first, trying to take care of it myself. Rest. Ice. Massage. Movement. It wasn’t until there was a sharp tear-like feeling during one of our practices that my face couldn’t hide it, and Coach called me out.
For the last two months, I’ve been doing physical therapy and working with our trainers to strengthen my shoulder labrum. I play as hard as I’ve ever played, but I rest and recover equally as much.
It’s just sore, I tell myself, shaking off the anxious thoughts.
It’s just the stress of tonight’s game.
I shake my head the slightest amount, not wanting to draw any more attention to the situation. Coach and the trainer pick up on the move, and I avert my eyes to peek at Magnolia in the stands. I can tell by the solemn look on her face that she saw it just the same.
One more, I remind myself, one more
I give myself another inner pep talk, digging my toes into the dirt below me.
Don’t fuck this up, Hart.
One more, this next pitch could be your last; make it count.
Diaz motions again, and I nod with his first suggestion.
Sinker.
This batter is so wound up, the extra excitement from the crowd bleeds into his already open insecurity.
I can see it a mile away. He’s going to expect me to go hard, to rip another fastball or curveball. His bat is already inched higher. The position puts him a bit off-kilter, and I’d almost feel sorry for the sucker if victory wasn’t so close that I could kiss it.
I send up one last silent prayer to the baseball gods before my arm pulls back. Foot pushes off the ground, knee up, and the ball is tossed. Once it’s halfway down the line, my feet are already pushing off the mound. And just as I thought, he didn’t expect it. His eyes widen, shoulders rise as he lowers the bat. The ball flies low, so low he barely clips the ball. My glove is out, running toward what I know is going to be a grounder. It rolls into my mit, and then I spin, twisting as I throw to first base.
I don’t even wait to hear the ump call him out. As soon as the ball hits the first baseman's glove and the crowd starts to scream, I toss my mit to the ground and take off.
My long strides take me toward the stands, and Mags is already climbing over seats. The crowd is clearing a path for her, and she rests one hand on someone’s shoulder while another fan offers their hand.
She reaches the lowest seat at the same time I do, nothing but a mesh net separating us.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I rasp, reaching for her waist through the net. She giggles when I pull her to me, and her lips find mine through one of the small eyeholes.
“Hi, baby.” She breathes, her hands coming to grip my face. “You’re so sweaty and stinky, and I missed it so much.”
