Pitch Perfect(80)

What Tucker did was sit.

He took his place on the bench and sat with bouncy knees, staring at the game without absorbing any of it. He was thinking of his pitches. Going over the rest of the Yankees’ line in his head. In the third he’d face the bottom of their lineup—arguably the worst players—but he still thought about stats, and what he knew.

Every player had shortcomings, and these guys were no exception. He’d faced them all once or twice, some of them dozens of times, and a highlight reel played in his head, taking him through all those old games, telling him what he could do to bring them down.

They all had weaknesses, and he would figure out exactly how to exploit them.

Bottom of the third rolled in, and he made his slow walk to the mound, head down. He stood on the small hill, thumbed the brim of his cap, tugged his ear and took a deep breath.

Three up, three down.

One-two-three innings were a dime a dozen. There was one in almost every game he’d ever played, usually more. The Yankees had already played one against them that game, and in turn Tucker had thrown two. A one-two-three was the ultimate goal of a pitcher. Striking out the side was most ideal, but whatever it took to get the players out in order would do.

Back-to-back one-two-threes, or even a half-dozen, weren’t out of the ordinary. Honestly, Tucker barely registered them anymore aside from the way they abbreviated how long he was out on the field. And the less time he spent in per inning, the fewer pitches he threw, and he’d have a better chance to stay in for all nine innings.

That was all he wanted.

Nine innings to show he belonged and wasn’t too old to play the game.

He watched Alex’s signals, shaking off a call for another changeup. He’d been using a lot of them, and he was familiar with the batter—Frank Richie—who had an uncanny skill for hitting the slow balls. Alex had spent less time against Frank, but Tucker remembered him from their earlier years in the game.

Alex signaled for a slider, and Tucker considered it, then shook his head on that call too. He knew Alex well, and the way he waved his hand was the politest way he could give Tucker the finger while they were both on national television.

Finally Alex signaled for a straight-up fastball, and Tucker gave the nod. Frank Richie squinted from under the brim of his batting helmet, and for a moment he and Tucker locked eyes. Richie raised one brow and smiled, a leering, cold grin. Tucker didn’t like the cockiness of the batter’s smirk.

Tucker mouthed the words Strike out, and Frank Richie’s smile faltered. He readjusted his grip on the bat and cracked his neck side to side. Alex must have seen the change in attitude as well because the smile shifted from Frank to the catcher, and Alex winked at Tucker.

It hadn’t been Tucker’s intention to play dirty and get into Frank’s head, but whatever worked was fine by him. If a player didn’t have enough spine to keep his shit together in the batter’s box, he deserved to get struck out.

So Tucker struck him out.

And the next two batters as well.

Back in the dugout there was a lot of back patting and some high-fives, but no one said much else to him. He took his place on the bench, and Alex—who had batted in the previous inning—came to sit next to him. Tucker kept his cap pulled low over his eyes, trying to ignore the pulsing throb in his forehead.

“You feeling good?” Alex asked.

“Headache.”

“Arm is okay?”

“Yup.”

Alex pressed a paper cup of Gatorade into Tucker’s hand, and they leaned back on the bench, watching as Ramon clobbered a home run out of the park. The handful of Felons fans in the stadium cheered louder than Tucker thought possible—or maybe he was just tuned to the right station to hear them—and the dugout erupted in raucous celebration. It was one run, but it was a run they had the Yankees didn’t.

After their run, the Felons played like they had a fire lit under their asses. The next man up—second baseman Jamal Warren—hit a ground ball that rolled past first. He ran like hell for second to get the double—not an easy feat given his bulk—and was forced to slide into the plate. When he got to his feet, though, there was a limp in his step.

Tucker lifted the brim of his cap, staring at the scene on the field like it was a frozen tableau. He looked for Emmy, but she was already bounding up the stairs and meeting the third base coach at second so they could see what had happened.

Emmy was crouched in front of Jamal, squeezing his ankle with her delicate fingers. She was watching Jamal’s face for reaction, as she did with Tucker whenever she stretched out his arm. What she saw on the second baseman didn’t relieve her because she got to her feet and addressed Chuck and the third base coach.