Despite a subpar record, hovering near last place in the conference, the Titans had a history of being tough to beat at home. The crowd’s size and raucous behavior revealed why the Titans were difficult to defeat in their home park.
Ryan began his warm ups to a chorus of jeers and catcalls. Smothered by the crowd’s heckling, he felt asphyxiated by the hot August dryness pouring over him.
Since he’d been eating better, therefore sleeping better, and his bills were no longer unbearable, his health had improved. Surprisingly, the pain in Ryan’s shoulder equally increased. Initially, the pain shocked him. It took him a while to understand what was happening.
His body, well rested and full of quality food, struggled to heal the damage in his shoulder.
I should’ve expected it.
Thinking back to one of his early visits to Doctor Summers, Ryan recalled the doctor’s explanation to him about the pain process.
“You don’t hear crackling when moving the shoulder do you?” Doctor Summers studied his face, neither concern nor apprehension evident.
“No,” answered Ryan. “Only certain times when I’m throwing do I feel pain.”
Glancing at Mitch Haddox briefly, the doctor looked away before speaking. “It doesn’t appear there’s been any tearing of the supraspinatus muscle.” A crease developed across the doctor’s forehead. Turning to face Ryan, he smiled. “Throwing a baseball can cause significant pressure on a young arm. We need to prevent any future problems. It’s best if we resolve the problem now, rather than when you’re older and your arm’s mature.”
“I won’t need surgery?”
Doctor Summers shook his head. Without glancing away, the doctor looked directly into his eyes and replied firmly, “No. I don’t observe any major issues which require surgery. You need rest. Your arm… is tired. The muscles are telling you this clearly when you throw. In this case, they warned you long before a tear occurred. It’s wise to listen to the muscles.”
Relief flooded over Ryan. He’d come to the doctor’s office thinking the worst. Heavy stress drained out of him.
Patiently, Doctor Summers explained, “There are three distinct healing phases: the inflammatory response, repair phase, and remodeling phase. Each healing phase ensures the overall condition of the muscle tissue. Pain may be evident some periods and not others. It’s normal. In fact, the most substantial healing may come at the end of the healing process and may cause you to feel the worst pain. I’d prefer to use non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs—we call them NSAIDs—instead of corticosteroid injections. Do the special exercises I’m going to give you and take ibuprofen if you feel any tenderness.”
The arm’s trying to heal.
“The inflammatory and remodeling periods in healing are designed to prevent movement, so healing and rebuilding of the tissue can occur. It’s important not to throw a baseball until I say it’s okay.” Doctor Summers pointed a finger at him. “Got me?”
Oscar Sepulveda, the Titans’ opposing pitcher entered the game with a deceiving 6-7 record. Deceiving because Sepulveda’s ERA stood at 3.78.
Ryan gently twisted his arm to pinpoint the area causing him the most discomfort. Lineups of well-coached players who methodically worked the count, like the Titans, stressed the emotional capacity of opposing pitchers. He stoically went about readying his emotional resolve.
After the Panthers went down in order in the top of the first inning, the Titans put runners on second and third in the bottom of the first with one out.
Sweat pouring out of him, Ryan’s pitch count reached 26. He threw a first pitch strike to the cleanup hitter. In an attempt to gain an extra mile or two on his fastball, Ryan decided to take a risk and pitch from a full windup. He could ill afford to fall behind early; any small advantage could be the difference in getting him out of trouble.
Gaining a 1-2 count advantage, Haddox got the second out on a popup to the catcher.
Breathing a little easier, Ryan failed to get on top of a 1-1 fastball to the fifth batter, the pitch sailing over the inside part of the plate.
In reflex, Borelli nearly jumped in front of the batter to catch the ill placed pitch.
A split second later, Haddox heard a sharp crack of the bat and saw the ball streaking toward the left field corner.
Like a bolt of lightning, Estephan Rodriguez dove into the corner, dug the ball out, and came up throwing.
The throw arrived a split second late to third base and the Titans jumped out to a 2-0 lead.
Ryan struck out the next batter to end the inning.
In anger and in pain, he slumped in the corner of the dugout, a jacket half draped across his shoulder. It’s still early, he tried to comfort himself, as the Panthers went down quietly in the top of the second.
Entering the fourth inning, the Titans lead increased to 4-1 and Ryan’s pitch count stood at 83 pitches.
“How’s the arm?”
Ryan looked up in surprise.
Ramsey stood on the top step of the dugout looking down at him. The manager’s steady, concerned expression gave away his thoughts.
Thinking quickly, Ryan considered the situation carefully. His pitch count high and the game only in the fourth inning, the chances of him completing the game were low. Fighting an uphill battle did not appeal to him. To cut his losses seemed wise to him. With both pitcher’s records at a dead heat and tougher games looming on the horizon, it seemed wiser to try to prevent a loss at this point in the contest.
I don’t play the game safe. “I can go another inning or two, Skip.”
Ramsey started to say something, stopped, and, after giving a weighty grunt, walked away.
Answering Ryan’s guts and fortitude, the Panthers responded in the top of the fifth inning. Mike Schmidt muscled a one out, bases empty, 2-0 pitch into the left field stands to make the score 4-2.
Bolstered by the home run, Haddox retired the side in order, needing only eleven pitches. His pitch count now at 94 pitches through five innings, the risk of damaging his readiness for his next start increased with each pitch he threw.
I gotta be smart. If I go over the pitch count, it’ll affect my next start. But if I leave right now, I can’t win and the loss is mine to take.
Every pitch, every game, took on greater importance. To come so close and fail now would be a tragic outcome. Like a gambler at the poker table, he’d placed his bet and—win, lose, or draw—it was too late to play it safe.
All or nothing.
Reaching back, he gritted his teeth and unleashed a fastball that resulted in a popup. Then, he retired the next two batters and the game entered the 7th inning. His pitch count stood at 112.
I’m not done, Haddox resolved in his heart, taking his normal seat at the end of the bench. Draping his coat over his right throwing arm, he leaned up against the block and mortar wall of the old-fashioned dugout. The coolness of the block contrasted the hot Texas air.
I can go another inning, maybe two.
Ramsey took another long look at him but said nothing.
A major managerial decision faced the Panthers’ skipper in the top of the inning. Ramsey needed to decide if Haddox, the third batter due up, stayed in the game and batted or if he pulled him.
Making the decision more difficult, a leadoff single brought Haddox up off the bench, his jacket falling to the side. Without glancing at Ramsey, Haddox rushed to the on deck circle before the manager could stop him.
Ryan felt Ramsey’s eyes on his back as he swung his practice swings.
A groundball—deadened and perfect—slanted off the third base line. Perfectly placed in front of the charging third baseman, the throw to first barely got the batter.
The batter representing the tying run, Ryan paused slightly expecting Ramsey to call him back and put in a pinch batter. Relief came over him when the manager didn’t call out. Haddox kicked off the batting doughnut and strode up to the plate.
“Come on, Ryan, keep your eye on the spin!” the Panther bench
called out.
Ryan smiled within himself, digging his cleats into the dirt. Shouts and catcalls burned his ears, the home crowd in a frenzy.
This is my chance. I can’t blow it.
Working the count to 2-2, Ryan fouled off two pitches on the outside corner.
Frustration—slight anger—leached into Sepulveda’s features. Catching a new baseball, he picked up and threw down the rosin bag. Rubbing up the new ball, Sepulveda glared at Haddox, who stood in the batter’s box glaring back.
In a raw attempt to overpower him, Sepulveda fired a fastball over the black outside line of the plate.
Ryan clenched his jaw and pushed the end of his bat at the ball. Focusing his vision on the impact, he saw the bat meet the ball.
Headed toward a hole between first and second base, the ball struck the edge of the infield grass and picked up speed.
At contact, Ryan lowered his head and dug for first. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Readus lunge for the skipping groundball, the sphere escaping his grasp by inches and rolling to the outfield.
Kyle Faught, the Panthers’ shortstop and leadoff hitter came up to the plate with runners on first and third and one out. Looking to drive a pitch, Faught got a high fastball and drilled it to center field making the score 4-3.
Ryan stopped at second.
A popup left it up to Mike Schmidt, eager to add to his earlier home run.
Butch Hopkins, the Titans’ manager, decided he’d seen enough and made the move to his bullpen, bringing in the setup man, Paul Evans.
Continuing his hitting streak, Schmidt worked the count to 3-2. On the next pitch, he wrestled an inside cutter out of its late cut and drove the pitch into the left field gap.
Ryan, desperate to score the tying run ran like a man possessed. Recognizing the play at home plate would be close, he threw the bat lying in front to the side and got in position to assist Faught in his slide.
The throw came slightly up the first base line and Ryan pointed to the third base side of the plate.
Faught, following his instruction, made his slide under the small gap on Sinclair’s left side, just before he swept his glove across his leg.
When the dust cleared Schmidt stood at second base and the Panthers had come all the way back to take a 5-4 lead.
A follow-up single scored Schmidt and provided a two-run cushion.
Amidst the panther bench’s charged excitement, Ryan resumed his seat at the corner of the dugout and breathed a sigh of relief.
Looking up, Ryan caught Ramsey staring at him intently. Ramsey’s expression seemed to be asking, “What are you hiding?”
I’m just being paranoid, Ryan scolded himself, averting the manager’s scrutiny. Lighten up. Things are finally going my way.
After years of being a hard luck pitcher, Ryan couldn’t help but believe things were different.
It’s my turn. All these years of suffering through the hard times, I can finally see me doing what I’ve dreamed all these years of doing.
Without asking Ramsey, Ryan went out to the mound to pitch the bottom of the 7th inning. After he retired the first batter, Ramsey went out to the mound.
“You’re up to one hundred, twenty-one pitches.” Ramsey’s gaze continued its steady, penetrating examination of Ryan.
Borelli reached the mound a few seconds after Ramsey. Normally reserved and detached, the catcher’s emotional involvement reflected everywhere in his face. “Let it go,” Borelli said, barely over the crowd’s noise.
Ryan, caught unawares, looked at the catcher.
Nodding—first slowly, then prominently—Ryan confronted the manager’s stare. “Okay, Skip. I’m through.”
Respectful of his pitcher’s guts and tenacity, the manager looked down the first baseline to where John Catton’s warm up routine took on intensity. Signaling for the reliever, Ramsey returned his attention to Ryan. “Go soak your arm in ice water. I want to talk to you before you leave.”
Forty minutes later, the Panthers trudged into the locker room 7-4 winners.
Ryan still soaking his arm in the training area, smiled inwardly. He’d managed to go up in the win column, while holding his ERA down.
“How are you holding up through all this?” Ramsey’s steady analysis of him did not lessen.
Ryan shrugged. Even the small movement sent pain through his shoulder. “We won. I’m good.”
Ramsey scratched the back of his neck. Pulling up a chair, he sat down. “I’m curious about something.”
Ryan gave the manager his attention.
“I spoke with Dalton. He said you offered him some suggestions on correcting some of his pitching mechanics.”
Twice he’d offered the young pitcher his help in the past week. “Yeah,” Ryan responded, somewhat uneasily. “I did.”
Ramsey leveled another steady look at him. Squinting his eyes, his forehead creased over. “Why’d you… Why’d you do that?”
Ryan drew in a breath. “I don’t follow you.”
“Why’d you help someone who’s competing against you in a competition?”
“Well, didn’t you tell us we’re all competing against each other in one way or another? This side-by-side competition between Dalton and me shouldn’t change anything?”
Ramsey shifted in his seat. He spoke in a voice full of genuine inquisitiveness. “Ryan, I say a lot of things, every single day. Most players don’t pay attention.”
Ryan squared his vision on the manager. “Look, Skip, you’re asking me a question not easy to answer.” Pausing to gather his thoughts, Ryan said, “Sonny, I gotta win this contest.”
All movement disappeared. The manager looked at him intently.
“My Uncle Mitch and my Aunt Dorothy, they raised me to help people and be fair. To believe in myself enough that I don’t have to be an…” measured reflection preceded his declaration, “…an asshole to achieve my objectives.” Ryan took another measured pause. “I just did what comes naturally to me. You see—I believe I’m going to win this contest you and Harold Hounsfield put together. It’ll be me, not Dalton, who gets called up on September 1st. I’m winning this fucking thing.”
Ramsey leaned back in his chair and went over Haddox. Rarely did he see so many quality characteristics in one man. He started to say something and then stopped.
“Are we good?” Ryan questioned.
Nodding sluggishly, Ramsey answered, “We’re good.”
Ryan got up and walked to the locker room.
“Ryan?” Ramsey called out.
Ryan gave a back glance at the sitting manager.
“Take care of your arm.”
The comment caught the pitcher off guard and he fought to mask his surprise. Hurriedly, he walked away.
Why did Sonny need to talk to me? Why did he mention my arm at the end?
Fear gripped Ryan. Fighting off the uneasiness that perhaps the manager knew about his arm condition, he quickly dismissed his suspicion.
He might suspect but he doesn’t know.
Ramsey sat at his desk, immobile, overcome with awareness and culpability.
There’s something wrong. He’s been favoring his delivery, not getting on top of the ball. It’s a shoulder problem.
Rotator cuff?
It can’t be. Impossible.
If he has a rotator cuff injury, he wouldn’t be able to pitch. No man could.
Then, the manager went over the ethics of a pitcher doing what he suspected Ryan Haddox of doing. He quickly dismissed all judgment.
What he’s doing is no more wrong than what we’re doing to him.
Regardless of how Harold Hounsfield explained it to him, he refused to accept some of the operating methods of the Panther Organization.
Our player’s lives have meaning, you son-of-a-bitch!
Loathing. The substantial weight of his detest sickened him.
Haddox’s a good man.
Reaching for the phone, he dialed the general manager’s cell number.
Ho
unsfield’s voice mail came on.
“We need to talk. We’ll get back tomorrow. I can be at your office the following morning,” he said into the phone.
The next night, Young tossed a four hitter and the Panthers closed out the Titan series with a rare drubbing of the Titans. Young was spectacular, allowing the sole run in the 6th inning.
Ramsey lifted Young the following inning.
Three hours later, on the way back to Lockhart, the Panthers players didn’t seem to mind the bus ride, their 7 to 1 pounding of the Titans making the trip tolerable.
The bus moved northeast, cutting through the Texas night. Ryan closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep. A dull burning pain lingered in his shoulder. It would not go away until his second rest day.
Lying back on the hard seat, he cushioned his pitching arm. In the darkness, he heard his declaration to Ramsey echoing in his head.
He believed every word.
I’ll win the contest. I have to win.
The Panther bus arrived in Lockhart a little after 3 AM. Arriving home, he unloaded his bags under streaks of daybreak veiled across the sky. Wearily, careful not to wake Stephanie, he collapsed on the bed and seconds later drifted off into a deep slumber.
A stream of sunlight escaped from the corner of the fastened curtains painting an oblique beam of gold throughout the shaded room before landing on Ryan’s sealed eyes.
Listlessly at first, Ryan awakened to the sound of laughter. Rolling over, he sat up on the edge of the bed. After a few seconds, he got up and made his way to the bathroom.
Emerging from the shower, the clock read 1 PM. Walking out to the living room, he saw Stephanie and the baby through the window, laying outside in the sun. Standing there transfixed, wearing a prominent smile, he marveled at the beautiful sight.
A short while later, breaking out of his trance, Ryan took advantage of the fully stocked refrigerator, copiously supplied pantry, cupboards, and packed freezer, to begin to ready a brunch of eggs, ham, pancakes, and hash browns.
During the season, he rarely found the time to cook. Happily, he labored.
Forty-five minutes later, placing both plates and a flask of milk on a tray, he carried the food outside and called out to Stephanie.
Paint Black Page 11