16. CADE
CHAPTER 16
CADE
I release a caveman sound that offers zero relief. What would make it all better would be something greasy and cheesy with no nutritional value, or for Rob Beau to let me throw a damn cutter in this game.
“Still no,” he says in response to my incoherent noises.
Huffing, I lean back against the wall to keep waiting for the inning to end. Not far off, a couple of staff members are fitting Logan Kim back with his catcher gear. He has seen the whole exchange and said nothing, which means he agrees with our manager and won’t signal for any cutters this game either.
Neither man has ever been a pitcher. They don’t understand what this prohibition does to a pitcher’s mind. Mine is this close to breaking and resorting to begging or extortion. Not sure which one.
Finally the inning ends and I grab my glove. Kim and I jog together out of the dugout, and when he lifts his mitt to cover his mouth, I know he’s about to drop some truth bombs the other team shouldn’t find out about.
“Stop acting like a toddler pitching a tantrum.”
Well, that’s less exciting than I expected.
I cover the bottom half of my face with my glove too. “Look, you and I both know that my fastball and curve aren’t enough to take on the Riders. Otherwise I’d have taken the starter spot from whatshisface years ago.”
“That’s correct but we still don’t want the Riders or whatshisface to know what you’re really made of.”
I stop for a quick second, my lips stretching into a smirk. “What am I really made of?”
Kim knows I’m fishing for a compliment, which is why he responds, “Angus cow manure, straight from the heart of Texas.”
“You couldn’t just drop one measly compliment even if you didn’t mean it? Right before I pitch this inning?” I click my tongue.
His face twists with disgust. “It’s not like you’re my girlfriend, Starr.”
“Thank goodness. I’d be miserable.”
The umpire gives us a pointed look and we both head over to our positions.
At the top of the mound, I take one look at the dirt under my feet and annoyance bubbles up my throat. I let it escape in a whispered curse. Whatshisface has always been a stomper, a real bull on the mound trying to mark his territory. He digs his toes deep with his support leg, and then drags his heel with the landing one, turning the dirt into an uneven shitshow I’ve never been able to stomach, since I’m entirely the opposite. My windup wastes too much energy with its big motion and I can’t afford losing anymore with uneven footholds. Not to mention, it throws me the hell off because the holes in the dirt increase my risk of injury, not his.
And this is just one of the reasons why I can’t stand his freaking face. For years, it felt like I was the only one with the problem, but now that he’s gone other players and some staff are feeling a lot more comfortable with sharing stories. That’s why I really want to defeat his fancy new team with my cutter. Alas.
Huffing, I take a moment to even out the dirt with my foot. Somehow I’ll have to find the way to hold the Riders back with my old pitches.
Well, not just me. I lucked out in keeping the weapon that made Ben Williams the forty-million-dollar pitcher he is now. And that’s Logan Kim.
He crouches down at the same time that the umpire calls play ball, and the first sign Kim gives me is a fastball with top backspin, the one I threw in my hometown that no one got to clock. The Riders are starting with the top of a lineup full of sluggers that won’t balk at a good fastball, so I guess we’re just going for a fielders game rather than a pitcher’s game.
Fine. I have no real problem with that. I’m used to not being the star of the show, but it doesn’t mean I’m giving up on that goal.
I nod and glance back for a second. The outfielders move in just enough, knowing that this is gonna be a whole ass carnival soon.
Facing out front, I wind up big time, sucking in air to give me even more explosive power. The ball slides out of my fingers in a way that leaves them tingling—in a good way. The ball crashes in a nasty thud against Kim’s mitt, echoing around the stadium. I land right in time for the beautiful view of the batter swinging and missing so hard that he falls to one knee.
The crowd erupts as the umpire calls, “Strike!”
I stay stoic but on the inside I’m hootin’. That was fun.
Kim returns the ball and I pluck it from the air with my glove. I sweep around the dirt again and just in case, check the dugout. Apparently the success of that fastball worked against me because Beau shakes his head again, still no cutter.
Good freaking gravy.
Unfortunately, my All-Star, super trustworthy catcher calls for a curve that leads to an unfieldable grounder and a runner on first. Another head shake from from Beau.
The contest is tighter with the second batter, but the three balls and two strikes situation ends in another runner on base thanks to a bit too much sweat in my hand. Grunting, I grab the rosin bag and toss it around until enough dust coats my hand. I blow the excess away and face my catcher once more.
Really? I wish I could ask him to his face. But another curve? He does know we’re in the heart of the batting order, right? Like, it’s only their best batter after this, another damn All-Star, and they already have two runners on base.
Yet, Kim signals for the curve again. And to twelve o’clock.
Like, I get it. I’m a southpaw. That angle’s gonna be ugly for a right-handed batter, but these dudes can hit it.
“Here goes nothing,” I sing song to myself without moving my lips.
Crack!
Well, look at that. We just set a perfect chessboard for the next batter, Miguel Machado, to step up to the plate and send us packing.
The crowd loses their collective shishkebab as the superstar slugger walks up to the plate. This ridiculous beast was last year’s MVP for the whole league, and so far has batted four home runs even though we’re only a month into Spring Training, with a .500 batting average and a .603 on-base percentage, on pace to break several kinds of records this season alone.
There’s only one pitch in my arsenal that is noxious enough to give Machado any pause, and it’s the one apparently Beau wants to preserve for a perfect world.
We are, in a succinct word, screwed.
Machado doesn’t even whiff at the first pitch, a solid two-seam that would stump the bottom of the Riders lineup. But the next curveball does us in. The jerk doesn’t even use aluminum bats, yet he hits it so hard that his wooden bat cracks and the ball still flies like a rocket to the sun.
I don’t even have to turn to know it’s a damn grand slam. I rub my ear as the Riders fans scream their throats raw, glorying in our obvious defeat.
Kim stands up and signals for the fielders to come over as well, and I sigh. It’s only the fifth inning but I wouldn’t be surprised if they want to pull me right this second. Meanwhile, the four Riders round the bases and step home in succession, jumping to high five one another like this is their show and theirs alone.
“Hey,” Kim calls my attention.
I grunt in response.
“How you feeling?”
I marinate it for a second, and the strongest response comes from my midriff. “Hungry.”
He does a double take.
Lucky leans his arm on my shoulder. “Guys, I think our pitcher broke.”
“Maybe.” I shrug him off me. “But if I’m not allowed to fight these guys with my best weapon, there’s no other outcome than this. Instead, I’m really looking forward to dinner.”
Miller, our first baseman, bursts into guffaws. “Practical as ever, Cowboy.”
Kim tilts his head, studying me. “What do you want to eat?”
“Are we really going to have a food conversation in the middle of a game?” O’Brian, right outfielder, asks from behind me.
“Pizza,” I respond clearly. “The greasiest pie we can find. The kind that turns the damn box transparent.”
“Oh, man.”
“That’s the stuff.”
Someone else’s stomach roars.
“Tell you what.” Kim steps closer and narrows his eyes at me. “I’ll buy you that disgusting thing people pass off as food, but you have to do something for me in exchange.”
I put a hand on my chest. “Keep it PG, man. There are witnesses.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “What you’re going to do is hold off the rest of their lineup this inning. And the next. And the next until you’re subbed out. Can you do that, Cowboy?”
Silence befalls the team.
I blink, zeroing in on the dead serious face of the half Korean half Swedish all American catcher. He looks intense on a normal moment with his long hair, Sauron eyes that see everything, ‘70s goatie, and tattoos all over his arms. But he looks positively unhinged right now. Like he’s testing me to see if I can hold up the end of such a steep bargain. Like maybe the asshole drove me to this corner to see if I break.
I want to punch him in his GQ face. I’m so pissed but amused at his clever tactic, that it all bubbles out in an unhinged laugh that no doubt will make the social media highlights of the game. Probably even more than the grand slam.
Pinching my glove between my left elbow and my side, I free my right hand to offer it to him for a handshake. “Deal.”
He grasps it with his paw. “Transparent box.”
“Triple cheese.”
“Cholesterol infested.”
“Stuffed border.”
“Personal size or large?”
“Jumbo, you douchebag. Don’t be cheap.”
“You guys scare me,” Lucky says behind me.
“This is the most bizarre battery this team has ever had,” declares Brown, our third baseman.
Lucky pats my back. “Hang in there, Cade. Don’t let that master manipulator play you like a fiddle.”
Too late and we all know it. This is what makes Logan Kim one of the best catchers in the league, that unmatched deviousness of his. And I have no option but to dance to his tune during Spring Training if I want to make it as a starter pitcher.
But after that? I’m going to make his life miserable.
Once everyone returns to their positions, I raise my index and call out very clearly, “One out! For the pizza!”
“For the pizza!” the fielders shout in return, and we focus on the rest of the game.