Page 15

“Craaaaaaazy Traaaaaaain!”

The first baseman, Boyce Horton, slaps my back. “Shake it off.”

Yeah, sure. Easy for him to say. He’s not the one throwing it in the dirt and lobbing it in so Saito hit a homer, putting Houston up three-nothing.

I run down the steps of the dugout and throw my mitt in the corner of the clubhouse. “Fuck!”

The pitching coach pokes his head in and clearly knows to leave me alone because he disappears once again. I don’t need to watch film. I don’t want to see what my release looked like or talk about strategy.

I just need to get my head in the fucking game.

“Get it together,” I tell myself, spinning in a tight circle. It’s the first game and I expect jitters, but we’re four fucking innings in. I should be settled by now. Should be hitting Rutch’s mitt with my fastball, not in the dirt or the net.

I grind my teeth and rip off my cap to tunnel my fingers into my hair. I have one of the highest-velocity fastballs in the league right now, but fuck me if I can keep it together long enough to find it.

Speed means nothing if I’m not consistent. And that’s my whole goddamn problem.

What good is a pitcher if they only have a quality pitch every fourth throw? That’s why I’m here.

Because Atlanta could find a replacement for me but not my brother, a catcher with the highest batting average in the league. My brother, the heir to the King of Baseball.

I’m just the spare.

I have the ability to throw 105 miles per hour but haven’t been able to replicate that number since my first year in the majors. I had a hot streak when I was called up from the minors but quickly fizzled out. And my one no-hitter game last year was swiftly followed up by the worst game of my life.

Not counting the game I broke my brother’s nose.

The fucking heir’s nose.

I flop down on the bench to watch Aaron Sanchez lead off against Houston’s left-handed pitcher, hitting a single off a four-seam. Quickly followed up with a double by Schmidt, and in a matter of minutes, we’ve got a run on the board. All without my help.

By the time I’ve got to take the field again, I’ve psyched myself up enough that I shout out “Let’s fucking go!” as soon as my cleats land on the grass.

“Crazy Train” immediately starts up, which revs the crowd, and soon, they’re all singing along.

I warm up with a few pitches before Manny Martin stalks out to the batter’s box. Houston adjusted their lineup to make him lead off against me. He’s a left-handed batter, able to read pitches really well, and I’ve been struggling against him all game.

Jamie Rutch, the catcher, calls for a changeup, and I wind up, releasing the ball, which is meant to appear like a fastball but is much slower. Martin swings and misses for the first strike. Rutch again calls for a changeup, but this time, Martin gets a piece of it, although it goes foul for a second strike. That’s when Rutch calls for an inside sinker, and Martin is out.

I thrust up my fist and point at Rutch. “Fuck yes!”

But unfortunately, once I have the ball back in my hands, it doesn’t go as well, and the only reason Houston doesn’t add more runs to the board is because of the fielding. And the manager nods to me in a way that I know what’s about to come out of his mouth when he says, “We’re bringing in Cruz next inning.”

I remove my hat and slap it against my thigh, disappointed that I’m getting pulled so early in the first game, but it’s not surprising either.

As I head down the steps, a guy behind the dugout goes on a long-winded yet creative tangent about all the ways to end my life. It’s specific yet casual, and so fucking Philadelphia, I can only respond by telling him to go fuck himself. A few other spectators laugh and cheer, making fun of this “fan,” but I don’t pay them any more mind, my brain already dissecting everything I could have done differently. I spend a few minutes with one of the pitching coaches, letting him believe he’s making me feel better. I nod along at all the right places and refrain from rolling my eyes at his constant positivity before grabbing a water and making my way back out to the bench.

Yadi finishes out the rest of the game, and we end up winning by one run. The team is happy to have the first of our 192-game season as a W under our belt, but I played like shit and spend a good amount of time staring at the ceiling of the locker room. My internal monologue sounds a lot like my father, yelling at me to “pull it together” and “stop playing like you’re afraid.”

At this point, it’s nearly impossible to ignore the constant loops, all day, every day. The only thing that puts the brakes on my runaway thoughts right now is my cell phone buzzing, and I pull it from my locker to find that I was added to a group text thread.

Unknown number 1

Hey man. Malcolm gave us your number.

Unknown number 1

This is Nico Tremblay.