Page 23

To hit a home run.
CASON
On the mound, I’m the epitome of self-preservation and compartmentalization. I push everything else out of my head and focus on Ez’s mitt and the sound a strike makes hitting the leather.
I drown out the shouting to throw a slider. It’s the bottom of the sixth, we’re ahead by two runs. Last game in the series against Oregon State. If we win, we win the series.
My pitch count is low, my agent is in the stands, and if I had to guess, the man next to him is from the Angels. He’s been coming to my games for the last month, constantly assessing and watching. I know a lot of scouts. Product of having a dad in the majors. They’ve negotiated constantly over the last few years, and though I’ve been eligible to enter the draft since last year, I haven’t yet.
Right out of high school, I was offered just under four million. I turned it down.
But you knew that already.
What you probably don’t know is that even though my pitch count is low and I’ve thrown ten strikeouts this game alone, my mental stability is better than it’s been all season. I don’t know where the change happened.
Maybe because I talked to my dad before the game.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that scout sitting two rows behind the plate with the radar in hand, he’s not going to see the unbreakable kid who finally realizes that even the untouchables show their weakness. That kid with the exceptional arm, who everyone thought would be one of a kind, well, his invincibility is starting to leak out.
That kid on the mound that everyone is watching, he’s twenty-two, and nobody needs to know he’s facing the game alone, with his demons.
He takes one pitch at a time. One batter at a time, he throws the game he’s capable of.
My fastball is hard. Hovering in the upper 90s all game long and reliable. My curveball, a little wild but slides in there exactly the way it needs to. My changeup? Good luck getting a piece of that one. I’ve thrown it four times tonight, and not once has anyone gotten a piece of it.
And then comes the third batter of that sixth inning.Shit. Trevor Long, a taller kid originally from Louisiana, he’s two for two tonight.
I don’t know if you know this, but I can tell you the stats of most every player we see on a regular basis. I study films, their stance, and what pitches will strike them out. I know Trevor is leading the league in home runs. I can’t throw a curveball on him because he’ll send it right over that centerfield fence line. He’s a right-handed batter and steps to the plate, his ritual—one I’ve seen many times—but his confidence is impeccable.
Aware of the music thumping through the ballpark but not really hearing it, I draw in a breath and let it out, holding the ball loosely.
Strike him out and move on. Don’t throw for speed. Throw for accuracy.
I focus on Ez behind the plate, someone who is smart when it comes to the game. He sees things in a baseball game most hardly do. Maybe it’s because he has a clear view of the entire field, or maybe because he’s that fucking good.
Ez holds down one finger, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
Two-finger fastball. Okay, I can do that.
Sweeping my glove over my forehead, I nod and steady my breathing.
Set my hands.
Wind up.
Release.
Everything feels perfect about that one, from its release to delivery. The hiss of the pitch and the foomp of it hitting Ez’s mitt, followed by the bellow of the umpire.“Striiiiiiike!”he yells, animated with a hand gesture.
That sound, it’s what relief sounds like.
Blowing out a breath, I focus on the commotion in the stands, the cheering that comes next, and the whispers in the dugouts. Our team freaks out, jumping up and down, whistling at me, and clapping, but I don’t know why. They can’t be that excited over a strike.
The umpire tells Ez something, and he nods, returning the ball to me. I look down at it and wonder what the speed was on that one.
“Two more! Two more, Reins,” Ez says, throwing the ball back to me. “Give me two more, just like that!”