Page 26 of The Battery

Cody

T hird and final game with the Brawlers.

We won the first, lost the second, and now at the bottom of the sixth, we were tied, two and two.

Leo had played exceptionally against his old team and I wanted to join him in the dugout after every inning during the first two games.

I kept my distance, though I did pop over from time to time to give him words of encouragement.

Classic Spartan that he was, he only regarded me with that cool gaze of his and nodded.

Though admittedly I detected the hint of a twinkle in those greens when I appeared.

I could have been making that up, but after spending the All-Star Break with him, I felt I understood him better.

I had learned to compartmentalize. The trick wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be.

Standing on the mound, after our requisite fist bump, I could toggle between one view of Leo and another.

Almost like those fancy military goggles I saw on a documentary that switch between night vision and thermal imaging.

In one view, I saw Leo for the calm, collected, fierce competitor behind whom I could throw all my trust. On the other, the recalcitrant but hurting man whose stymied emotions caused irrational anger at himself for events beyond his control.

The latter would not do while we played. In quiet moments alone, absolutely.

I was learning. Something he wanted out of me. One of the keys to the locks around his presence.

The bottom of the fifth inning hit with roar throughout the crowd.

Brawlers red splashed the stadium with enough color to send a bull into the stratosphere.

Like Brawlers games when we were in Lexington, the stands were mostly full, the fans enamored with the ancient rivalry between our teams. Because the two runs we each scored occurred during the first inning, the fans were thirsty for more.

It was my job to both ignore them and prevent the Brawlers from scoring. No pressure.

First batter stepped up to the plate, hulking giant of a man who had murder in his eyes.

I had no desire to countermand anything Leo would send my way for these guys.

He called for a curveball. The pitch dropped out of the zone, swing and a miss.

A fastball came next, high in the zone that the ump called a ball.

I sent a second curveball that the batter fouled off.

He was looking mighty pissed and agitated at that point. Good.

I launched a nasty fastball on the outside corner. Third strike. The batter spat and walked away while shooting daggers at me. I neither preened nor jeered. Just a flat, Leo-inspired stare.

Second batter, a bad piece of work Leo had warned me against on account of the man’s dirty plays.

Leo called for a slider, which I threw perfectly.

Swing and a miss. Changeup next, which the hitter missed badly, like he really thought he was going to send it into the clouds.

Leo called in a fastball, high inside, which got a hit.

Only it popped up to the second baseman, who caught it for an easy out.

The third batter, a known instigator, tried to rile me by stepping out of the box in a blatant play to disrupt the rhythm Leo and I had going.

Leo remained calm and cool, which I drew inspiration from.

When he called for a fastball, I sent a nasty one his way.

The batter made solid contact, but it went directly to the shortstop, Freddie, who fielded it cleanly, sent it to first, and got us our third out.

The boos and jeers carried me all the way to the dugout.

“Drop the smirk,” Leo told me when we got under the safety of the ceiling.

“I wasn’t,” I snapped back.

“Yes, you were.” Cold, demanding. This man’s uncanny ability to switch personas still baffled me. “It wasn’t a dumbass grin but I could see a little smugness. You gotta watch that shit, Hill. Brawlers will make it their mission to wipe it from your face.”

“Fine,” I said, though not as angrily as I once would have. He was right, after all. I started into the hallway that would bring me to the guest bullpen.

“Hill,” Leo called after me. I spun to see half his body poking around the concrete corner. I spun to look at him. The big idiot winked, his face as unreadable as the concrete itself. But the way that one eye fluttered at me.

I rolled my eyes and jogged back to the bullpen.

Bottom of the sixth found us with an angrier crowd.

Chanting had started, followed by the chorus from “Somebody That I Used to Know” by Gotye in dedication to Leo.

Oh, how the fans loved screaming those lyrics when a picture of Leo in Brawlers red came on the jumbotron.

We bumped fists and I found myself singing along. It was catchy, if nothing else.

But Leo wasn’t the only one to escape the crowd. Stupidly, the text “Cody Hill? More like Cody Bump” scrolled on the jumbotron. I actually laughed a little. What a horrible, terrible joke. It was almost funny how dumb it was.

I put it all aside. Tasted the cinnamon on my gums. Let the crowd fall away in all their fanfare and noise. Just me and Leo. I liked that.

First batter, known for his clutch hitting, took a fastball for our first strike.

I mixed in a slider next that he swung for, giving us strike two.

A second fastball went too far outside for ball one.

Leo called for yet another fastball, which I threw with perfect precision.

The batter managed to ground to third on that, but it was fielded and thrown to first for the out.

The crowd noticeably amped up their jeering.

It punched through my usual defenses and crept into the periphery of my awareness.

A moment of concentration sent them away as the second batter came to the plate.

He laid down a bunt on a slider and exploded from the plate for first on legs like a cheetah.

But my Leo was faster. He charged the ball before Freddie could get to it, barehanded it, and launched the thing like a missile to first. It happened so fast—in a blink, really.

It takes a runner on average about four seconds to reach first base and Leo zipped to action faster than that.

My compartments blurred, seeing him play like that. A professional athlete working on instinct. It was pure sex.

Focus. I told myself.

The third batter was one of the Brawlers fastest runners. Leo called for a fastball, which was hit to centerfield. Mr. Perfect was out there waiting and he could have painted the Mona Lisa while he demonstrated, with ease, catching the ball. Third out.

The booing crashed through my walls. Leo was right about the smirking. I kept my face plain as we reached the dugout. Alas, in classic Leo fashion, he still pulled me aside near the corridor leading to the bullpen. “Don’t listen to the crowd.”

“How did you…?”

“You crinkle your nose when something is too loud,” he told me. At that, I gave him a baffled look. “It’s only gonna get louder in the seventh inning, especially if we don’t score any runs and we’re still at two ’n two.”

“Don’t crinkle the nose, got it.”

I saw his right arm twitch, as if he wanted to lift his hand up. I bet he did. Grab my nose or something silly to break the tension.

“Quinn is gonna be the first batter. You ready for him?”

“Been waiting all game to show that fucker up.”

A single, curt not from Leo. “Good.” I saw his pupils dilate a fraction. He liked the assertiveness. I would have to remember that.

I watched the Riders do just as well as the Brawlers did while I was throwing.

That is to say, not well at all. I went back to the dugout and went up onto the field for the bottom of the seventh with the score still tied.

The boos from the crowd were cacophonous.

I wasn’t sure I could block this level out.

“Focus on me,” Leo suggested right before we had to part. “No one else out here but us. Got it?”

“Yessir,” I said and bumped his fist.

He must have known I was nervous. On my way to the mound, he did it again.

“ Fastball, fastball, cur-cur-curveball ,” came over the PitchCom receiver in my hat. I burst into laughter, as did Freddie and Romo in the outfield. Leo only sent it once, but it was enough to remind me to loosen up.

The booming jeers of the crowd, the flashing lights of the jumbotron finding new and inventive ways to make fun of both Leo and myself…

all of it sent to the background. I tunneled my vision.

Leo, kneeling behind home plate, covered in his gear.

I couldn’t see his face behind that mask.

But I saw the tattoos of his exposed arms, the ink on his knuckles and the backs of his hands. He was there. I was there.

Quinn stepped up with the cockiest of walks. Then, he stepped back out again. Already with the antics. He adjusted his gloves.

When he went back in, I threw a fastball, high and inside.

Quinn barely got his bat out, fouling it back.

I got the ball back and Quinn stepped outside to, yet again, adjust his batting gloves.

He took five seconds to do so. The pitch clock was ticking away.

Leo had already sent the call so I was ready.

The moment he re-entered the box, I sent a slider. Quinn put his soul into the swing, as if hoping for a homer. But he missed and we got our first strike.

Yet again—again!—he stepped out. This time, however, the umpire issued a warning and Quinn stepped back in with a venomous glare at me.

Leo had already called for a fastball precisely on the black, which I nailed.

Quinn swung and it made contact, but it was a pop-up.

Leo was on his feet, ripping off his mask in a heartbeat while Quinn pounded sand toward first. I watched Leo track the thing.

Then, he held out his glove. Smack. Perfect catch.

Quinn was out.

The crowd really did not enjoy that. Apparently, the man was their hero. He was all smack talk and harmless poison as he made his way back to their dugout. I kept my face as neutral as I could, looking to Leo for inspiration. He didn’t seem to care.

The second batter got on base with a single after fouling several pitches.

When the third batter came up, Leo forewent the use of PitchCom and flashed me a hand signal.

He didn’t send a call for the pitch because when I wound up to throw, the man on first stole for second.

I was ready, thanks to Leo. I rotated and threw to second for an easy out.

The last hitter? Well.

Swing and a miss on my high-and-away fastball. My changeup dropped out of the zone at the last millisecond for another swing and a miss. It was like mopping an easy spill off of the floor. Third throw was another fastball. And another swing and a miss.

The booing was at a deafening decibel as we left the field.

I could only imagine what the people were saying about me.

I was done for the night. Our setup man would go in for the eighth and then our closer for the ninth.

In truth, I didn’t exactly want to go back to the bullpen to deal with the awful people hovering over us.

So I stayed with Leo in the dugout, tucked into the corner where he liked to watch the game. I was cognizant of the cameras that could be on us, so I didn’t act terribly obvious. I did slap his shoulder as I crashed down onto the bench next to him.

“You’re killin’ it out there, Hill,” he told me. He had his cap off, running his hands through his hair. I wanted to do it for him. I noticed his beard was shorter than usual. I’d have to ask about that later.

“Same to you,” I said. “If not a little distracting,” I said, breathy and quiet.

At that he cleared his throat. “Preaching to the choir,” he responded just as quietly. I suppressed a grin.

Then, he surprised me. “Hey,” he said quietly and actually turned toward me. “When we’re back from Ottawa, why don’t you come over for dinner. Just you and me.” I stared blankly. I had been over to his place a few times for dinner, the last one shared with his uncle. Did he mean…

Even quieter, he said, “Bring some candles.”

Oh.

I adjusted my hat. Blushed. Looked away. He already knew my answer.