by Jean Joachim
Chapter Eight
Matt checked the on-deck circle. Sure enough, resting on one knee was that asshole, Marty Callahan. The catcher for the Bucks was a brawny guy who also held their RBI record. The Philly manager had moved him into clean-up position. With a man on first by a bloop single, this Buck was a threat.
Jackson remembered that Cally liked his pitches low and outside. He also liked to be called “Marty” and hated the nickname “Cally.” Sounds like a girl’s name, the bruiser had said to Matt one night at Freddie’s. The ’Hawk’s had let some of the Bucks tag along to their favorite spot after a game. The Nighthawks had won, and so were in a generous mood. Dan Alexander, the winning pitcher, had even bought a round for the Philly boys.
That’s the night Matt had come up with the obnoxious nickname. Jake Lawrence also called him “Smarty Marty,” which the slugger didn’t mind. Behind his back, they called him “Farty Marty,” but didn’t have the nerve to say it to his face.
Truth be told, Jackson was impressed with a catcher who was batting clean-up. Didn’t happen often. Matt was fifth in the line-up, a frequent spot for catchers. It’s where Elston Howard of the Yankees had batted for a million years.
When Callahan strode over, Matt piped up, “Hey, Cally. How you doin’?”
The batter grimaced and shot a deadly stare at the catcher.
“None of that,” the umpire said. “Play ball.”
Marty shouldered the bat. Matt signaled for a fast ball, high and inside.
“No funny stuff, Jackson,” the Buck murmured.
“Who me?” Matt said, shielding his signal of one finger from his opponent’s view with his glove. Dan rifled in a ninety-five mile-an-hour fastball exactly where Matt wanted it. Callahan swung at it, even though it was way out of his comfort zone. The umpire called, “Strike!”
Matt grinned behind his mask and signaled for Dan to do the same thing again. Again, the pitcher placed the ball perfectly. “Strike two!” the umpire called.
Sweat broke out on Marty Callahan’s face. He swiped at it with his sleeve. Matt could hardly contain himself. This time, he signaled for a curve ball to nick the low, inside corner. Dan nodded and went into his wind-up.
Marty took a huge swing and nicked the ball. It flew at the speed of light right into Matt’s glove. He held onto it then tagged the batter. The Buck shook off the catcher’s tag and shot him an evil stare before bowing his head and muttering curses as he left the batter’s box. That was one down. The man on first hadn’t yet attempted a steal.
Matt trotted out to the mound. “Nice work with Farty,” he said.
Dan grinned.
“Joe Monk likes it high and outside. He’s a singles hitter. If that asshole on first steals second, we could be in trouble.”
“What’s the plan?”
“You gotta keep him on. If he goes, I’ll give you a fist. If he’s leaning, I’ll raise my glove.” Matt had to keep the man on first because Dan was a right-handed pitcher and couldn’t easily watch the runner.
“Okay,” Dan said.
“We got this.”
Matt had to keep an eye on the speedy guy on first, as well as on Dan’s pitch. He squatted, giving Dan the signal for a curve ball high and inside. Then, he glanced at first. The man there side-stepped, moving closer to second, increasing his lead. Matt caught the first baseman, Nat Owen’s, eye.
The Buck, several steps off the bag, leaned toward second. Now was the ’Hawks’ chance to pick him off. The catcher made eye contact with Dan and raised his mitt. The pitcher whirled around and fired the ball at Owen on first.
The Buck lunged for the base, but the fact that he was leaning in the opposite direction put him off balance just enough to get picked off by Dan’s quick throw. The runner was called “out,” and Matt grinned. Two down.
He signaled for a low and inside pitch, but Dan missed, sending one in the zone for the batter. He smashed it hard and took off. The ball sailed all the way to the warning track, where Chip Candelaria leapt into the air and secured the ball in the webbing of his glove. The crowd went wild. The top of the fifth was over, and the score was still zero to zero.
Matt wasn’t coming to bat in the bottom of the inning, so he left his gear on. He sat in the dugout and twisted open a bottle of water then guzzled it down. The Bucks weren’t going to go down easy, and it was up to him to keep Dan Alexander on track and make sure the batters didn’t have anything good to hit. So far, so good.
But the other Nighthawks weren’t doing much to help him. They had two hits and no runs. Dan was the first batter up. With no one on base, bunting wouldn’t be a good idea.
“I’m going for it,” he said to Matt before he headed for home plate.
“Wait for your pitch,” Matt said, plopping down on the bench.
Dan shouldered the bat and faced the pitcher. Matt held his breath. He and Dan had been working on batting for the past month. He hoped his buddy would be able to bring it to the plate today. Matt crossed his fingers.
The ball zoomed past, and the umpire called “Ball!” Dan was encouraged. Matt said under his breath to himself, “Gotta take this one, buddy.”
As if Dan could hear him, the batter took the next pitch, which was also garbage, for ball two. Now, the tension grew until Matt could feel it all the way in the dugout. Third pitch was a strike. Fourth, a swing and a miss for strike two.
Matt knew the Bucks’ pitcher would be getting lazy. He figured he had Dan chasing shitty pitches, so why bother to even aim for the strike zone. The ball flew in high and wide for ball three. The pitcher’s nightmare, full count on the opposing pitcher. One bad pitch, and he’d be walking the weakest batter on the team.
Jackson noticed the Bucks’ pitcher wipe his face with his sleeve. Matt grinned. Dan had played it perfectly, and the man on the mound was nervous. Things had changed in baseball. There were some good hitting pitchers now. The guy on the mound didn’t know if Dan was one of them. The Bucks had to roll the dice on this pitch.
Dan was cool as a cucumber. He was taking all the way and didn’t have to bother about swinging. Unless the pitch was an offer he couldn’t refuse. Matt had told him that some pitchers excelled under that kind of pressure, but most didn’t. So, Dan Alexander shouldered the bat and prayed the pitcher would throw garbage.
Sure enough, ball four called! Dan dropped the bat and loped to first base, grinning like a hyena. Matt applauded and hooted at his friend. Cal Crawley’s face clouded, and his brows knitted. Matt glanced at the manager and understood his concern.
Now, Dan, the Nighthawks’ star pitcher, would be running the bases. Anything could happen to him there. He could get hit by a ball, get hurt sliding, fall, or collide with a baseman. Crawley popped another stick of gum and chewed like a madman.
The manager had to make a split-second decision here—call for a pinch runner, which meant Dan was out of the game, or let Alexander run the bases and hope for the best. Matt knew the Bucks were too tough. If Crawley took out Dan, the Bucks would have a much better chance of scoring. Cal had to leave the pitcher in if he wanted to win.
In his minor-league days, Matt had wondered why every game seemed so important to his manager. After all, they played more than a hundred and sixty games. So, he’d asked Cal the question.
“If you don’t give a damn about a game, it becomes too easy. Too easy to say it’s only one game. So, what. And before you know it, you’re saying that twenty, thirty, forty percent of the time. That’s how you end up in the cellar. If you want to go to the playoffs and the Series, you have to play every game like it’s the most important game all year.”
Matt figured their best chance to win was to keep Dan Alexander pitching. Sure enough, Cal gnawed on his gum, but never loped out to first base to replace the star pitcher with a pinch runner. The team members exchanged glances. Bobby Hernandez uttered a short prayer.
Nat Owen, the first baseman, came to the plate. Nat was a short ball hitter. He’d be lucky to get half a doze
n homeruns in a season. But he was good at getting on base. The Nighthawks called him the “King of First Base,” and that wasn’t only because he covered it, but because he got more singles than any other player on the team.
Dan took a small lead. Matt hoped his friend was smart enough not to try anything stupid, like stealing second. The Buck’s pitcher was a lefty, so he could keep an eye on Dan. Even if he wasn’t, it would be a foolish move that might jeopardize his career.
Matt watched Nat narrow his eyes. The eyes of the team were on the batter’s box.
“Strike one!” the umpire called.
Matt saw Nat’s jaw set. “Holy shit! He’s going for a homer,” he said to Skip Quincy, sitting next to him.
“Hell, he’d be due about now anyway, right?”
“He’s been due for three years,” Matt replied.
The men quieted down as the ball was pitched. Nat swung the bat around and made a solid hit. Crack! The ball soared. Up and up it went, high over the heads of the infielders. Dan didn’t know what to do. Cal yelled, “Run, Dan! Run!”
The ball started to sink. The center fielder ran like hell, almost catching up, but it was still too high. He leapt into the air, but it zoomed past him into the stands. A two-run homer for Nat Owen. The fans and the bench went crazy.
Teammates were hugging each other and dancing. Dan Alexander took his time trotting from base to base, followed by Nat.
The pitcher waited for him at home plate. The men in the dugout spilled out onto the field, like ants, mobbing Nat and Dan when they returned. The score was two to nothing, ’Hawk’s favor. Now, all they had to do was hold onto their lead.
Bobby Hernandez and Skip Quincy struck out. A deep fly ball by Jake Lawrence was caught by the centerfielder, for out number three. At the beginning of the next inning, Matt loped out to the plate with confidence. They could do this, hold the Bucks to fewer than two runs. Piece of cake. And he’d be leading the charge, working with Dan. Did life get any better than this? Matt didn’t think so as he squatted behind the plate and shot his signal to the pitcher.
* * * *
When the game was over, the Nighthawks had won, two to one. The close game had been a nail-biter when the reliever, Moose Macafee, struck out the last batter. There had been a man on base, and Marty Callahan was on deck. If Macafee hadn’t gotten the batter out, the game could have had a different outcome.
Matt had sweated bullets during the top of the ninth, when the Bucks had seemed to come alive. Dan had been relieved in the top of the eighth. He’d gone a long way, but Cal never pushed his starters. He needed them, and they were treated like gold.
Jackson pulled off his mask and headed to the showers. He limped a little because a foul-tip had bounced off the ground and nicked his instep.
“Have the trainer look at your foot, Matt,” Cal said, slapping the catcher on the back. “Good game.”
Matt had gotten one single, but wasn’t able to bring it home. Still, he’d been the backbone of the team, guiding Dan and keeping home plate error free. “I’m okay, Cal. I know what to do. Cold then hot.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. Still feel better if Sam took a look. Make sure nothing’s broken.”
“Okay. I’ll tell Dusty to wait.”
“I’ll tell her. Just get checked out,” Cal said, heading for the locker room.
After the trainer poked and prodded, he told Matt he could get off the table. “Looks like a bad bruise. Cold then hot. You know the routine. Warm water soak tonight.”
“Can I play tomorrow?”
“Night game?”
“Yep.”
“Should be okay,” Sam said, nodding.
Matt tied his sneaker loosely over the tender flesh. He tried not to limp, but it hurt to put his full weight on it. Dusty was waiting outside the locker room door.
“There you are,” Matt said.
“Some of us have the good sense to wait outside the locker room and not barge in,” she said.
He chuckled. “Go ahead, rub it in. Am I ever gonna live that down?”
“Probably not. You’re limping?”
“Yeah. Took a foul off the instep. I’ll be okay.”
“Let me help you.” Dusty slung her arm around his middle.
“I can walk, I can walk. I’m not an invalid.”
“Pardon me for trying to help.” She stepped away, hurt flashing across her face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s, well, I’m fine. Really. It’s a little sore. That’s all. I’ll soak it tonight and be fine tomorrow.”
“Do you want to cancel tonight?”
“Are you kidding? I wasn’t planning anything I’d have to do standing up.” He snickered.
Dusty slapped his shoulder.
“Hey, watch it. I’m injured,” he whined.
“Why you! You’re the most infuriating man!” She walked away.
“I was only kidding. Come on, come on. Let me buy you a nice dinner,” he said, grabbing her elbow.
“Okay. Freddie’s?”
“Why not? I’m surprised you want to go there.”
“Your buddies’ll be there.”
“Right.”
“I know.”
“Know what?” he said, leading her to his car.
“I sat with Holly today. She told me that everyone knows about you walking in on me in the locker room.”
“Oh, shit. She said that?”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m sorry, baby. Really. I mean, I didn’t know you. I called up the GM and bitched about him not telling me Dusty was a girl. I guess it got around.”
“You might say that.”
“Okay, I’ll make it up to you. The biggest steak Tommy’s got.”
“And the best bottle of red wine?”
“You got it. Dessert?”
“In the bedroom,” she whispered.
Matt’s eyes lit up. “Perfect.” While he fished his keys from his pocket, he leaned over and kissed her. “You’re incredible, Dusty.”
“So are you. Now, let’s go. I’m starving.”
“We’re on the way.” He opened her door for her then got behind the wheel and said a quick thank-you prayer that it was his left foot that had gotten injured. “What did you think of the game?” He turned right out of the parking lot.
“I thought you were wonderful. And Dan, what a fantastic pitcher. I could never be that good.”
“Yes, you could. But you’d have to work at it.”
“You’re kidding, right? No amount of work would ever make me as good as Dan Alexander.”
“Maybe not in pro ball, but in your fast pitch game…yeah, it’s possible. I’ll help you.”
“Would you?”
“Of course, baby,” he said, cupping her cheek.
* * * *
Once they entered Freddie’s, a huge cheer went up. His teammates were polite to her as they eased her out of the way so they could mob the catcher. Although Matt still limped a little, the look of pain left his face as his buddies shared victory cheers. Before she knew it, a bottle of beer had been thrust in her hand, and Matt’s too. Toasts were made, some on the raunchy side, but most celebrating their win. She couldn’t fault them that.
Quietly, she put the beer down and ordered a soft drink. Someone had to be in shape to drive to Matt’s apartment, and it didn’t look like it would be him. Tables were pushed together to create one huge one. Chairs were added. Players shuffled over, making room for Jackson and his lady. Dan and Holly sat at the end. She winked at Dusty and waved.
The noisy crowd, the camaraderie, reminded her of the gatherings after The Queens win. She chuckled to herself, recalling how raunchy the women on her team got on these occasions.
Pride welled in her chest as she watched the Nighthawks pay homage to the man who held it together for the team. Although they teased him unmercifully, ever player acknowledged his importance steering the pitching and the fielding. When some of the outfielders weren’t paying a
ttention, or were rookie enough not to know which way a guy would hit with a left or a right-handed pitcher, Matt was there to remind them.
She smiled. His face beamed. He ate up the attention and respect from the men. Matt Jackson was a man’s man, and it gave her goosies in anticipation of their steamy night.
“Bring the lady the biggest steak you’ve got, Tommy,” Matt bellowed at the owner.
“No, no. A modest one’ll do,” Dusty corrected him, raising her hands.
Tommy nodded. “Coming right up. How do you want it cooked?”
“Medium.”
He scribbled on a pad and left.
“Baby, you deserve every bit of that steak,” Matt said, before turning to his teammates. “And if anyone says anything, even one word, about what happened in the locker room in Florida, I’ll punch his freakin’ lights out! Is that clear?” He was yelling.
“Shh, Matt. You’re embarrassing me,” she whispered in his ear.
“That’s okay, baby. This won’t come up again.”
Tommy headed to their table with a tray of beers. Dusty caught his eye and signaled no more for Matt. The barkeep smiled and took one off.
Conversation returned to the game then to the schedule coming up.
“We’re going on the road next week,” Matt said to her, slicing off a piece of his steak.
“For how long?”
“Two weeks.”
“Okay.”
He placed his hand on hers, stopping her from picking up a luscious tidbit of meat.
“You gonna wait for me?” His eyes narrowed, and his face became a mask. The chill coming from him made her shiver.
“What do you mean? Of course, I’m gonna wait.”
“Lots of chicks don’t. They find other guys. We’re gonna be on the road a lot. Means some lonely nights for you. If you stick with me.”
She slid her palm over his fingers. “So?”
“You might wanna find another guy. Someone who’s around all the time.”
“He’d probably be boring anyway. I’d rather have you part-time than some bozo fulltime.”
He leaned over and kissed her. The table got quiet. Her eyes widened in surprise.