Tony Whitfield had done a good job but by the bottom of the ninth inning his amazing arm had begun to fail. The coach had replaced him before exhaustion could lead to an irreversible injury or a devastating loss. No matter the outcome of today’s game there was still next year to plan for.
Tony
had pitched them successfully to this final game of the final series in the
long road to being champions. As disappointed as he was at being pulled, Tony
knew he didn’t have the strength to finish. He gently slapped Ray Ray in the
shoulder with his glove for luck as they switched places.
The
only pitching error of the game, a walk, threatened their victory. There were
two outs working in his favour but if Ray let a home run in now, they would end
up slinking back to their home town. It would be a hard to swallow loss after
coming so close to being the best in the world.
Like
a heartbeat’s throb, their own team’s fans cheered the pitcher, “Ray Ray...Ray
Ray...Ray Ray!” The suspense grew.
The
closer watched the back catcher, Juan Cortez, carefully contemplating then discarding
his suggested pitches with a slight shake of his head. Three times he said no.
The fourth time, with a subtle nod, Ray agreed to a long, low slider. The count
was full, three balls, two strikes. It was all up to this last pitch.
The walked runner, Chuck Agostino, was known
for his incredible speed. Once on base, quick, consecutive steals had him in a
position to tie the ball game. Chuck took a long lead off third. That was
why Ray had been sent in, a fresh arm to put this puppy to bed. The pitcher
looked his way and mocked a toss to the baseman. Chuck scampered with a
greyhound’s speed back to touch the base. The pitcher smiled in satisfaction. Two
more times he sent Chuck back. The crowd was beside itself.
A quick glance around
the infield assured Ray that everyone was focused and alert. He took a moment
to settle his baseball cap on his head and wiped his fingers on the brim with a
conductor’s flourish. He wiped his hand one more time on his thigh. Any
moisture could spell disaster. Standing sideways, Ray felt for the ball tucked
snugly in his glove. It took a moment to organise the seams beneath his
experienced touch. The grip had to be perfect. He had only one shot at this.
The crowd got even
louder. They were only two runs away from their home team taking the
championship. A man on third and one of the best hitters they had was facing
down the best closer in the league. This was a battle of titans. A couple of
angry scuffles erupted in the stadium between opposing fans. Security guards
rushed to put a stop to them before they got out of hand. This was the closest
both teams had come to being champions in nearly two decades. Their being here
had taken the world by surprise.
Ray
took a deep breath. All the years of dedicated training that had begun by practicing
with his mom in the park led to this moment. The noise of the crowd
disappeared. He only existed for the pitch. Nothing else mattered. Ray wound up
and threw the ball. As it left his fingers, he knew he had made a mistake.
There was a fraction of extra twist which meant the slider would go wide
instead of low.
Milliseconds
felt like aeons. The crowd held its breath. The stadium was silent for the
first time since the gates had opened. The ball whistled through the air at a
blistering hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. In slow motion Ray watched the batter step in,
swinging hard. His heart dropped. The hissing bat missed the ball by a whisper
and it landed with a solid, dusty thud in Juan’s well oiled mitt. Covering the
ball with his free hand Juan leapt from his crouch, a jaguar pouncing, ready to
touch Chuck as he made a last ditch effort and raced for home.
“Steeerike
three!” called the umpire, raising his right arm so the officials, the crowd,
the millions of people watching on TV would know exactly what the call was: a
pitch that made history.
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