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Refers to the positioning and or movement of the catcher’s mitt and body when he catches a pitch in the attempt to make the pitch appear as a strike to the umpire. Typically done on pitches that are slightly outside the strike zone and may be questionable for the umpire to call a strike.
CASON
“There’s only two reasons to be dating a single mom,” Noah says with a grunt when I enter the dugout after two walks and a guy homering off my fastball.
It’s been a rough night on the mound, and Noah isn’t helping.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Ez laughs at Les, and I fight the urge to rearrange his teeth.
“They’re too busy with their kids to be up your ass. And they have the best snacks.”
I hang my head, shaking it back and forth. “Shut your fucking mouth before I shove your bat up your ass,” I growl, having enough of his bullshit for one day.
Ever since I moved in with Sydney, or the guest house I sneak into in the early morning hours so Tatum doesn’t see me in bed with her mom, the guys on the team have been giving me shit.
Ez and his big fucking mouth told them I was taking her on a date tonight, and they’ve only amped their antics. But they picked the wrong night for it. My first game back since the line drive to my face.
In the next inning, my headspace takes a dive. I can’t even place what’s wrong either, but I can’t block anything out. I think about Sydney, Tatum, the draft, my fucking mom calling me —it’s all compressing, driving me further and further into a slump. I know why she’s calling. Because the draft is getting closer, and she only wants one thing. Status.
Well, fuck her and her stupid reasons.
I throw a pitch at the backstop. A walk.
Another wild pitch follows.
Another.
Ez walks to the mound, ball in hand. “What’s going on?”
I shrug, not sure if I can offer him anything.
“It’s just catch, man.” He hands me the ball. “Take the batter away. Take him out of the equation and throw to me.” His eyes narrow in on me. “Give me the heat.”
I exhale, trying to compose myself. It’s just catch. Nothing else.
I look at my hand and the ball it’s holding.
Strike. That’s all I need.Throw a fucking strike, man!
Running my forearm over my forehead, I look to Chiasson, his eyes masked by his dark sunglasses. I’m thankful I can’t see the disappointment on his face.
Ball in hand, I roll it around in my palm, staring at it.Throw a strike. I can do it. I know how. I’ve done it countless other times before. So what’s going on now?
Thirty-three pitches. Two hits. Two runs. Four walks. Five wild pitches and I’m relieved from the mound and left with the same emptiness I can’t explain.
Baseball, for me, has always drawn me out of my own head. From fears, my insecurities, my anger. And the only person who could ever draw me out of that?
My dad.
After the game, he’s the first to call me. I sit in my car before I meet Sydney, and talk to him.
“You okay, buddy?”
“I don’t know. I really fucked that game up.” I sigh into the phone. “Mom called me before the game.”
There’s a silence, or maybe an understanding, because even though they’ve been divorced longer than they were married, part of him still loves her and hates her at the same time. “Same shit as usual?”
“Yeah, I guess. I let it go to voicemail. Didn’t bother to listen to it yet.”