Page 152 of The Fall Classic

Jake and Coop being out is a brutal hit to our lineup. They’re not just the two best hitters on our team; they’re arguably the two best hitters in baseball.

This game is about to get ugly.

***

Lucas is the starting pitcher this afternoon, and he was on a tear through the first three innings. Normally, he’s as steady as they come.

But he’s rattled now. We found out that Kirby’s pitch got past the helmet and hit Coop in the face, but we don’t know how bad it is yet. My brain has already supplied the answer: It’s his eye. His career is over, and he’ll probably lose his vision permanently.

SHUT UP, BRAIN.

My brain doesn’t shut up.

It’s impossible not to worry, whatever Jake says.

Lucas lets two runners get on base, and then the next batter hits a base knock, leading to a run. I can see Joe pacing from the dugout, and when a call comes in, the bullpen coach gives me a nod, signaling I need to get ready.

This is new.

Lucas doesn’t get taken out of games often, and never this early. It’s only the top of the fourth, and he’s probably only thrown sixty pitches.

He throws and the batter makes clean, fast contact, so fast, in fact, that Lucas can’t get out of the way as a comebacker rushes through the air directly at him.

It smacks into him, and he drops to his knee. The second baseman scoops it up and fires home, getting the runner from third by a step. The catcher wheels and throws to second, where the other runner is tagged out trying to advance.

Double play. End of the inning.

I should be able to sigh in relief that Lucas only gave up one run and we’re still leading the game four-one, but I’m too worried about my brother as he jogs off the field.

I nod at the bullpen attendant. “Can you call the dugout? I need to know how Lucas is.”

While I’m waiting for him to get the info, though, I can imagine Jake Rodgers shaking his head at me.

Why, you think all that stress will help him, or are you hoping to worry yourself out of a job?

Here’s the reality: Only one of these is possible.

And it’s not the one I want.

“It hit him in the thigh,” the attendant says to me. “He’s fine. But Joe still wants you pitching in the fifth, so get warm.”

I would have thought I’d feel more relief hearing Lucas is fine.

I warm up in a state somewhere between conscious sedation and pure panic. When it’s time for the inning to start, the sky is so dark, it may as well be night.

My first pitch is wild.

Second pitch wilder.

Third and fourth are an unmitigated disaster.

Yup. I’ve walked my first hitter of the night.

The next guy comes up, and my hand is already slick with sweat that has nothing to do with the cold rain starting to mist over the field. I roll the ball inside my glove. I want to feel the crisp, knuckle-out grip as I dig my fingernails into the leather, but my hand won’t cooperate. My palm presses against the leather, wrapping around it, practically suffocating it.

I try to force the ball away from my palm, but the reflex is so intense, I may as well force myself to fly. It’s the same reflex that has me itching to run to the locker room and call Georgie so I can hear her reassuring me that she’s okay, that she still wants this. The same reflex that makes me want to grab Lucas and Coop and my career and theirs and hold them all in my fists so they can’t slip away.

So I grip too tight. I pitch.