Page 165 of The Fall Classic

“I knew I hated you guys,” Jake says when Joe grabs my attention.

“The field is being cleared. Time to warm up, Fischer,” he tells me. I give him a nod and flex my hands. They’re a little stiff still, but that’s what all this practice with Dr. Chang is about.

Time to see how well it’s working.

“You love us and you know it,” Lucas is saying to Jake, making a heart with his hands toward Jake.

Jake looks at me. “It’s official: I like you better than Lucas.”

“I’m flattered you can tell us apart.”

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re both equally ugly, but Lucas is way more annoying.”

I spread out my arms and look at Lucas. “How do you like them apples?”

“Shut up and pitch, will you?”

“I’ll do my best.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Logan

Just like that, we’re back where we left off. I’m on the mound; Rojas is behind home plate. Top of the fifth with two runs, thanks to the guy I walked and the homer I gave up. The Firebirds are up by one still, but I have zero outs and a baseball in my hand.

I check the ball before anything else, rolling it in my palm, feeling the seams and the weight. My fingers are weaker than usual, still catching up from earlier … which is actually a good thing.

For the first time maybe ever, my hands simply don’t have it in them to grip too tight.

I laugh to myself as I run through my checklist.

Fingertips, nails in, knuckles out.

Check, check, check.

The air’s dropped since the delay started. It’s cold enough that I can see my breath when I blow into my hands. The crowd’s thinned out and I notice a lot more hoodies—looks like the team sold some real merch to the holdouts who care more about cheering for their team than being comfortable.

I’ve never loved fans more.

The ump yells, “Play ball!” and I get in place, looking at the sign from Rojas. He flashes two fingers.

He wants the knuckle curve.

I don’t throw my knuckle curve often, because when my knuckleball’s working, it’s working.

It wasn’t working earlier today, and I have to actively choose to trust Rojas more than I second-guess myself. I ease into the stretch, wind-up, and thwap.

Strike one.

Rojas throws the ball back to me, and the pitch clock starts again. He flashes two fingers, and I nod. Another knuckle curve.

Rojas knows his stuff. It’s not an indictment on me that he wants a pitch I throw really well. It’s a compliment.

I remind myself of that while I throw. The batter swings and makes contact—a foul ball, up and away. I don’t like that he got a piece of it, but it’s still strike two.

Rojas calls for another knuckle curve, and I feel a pulse of panic that the batter has a read on me.

But—that’s not panic.