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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Benches Clear
MAX
I’ve never liked Anaheim.
Not just for the way they treat Sutton when we visit, but for the way they’ve historically treated us, as a team, when we visit. The crowd heckles and boos during our introductions, and I’m no stranger to it. You don’t go as long as I have in this league without making a few enemies.
And we’re facing our enemies today.
That last time our two teams met in the regular season, a few batters on each team were hit by pitches, and while I don’t usually go into a game feeling like I have a score to settle, today feels like one of those days. After twenty years in the league, I’ve served my fair share of suspensions, and the last one came after a dust-up against Anaheim last season. My goal today is to be on my best behavior. As I was reminded several times by Sutton on the way here. And on the plane. And…yes, in the text that just pinged on my phone.
I mean it. BEST. BEHAVIOR.
Best behavior.
In the bottom of the first inning, I take the mound and I do my job. I don’t engage when their short stop jaws at me on his way to first base after I walk him. I ignore their designatedhitter when he showboats on a home run. And because I’m on my best behavior I have to deal with grief from my own team about why I’m “letting this slide.”
I’m “letting this slide” because at this point in the game, they haven’t done anything that deserves a response. And, I’m getting too old for the retributive justice of baseball and I don’t want one of my guys paying the price for something that I do on the field. But then something happens in the bottom of the third inning. There’s a twinge in my elbow, and I can feel my control slipping.
I use the rosin bag to make sure I’m able to grip the ball well. Nico lays down a sign and I shake him off. Shake him off again. And finally nod in agreement. I feel fine as I stretch into my windup, but my release point is off and my elbow screams at me once the ball is out of my hands, and unfortunately the pitch is high and inside and the umpire issues me a warning.
I take it and walk back to the dugout to slaps on the back and calls of “that’s more like it!”
“I didn’t mean to,” I drop onto the bench next to Sutton, passing her a cup of water as I do. “My elbow was bugging me and my release point was off. I just want to make it very clear to you that I’ve been on my best behavior.”
“There’s still a lot of game left,” she tosses back the water and crumples the cup in her hand. “But I believe you.”
Sutton leaves the bench and takes up her usual post at the railing, watching as our guys step into the batter's box. Nico stands in the on deck circle, taking practice swings while Luca stands in the box. Luca hits a shallow line drive into left field for an easy base hit. After Nico steps into the box, the catcher calls time and makes a visit to the pitcher's mound, along with the rest of the infield. Conferences on the mound like this are a good way to get into a batter’s head, especially a rookie likeNico who’s still getting acclimated to the game, but he takes it in stride.
As our opponents make their way back to their positions, I watch as Jamie Webster, the pitcher, steps into his windup with a dark look in his eye as he does. He starts with a fastball down the middle, same as I would have done. But his next pitch catches Nico in the ribs. All of the Olympians are on their feet now, some hanging on the railing waiting to see how Nico reacts, not me. I’m watching the pitcher. Watching for a tell - a smirk, a signal, something – and almost imperceptibly he tips his glove toward Anaheim’s bench and that’s when I know.
They’re sending a message.
In the next half inning, we take the field and Nico pats me on the back as he suits up in his catcher’s gear.
“You okay, kid?” I ask, adjusting my cap and glove and glaring across the field at the visitor’s dugout.
“Fine. Knocked the wind out of me is all.”
“Do you have beef with any of those guys?”
“I didn’t think so,” he answers hesitantly, brows furrowing as he watches me. “Max. No. I know what you’re thinking.”
“Too late.” I’m up the steps and out onto the field before Nico can protest further. I take my warm up pitch, only one, before signaling the ump that I’m ready for the inning to start.
“You sure?” He shouts to me from behind home plate, Nico affirms that I’m good to go.
My first pitch is a strike, right down the middle.
Next, I go high and inside for ball one.
Then, low and inside, right on the batter’s thigh. Worst he’ll get is a bruise, unlike Nico who’s going to have pain in his ribs for a while. The batter drops his bat to the ground like he’s spiking a touchdown, doing the same with the batting gloves that he rips from his hands. He shouts a few obscenities on his way to first base but I don’t hear them. No, I turn toAnaheim’s dugout and lock eyes with Jamie, a tip of my head in his direction is all it takes to have him vaulting over the railing and charging me on the mound.
I throw down my glove, prepared to defend myself as the benches clear and both teams surround us. Nico gets in between us, his hands on my chest trying to push me away, and then I see the coaches in the fray.
All of them.
