But I can sympathize with Mrs. Tucker. I pace the room, taking quick glances at the television while Casey warms up on the mound.
The first batter walks up to the plate, shakes the dirt off his shoes and stares Casey down, but Casey strikes him out with three pitches.
The room sighs in relief. But the next batter hits a line drive down the middle and the outfielder misses the cut-off man giving the runner an extra base. This makes a double play very difficult for Casey, and I bite my nails contemplating how he should handle this next batter.
“I think he should walk him,” says his father. “He has an open base.”
“But if he does that, that would be two on base with only one out. There’s a good chance they’ll score.”
“Yes, but they still have the ninth inning to catch up.”
I shake my head.
“The Philly’s closer stinks, that’s why they’re offering Casey an obscene amount of money to sign him.”
I whip my head around. “They are?”
Casey and I don’t talk about money. I always feel out of depth when we do. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. I make my own and live comfortably. But it still makes me wonder why he never mentioned it before.
Casey faces the next batter, and he’s down in the count, having pitched two balls and no strikes.
“Come on, Casey,” says his dad. “Don’t be scared. Pitch him the fastball, see if he can hit it.”
I feel that’s a risky strategy, but I won’t contradict Mr. Tucker in his own home.
Casey prepares for the next pitch. I zone in on his face; it’s scrunched up and he has a snarl on his lips. Everything seems to move slowly. It’s that moment in the movies when the music changes, and you know something bad is going to happen, but you can’t stop it. You just clench your fists and wait.
Casey throws the ball and the batter loads. He pulls back his hands and steps forward.
Crack!
The batter smacks the fastball with the barrel of his bat, right down the middle. Straight ahead. Directly towards Casey’s face.
Oh my God!
Everything happens so quickly, yet my mind is already three steps ahead.
Except… Yes… Yes, I’m wrong!
Casey jerks out of the way and throws his glove hand up, catching the ball mid-air. Then, he quickly pivots and throws it to second base before the runner has a chance to get back to the bag. “He’s out!” shouts the announcer. “That’s a double play. The Jets win the World Series!”
The room erupts into chaos. Mr. Tucker grabs Mrs. Tucker and kisses her hard on the lips. Anthony and Charlie hug and cry at the same time while Jane pulls Cassandra up and into her arms. “Oh, my God, they won!”
I’m frozen. I had seen it clearly in my head. I saw the ball hit Casey and knock him out for dead. I saw it so clearly that I thought it was true. It takes a moment for my brain to realize that’s not what happened.
Casey shut them down. He won it for them. He kept his composure and wits about him and caught the ball heading straight for him.
My knees buckle and Jane catches me before I fall to the floor. “Sage, Sage, are you ok?” She leads me to the couch, and I tumble like a ragdoll onto the cushions.
“Yes, I’m fine. I just thought… oh my God… oh my God, he did it!” Reality sets in and I start laughing hysterically. “He did it!”
Mr. Tucker turns to me and grins. “He sure did.”
Jane’s phone rings and she answers it. “Yes, we saw. I can’t believe it. Hold on, I’ll get Anthony.”
She passes the phone to her son.
“Dad, Dad, Uncle Casey was awesome. He was incredible.”
