Page 150 of The Fall Classic

“I’m worried about Kirby hitting one of them,” Doug is saying. The starting pitcher we’re facing today is a famous headhunter.

“That’s always possible,” Joe says. “I’m more worried about our pitching, though. Lucas is solid. Logan …”

“So much promise,” Doug says. “If he can reach it, we’ll buy out his arbitration years with a three-year deal.”

“And if not?”

“We’ll trade him. He’s got Major League stuff. Someone will want him.”

Three years guaranteed with the Firebirds if I can keep it together. Or a trade to whatever team needs an arm in a clubhouse I don’t care about in a city I don’t love.

No pressure.

They’re still talking when I walk back to my locker, where Lucas and Coop are joking around with Jake.

Jake gives me a once-over. “Someone peed in your Cheerios?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Then don’t eat the Cheerios, buddy. You’re full enough as it is.”

Coop and Lucas look at each other and then at Jake and me. “Everything okay?” Lucas asks.

“Just trying to remind Fischer here that he can’t be anywhere but where he is. Worrying won’t change a thing.”

***

It’s the bottom of the third inning, and we’re up four-zero. Afternoon games are usually bright and sunny, but today, storm clouds loom overhead, weighing and pressing down on the field as Chicago’s famous wind whips in from the lake.

It’s a cold, miserable autumn afternoon as Coop steps up to the plate, and even from the bullpen out in right field, I can tell how upset the opposing pitcher is. Kirby spits and gets into position before shaking his head at his catcher once, twice, three times.

We have two runners on base already—including Jake, who’s batting lead off this afternoon. Jake’s in scoring position at second, and with Coop coming up, Kirby looks more than nervous.

He looks angry.

His first pitch is a wicked curveball, and Coop has the perfect read on it. He swings and hits it right in the middle of the bat with a loud crack. The ball sails high into the air along the third base line, and the crowd is losing their minds. But Coop pulled when he hit it, and it hooks right before the foul pole, dropping into the stands in foul territory.

Strike one.

Kirby should be happy about that, but no way is he. Coop owned that ball.

And everyone knows he’s going to own the next one, too. It’s in the air the same way we can see lightning over the lake before we hear the thunder. Coop leans in close at the plate, and the way Kirby’s shoulders tense makes my intestines tie themselves into knots.

He steps back, winds up, and whoosh.

The pitch is close—too close. High and inside, and so close to Coop’s face, calling it a brushback is wildly insufficient. He almost took Coop’s jaw off.

“Lean back,” I mutter, as if I can somehow convince Coop to stop crowding the plate.

I can’t. Even if Coop could hear me, he wouldn’t listen. The guy is the best player in baseball—a once-in-a-generation talent. He didn’t get where he is now by letting every pitcher on a power trip push him around.

That doesn’t make me wish otherwise, though. And I’m even more apprehensive when Coop blows Kirby a kiss I can see from here.

Kirby shakes his head at his catcher again and again, and when he finally gives him a nod and gets into the stretch, the tension in my guts has spread throughout my body. I’m so keyed up, my muscles are burning with the need to move.

Kirby releases the pitch, and⁠—

SMACK.