Endgame (The Atlanta Boys)

34. Callaway

34

CALLAWAY

“We’ve got a runner on the bag, plays at first, boys.”

It’s the top of the ninth inning, and the score is close. We’re currently in Cleveland at our first away game since the off week, and the team is fighting like hell for this win. The break seemed to do my shoulder some good because I pitched nothing but back-to-back strikeouts, putting the score at a settling 2-1, Strikers in the lead.

There’s one out on the board, leaving us with the goal of two outs and no runs batted in this inning to secure the sweep. The Cardinals have a jam-up pitcher, Michael Bronc, who I played with in the minor league years ago. He’s known for his impeccable change-up, making his label as a beast very fitting.

However, what Michael fails to have is my speed.

I don’t consider myself cocky, but I’m confident. I’ve worked hard for the skills I have, and you can bet on me using them. It’s taken me years of rigorous training to get my fast pitch to a steady and consistent speed of ninety-eight miles per hour.

I’m out here making grown men weep .

It’s my hidden sweet spot when we need to secure the board from any more runs before our closing pitcher finishes the game.

Booing and ridicule come in chants from the stands, and it's nothing like our home games in Atlanta. I thrive off of their hostility.

My body buzzes with expectation as the next batter takes the plate. I eye Bodhi at catcher's position, and he nods in understanding.

It’s time to slaughter these deadbeats.

Deciding to throw off the momentum this batter seems to think he has, I let my curveball take flight. He hits it dead on, sending a line drive to third. Graves glides into motion, running up on the hit to stop the ball with ease. “Headache,” he calls out to King at shortstop, signaling for him to duck as he sends the ball flying to Jethro at second to secure the first out.

The runner is still en route to first. He’s a slow fucker, leading Jethro to play the ball to our first baseman, Mack, in time to secure the second out before the runner gets to the bag.

He’s out .

Three outs on the board, and it’s a sweltering win for the Strikers.

Now that’s a ball game.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” I can hear Leggins roaring from the sidelines. “That’s how we play some baseball!”

As soon as the ball is secured in Mack’s glove and the umpire calls the out, Mack charges me at the mound, his massive frame tackling me to the ground.

The roars from the Striker's dugout alert me they’re coming before all hell breaks loose, booing to be ignored, and we’re all jumping up and down shouting in victory to the sound of our anthem.

“Atlanta boys, where you at?” King is wailing at the top of his lungs, sending hype energy through our veins.

I live for this high.

“We right hereeeee!” The team responds over and over again like a manly game of Marco Polo, but for champions. Amid the excitement and an incredible win, my eyes search for my beautiful girl in the background. The electricity when she’s near alerts me to look ahead.

Layered in Striker's colors with her bright hazel eyes on me, I watch her from afar as she lowers her camera, lens clearly locked in on the sight of our celebration and looks at me with a smile full of so much pride.

She’s stunning.

My smile reaches hers in seconds, and I stand awestruck as she blows me a sweet kiss that sends my heart into delirium.

I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of adoration for this woman. She’s quickly become what I look forward to most every day, and the prospect of her becoming something more thrills me.

I can’t wait to get her alone tonight. She doesn’t know it yet, but tonight she’s mine. I have plans for her—plans to woo her and make her unable to resist my overwhelming charm.

Get ready, baby. I’m coming for you.