Page 5 of The Battery

Cody

H ere we go. The sharp bite of cinnamon flooded my mouth as I wedged the nicotine pouch between my lower gum and lip.

I used my tongue to get it into a better position and waited a few minutes for the drug to hit my system.

When the telltale zing hit me, I sniffed, hocked a wad of phlegm, and left the bullpen.

The fourth inning arrived with little fanfare. Two to one so far. Home game. The Santa Ana Winds weren’t as good this year as they had been in previous years. This game numbered one of my chances this season to show my mettle when there was little risk in letting a rookie throw for a few innings.

As the teams changed over, Leo caught me by the arm as I jogged up the steps of the dugout. He already had all of his gear on, his mask atop his head to reveal his face. It was a wonder he could slide the thing over that iconic beard of his.

“Kid,” he said. I tried not to wince. I was only a couple years his junior. “Like we practiced. All right?”

“Yessir,” I said.

We had spent the entirety of our day off yesterday practicing with Leo and getting to know him.

The Assholes took to his direction like the perfect brownnosers they were.

The starters, in something of their own class, got along just fine with the man.

For whatever reason, he gave me a harder time than the rest and the pressure got to me after only a few hours.

The pitching coaches had to step in and ask him to cool it with me.

That somehow made it even worse. The Assholes wouldn’t let it go.

“You gotta trust my calls,” Leo said. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Yeah, Leo, I get it.” I rolled my shoulder to remove his grip of my arm. He slammed down his mask and together we took to the field.

A night game, the blaring lights of the stadium brought day to the evening.

I jogged up to the mound and rolled my neck.

The nicotine coursed through me by the time everyone on the team settled into position.

As always, my nerves had wrecked me while waiting my turn.

But now, out in the open, my focus called the shots instead of my anxiety.

The Winds’ left fielder, Miguel Lopez, came up to bat, another hulking man that could rival the Spartan’s build. The call came over PitchCom: fastball inside.

I swallowed. Put the ball in my glove. A single heartbeat passed but the moment protracted as time slowed. The lights dimmed. The noise of the crowd quieted. Just me, the single thunderous beat of my heart.

Then, the sudden intake of breath through flared nostrils. Slight raising of my lips as I wound up, extended my leg, stretched, and threw the ball.

Fastball, high and outside.

Dammit.

Ball one.

Leo tossed the ball back to me. As I put my back to the plate, the next call came over PitchCom. Slider. I was ready by the time my cleats touched the rubber. The pace of the game had quickened over the years and our new communication devices served that purpose immensely.

Windup. Throw.

Crack!

Miguel hit a line drive to right field and singled on it.

I could feel Leo’s eyes on me. Judging the mistake.

The slider hung over the plate. I threw it wrong.

We made solid eye contact, but it was hard to read him through the mask.

Cameras descended on me to criticize everything I did in postgame reviews.

I didn’t dare communicate anything desperate to him.

“I’m trying” would be the worst thing to say at this point.

Second baseman Juan Martinez was up next, a wiry fellow known to be as fast as a cheetah. Leo called for a changeup, down and away.

Come on, Cody , I told myself. I let the bite of cinnamon on my tongue remind me why I was here.

I pitched, but instead of down and away, it sailed up and in . Martinez hit and singled on it. Now the Winds had runners on first and second. No outs.

I looked to Leo again. Couldn’t get a read.

First baseman Carlos Rivera stepped up next. I rolled my neck as Leo called for a sinker. He wanted to induce a ground ball.

Do the thing, Cody. Do the thing.

Wind up. Throw.

But my sinker didn’t sink. It became a fastball, and a hittable one at that. Rivera smashed it down the left field line. Lopez made it to home plate, Martinez to third, and Rivera to second. We were now tied, two and two.

Batter four, a right fielder named Sanchez. Leo didn’t sink back into position as quickly as he usually did. He was staring, so I looked right back.

I’m trying.

He called for a curveball, low and away.

I threw a curveball, but it didn’t break. Instead, Sanchez hit a ground ball.

And then suddenly Freddie was there, scooping up the grounder as fast as a Tasmanian devil. He moved like a blur as he scooped up the grounder and hurled the thing back to Leo, who expertly caught it in time to sweep at Martinez. Out.

Then, Leo moved like lightning. He exploded upward faster than I had ever seen him move. Every muscle in his body was taut as his tattooed arm snapped out and chucked the ball to third base a fraction of a second before Rivera reached it.

Second out.

The crowd cheered and a tension I didn’t realize sat between my shoulder blades released. I looked to Leo, who was bobbing his head as if he was about to say, “ Let’s ride, motherfuckers. ”

I nodded my head in the same fashion. We could do this. I could do this.

Batter five, Sato, shortstop. Leo called for a fastball.

I faltered a fraction. Sato was a known home run hitter. The guy loved fastballs. Always saw them coming. At the mound, I shook my head in a clear rejection of Leo’s call. Sato would smash a fastball.

Leo repeated the call, however. Four seam fastball. High outside.

I didn’t want to reject him again. I had to trust Leo.

I threw what the doctor ordered, a fastball high and tight. Ball one.

By the time the ball returned to my glove, Leo already had the next call. Damn he was quick. Slider.

Do what the man asks or he’s gonna lay you out after the game.

No. Wrong thought. Although I did laugh to myself. People probably thought I was crazy.

I threw a perfectly executed slider that broke sharp. Strike one.

Fastball , Leo demanded. Yessir.

And I threw what he wanted, a fastball on the outside corner. Sato put everything he had into a swing that never made contact. Strike two.

Leo had that head-nodding thing going again, as if he could send me a message without speaking.

All right. I was sensing his spirit. I liked the energy.

I could feel the first strings of a connection forming.

All they wanted was a strong battery, the perfect relationship between a catcher and pitcher. I could do that.

Changeup. Down and away.

“Comin’ right up,” I mumbled to myself.

I concentrated for a heartbeat. Let the moment extend into infinity as the power of instinct tracked the time. Windup, throw, and…

A perfect changeup, down and away. Sato swung with great enthusiasm. Alas, his bat touched nothing but the sweet, crisp Lexington air. Strike three.

I was in the corridor connecting to the bullpen before anyone could stop me. Romo made it clear he wanted to say something. I’d probably take a hit for that. I still had the next inning and, hopefully, the one after.

The pitching manager had the phone in his hand by the time I arrived. “Hill, you can’t just walk away like that. You gotta stay behind. Spartan wants to talk to you.”

I cursed myself. Yep, I’d take a hit for sure. “Hey, boss,” I said into the receiver.

“It’s your prerogative to question me,” Leo said, and he didn’t sound happy, “but you need to really be sure of yourself when you do. Were you absolutely certain a fastball wasn’t the best throw?”

I realized he wasn’t scolding me. That’s just how he sounded. This was a teaching moment. “Sato is a hell of a hitter. I didn’t want to gift wrap him a homer.”

“So you were afraid?”

I opened my mouth in abject defense of being called a coward. Then snapped my jaw shut.

“Hill, until we communicate like Professor X, you need to trust me. All right?”

I nodded, as if he could see. “Crystal clear.”

“Good. See you shortly.”

*

The bottom of the fifth came faster than I had anticipated.

Cinnamon burned through my mouth as I took the mound again.

I had my eyes on Leo as the Winds’ catcher, O’Brien, stepped up to the plate.

He was an unknown, recently elevated from the minors, like me.

Could Leo read him like he could the others?

Fastball. Up and in.

But my fastball leaked over the plate and O’Brien singled on a line drive to left field. Okay, not the best start to the inning.

Third baseman Silva stepped up next. Leo called for a slider.

Which didn’t slide and instead Silva smashed a double.

My heart sank as O’Brien scored, bringing the Winds up to three-two.

I blinked through my sudden frustration.

The positive energy I had built in the fourth evaporated like an open door sauna. I kept my eyes away from Leo.

Ivonav, the Winds’ right fielder. Leo wanted a changeup and, according to him, who was I to question?

I threw a changeup but it caught too much of the plate. Ivonav hit a groundout to second and Silva was able to reach third on it.

No, no, no. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all. I was meant to carry the momentum from the last inning into this one. How did things spiral so quickly?

Their designated hitter stepped up next, a tall, thin man named Jones. For him, Leo called for a fastball on the inside corner.

Okay, you got this. I wound up. Exhaled. Threw.

My pitch sailed well outside. Ball one.

The PitchCom call came in as I walked back to the plate. Slider, low and away.

My slider didn’t break and ended up below the zone for ball two. I bit off a curse that threatened to explode from me. That spiraling had begun to intensify, and I suddenly questioned if I had the wherewithal to bring myself back from it. My eyes found Leo, but he gave me nothing.

Changeup, down and away.

My changeup missed its mark, drifting too far outside. Ball three.

My awareness left me for a moment as Leo sent a call for a fastball on the outside corner. A piece of me knew that whatever happened next would change my standing with the team. Doubt hit me as hard as a fastball to the gut. And as anyone in professional sports would say, doubt kills.

My fastball was high and outside of the strike zone. Ball four.

Management called me off the field. I was pulled from my awful position of allowing the bases to be loaded after letting the Winds sneak ahead by two. I kept my face like stone as I jogged off the field.

No shame, Cody, no shame. If I didn’t learn from this failure, I would never survive.

Romo caught me as I left the dugout. This time, I did stop.

“Hill,” he said as I halted on the last step. “It’ll eat you alive, man.”

I took in a careful breath and released it. “You’re right. Gotta let it go.”

“Good man.”

But I didn’t let it go. Especially since one of the Assholes threw a perfect inning and managed to strike out three hitters in a row.

I’m done , I thought. Knew it deep in my bones.