Playing The Hot Corner

Paperback – Envy on the Coast

So far, we were nailing everything the Oakland pitcher threw at us. By the third inning, we had scored 9, and in the fourth, we gained 3 more. It’s like the team knew Joe and I had sorted everything out. Justin had two home runs this game already, and Joe and I each had one. Jason Kubel was 3 for 3 by the fourth inning, and most of the team followed suit.
I was set up to bat in the fifth inning with two outs. Justin was on base ahead of me, and because of his single, the A’s called time and their manager and pitching coach both headed out to the mound. A pitching change was in order, and I went over to chat with Justin down by first base.

“New guy, I think. I don’t remember the A’s having a number 21.”

“That works. Maybe he’ll be like me on my debut.”

“I hope not,” Justin said, looking out at the new pitcher. “You kind of rocked your debut.”

“But I was nervous as hell. I hope he doesn’t handle it as well.” I paused for a moment. “Jeez, that was mean. I take it back.”

He shook his head, chuckling a little. “Just watch the guy, will you?”

I turned to look, and I found that I couldn’t breathe. Since he was a righty, his back was to us, but I recognized the precise way the guy moved on the mound. The green-and-yellow number on the back of the gray jersey was 21, a common number, but one that was way too familiar to me. My jaw dropped as I slowly read the name above the number: HACKER, it read in bold letters.

“No way,” I mumbled, moving around closer to the plate to get a better look at the pitcher’s face. Now I was sure.

“Jesus,” I said softly. “Joseph!” I whispered harshly into the dugout.

“Huh?” he said, turning around from talking to Scott Baker.

“Look at the pitcher they just put in!”

He did as he raised his Gatorade to his lips and took a swig. He didn’t end up drinking it; he spat it out harshly when he saw the guy’s face.

“Wait, what?” Justin asked, a little alarmed when he saw Joe’s reaction.

Before I could answer, the umpire called for the batter and I had no choice but to go up to bat and look Charlie in the eyes. When we finally made eye contact, he froze for a second, like I did, and then he sent me the worst death glare I’d ever gotten from anyone. I tried to ignore it and set myself up to hit. I twirled the bat in one hand, a habit I developed in little league, dug my feet into the dirt of the box slightly, and looked up at Charlie again, gripping the bat in both hands I had hit off of Charlie before, and pretty well. For some reason, though, my hands were shaky and I was ready to jump at any pitch I saw.

Charlie’s glare subsided only the slightest bit before he got the sign from the catcher. I took a deep breath as I saw him set up for his curveball. I bent my knees just before he delivered the pitch and I swung. Apparently Charlie had been working hard on his pitching, because it came faster than I expected and I was way late.

“Strike one!” the umpire called gruffly, and my heart started pounding. I realized that Charlie and I had started an unspoken competition, and I decided that I could not lose.

The second pitch was a ball – high, because Charlie knew I loved to chase the high ones – but I didn’t go for it. The third one was too, just barely out of the strike zone. I’d seen his speed now, probably clocking in at around the low 90’s, and I thought I was ready to kill it.
Charlie threw the next one right down the middle, and I swung with perfect timing…for a fastball. I have no idea why I missed that it was a change-up, because Charlie had just the slightest grip change when he threw the slower pitch. I should have caught on the second he took it out of the glove in the windup.

I shook my head and stepped out of the box, trying to reset my brain. I tried to guess why Charlie and I were both so determined to out-baseball the other. We didn’t have anything against each other, so there wasn’t really a point to it.

I got back in the box, adjusting my stance. I saw a speck of dirt on the toe of my cleat when I looked down briefly. The chalk line was scuffed a little, maybe from a pitch that hit the dirt from the last pitcher. I wrung my hands around the handle of the bat, staring out at Charlie with a hard look in my eyes. I knew he could just feel that I was anxious.

I saw him shuffling the ball around in his glove, searching for the right grip. He stopped, and I saw that he was going to throw a slider. I hated sliders. Not many pitchers were able to throw them in high school, and I’d hardly gotten used to it since I started playing again. Charlie knew that I hated trying to hit a slider, because he was one of the five high school pitchers in the state who could throw one well. We would be practicing in his backyard with Joe and he would throw it all the time. I was instantly angry – he knew my weakness and was using it.

The ball left his hand in the perfect position, and I saw that it was going to be a damn good pitch. I bent my knees just the slightest bit more than usual, being that I would have to dip the bat to hit it. I even shut my eyes once I had my trajectory, swinging for the fences on the worst pitch possible.

My heart sank when I didn’t feel the bat connect, and I heard the swishing sound of the bat hitting empty air. The Oakland stands erupted in cheers as the team left the field and my teammates started taking their positions. The batboy brought my glove and hat out to me, but only after I had thrown the bat back at the dugout. I couldn’t believe I just lost that battle. What pissed me off the most, though, was the look that Charlie sent me just before he walked off of the mound. It said he was superior to me, that he would always be better.

“Well, whose team has 12 runs?” I grumbled.

“Don’t worry about it, Babe,” Joe said, coming over and giving my shoulder a squeeze. “We’re still up. One strikeout isn’t going to hurt us.”

~

For some goddamn reason, that strikeout did hurt us. The entire team suddenly hit a slump, and Oakland suddenly started hitting off of Scott Baker, and then Brian Buscher, and then Jose Mijares. No matter who we put in, they were hitting off of him. It got to the point where the score was 13-14 in their favor. It was the final inning, and it was the most dramatic scenario I’d ever been in. I was on third base, and there were two outs and the count was 0-2 on Carlos Gomez.

The pitch was in the dirt, and somehow the catcher, Kurt Suzuki, missed it completely and the ball headed for the backstop. I went for it, running as fast and as hard as I possibly could. I saw Charlie coming to the plate and Suzuki threw it, but only after I had started my dive. I threw my arms out and both of my hands hit the plate before Charlie’s glove landed on my back. I knocked him over when my whole body slid over the plate. I looked up at the umpire, expecting his arms to be spread wide in a ‘safe’ gesture. Instead, he was throwing his fist through the air, which meant the exact opposite.

“What?” I cried, throwing Charlie’s leg off of me and getting up. “No way! Did you even see that?”

Joe was suddenly out of the dugout, pulling me back by my shoulders. “Easy, Jesse,” he said. Gardenhire was already out on the field too, making sure I was standing back before arguing the call himself.

I ripped my shoulders out of Joe’s grip and started back to the dugout, fighting tears back. Justin and Kevin let me pass without trying to intercept me. I didn’t care about what Dick and Bert were saying right now, and I didn’t care if they saw me storming down the stairs to the locker rooms. I just wanted to get out of there.