Page 166 of The Fall Classic

That’s my job. If I disagree with Rojas for a good reason, it’s my job to tell him. That worry that the batter knows what’s coming isn’t about anxiety. It’s about pitching.

I shake my head.

Rojas flashes four fingers for my knuckleball.

Another pulse of panic, but this one because I know I have to do it right now. The lingering rawness from earlier has me on high alert, but I can recognize this for what it is instead of letting it run the show. Fingertips, nails in, knuckles out. No palm.

Check, check, check. That last check remains to be seen.

We’re sitting at two strikes.

Another strike would look good to Doug⁠—

Just pitch, I remind myself. You’re not in a meeting with Doug; you’re on the mound.

Right. And the pitch clock is counting down.

I stretch. Wind up. Throw.

The knuckleball floats weirdly, and then a gust of wind comes and blows it even weirder. The batter has to jump back out of the way so it doesn’t get him in the shoulder.

Ball one.

The batter looks at me menacingly. He may think this was retribution for Kirby hitting Coop, but it wasn’t.

Whether or not it should be …

No. Coop isn’t here. I’m not looking for revenge. I’m looking for a strike.

I bring my glove up and breathe in. Hold it. Stare at the lacing. Then I drop my glove and my vision relaxes—near to far—everything blurring at once. The lights get almost hazy, the infield chalk looks smeared, even the sound lowers and flattens, like someone turned the knob down on the crowd.

And my eyes are out of focus; the only thing vying for their attention a fuzzy halo of honey-blonde hair.

It catches the stadium lights exactly the same way it did in August, in a different city, under a different sky.

She’s here.

I don’t know how, but she is.

That fact swells in me, big and overwhelming, trying to make me focus on her, see her, let her know I see her.

But that’s not what this moment is about, so instead, I take that knowledge and take her presence and love and all the worries I have about our future and feel it all … and then release it.

The pitch clock ticks down.

My instincts scream to slide the ball all the way into my palm, to grab it tight and protect it. My hands don’t have the strength for it—not really—but the urge is as strong as ever.

I keep my fingers curled, my knuckles high. No palm.

Open my hand.

And I let go.

The batter swings. Misses.

Strikeout.

One down, two to go.