guy or the team captain—he simply ran through signs like a slot machine until I nodded.
After I picked which finger I wanted to throw, I came set, kicked, and stuck a winter speed fastball on the corner. Curls fouled it back for strike one with a massive uppercut that would have sent the bat bursting through the ceiling and into a plane if he let go of it.
Moans of “Oh, he just missed it,” echoed through his entourage.
“Almost got you there,” said Curls, grinning at me.
Did he really just say that? What a douche bag, I thought. I said nothing, of course, but reloaded on the mound, kicking and firing my response with a high and tight fastball, sending Curls spinning out of the box with a little chin music.
“Almost got you there,” I said.
Curls enjoyed this, the trash talk and the competitive anteing; you could tell by the way it seemed to charge him up. It was as if these little boasts were micro tests of manhood and winning them justified all the extra trips he made to the tanning bed.
Watching him thrive reminded me of what it was like to be young and full of naïve stupidity. Poor bastard; if only Curls knew what was out there ahead of him, waiting to tell him to pick up dog turds. I almost felt sorry for him as I let a changeup tumble in for a called strike two.
Curls leered at his supposed teammate umpire/catcher. “Whose team are you on, anyway, dickhead? That was six inches off the plate!”
“What? He put it right in the spot!”
“Your mom puts it right in the spot.”
The ball was returned. I reloaded and fired again, another fastball fouled. Next came a change for a ball. Then a fastball for the kill that just missed. Then a change spit on. Soon we were in a full count and the adrenaline had reached its peak.
“You’re not going to walk me,” said the suddenly confident captain.
“I have no intention of it,” I shot back.
“I’m staying in here till I get you or you get me.”
“Right, because that would happen in a real game.”
“You scared?”
“Am I scared?” No, but I was aware of the situation. I knew if he got a hit off me now, after all this buildup, I’d never hear the end of it. Bested by a douche bag with a tattoo that read “egg roll,” inconceivable! My only option for clear-cut victory was to punch him out. The problem was, it was too early in the winter to take my curveball or slider off the shelf. I could roll a big sloppy hook in there for ball four, or a slider that doesn’t slide and catches that long, ogre swing. I needed something else from my bag of tricks. Something he hadn’t seen yet, maybe ever.
“Okay, big dog. My best versus your best,” I said.
“Best fastball?” He salivated.
“Best fastball. I’m putting it right down the middle,” I said, charging him up. “All you have do is hit it.”
“Alright then, let’s do this!” he said, finishing our exchange of action movie dialogue. Curls offered a toothy grin, knuckled up on his bat, and dug in.
I reset on the bicycle ramp and put my best weapon to work: my brain.
Baseball players are funny, predictable creatures, especially when they’re young. When the pressure is on and intensity is turned up, it’s natural to try to do too much—a classic shortcoming that’s plagued the breed for years. When that big payoff moment arrives, pitchers rear back and try to throw their arms off, only to miss the spot by four feet or get clubbed off the wall. Hitters swing like berserk Vikings only to whiff or watch their bats explode in a shower of splinters. Sometimes intensity is the enemy. Sometimes less is more. Sometimes a player needs to slow down and realize that by adding to the drama, you’re just playing into the other guy’s adrenaline high.
For the payoff pitch, instead of my normal, methodical delivery of coming set and kicking, I came set, held, then stepped instantly home in a sharp, abbreviated motion, almost like I was picking off to the plate. I knew I wasn’t going
After I picked which finger I wanted to throw, I came set, kicked, and stuck a winter speed fastball on the corner. Curls fouled it back for strike one with a massive uppercut that would have sent the bat bursting through the ceiling and into a plane if he let go of it.
Moans of “Oh, he just missed it,” echoed through his entourage.
“Almost got you there,” said Curls, grinning at me.
Did he really just say that? What a douche bag, I thought. I said nothing, of course, but reloaded on the mound, kicking and firing my response with a high and tight fastball, sending Curls spinning out of the box with a little chin music.
“Almost got you there,” I said.
Curls enjoyed this, the trash talk and the competitive anteing; you could tell by the way it seemed to charge him up. It was as if these little boasts were micro tests of manhood and winning them justified all the extra trips he made to the tanning bed.
Watching him thrive reminded me of what it was like to be young and full of naïve stupidity. Poor bastard; if only Curls knew what was out there ahead of him, waiting to tell him to pick up dog turds. I almost felt sorry for him as I let a changeup tumble in for a called strike two.
Curls leered at his supposed teammate umpire/catcher. “Whose team are you on, anyway, dickhead? That was six inches off the plate!”
“What? He put it right in the spot!”
“Your mom puts it right in the spot.”
The ball was returned. I reloaded and fired again, another fastball fouled. Next came a change for a ball. Then a fastball for the kill that just missed. Then a change spit on. Soon we were in a full count and the adrenaline had reached its peak.
“You’re not going to walk me,” said the suddenly confident captain.
“I have no intention of it,” I shot back.
“I’m staying in here till I get you or you get me.”
“Right, because that would happen in a real game.”
“You scared?”
“Am I scared?” No, but I was aware of the situation. I knew if he got a hit off me now, after all this buildup, I’d never hear the end of it. Bested by a douche bag with a tattoo that read “egg roll,” inconceivable! My only option for clear-cut victory was to punch him out. The problem was, it was too early in the winter to take my curveball or slider off the shelf. I could roll a big sloppy hook in there for ball four, or a slider that doesn’t slide and catches that long, ogre swing. I needed something else from my bag of tricks. Something he hadn’t seen yet, maybe ever.
“Okay, big dog. My best versus your best,” I said.
“Best fastball?” He salivated.
“Best fastball. I’m putting it right down the middle,” I said, charging him up. “All you have do is hit it.”
“Alright then, let’s do this!” he said, finishing our exchange of action movie dialogue. Curls offered a toothy grin, knuckled up on his bat, and dug in.
I reset on the bicycle ramp and put my best weapon to work: my brain.
Baseball players are funny, predictable creatures, especially when they’re young. When the pressure is on and intensity is turned up, it’s natural to try to do too much—a classic shortcoming that’s plagued the breed for years. When that big payoff moment arrives, pitchers rear back and try to throw their arms off, only to miss the spot by four feet or get clubbed off the wall. Hitters swing like berserk Vikings only to whiff or watch their bats explode in a shower of splinters. Sometimes intensity is the enemy. Sometimes less is more. Sometimes a player needs to slow down and realize that by adding to the drama, you’re just playing into the other guy’s adrenaline high.
For the payoff pitch, instead of my normal, methodical delivery of coming set and kicking, I came set, held, then stepped instantly home in a sharp, abbreviated motion, almost like I was picking off to the plate. I knew I wasn’t going
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