Page 110

JAXON
When two players share playing time at a particular position.
The late-afternoon sun beats down on PK Park, casting long shadows across the infield. The crowd’s getting restless—you can feel it in the air, that tension that comes with a tied game in the seventh.
As Jameson steps onto the mound for the bottom of the inning, the student section’s still going strong, all green and yellow, their “Let’s go Ducks” chant echoing off the press box. Sometimes I forget how beautiful this place is, the fir trees beyond center field swaying in the Eugene breeze.
All that green in the stands catches my eye between warmup pitches—Duck fans decked out in our colors. Green likehereyes.
Fuck. Didn’t mean to think about Camdyn right now.
I haven’t heard from her in days, though she’s on my mind more often than not. I’ve been too focused on learning to catch with a broken nose, trying to ignore how every pitch makes my face throb like someone’s swinging a hammer at it.
Another flash of green in the stands and there she is in my head again. I haven’t seen her in over two weeks, and it feelslike forever when you’re used to seeing someone every day. But between the pain meds making me foggy and Coach riding my ass about my pitch calls being off, I haven’t had the headspace for anything else.
My stare shifts from the student section to Jameson. He draws in a deep breath, holds the ball loosely at his side. He’s in control now and he knows it. We study film together, come up with a plan for each batter. Today that’s harder than usual. The pain meds are wearing off and my mask keeps pressing right where it shouldn’t. But baseball doesn’t stop for a broken nose, and neither do scouts.
I adjust my mask between pitches, trying to find a spot where it doesn’t feel like someone’s stabbing me in the face. The doctor said it’d hurt for weeks. What he didn’t say was how every sneeze would feel like death, or how I’d wake up tasting blood, or how catching ninety-mile-per-hour fastballs would send shockwaves through my skull and make me see stars.
But here I am, because that’s what we do. We play through it.
The only pitcher on our team I’ve caught for is Jameson. We paired up last season and it works for us. I know what he wants to throw before the batter even steps in the box. We study film together, make a plan for each guy.
If there’s a runner on first—and we know he’s going to steal—when I throw Jameson the ball, he’ll catch it in a certain way to let me know the next pitch will be high and outside so we can get that runner out. If he catches the ball and holds his mitt in front of his face, I know a breaking ball is coming next. If he touches his hat, it’s a curveball. If he taps his mitt to his cheek, it’s a changeup.
Why does he do this? It saves us time, no back-and-forth over pitch calls.
Jameson reads batters better than any pitcher I’ve seen.
He misses things sometimes, though, and I have my own cues to let him know when he’s not seeing what I am. If I touch my left knee after he makes a call, he knows he should throw a fastball. If I adjust my mask, time for a breaking ball.
I’m looking for everything—how close they are to the plate, how they’re holding their hands, their grip, their hot zone. Every batter’s hunting a pitch and I can tell by their stance and how they’re holding the bat which one they want. Even so, it doesn’t matter what pitch they’re looking for with Jameson’s movement on the ball. I could tell the batter to his face, “Hey man, sinker in—be ready,” and he’s still not hitting it.
But umpires make everything harder.
Sometimes I argue with umpires. They get on my fucking nerves. Usually, we friends. I can tolerate their shitty calls and chalk it up to them just trying to do their job. And let’s be real: a baseball coming at nearly a hundred miles per hour and breaking at the plate, it’s hard to make an accurate call every single time.
That said, sometimes, they’re absolute trash. They don’t know a strike from their nut sack. Like this guy behind the plate for the last game in the series against the Duck’s. He’s definitely not my favorite. We’re 1-1 with them and this win matters. The scoreboard glares 2-2 in the seventh, every pitch counting more.
The calls start to piss me off when he calls a curve—a beauty—a ball. It breaks right before the plate and curves over the top right corner.
“Ball,” he bellows as I’m holding my glove in the exact spot it was thrown.
I stay crouched, look at my feet, then my glove. I hold it there and look up at him. “Ya sure?”
He levels me a look. He’s pissed I’m arguing, but after the third straight ball he’s called, I don’t know what the hellhe’s seeing and Oregon is definitely taking advantage by not swinging.
“You wanna try that again? Your feet are outside the box.” He points to where I’m crouched.
I hold the ball in my right hand. “My man, my feet might be outside but my glove is inside. Look there before you make the call. My glove was on the outside corner.” I stand and toss the ball back to Jameson. I know exactly what I’ve been doing. I’d set up for the pitch, give the sign, then move outside. My glove was in the box. My feet? Who knows. I have big feet. Maybe they were on the line, sure, but I’m in the fucking box.
I look at Coach Allen and he glares, as frustrated as I am with the calls this joker is making.
“This is your warning.” The ump takes his mask off, stands inches from me. “Keep your feet in the box.”
I snort and take mine off too. “Why ya gotta say it like that?” I squint into the sun and wipe sweat from my forehead. “I didn’t say anything about the last six pitches you called balls that were right down the middle.”
Coach Allen stomps out of the dugout, his cleats clicking against the concrete. “What’s the problem?”