Chapter Twenty-Seven
Today, I'm in the city of Aspen, Colorado, on the mound at Altitude Park, ready for the first game of the World Series.
Naturally, the Assitudes were selected as our opponents.
It's the culmination of everything we've fought for all season.
The stands are packed with fans from both sides, a sea of Admirals blue clashing with the Altitude's forest green.
The thin mountain air feels crisp in my lungs, different from the humid heat of Jacksonville.
I adjust my cap and dig my cleats into the red clay of the mound. The ball feels solid in my hand, the seams rough against my fingertips. I've thrown thousands of pitches in my career, but none as important as the ones I'll throw tonight.
Decker Johnson, the Altitude's star slugger, stands in the batter's box. We have history between us. Last season, he took me deep twice in one game, a memory that still burns. His self-assured smile tells me he remembers too.
"Just like old times, eh, Braddock?" he calls out, tapping his bat against home plate.
Something about his bat seems…different. Johnson taps home plate again. Is that…No, it can't be. But I'd swear he has…
A torpedo bat.
I'd recognize the bowling-pin profile of the torpedo bat anywhere.
But this is the first time I've encountered one.
The Altitude must be really worried about the Admirals trouncing them if they need to trot out a new weapon.
I've heard a lot about torpedo bats, but I'm not sure I want to try it. Feels like cheating somehow.
No time to worry about that. The game has begun.
I narrow my gaze, blocking out the roar of the crowd.
All that exists is this moment, this batter, this pitch.
Coach Martinez gives me the sign from the dugout—fastball, high and inside.
My specialty. I nod discreetly. Then I wind up, channeling all my focus into my grip.
The pitch flies from my hand like a bullet, exactly where I want it. Decker swings—and misses.
Strike one.
Cheers erupt from the Admirals fans. First blood has been drawn. Decker must not have practiced enough with his torpedo bat. He's clever, though, and I'm sure he'll get up to speed quickly.
"Lucky pitch," Decker grumbles, but I can see the doubt creeping into his eyes.
I glance quickly toward our dugout and catch Tripp giving me a thumbs up. It's always good to know your teammates have your back. The catcher signals for another fastball, but I shake him off. Decker's expecting it now. I'll give him a change-up instead, strictly to mess with his timing.
I go into my windup again. The ball leaves my hand looking like heat but arrives fifteen miles per hour slower. Decker lunges forward, his weight shifting too early.
"Strike two!" The umpire's voice booms across the diamond.
Decker steps out of the box, frustration evident in the tight set of his shoulders.
He takes a practice swing with that torpedo bat, the wood piercing the air with a distinctive whoosh.
The altered barrel clearly gives it different aerodynamics.
If he connects solidly, that thing could send the ball into orbit.
Focus, Charlie. Don't let fancy gear trip you up .
The catcher signals for a curveball, low and away. I nod, but my mind races with calculations. Decker's stance has shifted slightly. He's compensating for the bat's different weight distribution. Smart. I need to be smarter.
I wind up and release, watching the ball spin and break. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he's read my pitch. His eyes track the ball with laser focus, and the torpedo bat begins its arc.
But my curve breaks sharply at the last second, just beyond the reach of his swing.
"Strike three! You're out!" The umpire's call is music to my ears.
The Admirals fans erupt in cheers once more. I allow myself a quick fist pump as I catch the return throw from the catcher. Decker stalks back to the dugout, his face like a thunder cloud. One down.
Somebody new approaches the plate, but my mind is still on Decker and that torpedo bat.
The way he adjusted so quickly to its weight tells me he's been practicing with it.
I squint at the batter, trying to determine what sort of bat he's using.
I groan. Damn, he's got a torpedo bat too.
This won't be the last I see of it tonight, that much is certain.
I strike out the next batter with three straight pitches, barely registering the mechanics, but I can tell he's getting the hang of his new toy. My body knows what to do even when my mind wanders. The third batter grounds out to short, and just like that, the inning is over.
As I jog back to the dugout, the cool mountain air fills my lungs. The elevation makes everything feel different here—the ball carries farther, breaks differently. Home field advantage for the Altitude in more ways than one.
"Nice work, Braddock," Amy calls out as I descend the steps into the dugout. She smiles, giving my arm a light punch.
"Thanks, Coach." I grab my water bottle and take a long swig. My teammates surround me, offering fist bumps and words of encouragement.
Tripp slides onto the bench beside me. "That torpedo bat's something else, huh?"
"Yeah, it really is. Johnson's already adjusting to it." I wipe sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. "How are we supposed to counter that?"
"Same way we always do. Pitch smart." Tripp's confidence is unwavering, a quality I admire. "Besides, we get a crack at them too. They're available to both teams."
Something about it still doesn't sit right with me. Baseball's always been about the purity of the contest—pitcher versus batter, skill against skill. These new bats feel like they're tilting the scales.
Guess I'm just behind the times.
Our batters head to the on-deck circle as we're up to bat. I watch our leadoff hitter, Marcus, examining one of the torpedo bats with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
"You planning to try it?" I ask him.
He hefts the bat, testing its weight. "Might as well. If they're using them, we need to keep up. Right?"
"Guess so." But I can't shake my unease. It isn't solely about keeping up. It's about what these bats mean for the game going forward.
The Altitude's pitcher, Santiago Vega, is a shrewd lefty with a wicked slider. He stares down Marcus as he steps into the box with his torpedo bat. The first pitch is a fastball that Marcus fouls off awkwardly, the bat's unusual weight distribution throwing off his timing.
"It's all in the follow-through!" Tripp calls out.
Marcus adjusts his grip, nodding. His second swing connects better—a sharp line drive that the shortstop barely snags. One out.
I lean forward on the bench, studying Vega's motion, the way the ball leaves his hand. If we're going to beat these guys, I need to pick up every advantage I can.
Our second batter, Rodriguez, steps up with a traditional bat. Bold choice. He works the count full before slapping a single through the gap between short and third. A murmur runs through our dugout. The old ways might still have some merit.
"See that?" I nudge Tripp. "Traditional bat, traditional hit."
"Yeah, but watch this," Tripp says, nodding toward Jameson, our power hitter, who's approaching the plate with a torpedo bat in hand.
Jameson's swing is a thing of beauty—fluid and powerful, connecting with the ball just below its center. The crack reverberates through the stadium as the ball rockets toward the outfield. The torpedo bat's distinctive profile follows through as Jameson watches the ball soar.
For a moment, I think it's gone—a home run in the first inning would set the perfect tone. But the thin mountain air plays tricks. What would be a sure homer in Jacksonville hangs just long enough for the center fielder to make a leaping catch at the wall.
"Damn!" Jameson slams his bat down as he returns to the dugout.
"At home, that would've been gone," I tell him, offering a consolatory pat on the shoulder. But we've locked horns with the Altitude many times, and we never suffered this type of problem.
"Yeah. Altitude Park's a bitch." Jameson examines the torpedo bat with newfound respect. "Got good pop, though."
Our next batter strikes out, ending the inning scoreless. As I walk back toward the mound for the second inning, I can't help but glance at the Altitude's dugout. Their players are huddled together, talking strategy. Decker catches my eye and smirks, tapping his torpedo bat against his cleats.
Game on.
The next few innings pass in a blur of concentration and sweat.
The score remains tied at zero, a pitcher's duel between me and Vega.
My fastball is working well today, hitting corners with precision.
But I'm having to work twice as hard with those torpedo bats in play. Every pitch needs to be perfect.
By the sixth inning, fatigue starts creeping in.
The thin mountain air doesn't help, though I'm still unsure of how much the elevation in Aspen could possibly affect us.
Every breath seems to deliver less oxygen than I need.
But I refuse to show weakness, especially to Decker, who's due up third this inning.
The first batter grounds out to first, an easy play. I strike out the second batter on four pitches. Then Decker swaggers to the plate, that damned torpedo bat resting casually on his shoulder.
"Getting tired, Braddock?" he calls out, his voice carrying across the diamond. "That mountain air's no joke, huh?"
I ignore the taunt, focusing instead on Tripp's signals. Fastball away. I shake my head. Curve? Another shake. Slider. That's the one.
I wind up and deliver, putting everything I have into the pitch.
The ball spins toward the plate, breaking sharply at the last moment.
But Decker's ready. The torpedo bat connects with a sound that's different from normal wood—deeper, more resonant.
The ball rockets toward left field, a line drive that keeps rising.
My heart sinks as I watch it sail over the fence. Home run. The Altitude fans erupt in cheers as Decker rounds the bases with a triumphant fist pump.
1-0, Altitude.
Despite our best efforts, we lose the game. But this is only game one in the series.
Amy sits down beside me in the dugout. "You lost one game, Charlie. It's not the end of the world."
"Yeah, but our next game is here in Aspen too. I'm completely exhausted." I swipe my jersey over my face, mopping up the sweat. "We've played at Altitude Stadium before, but something's different this time."
"Maybe you're anxious about the torpedo bats."
I shrug. Who the hell knows what the problem really is?
Amy clasps my hand. "Listen to me, Charlie. The team needs a different kind of training, that's all. You guys need proper hydration and nutrition. Some altitude simulation training might help too. By the time we play the next game, the whole team will be ready."
She always knows what to do and say. But I need to point out the obvious. "We can't overcome the torpedo bats. The Admirals haven't practiced with those."
"So, we'll practice."
The more I think about the problem, the less certain I am that altitude alone slowed down our best players today. What else could it be? Maybe I'd better talk to Phil and Ray about that.