Chapter Twenty-Two
Reed
“Baseball really is a glorified game of throw and catch. And if you don’t have guys who throw it really well, you can’t compete for long.”
—Tucker Elliot
On Wednesday afternoon, we played the Centerville Coyotes to a sold-out crowd in Crowley Park under a blistering ninety-four-degree heat. We had to win this game and the next one to officially clinch our spot in the championship, where we’d likely play the Crowley Cardinals.
So far, it didn’t look promising.
Cameron pitched the first five innings and did really well, but he had no support behind the plate.
Ben was all over the damn place. He botched what should’ve been an easy throw to second, which kept the tying run on base.
He dropped a pop-fly near the third-base line in the bottom of the third, and he even got an official warning in the bottom of the fourth when he mouthed off to the ump.
Before I took the mound, Coach Roeper pulled me aside and asked me what was wrong with Ben. I shrugged, because I hadn’t seen him or spoken to him since our last practice together when he all but said we weren’t family anymore.
I could’ve told Coach about Ben’s being pissed at me for losing focus and breaking our pact, but what the hell was the point? It wouldn’t fix the errors from earlier in this game. Any good ballplayer knew you left your shit at home when it was game day.
Guess I’d have to pick up the slack myself.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I had one error after another. I didn’t cover first base fast enough with what should’ve been an easy out in the bottom of the sixth. Then, I missed a bunt that practically landed at my feet, but worst of all? I balked.
BALKED.
Who fails to step toward first when trying to throw out a base runner at this level?
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done something so careless. And because of me, that smug-ass base runner got a free pass to second base. Why the hell couldn’t I get my head into this game?
What was wrong with me?
After a damn lucky strikeout with the first at bat in the bottom of the ninth, Coach Monaco called, “Time!” Ben lifted his mask before running out to the mound as Coach did.
I hated getting taken out in the last inning.
I needed to finish this one.
Please, let me finish this one.
Ben reached me a moment after Coach did and spoke first. “Ump’s an ass, Coach. He’s had it comin’ for us the entire game.”
“That’s enough out of you.” Coach pointed to Ben. “You’re on thin ice already. Don’t push it, Talbot.”
Ouch.
I took off my hat and wiped my forehead with my glove. “I’m workin’ with what I’ve got, Coach. I swear. His strike zone has been a hell of a lot smaller for us than it is any time Kominski takes the mound.”
“Yeah, Coach,” Ben added. “Kominski’s throwing beach balls, for Christ’s sake, and—”
“Enough!” Coach spat a sunflower seed to his left. Then to his right.
Mixed signals.
Was I out or would I finish this?
“Can you finish this game, Fulton?” Coach pulled down his Oakleys and stared at me from over the top of them.
My arm felt weighed down with irons, and my shoulder pricked with hundreds of needles, but I faked a stern smile. “I can do it.”
Coach slid his sunglasses back up. “Then get to it. It’s hot as balls out here.”
As he hurried back to the dugout, Ben pressed the ball into my glove. “Let’s end this already. The score is making me itch.”
With us only being up by one run? Yeah, same.
“We good, man?” I asked him as he started turning around to go back to home plate.
Ben cracked his jaw and scratched the scruff on his chin before he lowered his mask. “Just bring the heat. Think you can do that?”
My fingers tightened around the ball. “Yeah, I can do that.”
Ben ran back to home, and the crowd cheered as the next batter stepped into the box. He was three for three already this game, and he looked hungry for another.
I moved the ball around in my glove after Ben called for a fastball. He wanted me to bring the heat, so I’d do just that.
And I was gonna do it with my two-seamer.
I had tried it out on Granddad this morning, and he was thrilled. He had asked me what was different from the last time I had tried, and I replied with one word: “Focus.” What he didn’t know was that I meant I had to focus on a certain person.
So this time, when I blurred out the crowd, I also imagined that the base runner had changed to her.
Eliza.
If I pictured her, I felt calmer. My arm felt confident, and my head clear. Clearer than it had in years of being on the mound.
What was it she had said?
No one owns that mound but you.
I exhaled into my glove and took my stance. My knee drew up a second later, and I released the ball. It hit Ben’s glove directly over the plate with a satisfying thwack.
The ump raised his arm and yelled, “Strike!”
Yes!
Ben clapped his hand against his glove before throwing the ball back. He gave me the signal for another fastball. I nodded and got into formation. A moment later, I threw another strike from my two-seamer. And a minute after that, I threw another one.
Three fastballs in a row for my fastest out of the game.
Eliza would’ve loved to see it.
Ben stood and held up two fingers to signify our outs and threw the ball to me.
I couldn’t see his face, but I liked to think maybe he was smiling.
Ben and I had worked on my two-seamer off and on since last summer, but it was never consistent enough for me to really feel comfortable throwing it—till this week.
The next batter took the plate.
My last one of the game. My fastball would make sure of that. And maybe a good changeup to clench it.
But when Ben crouched down behind the plate, he used two fingers and tapped the inside of his right thigh.
A curveball?
I shook it away.
This same batter hit the shit out of my curveball earlier when I first took the mound. No. He needed my two-seamer and then a changeup. Ben must’ve known that.
But he smacked his glove and signaled for a curveball again.
I sighed, and my father’s voice drifted into my head.
If you can’t trust your catcher, you can’t trust anyone, son.
Face hidden by my glove, I imagined Eliza at the plate again and reluctantly nodded to Ben. My knee drew up a second later before I released the ball. And then, everything slowed as the batter’s eyes lit up.
CRACK!
Ben jumped to his feet and ripped off his mask. I whirled around and watched the ball sail deep into center field. Dominic sprinted after it.
“Catch it, catch it,” I mumbled.
Dominic’s glove shot up as he got closer to the wall. He leaped and reached over the top as the ball dropped.
I couldn’t look.
But then the crowd went wild. Our team charged out of the dugout and threw their gloves into the air as the announcer called out our victory of 4–3 over the Centerville Coyotes.
Ben appeared next to me and scoffed. “That was your curveball?”
I flipped my hat up. “Why did you call for it? You know he hit the hell out of mine earlier.”
“I didn’t trust the two-seamer to happen again.”
Seriously? All he’d wanted me to do at the beginning of this summer was master it, to force myself to throw it. Now he wanted me to hold back?
He scowled and walked away toward the guys who crowded around Coach Monaco near the dugout. I tucked my glove under my arm and followed.
Coach raised his hand, and the team quieted.
“I know that scoreboard says we won, but we’re damn lucky we did.
We had far more errors than the Coyotes.
Most of you played like your head was in the clouds instead of down here on the field.
The only one who had half his shit together was Cameron.
Nice game, son.” He nodded to him, and my face prickled with heat.
“We’ve got almost a week till our next game, and I don’t need to remind you how important a game it is,” Coach continued.
“Until then, rest up, be on time for our practices, and for God’s sake, keep your head in the game, where it belongs.
We got a lot riding on this one, and a family I don’t wanna let down.
” His gaze moved across the group from each player and settled on me. “Have I made myself clear?”
Crystal.