Written by RF Wilson – Grady Addleson watched the bullpen coach pick up the phone.
“Uh huh,” the man said, hung up, looked at the pitcher, nodded.
The lanky 26 year-old stood, began throwing to the bullpen catcher.
Top of the eleventh, the ‘Dogs down one, 11-12. Runners on 1st and 2nd. If he was called in, his job would be keep those men from scoring.
The phone rang again; Grady headed for the diamond.
The end of the season, a full house. If the Bulldogs won, they’d go to the playoffs; if not, the season was over and, very likely, his career. He’d had a good early season in Triple A, lost momentum, got sent down, told to work on his curve ball. He only had two pitches, the fast ball and the screw ball. The fast ball was losing speed; hitters were figuring him out.
“Add to your arsenal,” the manager had said. “You’re good. But you don’t have much time left. Go down, work on the curve, give yourself another tool.”
He’d pitched two good games but last night had been a disaster. Five runs in two innings. He knew he’d have been in this game earlier if it hadn’t have been for that fiasco. If things went south tonight, he might as well go back to Macon, work in his brother’s insurance office.
He struck out the first two batters. A screw ball hit the next batter’s leg, loading the bases. The pitching coach came out.
“You still got this?” the man asked.
Grady knew the guy was stalling, giving him a chance to shake it off; there was nobody left in the bullpen.
Let it go, he said to himself as the man walked away. Let it go. Just throw the ball. He took a deep breath, threw a curve ball.
The umpire’s right hand flew out as he called, “Stee-rike!”
Grady barked “Yes!”
Another curve ball.
“Stee-rike two!”
His euphoria faded when the next pitch went in the dirt, the next outside high. The catcher walked the ball back to him, said, “It’s ok, you’ve got it.” Grady was not convinced. Three and two. Bases loaded. His life in front of him. He held the ball in his mitt. Grabbed the resin bag, threw it down. Dug in. Stared at the catcher. Waved off a signal for a fast ball. Everyone in the stadium expected that pitch. Waved off the screw ball. The catcher shrugged. Grady took a breath, shifted his weight to his right foot, kicked his left foot out, leaned back, right arm behind his ear, his arm whipped overhead, his weight shifted onto his left foot, his wrist snapped. His right leg came down. His eyes watched the ball head straight over the plate.
From 60 feet away, he saw the batter swing, the ball curve and drop below the bat. The cheers of ten thousand people, the season was not over.
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RF Wilson writes in Asheville, NC, where he lives with his wife, Beth Gage. He is the author of the novel, “Killer Weed,” recently published by Pisgah Press. His short story, “Accident Prone,” appears in the anthology “Carolina Crimes” published by Wildside Press, which has been nominated for an Anthony Award as Best Mystery Anthology of the Year.
