Bottom of the ninth
At this level, if you haven’t proven yourself by June, you’re not making the big leagues.
Looking at the action from the bullpen, it seemed to me that minor league baseball ain’t so bad after all. At least in this baseball-crazy town. But then, the team they’re cheering for ain’t us. That last roar was my pal Smith getting tagged for the third out. Cheer on, kids, but we’re still ahead. I saw the manager give me the high sign.
“Riley,” he said to me, handing me the game ball. “Wrap this up so we can go home.”
I smile and say “sure thing,” but I felt anything but sure. Spring Training was a nightmare, every start I pitched a disaster. But they saw potential in me, so I got to put in my time in this rinky-dink double-A league, laboring as a reliever until they find where I best fit.
This day, I’m the closer. No big deal, only the whole damn game on my shoulders is all. And it’s bottom of the ninth. These boys get just one run too many and it’s done. I glanced at the score for reassurance, we’re up by two. And I’m facing the bottom of their order. Good. Get them to strike out or hit easy pop flies and I’m good.
The first batter, Cooney, gets a piece of my second pitch. It had no power behind it and lands in the shortstop’s glove, then quickly relayed to first base for the first out.
Barrows takes the same bait and the ball goes just out of my reach to the second baseman, who pirouettes and delivers it to first in plenty of time.
So I’m cocky, and gave the same dose to Flynn, who couldn’t hit sand if he fell off a camel. Lucky single landed right into the gap between second and short.
Crap, I thought. I was more rattled than I realized, and gave zero-batting-average Blake an easy pitch. Only fast thinking and faster reflexes in the outfield salvage the play. Now I’ve got runners on second and third, and their star slugger -- the winning run if he connects -- coming up to the plate.
The roar of adulation was so loud you’d think he’d already won the game. But the crowd settles a bit as I get into my pitching stance.
The catcher’s signs ask me if I want to walk the guy. It’s the safe play. If the home run machine settles for standing on first, then I can relax a little with the next guy. Barring an out-and-out homer by that batter, getting the ball to any point on the diamond, putting anyone out, ends the inning and seals the game for my team.
So I gave a nod, with a little motion that indicates I’ll throw it inside rather than outside. I doubt he’ll swing, but if he does it’s a foul. I let the ball fly.
“Strike!”
The slugger didn’t swing at the ball - practically laughed at it, actually - and the ump called it a strike?! What does he think we’re playing, golf? That was too low and no way hittable, and the crowd in the stands knew it. They wanted Magoo’s head on a pike. But from my perspective, it’s a gift. I shake off the catcher’s “walk” signals and aim to paint another corner of the strike zone.
“Strike!”
To be fair, that one could have been hit, though it would likely be an easy fly catch. Maybe the batter knew that. Maybe that’s why he didn’t even start to swing.
Moment of truth. The fans are about to riot. The catcher is nervous and uncertain. The big man has the bat cocked up in the “the next one’s not getting by me” pose. I could throw to the dirt once or twice to buy me some time, but I can’t stop thinking: Two strikes, I’ve got this guy. I say a prayer that my iffy curveball will break right this time, and throw the most important pitch of my career.
You know how in critical moments like this, the world goes into slow-motion? I swear the ball was only going five miles an hour instead of near-ninety. And the bat was in motion to meet it. In the eternity of a heartbeat, I saw the ball and bat go by each other like two trains on parallel tracks.
What’s the opposite of a roaring cheer? That’s what happened. The atmosphere got downright funereal as me and my boys returned to the dugout to get ready to get on the bus back home - with a celebratory steak on the way.
For the weeks that followed, I was the go-to closer, racking up saves like nobody’s business. By the end of the season I was under the lights in the bigs, and things just got better from there.
But as my trajectory went up, it turned out that the slugger’s - a guy named Casey - went down. He never saw the majors. But as his story became a sort of cautionary tale, ironically he became more famous than I ever was.
Do you see Riley’s bust in the Hall of Fame? I’m still waiting for that call.
Maybe -- in my way -- I, too, struck out.
- - - - - - -
This is my entry for LJ Idol Season 8, Week 30, Topic three of five, “ Closer.”
Inspired by the poems “Casey at the Bat” by Ernest Thayer, and “Riley on the Mound” attributed to Foster Brooks.