No Balls, Two Strikes

I watched the first sixteen and a half innings of the game from the bullpen. I was at the fence when their shortstop crushed a ball off our closer, a tape measure shot that tied the game.

I was sitting on a stool, listening to a spattering of insults from ignorant New Yorkers, when our ace starter pitched three perfect innings of shutout relief. I was loosening up when the crowd was silenced by a deafening crack of the bat. We had taken the lead with one out in the top of the sixteenth inning.

And there I was, the last arm in the pen. A 22-year old rookie with the season on the line. I kept throwing to my bullpen catcher, trying to get loose, but my chest was contracting. My muscles tightened and the world became a blur.

Breathe.

The roar of the crowd snaps my reverie and signals the end of our half inning. It's my time now.

The bullpen doors open and I sprint to the mound, burning off surplus adrenaline. Forty-five thousand fans are trying to psych themselves up, trying to psych me out. But I've been building toward this half inning my whole life. I let it all sink in as I approach the mound. The crowd. The field. The lights.

Now the stadium slips into the background as I toe the rubber. It's just me and the backup backstop. Two rookies playing catch on elimination day. Is this what they had in mind when they expanded the playoffs to add a second wild card and a one-game playoff?

I'm left-handed and throw 85 miles per hour with control. They say as long as I can keep doing that, I'll have a job for life. But as the first batter steps in, I can't shake the feeling that this is my defining moment.

Like both of my idols, I wear number 42. Like one of them, I feature the cut fastball. It’s murder on righties, breaking in on their hands.

The first batter I face is a righty, so I bust him up and in with two straight cutters. He swings through the first one and breaks his bat on the second. No balls, two strikes.

Conventional wisdom says to waste a pitch now, try to get the guy to swing at a bad one. But I come right back up and in with another cutter and he fouls it off. Still 0-and-2.

My catcher sets up outside and I paint the black with some late break. He frames it for the ump and we get the backwards K. I catch a lot of guys looking, especially on 0-and-2.

Here comes their line drive leadoff hitter, swinging from the left side of the plate. He's a free swinger and it's my job to get him out. With the catcher set up outside, this pitch should look like a strike, then break off the plate. It doesn't break.

The result is a screaming liner over my left shoulder. My breath is caught, but so is the ball by my diving second baseman.

I quickly get the third batter in an 0-and-2 hole, but he dumps a broken-bat single into left-center field.

Up comes another lefty and the catcher sets up inside. I stare down the runner at first, then move to the plate. This pitch should look like a ball, but break over the plate at the last moment. It doesn't break. Instead, it clips the batter on his plastic elbow guard.

They've got runners on first and second now, but I've still got two outs. Just one more.

Where's the movement on my cutter? It's not there against lefties tonight, and here comes another one: their cleanup hitter, Martin Gratis. Very popular. They call him Fat Tuesday, but he's 6'6" and lean. I guess that’s supposed to be ironic. Whatever.

The catcher signals inside again, but I shake him off. He sets up on the outside part of the plate, and this time I get some movement. A lot of movement. Too much movement.

Martin swings and misses, but the pitch ticks off the catcher’s mitt and rolls to the backstop. The runners move up a base, putting the game-ending run in scoring position and the tying run 90 feet away.

Here comes my pitching coach, jogging out for a chat. I'm cutting him off before he even gets to the mound.

"You better not be coming out here to tell me to walk this guy, cuz there ain't no one else in that bullpen, and I'm not laying it on a platter for the next guy who tries to dive out over the dish."

"We're not intentionally walking him,” he laughs. “Let's just not give him anything to hit, especially on 0-and-2, huh?"

"It's only 0-and-1," the catcher corrects.

"Then let's make it 0-and-2, okay?"

"Done," I boast.

One pitch later, and I'm a strike away from pitching my team into the playoffs proper.

I close my eyes, picture my dad, and breathe, remembering all those days we played catch until dusk. He believed in me when no one else thought I could get this far. They’ve never forgiven the Dodgers for leaving this town. Some of them may never forgive me for having the audacity to play Major League ball. But I've brought the spirit of Brooklyn baseball back to New York.

As I throw the last pitch of the game, my dad's sitting out there in the stands. He turns to a stranger, nods to the field and says, "That's my girl."

For more of Paul's work, check out Zen Madman's Flash Fiction Folio.