It doesn’t bother me. They came to all my games when I needed them most. So, I’d rather they be comfortable.
But there was one face I was hoping to see and it hurts that she didn’t come.
Don’t be an idiot, Casey.
Sage has no reason to come watch me play. She doesn’t owe me anything.
I was just hoping to see her.
I turn back to the dugout and tune out all the noise. It’s time to get into the zone. Time to focus. Time to prove once again who I am. It’s not enough that I made the All-Star team or won a Cy Young Award. Fans, managers, coaches, they only care about what you can do right now, in this game, this inning, this pitch. And now, I have to get my head in the game.
Pitchers don’t sit with the team unless they’re the starting pitcher. But now I’m a closer and a damn good one. So, I make my way to the bullpen where Gavin and a couple of our relievers are sitting on chairs. The bullpen in this stadium is open to fans above us. A few chirp at me. “Hey, Tucker. How’s that shoulder? Hope it isn’t going to fuck up your game.” The fan laughs loudly with his friends. It’s all good. A fan trying to get under my skin is just part of the game. I take no offense to it.
“Hey, Tucker.”
“Hey, Jason.”
I sit next to my teammate, and we watch our first batter come up to the plate. He hits a ground ball and is called out at first. I sit back and cross my arms in the chair. My gaze scans the crowd and lands on the two hundred level again. I think I spot someone with blonde hair, but it’s straight, and Sage never straightens her hair. At least, I don’t think so.
When the woman picks up a baby boy next to her, I realize that it definitely isn’t Sage.
I pop some gum in my mouth and grip a ball between my fingers, squeezing it tight. My forearm muscles tense up, but there’s no pain.
By the fifth inning, the game is tied and the coach tells Jason it’s time for him to warm up. “You’re going in the next inning.”
I watch Jason warm up and he looks good. He throws side-arm, and it always amazes me how he gets such speed with those mechanics. It never worked for me.
True to his word, the coach puts him in at the start of the next inning. He gets himself into a bit of trouble by the fourth batter, but our team turns a double play and we get out with no runs scored.
By the bottom of the eighth inning, our team leads by one.
“Tuck, time to warm up. You’re going in next.”
I walk up to the bullpen’s mound and toss some balls to our backup catcher. I increase my intensity with each pitch.
“How’s the shoulder?”
“It’s good.”
I throw the next pitch a little harder and roll my shoulders back. A little tickle, but nothing like before.
“Are you ready, Tuck?”
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
“Then go get’em.”
I step onto the field, and the lights go out in the stadium, covering all of us in darkness for a few seconds. Then, the high-pitch guitar strings of my walk out song echo in the distance, and flashes of strobe lights spear through the blackness. My heart races and I take a deep breath to calm myself, but adrenaline pumps through my body, shooting through my veins like a natural high.
Three quick breaths and my muscles relax, and I breathe a little easier. As I approach the pitching mound the stadium lights shine brighter than before, or at least it feels like that to me. I adjust my baseball cap over my eyes and look across the infield toward the catcher. He signals for a fastball. Sounds good to me. I take one more deep breath, raise my leg and throw a practice pitch to Scotty. He moves his glove a little to the right to make the catch. It’s not exactly where I wanted it, but I didn’t miss it by much. I wait for Scotty’s next call, but I want to throw the fastball again. Fortunately, he’s thinking the same thing and gives me the fastball sign. I adjust my grip on the ball and letit rip through my fingers. This time Scotty’s glove glides to the strike zone. Yes! That’s it. I exhale sharply and roll my shoulders back. Scotty calls a curve ball and a slider next. Both hit their targets and I motion to the umpire that I’m ready to go.
The ump signals to the batter, and he steps up to the plate. I’ve faced this batter several times before, but that doesn’t make this any easier. All ball players in the MLB are here because they’re great players. If my target slips, any one of them is trained and ready to take this ball out of the park. So, I don’t let my guard down, not even for the ninth batter.
But Hernandez isn’t the ninth batter, he’s fifth in the lineup and traditionally that means he’s a great hitter. He’s looking for the first-pitch fastball. Hitters love that pitch. Of course, I’m not going to give it to him, so I go in with a cutter. It’s a new pitch for me, and one Hernandez wasn’t ready for.
“Strike one!” the umpire calls from behind the plate. The batter looks at the ump for clarification, but he simply adjusts his masks and leans forward into position, ready for the next pitch. Scotty nods his head and throws the ball back to me. I twirl it through my fingers and wait for Scotty’s call. A curveball. I’m familiar with this sequence, it's one we’ve practiced. The curveball is a slower pitch and sets up my fastball nicely. After a low-speed pitch, the fastball looks even faster to the hitter, and it throws their timing off. After getting the strike call on the curveball, I place my fingers for a four-seam fastball and throw it hard.
“Strike three. You’re out!”
