Page 8 of The Battery

Leo

T he Savannah Libertines wore uniforms of sky blue and metallic silver, a cool complement to the navy blue and bronze of the New England Riders.

I had always thought their colors were bright and cheerful, and it was reflected in many of the players.

Strange how a zeitgeist could form in the microcosm of a sports team as the spirit of it compelled each new member.

Hell, even the fans. A few of them were dispersed now throughout Riders stadium, cordial as a proper southern waitress at a diner.

I fell into an easy rhythm with the starting pitcher.

A veteran, we spoke to each other instinctually.

He knew me from my days in the Brawlers, and I him from the Riders.

We understood each other’s styles and the ease with which we worked surprised neither of us.

Our battery held strong, and the Libertines only got one run out of the first three innings.

Now, at the top of the fourth, it was Cody Hill’s turn to show his meddle. Already on thin ice, he wouldn’t have many more games to prove his worth. Not only in the forty-man, but on the actual field.

I didn’t know if he had the power to separate work from pleasure.

Maybe it was something everyone learned as they got older.

I didn’t know how to teach that, since it came easily enough to me.

All I could show Cody was how to play the game, how to lean into the relationship with the catcher.

Everything else was fun, sure. But it meant nothing if the ball didn’t hit the glove.

We took to the field. A quick conference between the skipper, Cody, and myself had set expectations.

Cody was reminded that he had the final say in the throw, but that he should default to my suggestions until we formed a stronger bond.

For them, the battery was everything, the sacred tie between pitcher and catcher.

The Brawlers could not have cared less about it, but I did.

I always went out of my way to make sure the pitchers understood me.

Cody and I shared a brisk conversation as we walked out onto the field, both of us well aware the cameras and mics could pick up most things.

“Got your cinnamon?” I asked.

“How…?”

Right there, in front of cameras and the team, I held up my right index finger as if to say number one, a deadpan look on my face. To Cody, though, I knew that finger meant something else entirely.

He didn’t blush. Just laughed. Good. That’s what I was after.

“Stay loose, Hill.”

“Yessir,” Cody said and jogged to the mound as I took up my position.

I put my mitt over my knee so I could hide the remote for PitchCom. Prying eyes were everywhere, and it was anybody’s guess as to how someone could figure out which buttons we programed to correspond with the calls. I sent Cody the command for a fastball, high and outside.

The ball smacked into my glove as if they were magnets. A solid throw and off to a great start. Strike one against the hitter. I called for the same pitch and Cody threw exactly the same. Arm, elbow, shoulder, everything mirrored precisely as the first. Another strike.

For shits and giggles, and because I could, I called for exactly the same throw. Cody didn’t flinch. Another perfect re-creation with zero variation in his mechanics. More importantly—a third strike and first out of the inning.

Like the starter, I fell into a good rhythm with Cody.

By our third hitter after two outs, I honed in on his movements, the way he rotated his shoulders a certain way after too many fastballs.

I observed his other tics, like how he adjusted the nicotine pouch in his mouth when—I assumed and would need to check it later—he was getting excited about things.

We closed the top half of the fourth with no runs.

We bumped fists on our way to the dugout, with rounds of congratulations and ass-slaps from the other teammates.

I wanted to pull Cody aside and congratulate him but I was second up to bat and needed to get ready.

He disappeared into the tunnel connecting the dugout and the bullpen before I could at least say anything.

The Riders scored a run—Captain Nicest Guy in the World managed a homer—and now we were two and one.

The Libertines were a fun group with zero animosity and nothing but friendly banter.

It reminded me of the old days, way back before things became too serious.

Just me, my twin Archie, our dad, and a field of endless possibilities.

Their spirits hit me like a force of nature sometimes when things reminded me of them.

I had always imagined them as something ephemeral when I was on the field. Always there. Always watching.

Our nascent battery bond was back on the field at the top of the fifth. As we walked back onto the field, Cody turned to look at me, then slapped a hand over his mouth, as if to smother himself. Just like I had.

I shot him a cool gaze but a fire danced in my eyes. Mischievous. Eager. Cody cocked a grin, satisfied in my reaction, and took to the mound.

I called for another fastball, high and outside. Only an idiot would start the next inning with the same play. Which was perfect, because I wasn’t the brightest student and preferred to use brawn instead of brilliance.

Swing and a miss.

Fastball, low and inside.

Swing and a miss.

I rolled my neck as we reset. Eyed Cody as he walked back to the mound. Third fastball, this one high and inside.

Third swing and a miss, and our first out.

Cody adjusted his nicotine pouch.

All right, Hill, calm down, calm down. We’re just getting started.

I held genuine excitement at bay. Cody and I were connecting—finally—as I hoped we would.

His mechanics stayed solid throughout the inning, something I made a mental note about to discuss with Rex.

Cody was also making adaptations without my intervention.

If certain batters sat on fastballs, Cody could vary his pitching speeds to throw them off.

It gave me confidence in his ability to take the lead eventually.

The moment the ball smacked my glove on the last strike, I popped to my feet and nodded my head emphatically. Cody’s lips pursed to suppress the grin as much as he could. His entire body pulsated with energy I willed him to carry through to the next inning.

Hot damn. Another inning of no runs. Cody’s report card was looking good.

We bumped fists again as we neared each other while leaving the field. Another round of congrats. This time, I had a chance to pull him aside after the last person congratulated him. I worked at yanking off my catcher’s gear while Cody stood with a carefully controlled smile.

“Use only a little bit, Hill,” I told him. “Hold onto that. Don’t lose any of it. Don’t use all of it. Get me?”

“Yessir,” he said with an enthusiastic nod. “That was damn good though, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” I said with a leveled tone. I tried not to use my piss-off look but it was hard not to when I wanted someone to learn something. “Keep an eye on that four-seamer, though. The spin wasn’t feeling right toward the end. Am I calling too many?”

“No, sir,” he said. Then wobbled his head. “Maybe.”

“That’s on me. All right. Get to the bullpen.”

He turned, still grinning like an idiot. I almost— almost —gave one in return.

Wrap that shit up, Leo , I scolded myself. Acid burned up my gullet at those implications. I had a singular mission and letting my head get all swimmy served only failure.

Romo and I exchanged a brief conversation before he went up to bat.

He complimented me on my handling of Cody the last two innings.

He went up before me and made it to second on a pop fly to left field.

I was up next and smashed a line drive down the center.

Romo scored and I made it to third and almost caught myself in a pickle.

Unfortunately, we struck out before I could make for home and we drained off the field, now three to one.

Cody appeared like a specter as I finished strapping on my gear.

I side-eyed him to say hello, then did a double take.

His posture had changed. He carried tension in his shoulders.

The easy smile, gone. The brim of his cap was pulled low.

He walked right past me and onto the field as if I hadn’t been standing there.

Ah, shit. Something happened.

I watched him as though any minor movement would highlight the primary issue, even though I already knew.

The teasing back in the bullpen. Some of the relievers probably became jealous of the past two innings and knew what to say to piss him off.

He let it get to him and now it would impact this inning.

I called the pitch and Cody gave me nothing as he pushed his cleat against the rubber.

Whereas the last two innings he bounced with energy, now he skulked like he had three hundred pounds sitting on his shoulders.

I fought off a wave of disappointment and sympathy.

I’d yell at him later. We just needed to get through this inning.

Come on, Cody , I willed to him. You got this.

He threw the first pitch.

*

The Libertines scored two runs on our watch. Cody was pulled before the inning was over.

I don’t want to say that my heart broke as I watched him leave the field with his head dropped, shoulders deflated.

I piece of me felt for the guy. Another piece was enraged at the idea that someone as talented as him could let silly words affect his game.

I wanted to shake him. Slap him. Show him a future where he could make the hall of fame, if only he set aside pettiness.

Against my better judgment, propelled by an unknown force, I sought Cody during the seventh inning stretch.

He sat inside the exercise area in the bullpen, hidden from fans and the other players.

He sat at the handbike, arms pumping diligently while he stared at a blank wall like it was reading him the riot act.

His eyes slid sideways when I appeared in the doorway.

He squeezed them shut, shook his head, and looked away.

That same unknown force suggested I say something. Break him from whatever malaise had bewitched him. But I was a stubborn man whose kindness only extended as far as my arm. If you floated outside that circle, that was on you.

Lost cause. Two words that echoed in my mind as I turned away from him. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help themselves.

I couldn’t keep putting energy into it. I had to focus on the pitchers who mattered. On the ones who could help get us to the pennant. That was all that mattered. If Cody couldn’t assist, then he was dead weight.