Stepping on the rubber, Ryan held the catcher’s countenance in his mind.
I’m not quitting.
Up at the plate, menacingly swinging his brazen club, stood the power-hitting Garza.
Ryan stared down the baserunners before starting his kick. Keeping his weight back and shoulder over the rubber, he delivered the pitch.
The inside slider—a dangerous attempt to control Garza’s power swing by locking his arm motion and preventing full extension—hurtled toward Borelli’s mitt.
Garza’s bat twitched slightly, before remaining stationary and allowing the pitch to pass.
Even though the called ball put him behind 1-0, and he wasn’t a power pitcher, Ryan made his living by taking control of the inside black of the plate.
He’ll have to take it from me.
“Son, if you’re going to paint inside black,” he could still hear Uncle Mitch say to him, as a young pitcher, “you best show that you mean it.”
Pitching on the inside black of the plate—the batter’s side—left small margin for error.
“You risk exposing your pitch to the strongest part of his club. It’s a battle of opposing wills. If you win the battle, you’ll spot the ball so that he won’t be able to extend his arms. The bat’ll make contact at its thinnest circumference.”
Referred to as “chopping wood,” placing the ball so the small part of the bat made contact with the ball often resulted in weak outs, many times breaking the bat.
“If you miss, he’ll turn on the pitch.”
Borelli signaled curve, outside.
Giving his nod, Ryan, deciding it too dangerous to fall behind Garza 2-0, challenged him, placing the ball over the plate.
Garza took a mighty swing.
Just missing the pitch, Garza got under it. The towering fly reached the warning track in left center field.
Lack of trust in his luck, Ryan waited until Roberto Perez squeezed the ball in his glove, before walking off the mound.
Three innings later, the game still scoreless, the Chiefs didn’t blow their next chance. Again, Garza stood at the plate with a man on first and one out.
Ryan’s shoulder in flames, each pitch set off exploded in his shoulder like a firestorm. To escape the flames he began trying different release points to alleviate some of the pain. The difference in release point only in slight increments, but lessening the pain by even the slightest degree made it worthwhile to him.
However, the danger in changing the release point made the pitch harder to control. The angle of his release point made it impossible to get sharp cut on his cutter, the ball’s spin not tight enough to bite far enough into the hitter. Hanging over the plate, the 1-1 offering a perfect pitch for Garza to drive.
Ryan wasn’t a breaking ball pitcher. He preferred to rely on pitching “heavy.”
While a breaking ball pitcher depended on big and sharp movement to achieve success, a heavy ball pitcher relied on small movement at the end of the pitch to be successful. In his case—a sinking movement.
“Never forget who you are on the mound,” Uncle Mitch constantly reminded him in his development years. “Let gravity help you in getting the hitter out. An artist uses every element at his disposal to create a masterpiece. By throwing 2-seam, the artist causes a later break downward,” further explained Uncle Mitch. “Likewise, when the artist throws 4-seam, the Magnus effect causes swerve and ‘late break.’ You must learn how to use the Magnus effect to accomplish your work as a pitcher and an artist.”
Because of further adjusting of his release point, the ball’s movement didn’t sink “heavy,” rather left its trajectory higher in the strike zone. Because of his lack of a dominant power pitch, he relied heavily on ball movement to get outs. This created many issues.
The longer the game went the better looks the batter got at his pitches.
At the crack of the bat, and the initial explosion of the ball, the runner on first took off on a full sprint, taking a chance the ball wouldn’t be caught.
Getting a good break on the ball, Roberto Perez nearly made the play. Fully extended, making a powerful leap, the ball hung inches away from Perez’s glove as both the ball and the player crashed into the 12-foot high fence. The violent impact caused the ball to jar loose. By the time Perez regained his footing and returned the ball back to the infield Garza stood on third base and the Chiefs led 1-0.
A fly ball scored Garza on the next at bat and the 4th inning ended with the Panthers down two runs.
Over the course of the next three innings, the teams traded runs. By the 7th inning, the score stood 4-2 in favor of the Chiefs.
The two-run spread would hold.
Against his protests, Ramsey pulled Ryan in the seventh inning to try to kill another Chief rally, but the Chiefs still managed to add another run to their total.
Although the Panthers continued to fight and even tied the game in the eighth, the Chiefs managed to stay two runs ahead and win, 7-5.
The no decision left Ryan in limbo, a half-game behind Young in the side-by-side. Moreover, it drew him closer to losing the contest if Young won his last game.
Quietly, Ryan sat in front of his locker and slowly undressed. Devastated by the results of the past two games, he’d let two great opportunities slip through his fingers.
Because he dreaded calling Stephanie and telling her the news, he found himself moving slower and slower.
The hot water of the shower didn’t calm him but did make him feel better.
The phone rang through to voice mail the first time he called, so he called again.
“Where were you?”
“I was putting the baby down,” she replied, sounding slightly out of breath. “How did you do?”
“I didn’t have it tonight.”
Stephanie didn’t get overemotional. She remained quiet.
“I blew two chances to take control. Now… it’s coming down to the last game of the season. If he wins against the Dragons, it’s over.”
Only then did Ryan hear Stephanie emit soft sobs.
The constant pressure, the ups and downs, were having a devastating effect on both of them. Now, the mounting pressure increased to gigantic dimensions.
“I tried. With all my might, I fought against the pain.”
“I know you did, Honey. I know you did.”
Hanging up the phone, despair crossed over him. In the end, for an athlete—especially a professional athlete—winning was all that mattered.
He hadn’t won and now he faced the possibility of losing everything, including his family.
Why would I lose my family? he questioned in his heart. Stephanie loves me. We love each other. And we have little Mitch.
The answer came to him quickly. Because you’re a failure, came the reply. Why would Stephanie want a loser?
Even though the inner voice sounded harsh, Ryan agreed with it.
Roy Peterman felt cold and dark consternation in his spine. Since learning of Ryan Haddox’s struggle, he had experienced many sleepless nights.
Wondering through his large 2-story Neoclassical Revival style house, having plenty of time to think, and plenty of space to do it in, he began to contemplate his life again.
Since his wife’s passing, five years back, Roy’s emptiness was second only to the simplicity of his life.
Hazel, I miss you my dearest.
It had been a long time since he’d harbored such sensitivity toward others. His brotherly feelings for Mitch Haddox compelled him to protect his friend’s son as if he were his own. If he couldn’t protect him from life’s pains, then to at least offer his help in any way possible.
Mitch, your son is in a whirlwind. I don’t believe there’s anything I can do.
Dark impressions struck him in his heart; he imagined the worst of scenarios.
“You sons of bitches,” Roy yelled out in his large empty house. “Don’t do this to him!”
The next day he drove to the Ryan Haddox’s house.
Stephanie answered the door, baby at her hip. Surprised to see him, she stammered, “Hello Mister Peterman. How good to see you. Ryan’s not home, he’s on a road trip.”
“Yes, I’m aware he’s not home.” Giving a half smile, he said, “I came to see you.”
Curiosity entered the young woman’s face. “Please come in.”
Putting the little boy in his baby swing Stephanie pinned her hair back and asked, “Can I get you some iced tea? I just made some.”
“That would be nice,” Roy responded, warmly.
Roy sat in the guest chair, sipping his tea, Stephanie sat on an opposite chair.
Playing with the baby’s hand, she inquired, carefully, “What did you want to see me about?”
Warmly smiling at the baby, Roy replied, “One of the last things Mitch Haddox spoke to me about was Ryan, you, and the baby. He… Mitch never asked me… Men of his strength... they don’t find it easy to ask others for things. Love makes us get over our weaknesses. He certainly loved his son, you, and his grandson.”
“You spoke to him about… us?” Stephanie’s bright features clouded over.
“Mitch understood the difficult life Ryan chose,” replied Peterman, giving a slight shake of his head. “He didn’t want Ryan to suffer through the same things he did.”
Stephanie remained quiet, listening attentively.
“He asked me to help… you both.” Peterman looked down at the baby. “And the baby.”
“Help? In what way?”
“Stephanie, I care for your husband, and, his family.” Peterman looked away, uncertain how to go on. “After Hazel…” Peterman tightened his grip on the chair’s edge. “After my wife, Hazel, passed away… Well, you know I have no one or nothing. I’m alone now.” Instead of sadness, his eyes became lively. “Ryan… you and the baby… you have needs as a family… I can help.”
Stephanie grasped his words and leaned forward. A moment later, she leaned back. “Mister Peterman—”
“Please, call me Roy.”
“Roy,” she smiled. “Thank you for your kindness, but… Ryan…” Stephanie looked down at the baby. “He won’t accept any help. I’ve tried.”
Ryan like his father would not accept help easily.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you. Ryan will get mad at me if he finds out—”
“He won’t find out. I’ll keep anything you tell me in confidence.”
Stephanie paused, slightly. “We used up most of the savings from his signing bonus.”
The fear in her voice caused him to want to reassure her.
“Some days… he gets distant. Like he’s a million miles away.” She went back to smoothing the baby’s hair. The things a mother does. “Some days… I can’t recognize the man I married.” Lifting her vision, Stephanie looked at him, inquisitively.
“You can tell me. You’re safe,” he said, soberly.
Respectful of life’s cold reality, she sadly answered, “I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
Unsure what to say to her unexpected confession, Roy sat in silence.
Soon after, Stephanie’s soft crying filled the air. “I’ve always known that I wanted him more than he wanted me, but I believed one day we’d get married… and give our baby a home.”
Like a rock, Roy’s aged heart yearned to reach out to the young woman who seemed on the brink of giving up hope. He didn’t have the words. In the end, he sat there unmoving, listening to her sobs strike the air with gentle violence.
“Now,” Stephanie finished, in between sobs, “I don’t know what will become of us.”
In perverted semblance, at the precise moment of a mother’s hopes and a woman’s anguish, the baby let out a long, drawn out laugh.
Stephanie smiled down at the child through her tears.
“Maybe…” Roy started, finally breaking loose from his stupor.
Stephanie looked up at him, quietly waiting.
At last, Roy went on. “Maybe… I can help.”
“How?” Her question sincere, Stephanie looked at him full of expectancy.
Roy recollected the energy of a young woman in his old man’s flesh.
“He doesn’t have to know the source of the money. I mean, I can label it miscellaneous funds. Undisclosed sources and… well, they can take care of little Mitch’s… health needs, education, everyday… Whatever you and he need.”
Finally, his meaning became clearer to her. Biting her lower lip, her words came out hesitantly. “You mean… so I could…”
The young woman didn’t go on, rather she went silent.
Roy gently asked, “Why not? You’re only concern is for the boy’s wellbeing, not yours.” Roy leaned forward. “Your baby needs a mother to be concerned for his future.”
Silence came over the room. When Roy spoke again, the sound of his voice shocked the quietness. “I have to get going. Please, just think about it. Please…”
Stephanie hugged Roy with a daughter’s grateful embrace.
In culmination, the end of the season neared. More importantly, the end of the competition and September 1st.
The pitcher’s records were nearly identical. A downturn in his previous outing dropped Dalton Young’s record to 12-5, compared to Ryan’s 11-4.
It came to this.
One game would decide everything.
If Ryan won the next day, his record would stand at 12-4 compared to Young’s 12-5.
He would win the Southern Side-by-Side by percentage points. He would be the pitcher picked to go up to the parent club on September 1st.
All he needed to do was win.
If he lost…
He pushed away the pressure. Waiting was the hardest. Once the game started, he rid his tensions from his nerves.
He’d never lost a big game.
He didn’t intend to start now.
8th Inning
The pitcher has got only a ball. I've got a bat. So the percentage in weapons is in my favor and I let the fellow with the ball do the fretting.
—Hank Aaron
Sooner or later the arm goes bad. It has to... Sooner or later you have to start pitching in pain.
—Whitey Ford
Momentum? Momentum is the next day's starting pitcher.
—Earl Weaver
Ryan took pride in how he wore the uniform.
Neatly pressed, the stretch nylon fabric fit comfortably buttoned to his chest. Carefully, he pulled the pants tight, making sure his stockings didn’t come out of alignment or twist out of placement.
Astutely putting on his uniform, lost in the carefulness of the stirrups and folding the leg of his pant leg over the top of his shoes, he didn’t notice when Dalton Young stopped by his locker.
Extending his hand, Dalton Young’s face displayed genuine respect. “Good luck out there.”
Haddox smiled and nodded slightly. Shaking Young’s hand, he said, “Thanks.”
Haddox waited until the rest of the team filed out of the clubhouse to take fielding practice, or extra hitting practice, before he rose to his feet. Passing a glance around to make certain no one remained, he knelt before his locker and, clasping his hands in front of his chest, he prayed.
“Dear Lord,” he whispered, “I won’t trouble you about me. Even though this is the most important game I will pitch in my life, I don’t pray for myself. God, Uncle Mitch is in your hands now. I need you to watch after him.” Haddox’s hands clenched tightly. “Lord, he and Aunt Dorothy… she needs your help now, more than ever. Me… I got this, God. I’ll take care of this game. Please, take care of my wife, my son, and my aunt.”
During warm up, Haddox took the time to stretch out his arm. Gulping a deep breath, he looked up into the sky and out into the stands. “I love you, Uncle Mitch,” whispered Ryan. “And I love you, Aunt Dorothy.” He started to say more, only to stop. Lowering his ball cap over his eyes, he whispered to his wife, over the miles, “Baby, I love you and little Mitch. This is for all of our futures.”
&nb
sp; The Climax Heights Dragons were the best team in the Independent Mountain Conference. Their overall record proved it. Their head-to-head record against the Panthers proved it.
In the fifteen meetings between the two teams, including the previous 3 to 1 win over Young, the Dragons were 10 and 5.
In every position and facet of the game, the Dragons’ dominance over the Panthers was apparent. Even on the mound, the Dragons’ pitching staff outclassed the Panthers’ rotation.
Ryan faced the ace of the Dragon’s staff, Whelan Garland, a flame throwing lefthander whose 11 and 2 record and 2.28 ERA sat near the top of the conference among pitchers.
The Dragons were a power-hitting club, leading the league in home runs and slugging percentage, which further added to Ryan’s dilemma.
Finishing his warm up, Haddox fought to suppress the dull ache in his shoulder.
Kyle Faught, the Panther shortstop and leadoff hitter, stepped up to the plate, digging in his cleats.
Raising his arm, the umpire bellowed, “Play ball!”
The final game of the year, a contest that would decide far more than just a season, but resolve the fate of two men, began.
Garland came out firing, seizing early control of the game by retiring the Panthers in order in the top of the first inning.
Courageously, passionately, despite the horrific pain, Haddox attempted to match the Dragons’ ace. Using speed, ball movement, and cerebral tenacity, Ryan painted both sides of the plate, shading the corners of the plate expertly, proficiently. Morphed in between martyr and artist, he perfectly retired batter after batter.
Somehow, in the blur of his appetite, he allowed himself to envision the magnitude of the moment. Methodically, precisely, Ryan went about accomplishing his lifetime dream—to reach the big leagues.
I’m not losing this game. I’m going to win it. I refuse to allow the monsters within me to destroy my dream.
This is my time.
Innings passed.
Pitch after pitch—one more magnificent than the previous—he constructed a game of masterpiece dimensions. With breathtaking skill, Ryan brought all of his experience and talent to bear, controlling the mighty bats of the Dragons.
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