I jog back to where the players are gathered just as a gruff voice beckons everyone’s attention. “Bring it in, gentlemen.” Raymond Gainsboro, the head coach, puts his hands on his hips and takes a moment to look each player in the eye. “I don’t have to tell you how important this game is. We must set the tone that the L.A. Jets are the World Series Champions and no one, not the New York Lions or any other team, will take it from us. They are the biggest contenders this season, so let’s shut it down and show them who will win again this year.” Then, in a louder, angrier voice, he says, “The World Series match up starts today. Understand?”
“Yes, Coach!” the team shouts back.
“Good. Now, go give those Lions fans something to boo at.”
I smile, as I receive my fair share of angry fans from opposing teams, but in New York, I know there’s always a group that cheers for me, too.
My brother Austin, his wife Jane, my nephew Anthony, Charlotte, and her son Charlie will all be in a private box rooting for me while wearing their Lions jerseys. I don’t take itpersonally because I know they’ll always have my back. And I would do the same if I still lived in New York.
But L.A. has been my home for almost five years. I haven’t been back to the Falls in more than ten—not since I signed with my college team right after high school.
As we walk onto the field and line up for the national anthem, I inhale deeply and take in every ounce of energy cascading from the crowd in the stands. With my hat to my heart, I mouth the words to the Stars Spangled Banner and chills rush up my back when the vocalist sings the last bar.
Here we go!I think as the song ends and the fans applaud.
As the closing pitcher, I don’t start the game, but I will make sure to finish it with no runs added. I have the lowest ERA in the majors this season, and before I moved into the closer role, I threw a no-hitter. Baseball is my life and I’m damn good at it.
As I walk toward the dugout, I look up into the box seats and spot Anthony and Charlie waving at me. I tip my hat to them, and it only incites more shouting and arm waving. I remember being their age and waving at my favorite player. Only, I never caught his eye. I’m glad I can do that differently for these boys.
I sit on the bench and wait for my teammates to do their job before I can do mine.
Cena, our second baseman, offers me some sunflower seeds and I grab a handful and toss them into my mouth. I don’t get nervous when I’m on the mound, but watching is a different story.
After four innings, the New York Lions have rocked our starting pitcher, earning four runs. Fortunately, our guys rallied back and tied the game in the sixth inning.
“Get Valentin ready,” says Neuman on the phone with the bullpen. “He’s up next inning.”
I suck on a salty seed as Valentin walks up to the mound in the seventh inning. He throws a few warm-up pitches before the next batter steps up to the plate.
I spit out seed after seed from my lips as he strikes out the next two players. The third Lions player that Valentin faces hits a fly ball out into center field, and the entire stadium holds its breath praying it carries far enough for a homerun.
Our bench stands up as we watch the ball soar—back, back it flies while our centerfielder runs to catch up to it. He turns, leaps off the wall and makes a spectacular catch. The dugout exhales a sigh of relief as the fans in the stands groan.
The top of our order is up to bat next and our biggest hitter, Jackson, is on deck. Grabbing another handful of sunflower seeds, I throw a bunch into my mouth.
“Tucker, time to warm up.”
I spit out the seeds and grab my blue glove. I got it custom made last year to match the light blue uniform.
While the backup catcher helps me warm up in the bullpen, the game continues. Just as I’m about to throw my next warm-up pitch, the familiar crack of the bat makes me stop. The entire stadium is holding its breath. One fan in front of me puts a hand over her mouth as she stares into the outfield. I can’t see the field from the bullpen, so I watch the play on the jumbotron. From the trajectory, I know that ball is gone. Seconds later, Jackson smiles as he jogs the bases, and I quietly celebrate the homerun with him.
“You ready, Tucker?” says the catcher. “This is now your game to lose.”
His words don’t bother me. In fact, they stir my competitiveness and adrenaline pumps wildly in my veins. “We’re not going to lose this game.”
He taps my shoulder with his glove, and I walk out of the bullpen and on to the field.
Being in New York, the crowd doesn’t cheer as I jog to the mound, but my eye catches a sign from the private box. Anthony waves it back and forth with a smile. “You got this, Uncle Casey,” it reads.
I smile, then focus on Scotty’s glove as he sets a target for the strike zone. I throw some easy pitches, nothing too fast, to warm up. The umpire signals it’s time to start and I nod.
The Lions have their best hitters up, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I don’t need Valentin saying that I had it easy when I earned the save.
Scotty signals for a curve ball and I curl my fingers and pitch it.
Swing and a miss.
My excitement grows and I take a deep breath to settle it down.
