Instead of any teasing jabs he might throw out to a player he was familiar with, Alex remained silent behind home, chewing the inside of his cheek out of frustration as he gave Miles the signals. Alex had spent some time watching tapes of the Mets batters, the same as the pitching staff had, and he knew Matt liked to swing at the fastballs, so Alex called for a change-up. It was a pitch that looked like a fastball but slowed down as it approached the plate, leading most batters to swing far too soon.
It worked like a charm. Matt gave a mighty swing, but the bat sliced through the air and the ball landed in Alex’s mitt with a satisfying whack.
“Fuck,” Matt grumbled, kicking the dirt in the batter’s box. A red cloud billowed out in Alex’s direction.
The next pitch was a ball inside, sending Matt dancing backwards, his grumbling elevated. “You call for that one, Ross?” he asked, never glancing backwards or acknowledging Alex in anything other than name.
“What?” Alex replied.
“You think because you’re sticking your dick in my sloppy seconds it’s cool for you to call for bullshit plays like that?”
“Gentlemen,” the home-plate umpire growled, “let’s keep things civil and continue playing the game.” He kept his tone light but was stern in the manner of a friendly schoolteacher. It was his way of preventing the mood from getting too heavy but letting them know he meant business.
“No arguments here, Barry.” Alex shifted himself back into position, trying to ignore Matt’s spiteful words.
“Carry on, then.”
Alex made his call, and though it might not have been in his best interest, he called for another ball inside. Miles shook his head, and Alex made the same call. Miles shook him off again. The pitcher jerked his head more firmly, and this time Alex listened. He made the request for a straight-up fastball, and Miles nodded his agreement.
This time Matt didn’t miss. The hit made a cracking sound on the bat so deep and loud Alex didn’t need to follow it to know where it would wind up. The sound was a distinctive sign, a surefire herald of a home run. Alex lifted his mask to watch the hit go, and in a very unsportsmanlike move, so did Matt.
He didn’t just give it a passive glance. Instead, Matt tossed the bat down and tracked the ball’s path until it was well over the stands. Then he turned to Miles and jerked his chin at the pitcher before strutting towards first base to run his lap.
“What a prick.” Alex lowered his mask and punched the inner pouch of his glove.
“You can say that again,” muttered the umpire.
The next several innings went off without another blip, though there was a great deal of chatter about what a dick move it was on Matt’s part to make such an unnecessary show of his home run. It wasn’t the way things were done. Home runs were a part of the business of doing baseball, and to stand around and glory in them was like rubbing a pitcher’s face in it. It was disrespectful.
When Alex came up to bat in the third, he used the mindset he was accustomed to having when he took his swings—hit like Alice was in the stands, cheering him on against all reason. He adjusted the wrists on his batting gloves, the sweet, potent smell of pine tar coming from the wood.
He closed his eyes before the pitch came, digging his toes into the dirt and clearing his mind. When he was focused, the bat felt light and the pitcher appeared to be no more than ten feet away, not sixty. The pitch came, and Alex swung hard. It wasn’t a perfect hit, but it found a gap, and Alex ran like hell—he didn’t waste any time watching the damned thing.
He got to third base standing, and braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath. It wasn’t until he’d handed his batting gloves off to the third base coach that he noticed Matt lingering behind the base.
“Well, look who made it to my office. A little shy of how far mine got, though.” He angled his chin to the bleachers. “Better luck next time.”
Alex gritted his teeth and edged off the plate, leading towards home. All he needed was a nice outfield groundball or even a sacrifice bunt to get him home. And home was vastly preferable to being on third base with Matt.
“Although it seems you’re used to coming up second to me, doesn’t it?”
Keep him out, Alex told himself. Don’t let him get in your head.
The next batter up waited out a ball.
“What’s the matter, Ross? You seem awfully quiet.”
“Fuck off, Matt.” Alex knew better than to engage with someone who was goading him intentionally. It was as likely to have a positive outcome as arguing with trolls on the Internet. But something about the way Matt was taunting him made it impossible to ignore.