Page 40 of The Battery

Leo

I f I could graph my September, it would show two inverse lines.

One, let’s call it the red line, climbed steadily upward from such a low, low position.

Each point it advanced felt like a new me, an undiscovered portion of my psyche that delighted in its reveal.

The red line gave me a kind of hope I didn’t know existed.

The more it climbed, the more I knew with certainty it was headed toward the ultimate goal of something I never thought achievable: love.

Then there was the blue line. That had started at the top and dropped, tumbled, fell, with every passing game and every loss, despite the wins.

I never liked magic numbers, or the statistics the Smart People used to determine outcomes of the regular season.

I knew enough that it kept me apprised of our situation.

The lower that blue line fell, though, the more I squirmed at the thought at losing my shot to win something good for Uncle Andy.

We kicked off September with a series win against the Barracudas, who were leading the division at that point.

Later, we swept our games with the Annapolis Hawks with our home field advantage.

Then we lost two out of three games against the Ottawa Diamonds, which gave us our first indication on how tight the Wild Card race would be as the month dragged on.

But our confidence still held strong. We aimed for clinching postseason, not the Wild Card.

With Cody’s attendance at the games, though he was not playing, he became something of a coach in the bullpen.

His rivalry with the amorphous Assholes had turned a new leaf, and they started listening to him more.

His coaching (and I firmly believe it was because of Cody) allowed us to win a key game against the Brawlers.

This game had been one of the most pivotal of the regular season.

Cody and I celebrated afterward in our new favorite way.

Mid-September came like an ex with a vengeance.

A mix of wins and losses, nothing to give us any better sense of direction.

We fought like hell in every game, dumping everything we had into each one.

Cody had begun to lightly throw again, though he was forced to dial it back until his muscles were better.

The Assholes had shifted into a genuine friend group for him, and it was somewhere around the middle of the month he revealed his collective name to all of them.

I advised against it and it turned out I was wrong.

They loved it. They jokingly bullied their way everywhere they went.

“’Scuse me, the Assholes coming through,” they would often say. Everyone got a kick out of it.

We all but fought every time we played against the Brawlers.

The crowd practically demanded that we drain onto the field at some point in each game.

Quinn never stopped doing this shit. Admittedly, the Riders weren’t opposed to starting arguments either.

All of us were on edge as we duked it out through hits, throws, and catches.

But that blue line kept sinking. The Barracudas were rising.

In the American League East Division, it was quickly becoming obvious that the Jacksonville Barracudas would clinch a spot in postseason.

Not the end of the world, due to the way the game has changed in the last few years.

The Wild Card was a playoff spot given to the best teams who didn’t win their division.

However, only three from the American League were given permission.

Which meant we still had work to do. Still, we played like we would clinch postseason without having to fight for the Wild Card.

A doubleheader against the Brawlers pushed us further ahead in the Wild Card race and dropped those fuckers back.

They fought like hell and let their odious spirit get the better of them.

Like cornered cats, they lashed out irrationally instead of playing calm and controlled.

Like the Riders. I thanked my lucky stars that I had the foresight to predict this and make the switch to the winning team.

On September twenty-sixth, our trajectory changed.

The Barracudas clinched the AL East Division Title, which eliminated us from contention.

But not from postseason. We were still in the running for a Wild Card spot.

Across the entire American League, only three of us could secure that and the Riders had no other option.

I had no other option. My pennant for Uncle Andy became the sole focus of my existence.

Cody’s beautiful red line hit a plateau.

He knew it did. I knew it did. He didn’t get mad or try and push us together when we got home.

He knew I needed to focus on and off the field.

He called it hitting the pause button. September skyrocketed my affection for him, but toward the end we both knew we had to take it easy for a short (a very, very short but effective) spell.

Then at last our time came on September twenty-eighth. Our second of three away games at Annapolis. The blue and white stripes of the Hawks would face off against the blue and bronze of the Riders.

*

We had all collected in the guest clubhouse in various states of readiness.

The air was thick with pre-game jitters of a different kind.

There’s an aura of anticipation when it comes to clinching a postseason spot, which we did not do.

A new type of anxiety fell upon us, like a rushing avalanche of white powder.

If we won the game tonight, we’d clinch a Wild Card spot.

One of only three coveted positions available for those who didn’t make postseason.

Likely we’d have another opportunity to clinch, but we did not want to squander this first opportunity.

Light conversation undulated through the team as we finished getting ready. I stayed near the senior-most veterans like Rome, chatting idly about strategy. This marked our second of three games against the Hawks. We just won against them last night. We would win again tonight.

Cody hung out with the Assholes. He’d shoot me a look every now and again that I was happy to catch. He emptied his adoration into those gazes while I didn’t budge a fraction in my “piss off” stare. I knew he loved it. He told me as much on multiple occasions.

“Reminds me of when we first met,” he said to me. “And I know all the wheels in your head are spinning while you pretend not to care. It’s hot.”

I caught sight of one of the Assholes going to the entertainment center at the edge of the room.

A stack of electronic equipment controlled the monitors scattered throughout the room as well as a soundstage worth of speakers.

I dimmed my brow, curious as he connected his phone to one of the receivers.

He fiddled around with a few of the knobs.

Then, music. A heavy bass line. Everyone stopped talking at the sudden intrusion of sound. The thumping beat was then accompanied by rapid-fire synth chords…

And then a soprano and a tenor belting out familiar words. “ Fastball, fastball, cur-cur-curveball. ”

I exhaled and shook my head as I lowered it. Someone had commissioned a techno remix of the fun little song I had created to get Cody to shake off his nerves.

Everyone was screaming the lyrics. Many of them while jumping. Dancing horribly but cutting loose nonetheless. I remained still, arms crossed, staring at Cody, then Rome, then Freddie. Our little clutch of friends who originated the song, now for all to share.

Anticipation vanished, replaced by electric excitement as the song looped through for a second time.

Energy built on energy, a compounding effect that almost— almost —made me want to join in the churning bodies of my jumping teammates.

I remained on the outskirts of it with Rome.

Cody and Freddie were in the thick of it, jumping into the mess, slapping backs, grabbing hands, screaming and cheering and singing, all at the same time.

And I cracked. The sight, the sound, a smile broke across my face. I can’t dance, but I can nod my head. So I moved my head to the rhythm and walked in slow circles to get myself as amped as the rest of the team.

The time came and the entirety of the Riders left the clubhouse as a mass of blue and bronze. Rome and I brought up the rear, the tall man moving with a confidence I had seen before.

“We’re gonna win,” I said to him.

“Ain’t no doubt,” Rome replied. He slapped me on the back. “You know I was worried when they first told me you were joining the team?”

We were in the concrete corridor that led to the dugout. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Rumor has it you moved a couple of pieces on the board to put yourself here.”

“It’s true. You see, I have this unquenchable thirst for the great Romolo Moretti.”

He elbowed me hard and I actually winced. “Well, I’m glad you made it on over.”

“I’m not one for sentiment,” I said. We were nearing the exit. “But, I came here to win. I wasn’t expecting what I found.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

We were at the top of the stairs. The buffoons were still screaming the lyrics to my song, drowning out the shitty pop music the Hawks were pumping through their stadium speakers.

“A new family,” I said.

We lined up along the third base line for the national anthem. I saw Cody all the way down at the end. Typically, veterans stood together on one side, rookies and relief pitchers at the far end. I’d see him plenty enough during the game so I didn’t make an effort to catch his eye.

After, most of us went back into the dugout.

Rome was up first to bat and I was on deck.

I stepped into the circle. Many would take a few practice swings while waiting, but I preferred to study the Hawks pitcher as well as the catcher.

Like most teams, they used PitchCom. The devices weren’t mandatory, but it was hard to shake them once you realized the ease of communication with special signals.

The Hawks were not a rival, per se, but they were cold and calculating.

Fierce competitors in all the right ways.

They likely would not catch a Wild Card spot, but everybody knew this was our first chance.

I wouldn’t blame them for putting up a hell of fight just for the sake of competition.

It’d make our win all the sweeter when it happened.

Rome made it to second on a line drive to left field. That man could move like the wind. It reminded me of his blurring speed when he ran toward the mound after Cody was hit.

I stepped up to the plate. Both the starting pitcher and the catcher were four-year veterans on the Hawks.

They were specifically brought up from the minors together as a single unit.

I knew a thing or two about batteries, so I had a slight advantage here to understand how these two could practically communicate without doing or saying anything.

They knew me. My reputation. I wasn’t a home run hitter like our boy Rome, but I could raise the stakes when I needed to.

And I always had an eye for pitchers.

I feigned a swing as the pitcher threw. Held it way back, not because I could anticipate what he would throw, but I wanted to see what it would be. I held, it looked like a fastball, high and way outside. The ump called a ball, and the catcher returned it to the pitcher.

Okay. I think I understood these guys better today.

The pitcher threw and I swung. Ball whiffed right by, as if it phased right through my bat. Dammit. Strike one.

Time to be aggressive.

I wanted— needed —us to start showing we meant business.

The Riders weren’t always known for their strong starts, and indeed our strategy had always been a strong defense and coming back to life when everyone thought we were against the ropes.

But this was for the Wild Card, which was ultimately for the pennant and my uncle. I had to give it everything.

Third pitch. He threw a changeup, but it came in too high. The perfect level for my bat.

Crack.

The ball practically teleported into the gap between the outfielders.

My feet had wings as I kicked up dust devils on my way to first and then second without breaking stride.

Rome had already reached home. I thought I’d stop at second, but the outfielder fumbled to get the ball and when he threw it was off target.

So I kept going. Thought it was a mistake halfway there. I knew the ball was coming in, fast…

I leaped into a dive and skidded along the dirt, hands stretching before me to reach the pristine white base with Rome’s dirty footprint on it.

I couldn’t read the play exactly and my confirmation bias told me my fingers touched the base before I heard the smack of the ball reaching the third baseman’s glove.

“ Safe! ” the umpire exclaimed. I heard screaming from my dugout. Popped to my feet.

All right. Off to a good start.

Third base was right next to our dugout. I heard Rome shouting words of disbelief in his famous clean mouth speak amidst a snake pit of profanity. I pumped my fist in the air toward them, then turned my focus back to the plate.

This was only the beginning, we had a long nine innings in front of us. I had to stay focused. This was the first of many gates that would bring me to a fulfilling promise. We had to win.

*

We won.

We secured our spot in postseason, eked out by a single run at the top of the ninth that we managed to hold in the bottom. It was not the most glorious of wins, but a victory, nonetheless.

In the clubhouse afterward my song was blasting at volume eleven.

They even got me to stand in the middle of the crowd and jump with them.

I let myself cut loose, if only for a moment.

This was something I never would have done with the Brawlers.

Ever. But with Rome and Freddie and the Assholes and everyone, something had shifted for me.

Cody. He was there right beside me. Hand on my back as we leaped together. Almost like we were dancing.

Not much longer now, Uncle Andy , I thought through the chaos of booming music and screaming teammates.

He didn’t respond, but it felt like he did. Because I had been looking at Cody. The man had more than just delight in those eyes of his as we jumped together. Something a whole lot deeper than that.

Don’t forget the other promise , my uncle seemed to say to me.