12. CADE
CHAPTER 12
CADE
“ A nother one like that,” Pirela, our second catcher, says as he stands to throw the ball back at me.
I catch it, annoyed as hell that he has me on a fastball regime. I think I have the pitching form for the cutter down, and every cell in my body itches with the need to test it in a real game. Except that won’t be today because I’m under clear instructions to not play. We started out one of our reliefs, followed by a prospect that still can’t grow facial hair, and two solid guys from the minors.
My whole role today is to be in the bullpen throwing fastballs for the last two innings of the game just to screw with the opponent’s mind. Unfortunately, I’m the one whose mind is being screwed over by the audience flanking the bullpen.
“Show us something worthwhile!”
“This is embarrassing, Starr. You should be making us proud!”
“Is a boring fastball all you got?”
“Boo!”
“Can I have your autograph?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“My grandma pitches better!”
“Hell, my grandma has more balls!”
I do my best not to roll my eyes because I have no doubt some eagle-eyed fan would notice. And normally I wouldn’t give a rat’s furry ass about hecklers—or actually, I do. They fuel the very strong pettiness in me and push me to shut their yaps. Which I can’t really do when I’m here and not on the mound of this very unimportant game that’s happening in my hometown.
And that’s the crux of my real annoyance. I really wanted to throw the cutter here as a very clear way of telling everyone here bless your heart, asshole .
Pirela crouches down again, extending one leg out probably to stretch his knee. He signals for another fastball, this time right against the chest of an imaginary right-handed batter. At least this isn’t a coward’s pitch, so we’re starting to get somewhere.
We don’t have a pitching clock here so I take my time positioning the seams of the ball where I can throw the nastiest pitch. Let’s see how they like that.
The noise around me fades into a dull, unrecognizable cacophony in the background. I keep my eyes on the catcher’s mitt as I wind up, my right leg rising high for a full extension. My arm’s like a whip that puts a downright dirty backspin on the ball that shoots off from the tips of my fingers like a bullet. I land, keeping my eyes on the white blur as it slams with a violent sound and enough force to make Pirela reel back—and land on his ass. Not my fault he wasn’t in the proper stance to catch.
But it was a strike for freaking sure.
I straighten myself up and after that, the next to recover is Pirela. He whispers, “Wow.” And the word seems to echo because suddenly the audience has gone quiet.
I run my thumb under my nose to collect the sweat that’s pooled above my lip, and straighten the dirt with my cleat.
“Whoa, how fast was that?” someone from the audience asks.
My personal record is one hundred two point five miles per hour. This one felt better. So maybe one-oh-three.
Pirela swings back to his feet and lifts up his mask. He opens and closes his mouth, shakes his head, and decides to walk over here instead. He deposits the ball on my waiting hand gently and looks up at me.
“I’m gonna have to ice my hand after this, you jerk, but that was cool. Don’t do it again.”
I snort. “You sound like you’re hanging out with Kim too much.”
“He’s not wrong, you pitchers need to be reined in.” He wrinkles his nose. “Back to normal fastballs, okay?”
“Bleh.” I sneer.
Pirela taps my chest with his mitt before heading back to his spot and I have no choice but to suck it up because catchers are the boss on the field, and if I step out of line they tell on me with our grand-boss, our manager.
The game ends with a close win for us and I head back to the dugout next to Pirela, leaving behind the hecklers and cheers. This town hated my very existence when I was growing up—white trash abandoned orphan that I was—and now even the cheers and admiration feels like a personal insult. I didn’t ask for any of it when I was a kid, but is this the only way to earn some respect? To throw a ball really fast? What will happen the day I retire? Will I go back to being the dreg of this town?
I’m not a spitter, but I hack up a good glob and launch it at the ground before reaching the dugout. I can’t wait to brush the dirt off my shoes and get on the plane out of here.
A couple of innings of light pitching don’t require much upkeep after, aside from a shower. The debrief is quick because we have to drive down to the airport right away, and frankly I’m so eager that I’m the first one out of the facilities. Which is a mistake.
“Cade! Over here!”
“Can you sign my ball?”
“Let’s take a selfie!”
“Would you sign on me? I promise I can keep it real for you, babe.” This one is a woman who pulls down at her top to a hefty expanse of her chest. A mom nearby physically turns her son’s head away from the display.
I rub my eyes, asking the heavens for patience—which is what I should’ve had in the first place. If I’d waited for the rest of the team to come out, I could’ve used them as cover from the crowd. But I also shouldn’t show any cowardice to these people, so I have no choice but to play nice.
Not boob lady, though. I turn my back on her and pick a kid who’s waving his regulation ball toward me.
“Hey, little cowboy,” I say as greeting, crouching like a catcher so he doesn’t have to stretch his tiny self over the fence.
The kid must be six years old and his smile has more gaps than teeth. “Cade, you’re my favorite pitcher in the whole wide word! My momma says you’re from here and that I can be like you when I grow up.”
Er, hopefully not. Hopefully he grows up better.
“Whole wide world, sweetie. Don’t forget the l.”
The kid puckers his mouth to try again. “Wuo—would—world?” He manages, but the word sounds garbled and uncomfortable, and for the first time all day I want to laugh.
“Here.” A woman’s perfectly manicured hand appears in my field of vision, a million bracelets dangling from her thin wrist as she holds out a black Sharpie to me.
“Thanks.” I pluck it and take the ball from the boy’s hand. “What’s your name, little cowboy?”
“Jerry with a J.” Toothy grin follows.
I can’t help but returning it. “Nice to meet you, Jerry with a J.” I make quick work of my sloppy signature, which includes a sloppier star, and dedicate it to Jerry with a J, although I’m nice enough to omit the last three words. “Here you go.”
“Yay!”
“Thank you,” a man’s voice says, and that’s when I notice both parents standing behind the child. I rise up again, capping the Sharpie to return it to the mom, when I finally lift my head and freeze.
I recognize their faces. They made sure I memorized them when I was in high school.
She has the iron balls to smile at me. Megan, my first girlfriend and first ex. “Hi, Cade. Long time no see.”
“Maybe we should take a selfie to commemorate this special moment, huh? Back together again after almost ten years.” And he—Jimmy—has even more gigantic balls to say that, as if he hadn’t been the one to lead the bullying campaign that resulted in Megan dumping my ass because, and I quote, she had just gone out with me for charity. And as if the two of them hadn’t turned the whole school against my sorry fifteen year old ass up until the moment I became a varsity player and he didn’t.
I wish I didn’t care, and normally it’s easy to pretend that I don’t. After, all, I hadn’t thought about these two since graduation. But something about being back in this place has me feeling raw.
I stuff my hands in the pockets of my joggers and narrow my eyes as if I didn’t have one of the best eyesights in the team. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I know you?”
I can tell this is the best diss I could’ve come up with without resorting to f-bombs in front of their innocent kid, because their faces turn into two masks of stupefaction.
While Megan is making an effort to recover, a different voice sounds behind me. “Hey, Starr. We’re gonna leave you behind if you keep dallying.”
I turn over my shoulder and whatever the look is on my face visibly weirds Garcia out so much that she blinks hard.
“Coming,” I say to her, and then to the little kid I add, “Stay out of trouble in school and be a good kid, okay, Jerry with a J?”
“Yes!” He gives an enthusiastic nod of his head and I wave at him, and only at him, before turning on my heels
To my surprise, Garcia waits for me. As we head together for the bus, she asks, “What was that?”
“What?” I ask.
She motions at her face. “That goofy ass look on your face.”
“Oh, that was me being a damsel in distress. You were my knight in shining armor out there, darlin’.” I smirk.
But Garcia, being the intense person she is, doesn’t take this as the joke I intended. Instead, she pulls at my arm until I stop right before the bus entrance. “Starr, did they do anything to you? Do you I need to call security?”
I debate the merits of calling security on people who hurt me a decade ago—sure would’ve loved to have any backup back then—but even in my addled state I can see how there’s no point.
Freeing my arm, I put it around her shoulders to steer her into the entrance. “Nah, let’s just get the hell out of dodge.” Without looking back, I climb onto the bus.