Alex watched him from first base. It was unusual for a pitcher and a hitter to be friends, but he’d liked Scotty from the first day the kid had joined the team. Besides, there were few players he could talk science with.
Who was he kidding? Scotty was the only one.
Scotty bent down and grabbed the resin bag, bounced it in his hand and dropped it at the back of the mound. He glanced up into the third tier and then pulled his hands to his chest. After all these years, and all the pitchers he’d seen, the gesture still struck Alex as prayer-like. Some days pitchers relied on everything they could. Scotty had done some pretty sweet talking and even prettier pitching to get Walsh to let him pitch in the ninth. It was his first complete game. Well, it would be if the Giants won in the bottom of the ninth. Scotty wasn’t the only pitcher in the park keeping the hitters off the bags. Alex was ready to get something going.
Scotty looked in at Aderro, their catcher, for the sign and nodded. He and the veteran catcher were like points on a wave; on their good days they rarely disagreed. Aderro had a lockdown mind; no batter’s pattern or statistics went unregistered. Alex liked to pick his brain.
Scotty wound up and released the ball. It looked to Alex as if Scotty moved the seams around on the ball, as if his hand was at one with it and his whole body surged with the power of the pitch. There were few things in life as impressive as watching a pitcher in the zone.
The thump of the ball hitting Aderro’s mitt was nearly eclipsed by the cheers of the crowd.
Alex didn’t move for a moment, just watched as Scotty fisted his hand, pulled it into his chest and did a little hop. Bolton cursed and walked back to the dugout. Scotty shot Alex a smile as he strode off the mound.
As Scotty bounded into the dugout, Alex high-fived him, then grabbed his batting helmet and headed back up to the on-deck circle.
Zack stood ready in the batter’s box. Alex had calculated that he’d need to bat in at least 140 guys to make the Triple Crown, and that meant the hitters ahead of him getting on base. He had faith in Zack. Nope, not just faith—the man was a solid hitter. Give him a few more years in the majors, and he’d be chasing all of Alex’s records.
Alex watched him swing and heard the crack of the bat. Not the cosmic crack that signaled a ball going over the wall, but the sound of a good, blasting double. Zack slid into second. The game-winning run was on base.
Alex stepped into the batter’s box. He grooved a bit of a hole with his back foot, getting set, digging in. All they needed was a single from him to end the game. He took a timing swing and then crouched in his stance. He saw the ball coming and barely had time to twist away. It slammed into the back of his left shoulder. He glared at the pitcher but as he jogged to first, all he could think was that he hadn’t moved in time. Whether anybody could have wasn’t the point. He hadn’t.
He could see that Campion, now batting, was fired up. Sometimes a pitcher clipping a hitter intimidated the batter that followed. But this pitcher didn’t know Campion. He connected to the first pitch and blasted it through the gap in left center. Zack crossed the plate as Campion ran to first and tagged the bag. Alex tagged second and rounded third. He veered across the infield grass and went through the motions of the celebratory handshakes and back pats, but his heart wasn’t in it.
After the game, Alex stood under the shower, running his at-bat over and over in his mind and rubbing out his shoulder. He'd let his focus slip—not much, but enough. He walked to his locker, still kicking himself as he tugged on his street clothes.
“Target practice doesn’t suit you.” Scotty laughed. But then he glanced at Alex and his face sobered. “I know that look,” he said with a shake of his head. “Bro going down, sound the alarm.”
Alex glared at him. “You do not want to hear the line that just went through my head.”
Taking the hint, Scotty shuffled off to the celebration still resounding in the clubhouse.
“Hey, congrats, man,” Alex called after him. Scotty deserved to celebrate his achievement, no matter how Alex felt about his own playing.
Scotty threw a wave over his shoulder.
Alex grabbed his bag and slammed his locker. He turned to see Hal Walsh making straight for him.
“Thought we could catch up a bit,” Walsh said, motioning with his head toward the back corner of the clubhouse where his office was. “Catching up” was manager-speak for being called on the carpet. Alex followed him to his office.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Walsh asked as he sat behind his desk.
“My game’s a bit off.”
“Tavonesi, tell me something I don’t know.” Walsh scraped a hand through his hair. “You’re showing up late, the trainers tell me you’re a mess and you’ve got bruises in places you shouldn’t.”
He gave Alex his eagle eye, the eye that had taken the team to the World Series two years in a row.
“You’re one of two men who have a real chance at the Triple Crown and you’re blowing it.” Walsh leaned his elbows on his desk. “You’ll be an old man for this game in two years. Whatever’s inspiring all this funny business can wait until the end of the season. You’d better buck up if you want that title.”
It was the longest speech he’d ever heard Walsh give. From anyone else it would’ve been a reproach. But from Hal, those words were a compliment.
“Right,” Alex said. “Got it.”
“Right. Get some sleep.”
Alex made his way slowly to his car and then sat in the stadium lot, staring through the window at nothing in particular. He let the heat of the car bake him for a few moments and then opened the windows. The voices of his teammates drifted in.
He grabbed his phone from the glove compartment and called Gage.
“Bummer shot you took today,” Gage said. “Looked like he was aiming at you. Probably my fault for dragging you out this morning.”
“It happens,” Alex said, and then he paused. Just say it. “I have to stop volunteering.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t like abandoning commitments.”
“I get that,” Gage said. There was a moment of silence. “Well, we’ll always have Paris.” His Casablanca reference landed flat, didn’t cover the disappointment in his voice.
“Yeah,” Alex said. “I’ll send you some tickets.” He clicked off the phone.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then hauled in a breath and turned the key. Why was it that good decisions could feel so rotten?