Out of My League by Dirk Hayhurst Page A

sorry. My client is here. Can we talk more tonight?”
    “I have to be in early tomorrow because of extended holiday sales hours.”
    “I’ll be setting up for the Share Day event all day tomorrow. Can we talk after?”
    “I have to pitch against the Walsh team.”
    “You’re still coming, though, right? We’re still going out afterward, right?”
    “I wouldn’t miss it,” I reassured her.
    “Can it wait till then?”
    “Sure, I guess.”
    “Great, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
    We said our good-byes. Tomorrow was a long way away, affording plenty of time for me to lose my nerve.

Chapter Eight
    In my line of work, there is always someone with a bat standing between me and my goal. So it should come as no surprise that the person keeping me from reaching Bonnie’s concert on time was sixty feet way, with a chunk of lumber in hand.
    If you want to get to the top in this game, you’ve got to be a flexible opportunist. It’s a competitive industry, and no one has any sympathy for why another player gets chosen over you; not because you don’t want to go play ball in The Jungle; not because you’ve got a date with your girl; and especially not because you couldn’t find a place to throw during the off-season. When I have the opportunity to throw to a catcher on an angle in the winter, I have to take it. But, as is usually the case, there were a few strings attached. Winter facilities are hard to find, and tonight’s use of a catcher came along with a complement of college hitters from local Walsh University who wanted to test their bats against a pro guy’s fastball the same evening as Bonnie’s concert.
    I was just bringing my arm out of off-season hibernation, so it wouldn’t be much of a test. As a matter of fact, I came into it purely to get my body used to throwing off a mound again. I failed to take into account the ego factor of young male competitors, and soon, what was meant to be a friendly, knock-the-rust-off practice session turned into all-out testosterone warfare.
    Now batting, the Walsh University baseball team captain. He was a husky dude with a buzzed head, bulging arms, and blunt skull. He got into his stance at the plate like a power lifter, taking practice swings that could topple a bull elephant. Pine tar was slathered all over his bat and caked onto his helmet. Wrists taped, fingers taped, bat taped, he rolled up his sleeves to show how dedicated he was to bicep curls, not to mention the art of shaving his forearms. Finally, he adjusted his crotch while scowling at me, as if I’d done something to make him uncomfortable down there.
    Hitters are stupid. If they weren’t, they’d be pitchers. No one in their right mind would pick the side of the game that considers three out of ten good unless they’re slightly unhinged. I would bet if it were a real game, this guy would have on enough eye black to make him look like a member of KISS. I would bet he has a tattoo on him someplace, like an iron cross or a band of barbwire, or a mystical Chinese symbol meaning “strength” that really means “jackass” because no one who gets a Chinese tattoo knows how to read Chinese. I’ll bet he definitely fake tans, Nairs his package in the desperate imitation of his favorite porn star, and spends Saturdays stacking emptied Natural Light beer cans into silver pyramids on the coffee table.
    In his last at bat, Captain Curls here may have gotten a hit off me. He may have earned the high fives and butt slaps of his teammates, but I doubt it. Of course, it’s hard to tell what’s earned when you’re pitching in a batting cage in a modified storage barn in the winter—everything that comes off the bat flies into the netting with what seems like home run force.
    I toed the facility’s bike ramp turned pitching mound and went into the stretch position. Our catcher, a teammate of Curls, was also acting as our umpire. So caught up was he in the fear of who to side with in this matchup—the pro