Chapter Twenty
Two weeks after our glory on the diamond, we step onto the field once again to face off against the Altitude—and specifically Jared Morris.
Redemption and revenge all wrapped up in one package.
This isn't a charity game. We have arrived at Admirals Stadium in Jacksonville for the first match in the World Series.
We've come home.
The crowd is already on its feet, ready to give their all for the hometown heroes. A sea of jerseys— our jerseys—fills the stands. The rumble of excitement vibrates through the air, through my cleats, straight into my bones.
"Hell of a day for baseball," Phil says, clapping me on the shoulder as we head toward the dugout. He doesn't usually join us there during games, but this is no ordinary matchup.
"Can't wait for the game to start," I tell Phil as I sweep my gaze over the stands.
My parents and my sisters are here somewhere, probably wearing those embarrassing shirts with my face plastered on them.
And, of course, Amy will be watching from her spot near the bullpen.
My heart skips a beat every time I think of that.
My girl, the woman I love, will witness my first-ever World Series game.
"Nervous?" Phil asks.
"Nah." I say that, but I feel a bit queasy. "Well, maybe a little."
The locker room buzz still echoes in my head.
Jared's smug face is plastered across every sports network this morning as talking heads drone on and on about how they're predicting the Altitude to take it in six games.
Some rookie analyst even had the balls to suggest my arm was still questionable.
That my injury might flare up under pressure.
"Braddock!"
I turn to see Jared sauntering across the field, doing warm-ups, that trademark smirk on his face. Six months of humility apparently wore off fast once they clinched their playoff spot.
"Ready to embarrass yourself in front of the home crowd?" he says, his voice just loud enough for nearby fans to hear.
I don't take the bait. No, I just smile and continue my stretching routine. Amy taught me that—the power of not engaging, saving my energy for what matters.
"What's wrong, lost your voice along with your fastball?" Jared taunts.
"Save it for the game, Morris," I reply calmly, meeting his gaze. "Talking doesn't win World Series games."
His face hardens, but he huffs and turns away. I can't help but feel a small victory in that. The old Charlie would have fired back, would have let Jared get under my skin until my pitching suffered for it.
"Good man," Phil says with an approving nod, patting my shoulder. "Save the heat for your arm."
The sun beats down on the field as we finish warming up. My arm feels strong, loose, ready. I rotate my shoulder, testing the once-injured joint. No pain, no tightness. Just power waiting to be unleashed.
I spot Amy by the bullpen, clipboard in hand, talking with one of the relief pitchers. She catches my eye and gives me a quick wink before returning to her conversation. That small gesture sends warmth through my chest that has very little to do with the Florida heat.
"Starting lineup, gather 'round!" Phil hollers.
The guys huddle up, and I take my place among them. We're a unit now, bonded through all the ups and downs of the season. I glance at the faces around me, these men who have become family.
"Admirals on three," our captain says, and we all put our hands in the center. "One, two, three—"
"ADMIRALS!" we roar, and the crowd roars back.
As I jog toward the bullpen for final warm-ups, I catch sight of Jared in the visitor's dugout. He's watching me, calculating. I know what he's thinking. He's wondering if I'm the same pitcher he faced last time, or if I've found something new.
The truth is, I have. Something new, stronger, and better.
Amy meets me at the bullpen, her eyes bright with a mix of professional assessment and personal pride. "How does the arm feel?"
"Strong." I flex my fingers around the ball. "Better than ever."
"Remember what we worked on. Don't overthrow. Trust your mechanics."
"Yes, Coach," I say with a smile, and she rolls her eyes.
"Save the sass for after you win."
I take my position on the mound for my warm-up throws, feeling the firmness of the ball, a reassuring sensation. It's familiar, comforting. The catcher signals, and I nod, winding up for the pitch. The ball flies true, smacking into his mitt with a satisfying pop.
"That's what I call a perfect pitch, Braddock!" someone yells from the stands.
Six months ago, I was afraid my career might be over, and I wasn't sure if I'd ever throw a fastball over ninety again. Now I'm opening Game One of the World Series against the team that tried to break me.
The warm-up pitches feel like butter—smooth, controlled, powerful. Each throw builds my confidence. I'm in the zone, that perfect mental space where nothing exists but the ball, the glove, and the space between them.
"Two minutes," the umpire calls.
I scan the stadium one more time. The roar of the crowd washes over me like a wave. This is what I've worked for. This is why I pushed through the pain, the doubt, the endless physical therapy sessions.
Amy gives me a final nod from her position. There's so much in that simple gesture—pride, faith, love. I nod back, a silent promise passing between us. I won't let her down. Not today. Not ever. Everything is on the line tonight.
An announcement booms through the stadium: "Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for our national anthem."
I remove my cap and hold it over my heart, staring at the massive flag unfurling across the outfield. The singer's voice soars through the stadium, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It's just me, the field, and this perfect moment of anticipation and pride in my country.
When the anthem ends, the crowd erupts. I retake my spot on the mound as our play-by-play announcer's voice thunders through the speakers. "And now, taking the mound for your Jacksonville Admirals, number thirty-four, Chaaaaaarlie Braddock!"
The roar is deafening. I tip my cap to the crowd, to my parents, to Amy, to her mom, and then lock in. Game face on. The home plate umpire signals, and the first Altitude batter strides to the plate.
Jared's the leadoff hitter, of course. A wiry speedster who's stolen thirty bases this season.
I breathe deeply through my nostrils, letting the weight of the ball ground me. The seams press against my fingertips as I grip my four-seam fastball. The catcher flashes the sign—fastball, inside corner. I nod, just a little.
The stadium falls into that magical hush that only happens in the split second before the first pitch of a game—the kind that matters. Sixty feet and six inches separate me from making a statement.
I wind up, driving off the rubber with controlled power.
My arm whips forward, the ball exploding from my fingertips at 95 mph, slicing through the air toward the inside corner of the plate.
Jared's eyes widen very slightly. He wasn't expecting this much velocity, this much control, but he manages to swing.
Too late.
"Strike one!" the umpire bellows.
The crowd erupts, and I feel a rush of adrenaline surge through my veins. I catch a glimpse of Amy's face. She's beaming like the girlfriend of a fastball king whom she happens to love. This is what we worked for, the two of us together, the perfect matchup.
Jared steps out of the box, adjusting his batting gloves with a scowl. I can read his thoughts like they're written across his forehead: This isn't the same pitcher he faced six months ago.
The catcher calls for a slider. I shake him off.
Not yet. I want to establish dominance with the fastball first. He nods, flashing the sign for another heater, this time outside.
I wind up and stare down Jared. It's not about intimidation.
It's about focus. I know exactly what I want to do with this pitch.
I go into my windup. My mechanics are flawless—the product of countless hours with Amy refining my delivery. This time, I push the fastball to 97 mph, painting the outside corner.
Jared swings and connects, but it's a weak ground ball to short. Our shortstop fields it cleanly and fires to first.
"Out!" the umpire calls.
One down. Twenty-six more to go.
I allow myself a quick glance toward Amy.
She gives me a subtle nod—professional, composed, but I can read the love in her eyes.
We both know what this means. My first batter I've faced in the World Series, and I've already retired the league's most notorious hitter.
I've already proven all those commentators wrong.
Another guy strides up to the plate—a power hitter who swings for the fences. I work him inside, outside, changing speeds and locations. Three pitches later, he's shuffling back to his team's dugout, shaking his head after watching my slider freeze him for strike three.
Two down.
The third batter manages to make contact, but it's a lazy fly ball to center field. Our centerfielder settles under it easily, squeezing his glove around the ball for the final out.
Three up, three down. A perfect first inning.
The crowd roars as I walk off the mound, and my teammates pat me on the back as I reach the dugout. But I don't let myself get caught up in the moment. This is just the first inning of the first game. We have a long ways to go yet.
And I'm ready for it all.