Page 92

Another term for a fastball. “This pitcher is throwing gas.”
CASON
1 MONTH LATER
Blood rushes through my veins, adrenaline pumping with the pounding of my heart. I stare at the ball in my hand and drown out the noise in the stadium. Thousands of people cheering, music blaring, but I hear none of it.
A no-hitter.
That’s what I’m up against. Bottom of the sixth. No hits. A few have got a piece of a couple, and my heart drops when they do, but they foul off the fence post and save my ass.
After the sixth inning, nobody talks to me. Won’t even sit next to me in the dugout. That’s when it begins to sink in. A no-no. Something that doesn’t happen often once you get into the upper levels of baseball.
In the eighth inning, I notice my dad in the stands for the first time. He’s been there the entire time, sitting right next to Sydney and Tatum, yet until now, I haven’t noticed anyone. I’m so far inside my own head, I can’t tell you anything aside from how many fastballs I’ve thrown and that my changeup gets the right fielder every time.
I look to Tatum, who’s wearing all Sun Devils gear, sitting on my dad’s lap, cotton candy in hand, smiling.
Ninth inning, two strikeouts, 0-2 count. I can essentially throw what I want here. Maybe draw the batter to swing, but if he gets a hit, it’s over.
I lift my eyes to Sydney. Seated above the dugout, nervousness on her face, her hands pulled up near her mouth.
I want to laugh. She’s nervous? Ha. I can barely stand up here and toe the rubber without wanting to cry. I haven’t pitched a no-hitter since my sophomore year of high school.
Close the deal. That’s all I need to do. Nodding to Ez’s pitch selection, I grip the ball in my hand. Curveball. I need it to paint the black and secure this last out. I can do it. I know I can.
Silence spreads throughout the stadium, everyone anxiously waiting to see if this kid who’s struggled all season, the one who threw a hundred and five mile an hour fastball can pull off a no-hitter.
I set my hands, wind up, and deliver.
In those second 375 milliseconds it takes for the ball to reach the plate, I hold my breath.
It’s followed by the pop as it hit’s Ez’s glove, the swoosh of the bat as their shortstop attempts to get a piece of it, and the bellow of the umpire calling the strike.
Ez is the first one to me. Practically jumps over the top of me as he rushes the mound. The rest of the team soon after. I don’t remember much about the next twenty minutes. Cameras are in my face, media, my coaches… everyone. Through all that, I never get a chance to see my dad or Sydney.
“I don’t even know how to put it into words,” I tell the press and everyone else who asks me how I feel about pitching ASU’s first no-hitter in ten years. I pitched all nine innings, and it felt amazing.
AN HOUR LATER, still amped and unsure how to process any of it, my dad enters the club house.
“Guaranteed you’re in the top ten draft picks for the first round,” Dad tells me.
I say nothing, but I do smile. Truth is, I have no idea how to react.
Dad’s bombarded by the guys from the team. It’s pretty special to make it to the majors, and I’m the only one on the team with a dad who’s made it. Naturally they want his attention. Once we finally leave the clubhouse, I’m eager to see Sydney.
“Invite her to dinner. I’d like to take you guys out tonight,” Dad tells me, walking ahead to talk with my agent.
I pocket my cell phone that hasn’t stopped ringing and search the crowd outside the clubhouse.
I notice Sydney approach with Tatum in her arms, and the tension in my chest loosens.
“No-hitter!” she screams, and Tatum puts her hands up in the air, as if she knows she’s supposed to be excited but doesn’t know why.
The second she’s within a foot of me, Tatum lunges forward and steals my hat. “Boy!”
I’ll never tire of hearing that word and her precious voice.
Taking her in my arms, I hold her close. “What did you think, kid?”