I braced for resentment from the other players that would never come. Instead, I found myself playing with a group of extremely supportive guys. The competition was fierce, but this was still a team sport, no matter how you sliced it.
“Hi,” I said as Cassie picked up her phone.
“Hi, yourself,” she said back, her voice making me smile. “How are you? How’s the team?”
“I’m good. The team is insane. ”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone’s just really fucking good. ” I sighed with contentment.
“Like better than your other team, or how?”
“Just in every way possible. It’s a whole different level of ball. ”
“You expected that though, right?” Her voice suggested if I hadn’t, I should have.
“I guess I didn’t really think about it. They’re definitely better hitters and my pitches don’t intimidate them. ”
“So pitch around their bats and make your pitches scary,” she suggested with a giggle.
“I’m trying, Kitten. ”
“Jack, you’re an incredible pitcher. You’ll figure it out. This is all part of the process and in the end you’ll be a better player for it. ”
“When’d you get so smart?”
“Probably the second you left town. ” I could practically feel her eye-roll over the phone line.
“Brat. ”
“I gotta go, Jack. I’m sorry but I get to sit in on a call with the New York offices! Yay!” she screamed into the phone.
“That’s great, babe. You go. I’ll talk to you later. ” I chuckled, her excitement making me smile.
“Wait, Jack?” she shouted and I fumbled.
“Yeah?”
“Good luck tonight. ”
“Thanks. Love you,” I said before hanging up.
*****
I took a deep breath as I kicked at the dirt mound beneath my cleats. The fans were all on their feet cheering, but I could barely hear anything above the sound of my own heart pumping adrenaline through my veins.
“You got this, Carter,” I heard my shortstop shout. I glanced at him briefly, our eyes meeting in a hopeful exchange. The cheers grew louder when I stepped onto the mound. My catcher flashed signs between his legs and I nodded in agreement, then gripped the ball in my left hand, the baseball’s string seams pressing against my fingertips. With another focused breath, I lifted my right leg into the air before delivering a piping hot fastball right down the middle.
The batter swung and I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t send that pitch into no man’s land. The sound of the ball crashing against the catcher’s glove echoed into the evening air, as the umpire screamed, “Strike three! You’re out!”
The crowd erupted into cheers and rushed the field before my teammates lifted me on top of their shoulders. Cameras flashed from all around, the quick bursts of light blinding me briefly. Hands reached out from every angle, pulling and tugging at any exposed body part. Everyone wanted a piece of me.
I had just pitched my first perfect game in Double-A ball. The feeling you get when that happens is hard to describe. It’s like an unbelievable high. I accomplished something that happens so rarely in the game of baseball. Not a single person from the other team got on base. I didn’t walk one batter. No one was hit by a pitch. Just me and my boys on our field for nine straight innings. Tonight, we’d be celebrating. And all I could think about was her.
I peeled myself away from the gaggle of fans and journalists and headed inside the locker room. “I’ll sign more after I shower,” I shouted toward the group of people wanting my autograph.
I opened my locker, grabbed my cell phone, and dialed.