Page 111 of The Fall Classic

When the first batter steps up to the plate, I tell myself I’m not pitching for her.

But if she’s impressed, I won’t be mad about it.

I focus on the glove in front of my face for a few heartbeats, then let my vision go soft and lose focus on a spot right above the ump. I feel my pulse steadying. Georgie’s in the back of my mind, but nothing is taking the front. I grip the ball—fingernails in, knuckles out—wind up, and release.

Thwap.

Strike one.

I can feel Rojas smiling behind his mask.

It’s hard to predict where a knuckleball will end up, so I miss the zone a few times. I walk one, strike out two, and then another still gets on base.

I have two outs, but also two runners on base, with one in scoring position when the next batter gets up.

He has a mean look on his face that I ignore. He fouls the first one straight back. Swings at the next without getting a piece of it. I miss the strike zone on the next two pitches, trying to be clever when you can’t be clever with a knuckleball. By the time I’ve climbed to a full count, the crowd noise has gone from background hum to something I can feel in my back teeth.

I look at my glove in my hand. Then just over the umpire’s head, where I let my focus relax⁠—

Wait, is that Scottie in the stands cheering? I catch her blonde hair and glasses as she claps. How did I miss her sitting there this whole time? I blink hard and something tugs in my chest, thinking about Georgie watching in her upstairs apartment so many states away instead of a mere hundred feet, like my brother gets. She’s probably got the TV on in the background as she does homework.

Is she watching me now?

Shoot.

I can’t think about Georgie right now. But I can’t try to avoid the thought of her, either. Avoidance never works. I slow my breathing and let the thought of her move through me instead of fighting it, let the feeling of missing her go in and out of me with every breath, and then I let my focus go soft again. Look at the spot behind the ump. Nothing else.

The pitch clock’s ticking down.

What happens next is quick—maybe two seconds, but every movement counts.

I set my grip and dig my fingernails into the seams while I find the sign from Rojas. I nod, then settle my right foot against the back of the rubber and set my left foot in front of me.

I lift my knee up to hip height, weight staying back over my right leg through the whole thing.

Then I stride forward in a burst of strength and speed.

My arm comes through on its normal path—same arm slot as my fastball, same arm speed almost the whole way so hitters can’t see it coming.

My wrist doesn’t lock quite right but the ball releases off my fingertips, knuckles out, leaving my hand with no spin. Something in my forearm stings like a rubber band hitting it and I have to shake it off, watching as the ball floats toward Rojas. This one’s fast. Gotta be seventy-eight miles per hour, my best pitch of the night. The batter doesn’t know where to swing but he can’t help himself, and it veers six inches at the last possible second.

Strike three.

The guy stands there looking at his bat like there’s a hole in it, but the stadium is going wild.

Three outs.

I did it.

My forearm still feels off as I jog from the mound. Rojas meets me halfway, smacks my glove with his. Lucas and Coop are already off the bench, and they grab me excitedly. Even Jake smacks my butt and gives me a “good one” on his way past.

I drop to the bench next to Lucas while our teammates get ready to bat, and when no one’s looking, I press two fingers into my own forearm, testing it like it’s a bruise.

The Firebirds’ manager comes over while I’m still carefully feeling around the spot.

“What’s going on?” Joe asks, chewing sunflower seeds.

“Nothing, I don’t think. Just feels off.”