It worked, the cutter cutting into the inside part of the plate at the last minute.
At the sound of the ball hitting Borelli’s mitt, the plate umpire raised his hand. “Streeeeke.”
Rivera turned and glared at the umpire.
Minor league umpires customarily gave an advantage on all corner pitches to big leaguers. On any close pitch, the advantage went to the major leaguer.
Ryan knew why he’d gotten the call in his favor.
So did Borelli. Half-smiling, the catcher lobbed the ball back to him.
The quality of the pitch—it’s late break and precise location—left the umpire little option but to call the pitch a strike.
Set up beautifully by the first two pitches, Rivera stood powerless to defend against Ryan’s slow curve. Dangling at the outside of the plate before falling down and away, the ball painted the outside part of the plate.
Ahead, 1-2, Ryan wasted another pitch, outside and into the dirt before placing a 2-2 fastball back on the inside part of the plate. This time, Ryan’s fastball cut further into the plate than before.
Rivera discovered the spin of the ball too late. Thinking the pitch was a late movement slider he swung under the pitch and missed.
Erupting with joy, the crowd and the Panther infield cheered frenziedly.
Even Borelli showed excitement uncommon to his personality. Rather than lobbing the ball back to him, he put a little extra zip on his throw back.
Feeling more comfortable about facing Culver Banks, Ryan quickly got ahead on the count. Three pitches latter, facing a 0-2 count Banks, unable to get any drive on a change up, flied out to left center retiring the side.
Horace Potter followed suit and retired the Panthers without a run in the bottom of the first.
Quickly, the game settled into a pitcher’s duel, through the first four innings neither team able to advance a runner past second base. The game stood scoreless, both teams having only two hits to their credit.
All changed in the fifth. After Ryan retied the first batter, Landon Piper, the Laker’s scrappy shortstop muscled a 1-1 cutter into right field.
Ryan cursed under his breath. He kicked at the dirt in front of the pitching rubber in frustration. Every pitch aggravated his shoulder and now he’d be forced to face the top of the Laker lineup with one out and a man on first.
Ryan’s shoulder pain developed into an agonizing torment.
Only this time… the difference in the pain’s intensity left him unable to deny the extremity of the pain.
It tore. It’s global. I know it.
Ryan stepped off the mound and signaled for Borelli to come out to talk.
Borelli placed his mitt over his mouth to avoid anyone reading his lips. “Your arm?” Borelli went over his face covered in sweat. “It bothers… you… too much?”
Shock, then consternation, pulverized Ryan. If Borelli knew…
Comprehending his fear, the catcher shook his head, “I’m your catcher. I know… your arm.”
Ryan should’ve known Borelli, his catcher, would be the first to recognize his arm trouble.
He can see and feel the weight of my pitches. He’d know everything.
“Yeah, my shoulder—it’s killing me.”
“You’re brave. I respect you.”
Borelli’s forceful passion infiltrated Ryan’s calm demeanor. The catcher’s nature did not lend itself to bursts of emotion, a catcher not able to make use of such demonstrative exercises. His words were not only heartfelt, but also infused with the exact accuracy he demonstrated in his play on the diamond.
“I can’t come out right now.” Ryan pleaded, his words and expression desperate.
Borelli—a man of action and not prone to bouts of overthinking and analysis—quickly made up his mind. “Okay. You pitch—I’ll catch. Now lis’en to me.”
Ryan—facing the desperation of a man who no longer held his fate in his hands—leaned closer to his battery mate and waited unwearyingly.
“We gotta hide your fastball… or they’ll catch up to it.”
Ryan understood immediately. Placing absolute trust on the man, he said, “Give the sign. I’ll throw to your glove.”
“I know you will, but it ain’t enough.”
“What more do you want?”
“Your trust.”
Ryan’s pained expression turned confused. “Trust?”
Behind Borelli, Haddox observed the movement of the umpire coming to break up their conference.
“Rivera’s coming up. We don’t want to face him. They’ve been trying to steal our signs. We’ll let them.”
Ryan’s confusion quickly turned to incredulity. “Are you nuts?”
“Let them. We’ll switch our signs. Give me a fastball off the plate. Not a pitch out.” Steel reflected in Soldi’s eyes. “Trust me… you’re my friend,” said Soldi. “Throw the fastball off the plate… and I’ll throw him out at second.”
On the third pitch—the count 1-1—the batter stole the sign as they intended.
Thinking a changeup had been called, the runner got a jump and headed to second.
Like a machine, Soldi came up firing. A shot out of his cannon—a laser—and by two feet, the ball waited for the runner in Keith Simmons’s glove.
Needing the next out to avoid facing the Lakers feared power hitters, Borelli called his pitches to perfection, keeping the hitter off balance.
On four pitches, Ryan ended the inning: a grounder to short. Walking off the mound, Ryan stole a glance at Rivera swinging lumber on the on deck circle.
The major leaguer maintained a neutral stare. Tossing the batting donut to the side, he handed his bat to the batboy.
In the bottom of the fifth, the Panthers mounted a threat of their own, putting runners on first and third and one out, only to see it end with a double play. Heading into the sixth inning, the game remained scoreless.
The Panther battery merged in thought and energy—a cerebral connection. Borelli orchestrated the pitch by pitch and Ryan delivered the call and placed the ball in its correct location.
They became of one mind and, even though Rivera touched Ryan for a leadoff double in the top of the sixth, he remained on second as Ryan retired the next three batters in succession, including the power-hitting Banks.
Thus far, through six innings Culver Banks and Antonio Rivera managed one hit between them.
In the bottom of the sixth, the Panthers finally broke through. With a runner on first and two outs, Panther center fielder Roberto Perez drove a 3-1 Potter curve ball into the right center field gap scoring Kyle Faught and giving the Panthers a 1-0 lead.
Seconds later Ramsey walked over to the right corner of the dugout where Ryan regularly took occupancy. “You’re at one hundred, twenty-nine pitches. It’s up to you.”
Ryan comprehended the risks. If he came out now—in view of the pitch count, the smart move—he placed the game’s outcome in the hands of another. If he remained in the game, he jeopardized taking a loss if he gave up the leading run.
Ryan felt Borelli’s eyes on him. Seconds later, he replied, “I’ll go out, Skip.”
Pitching in earnest, Haddox saw an opportunity to gain a victory against a tough opponent. Willing his shoulder through great pain into the top of the eighth, he nursed the one run lead.
Facing the top of the Laker’s lineup, Ryan’s mind raced violently.
I’ve got a chance to close this out. If I can get by the top of the lineup this one last time, I may not have to face Banks and Rivera the rest of the game.
Borelli also appeared energized as Carlo Rodrigues, the Laker second baseman and leadoff hitter, stepped up to the plate. Signaling fastball, Borelli flapped his mitt a couple times in expectation.
Unable to defeat the excruciating agony, Ryan failed to get on top of the ball, causing the ball to stay up in the strike zone.
The crack of the bat sounded above the crowd’s groan. On a line, the ball streaked between the outfielders in right center. R
odrigues sailed into second base with a leadoff double.
Almost immediately, Ramsey got up and strolled to the mound. “We’re playing for the team win, Ryan. It’s the only way I know how to manage.”
Squinting in the early night air—the coolness of the night overwhelming the residual war late afternoon heat—a heavy tiredness engulfed Ryan. Thick pain stabbed at the tissue of his shoulder, leaving torment and agony in its wake. He nearly blacked out. “When have I ever played different, Sonny?”
“Alright then,” said Ramsey, slowly. “Give primary focus to the batter.” Whirling to glower at Borelli, he said, “If the runner runs, take something off your throw. Make sure it doesn’t end up in the outfield.”
The standard play meant the runner’s chances of stealing a base went up dramatically. It further meant the Panthers were more than willing to give up the tying run as tradeoff for getting the hitter out.
The strategy calculated to prevent a big inning.
“I’ll take some vapor off my throw,” Borelli replied, under his breath.
“I’ll concentrate on the batter,” said Ryan.
Ramsey walked back to the dugout.
Borelli looked after the manager. Returning his attention, he looked Ryan directly in the eyes. “If he runs, I’m shoot’n the fucker down.” Tilting his head in the direction of Ramsey, he finished, “I won’t listen to him.”
True to his word, when the runner took off toward third, Borelli popped up like a cat and fired a perfect strike to third. It wasn’t enough. In an ugly twist of fate, the ball hit Mike Schmidt’s glove and bounced away.
The runner slid in safe, and the Laker’s baserunner needed to move only ninety more feet to tie the game.
The pitch had been a ball and Rivera stood at the plate—his deadly bat on his shoulder—unhurriedly giving a practice swing.
He knows I have to come in, Ryan deliberated. I can’t afford to fall behind 2 and 0.
Nodding at Borelli’s signal, Ryan braced in his stretch. Agony pulverizing his shoulder, he pivoted, turned his hip, and delivered a cutter.
Rivera—eyes larger than saucers—swung at the pitch.
Ryan, Borelli, and worst of all Rivera, immediately recognized the cutter didn’t have the tightness of spin to accomplish the cut into the inside part of the plate. The ball’s cut, wider than down, sat near the heart of the plate.
The crack of the bat caused a groan to pass through the crowd.
Up the ball went, a white streak like a rocket headed toward the power ally in left center!
Roberto Perez and Estephan Rodriguez, running at full speed, both pulled up just before the warning track. The ball crashed the top of the wall and ricocheted back into the outfield between the fielders.
Rodriguez fired the ball to the cutoff man.
Ryan’s intestines twisted like coils as he saw the runner trot in from third base.
The game was tied 1-1.
Enclosing all around him like a nightmare, the night air threatened to suffocate him. Stepping of the mound to rub up the ball, Ryan shot a side-glance at the dugout.
Ramsey sat unmoving at the back of the dugout, his attention riveted on Ryan.
Stay put, I can’t come out now.
Culver Banks stepped in the batter’s box. The pressure lifted, Banks swung his bat confidently. He sensed Ryan’s weakened condition and like a predator detecting the kill, a callous patience reflected on his every move.
Four pitches later, his patience paid off. A 2-1 hook didn’t break, hanging over the plate as if placed on a batting tee. Banks turned on the hanger and smashed the sweet spot of the bat into the exposed ball.
This time the ball’s trajectory gave only Perez, the center fielder, any chance of getting to it.
Realizing that if he didn’t catch the fly ball the Lakers would take the lead, Perez exploded with tremendous energy in the direction of the ball’s path. Because he’d been playing Banks straightaway and deep, a moment later the warning track dirt under his feet cautioned him on the wall’s closeness.
Keeping his attention riveted on the ball’s descent Perez timed his leap perfectly. Going up to catch the ball, the center fielder extended his glove up at the instant he crashed into the wall.
It was a desperate attempt to preserve the lead.
The ball disappeared into his glove. However, the severe impact against the firmly padded wall jarred the ball loose.
Down went Perez in apparent injury. The ball rolled away in the center field grass!
By the time Rodriguez got over to the location and retrieved the ball, Banks slid into third. More importantly, Rivera scored.
The game halted as the team trainer ran out to center field to check over Perez, sprawled out in the outfield grass. Slowly Perez managed to get to his feet and throw a series of warmup throws before getting the all clear to stay in the game.
In the game delay, Ryan glanced up into the stands to where Stephanie sat.
Holding little Mitch in her arms, Stephanie nervously smiled at him.
Ryan smiled awkwardly, and then quickly looked away.
Now facing a runner on third and still only one out, once again Ryan stepped off the mound to rub up the ball. He shot a quick look at the dugout. Ramsey still sat unmoving.
He’s not taking me out. I have a fighting chance to win this game.
Feeling like a hooked fish struggling to escape an angler’s hook, Ryan considered no other alternative but to persist in his battle against the Lakers, and his more formidable enemy—pain.
Up to the plate stood the Laker’s right fielder Benito Santiago, swinging a bat impatiently. Santiago, hitless on three trips to the plate, dug in his metal cleats, wearing a stark doggedness across his face.
Borelli, a pillar of strength—the impeccable prototype of a catcher in both mind and body—showed no emotion. As the batter stepped into the batter’s box, he looked hard at Haddox. Satisfied he crouched down and gave the signal.
In a heroic effort, Ryan took a 0-2 advantage on the count. His arm in flames, a four-pitch standoff ensued, with Santiago fighting off four pitches, fouling off three, and beating one into the dirt to the side of home plate.
After a fastball and a cutter, Borelli signaled changeup.
Because of its off speed contrast, the pitch caught Santiago off guard. His lead foot and bat far ahead of the pitch, Santiago lurched in an attempt to rebalance his stride. Displaying tremendous strength, he managed to recover and get good wood on the ball, driving the ball to deep left center.
Rodriguez’s throw didn’t have a chance at getting Banks who tagged up and trotted home.
After retiring the following batter on a ground out to short, Ryan walked off the mound, his team behind 3 to 1.
The score remained the same into the bottom of the ninth. Having pitched the top of the ninth, Ryan grabbed his jacket and draped it over his throwing arm.
“You’re finished no matter what happens in this at bat,” declared Ramsey, without glancing in his direction.
In answer to his courageous pitching, the Panthers got the first two batters aboard.
Playing for the tie, Ramsey signaled Lane Hunter to lay down a bunt. Perfectly, Hunter dropped the ball down the first baseline. Its flawless placement made the only play at first base, moving the runners to second and third.
The crowd, sensing a big inning, rose to its feet in unison, trying to will the Panthers to victory.
Keith Simmons, the Panther second baseman, strode to the plate amidst the crowd’s roar of approval. Simmons, a scrappy nine year veteran composed from the die-hard merit of having played all of his years in the minors, possessed a reputation of being a tough out. Always sporting five o’clock shadow, preoccupied with old school mentality, he performed a precise ritual before every pitch.
When the first two batters reached base, Haddox arose to grab a bat and take his place next to the on deck circle.
Simmons, kneeling in the circle, mumbled under his breath t
o Ryan, “He won’t get me out.” A tight line developed across his jaw to his scalp.
Five pitches later, Simmons fought off a 1-2 pitch and lifted a soft liner past the diving reach of the Lakers first baseman. Only the quick reaction of the right fielder prevented both runs from scoring.
The score 3 to 2, Simmons became the winning run. In the hopes of holding on to the lead, the Lakers pulled Horace Potter and brought in their closer: Miguel Estrada.
To see in what direction the Lakers were going in their pitching strategy Ramsey waited before deciding whether to pull Ryan.
He’s going to pull me for Hernandez, thought Ryan, anxiously. Alfredo Hernandez, a rarely used utility man, mainly substituted in the outfield. Because of his subpar hitting this year, he’d been regulated to pinch-hitting and spot fill in.
Rather than wait, Ryan got up and stood next to the manager. The minute the Lakers brought in Estrada, Ryan softly said, “Sonny, let me bat.”
Without looking back at him, Ramsey softly replied, “Alfredo is a left bat. You know how I manage, Ryan, lefty against righty and righty against lefty. I’ve always played the percentages.”
“I know Sonny, but I know this guy. And in one at bat—this at bat—I can hit him.”
Ramsey turned to look at him. They were talking below the volume of the crowd noise. His voice remaining low, he said, with added intensity. “You’re asking me to put your interests above the interests of the team.”
Ryan got closer to the manager. “No, Sonny, I’m not. I can hit him.”
Entering the game, Haddox’s batting average stood at .269. Remarkably good for a pitcher.
Ramsey looked back toward the field as Estrada made his way to the mound and began throwing his warm up pitches. “If you’re wrong, if you don’t hit him, if you lose… the team loses.”
Looking down, assured that he’d given Ramsey his best argument, Ryan started back to his seat.
“Grab some lumber,” said Ramsey, without moving.
Holding Simmons tight at first, Estrada brought violent intensity against Ryan. After Estrada took a commanding 0-2 lead on the count, Ryan began wondering if he’d been wrong in approaching Ramsey about batting against the dominant closer.
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