The next pitch is a knuckleball, and I rarely throw it, but Scotty calls for it and I’m happy to oblige.
The batter gets a piece of the ball but sends it foul.
Strike two.
One more, baby.
Scotty signals for a fast ball. I adjust my hat and place my fingers around the ball into position. With all my strength I throw it towards Scotty’s glove.
“Strike three!”
Scotty punches his glove and smiles, but a sharp pain in my shoulder stops me. I roll it a few times and don’t feel it anymore, so I settle back down.
The next batter steps up to the plate and I wait for Scotty’s signal. He asks for a change-up.
Rolling the ball between my fingers, I map out the strike zone. I let the world fade as I stare down the batter.
I throw the next pitch, and it doesn’t hit its mark.
“Ball one.”
Shaking it off, I rub my hand against my pants to dry up the sweat. I never miss that pitch, but I was thinking about my shoulder.
Scotty calls for a fast ball and I shake it off. If I miss the mark and throw it straight down the middle, that batter is smacking that ball into the stands, and it’ll be game over.
But Scotty signals for the fast ball again. He’s adamant that it’s the one he wants me to throw. I could shake it off and call him up for a chat, but a movement to my left reminds me that there’s a player on first and I throw the ball to the first baseman.
“Safe!” shouts the first base umpire.
Focusing back to the hitter, I take a deep breath when Scotty signs for the fastball and I relax my muscles.
Don’t be afraid to throw it. Just do it!
Hitching up my leg, I pull back my shoulder and let the ball fly through my fingers.
Snap!
A loud pop rings in my ears, and I don’t know if it was my shoulder or the ball’s contact with the bat. Either way, it’s not a good sound.
Scotty stands up to watch the ball, but pain burns through my arm, tingling down to my fingers. The crowd is on its feet, but I close my eyes, and I try to make a fist, but my muscles are too tight, and the pain is so unbearable that it brings tears to my eyes.
The stadium erupts into cheers, and everyone is jumping and waving their fists in the air. Fireworks go off behind me, celebrating the Lions walk-off win and our loss.
Scotty shuffles toward the mound, taking his mask off as he approaches. “Left too much of it on the plate, Tuck. Better luck next time.”
Then, he bumps me on the shoulder with his glove, and it feels as though he hit me with a scalding hot pot. “Ow!”
Tears brim around my eyes and I close them.
“What the fuck? Are you all right, man?”
My shoulder feels as though a million electrical currents run through it. “No. It’s my arm. I can barely move it.”
Scotty signals to the bench and Neuman leaves the dugout, followed by Gainsboro.
When they’re just a few feet away, Scotty turns to them and says, “I think there’s a problem.”
“What’s wrong?” asks Neuman.
