Paint Black

by Bolado, Baltazar

  In the fourth inning of the still scoreless game, Borelli, batting sixth in the Panther lineup, strode to the plate. Runners stood at first and third. There were two outs.

  Hitting .287, Borelli was a most dangerous hitter with runners in scoring position. In such situations, the Panther catcher’s batting average swelled to .365. Even more telling, with a runner on third his batting average increased to an incredible .417.

  Aside from his 26 home runs, Borelli had 79 RBIs.

  Realizing the possible scarcity of runs in the game, Borelli showed his mettle by fighting off Garland’s power pitches. The Dragon pitcher attempted to deliver an out pitch using his second best pitch, a nickel curve possessing a significant late break.

  Borelli, always the thinker at the plate, surmised Garland might make such an effort. Taking advantage of the pitch, Borelli caught the ball at its height, not its drop. Bringing the head of the bat around, he drove the pitch into left field for his eightieth RBI, giving Ryan and the Panthers a 1-0 lead.

  There came a point when the pain absorbed him. The consciousness of the agony, his mind, the physical elements of his body, and his shoulder fused and welded into each other. Whereas the torment and agony exerted its most powerful sensations through his pitching motion, it diminished drastically between pitches. Strangely, Ryan found his mind and body yearning for the pain even in between pitches.

  “How’s your arm doing?” questioned Borelli at the end of the 3rd inning, keeping his voice low. The loudness of the crowd stifled his words so only Haddox heard them.

  Gritting his teeth, Ryan shifted his body to move his shoulder in such a way to avoid further torment. “It’s torture. Have you ever felt torture?”

  Borelli didn’t answer.

  Ryan shot a look in his direction.

  The catcher’s face was composed of stone.

  Upon retiring the first nine batters of the vaunted Dragons lineup, the Panther battery went out to the mound to start the bottom of the fourth inning.

  The 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th innings were a good barometer for a starting pitcher to gage the quality of his “stuff.” These were the innings when the hitters got a second and third look at a pitcher’s arsenal. A pitcher needed a full repertoire to be able to survive.

  In this game—a game more than a game—Ryan faced the physical opponent and opponent of pain and pitched the greatest game of his life.

  Every inning he mowed the opposing batters down.

  Into the eighth, a masterpiece fashioned. One, two, three, he retired the Dragon batters on twelve pitches in blur of consciousness that only a pitcher could grasp.

  The top of the ninth came and went. Whelan Garland, towering and imposing, striking out the side.

  At last, the game had come down to the final three outs.

  The bottom of the ninth.

  I made it to the 9th inning. I’m 3 outs away!

  Above the pain, above everything, he bled out of his heart. Gritting his teeth, he pitched with half crazed madness.

  Putting all other things out of mind Ryan focused on the batter before him. The pain, his only companion—in the form of a contemptible friend—stabbed at his shoulder without mercy.

  Once more, a matador facing down the mighty bull, Ryan took in the signal and stared down into the narrow dimensions of the strike zone against Alonzo Quinones, the Dragon’s shortstop, who practice swung his batting club.

  The perfect game through 8 innings reminded him of the 1-hit masterpiece he’d pitched in little league, all those years ago.

  I gotta finish strong, like I did then.

  He’d retired twenty-four straight Climax Heights Dragons batters.

  Not one Dragon reached base against him.

  A perfect game.

  Three outs propelled him to the major leagues.

  Three outs and he accomplish his lifelong dream to play in the major leagues and he fulfilled his fatherly duty as family provider.

  I must make a future for my son.

  Through the months of pain, after all of the agony, after all of the emotional and financial wounds, he could finally make it all worthwhile.

  Three outs.

  His victory in the Southern Side-by-Side contest would help the Panthers clinch the Independent Mountain Conference championship.

  He could’ve cried out because of the pain in his shoulder; he refused to do so.

  No one would’ve blamed him for quitting and choosing to walk away from the torment. Instead, he accepted the challenge. He stood strong and faced the obstacles.

  Courage and tenaciousness resided in his spirit and he confidently placed the fertility of his soul alongside any player who elected to oppose him on the field.

  A heart of a champion, he knew he would win the big game.

  I’ve never lost a big game in my life.

  I don’t intend to start now.

  The fastball cut through the air with a slight whistle and just shaded off the plate.

  Quinones, the Dragon leadoff second baseman, laid off the 87 mile an hour pitch.

  “Baaaa,” called out the umpire.

  Ryan reached back and delivered another fastball. Needles stabbed him from the tips of his fingers to the shoulder.

  “Streee!” screeched the umpire, as the ball buzzed past the outside of the plate.

  Quinones, ever patient, stepped away from the batter’s box. Methodically adjusting his batting gloves, he spit before stepping back into the box.

  The count 1-1, his team at home, the bases loaded, no outs—he didn’t rush his bat.

  Haddox immediately shook off the fastball sign.

  Persistently, Borelli laid down the fastball signal.

  A second time, Haddox shook him off.

  9th Inning

  As soon as I got out there I felt a strange relationship with the pitcher's mound. It was as if I'd been born out there. Pitching just felt like the most natural thing in the world. Striking out batters was easy.

  —George Herman "Babe" Ruth

  Things have changed for me over the past couple of weeks... There’s a big part of my heart that's missing now with my mother gone. I knew I pitched for her. I just didn't realize how much. You just look at things different.

  —Denton True “Cy” Young

  Because he’d controlled the Dragons bats, he’d also controlled the crowd’s excitement.

  Now, rising to their feet, the crowd’s spontaneous cheering—in an effort to generate excitement for the home team—hung in the air.

  Looking in to get the sign, thunderous noise blasted into Ryan’s ears.

  Like a savage warrior who no longer wished or desired peace, Ryan planted his push off foot and drove his land foot. Reaching high to coalesce the elements of his motion and gather his power, he gave a mighty shove and unleashed a fastball at Borelli’s mitt.

  Newfound speed smashed into the catcher’s glove with loud report.

  Borelli groaned with approval. Enthusiastically satisfied, he came up and fired the ball back to Haddox.

  Ryan’s fastball clocked at 92 miles an hour.

  If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.

  Ryan stepped off the mound and rubbed up the baseball. He didn’t do it to gain a grip advantage, he did it because the fire in his shoulder was nearly unbearable.

  Uncle Mitch, in the end, all I ever wanted was to be a great ballplayer, like you. All I ever wanted was to make you and Aunt Dorothy proud of me.

  Somewhere in the heavens, he sensed a stirring in the clouds.

  Considering the 2-2 count, he delivered a setup pitch. Not a waste pitch, he hoped the leadoff hitter, Alonzo Quinones, the speedy Dragon’s shortstop, would bite at the inside offering.

  Quinones didn’t.

  The full count limited Ryan’s options. Since only one run separated the teams, he couldn’t afford to walk the leadoff hitter.

  So much riding on the one run—on the three remaining outs of the game.

  Rearing back, Haddox f
ired a fastball. The white sphere leaped toward the plate.

  It never reached the catcher’s mitt, even though Borelli desperately tried to steal it from the bat.

  Quinones drove the pitch into right field, the crack of the bat instigating the crowd’s roar.

  Alfredo Hernandez, playing straightaway on the pitch, hardly moved as he watched the ball land in front of him.

  The perfect game, the no-hitter—was gone.

  Giving up the first hit brought shock to Ryan.

  Hernandez returned the ball from the outfield.

  Ryan angrily tossed it to Borelli.

  Borelli handed the ball to the umpire who pulled out another from his bag and slapped it in the catcher’s mitt.

  Picking up the rosin bag, Ryan slammed it back to the ground. Removing his cap, he ran his hand through his sweaty hair, firing a glance into the stands at the rumbling crowd.

  Let it go! Who cares about the damn perfect game? No one’s gonna give a damn how you got to the majors—they’re only going to care that you made it!

  Fighting to maintain his composure, he toed the rubber and looked in on Borelli’s signal.

  He fought hard to control his breathing.

  Damn it!—I can’t blow it now. I can’t lose this game, after coming so close. I must remain concentrated on finishing the job. It’s the 9th inning and I’ve never lost a big game in my life. I can’t start now. My kid… my wife—my family is counting on me.

  Quinones took a moderate lead off first.

  Haddox, still smarting emotionally, threw over to first, despite the modest lead.

  A chorus of boos erupted from the stands. “Home plate’s thata way!” “Quit stalling, you Bum!”

  The yells filled Haddox’s ears. Taking the throw back, he reset his back foot on the rubber.

  Deep in his rotator cuff, a flame of pain exploded and he nearly passed out from the agony. Sweat emptied from his pores. Taking the sign, Ryan came to a set position, the explosion in his shoulder diminishing somewhat.

  Up to bat, the eight hitter in the lineup, Capsa Ortega, took a few practice swings before stepping into the batter’s box. Ortega, the Dragons right fielder, had power, although he mostly sprayed the ball. Hitting 258, with 8 home runs and 43 RBIs, Ortega presented great danger. He could end the game with one swing, a walk off homer.

  Borelli signaled fastball, in.

  The call was good and Haddox went over the pitch. To make the pitch work he needed to place the ball’s location close enough to prevent Ortega from turning on it and extending his arms.

  Haddox contemplated as he set, and side glanced to first, keeping Quinones’ lead measured. Ryan fired through the throbbing of his arm. Slightly cutting his two-seam fastball, the white orb streaked inside of the plate, painting the inside corner just enough to entice Ortega to swing.

  Ortega checked his swing; the umpire signaled ball.

  Falling behind on the count forced Ryan to think hard about the next pitch. Although he preferred to pitch outside of the strike zone, he couldn’t afford to fall behind on the count 2-0.

  I’ve gotta throw in the strike zone.

  Ryan delivered a slow curve that painted the outside part of the plate, evening the count at 1-1.

  A change up caused Ortega to lean forward, off balance, before falling back on his heels. Unable to swing forcefully, Ortega watched the ball cut the outside part of the plate.

  Raising his arm, the umpire roared above the crowd noise, “Streee!”

  Ryan breathed a sigh of relief. He felt power surge back into his arm.

  I got ‘em… right where I want ‘em.

  Having come back to take the lead on the count, 1-2, Ryan lost focus on the pain in his arm. All of his concentration on getting the first of the three remaining outs he needed.

  Borelli called for a slider in the dirt—a waste pitch to setup the out pitch—a fastball, high and tight.

  No one could dispute the correctness of the pitch sequence. Yet, to avoid throwing any pitch through the torturous pain purposely for a ball, Ryan decided against throwing the setup pitch.

  Borelli gave Haddox a dirty look through his mask. Scowling, he signaled cutter, outside.

  Instead of biting, the cutter hung over the plate, appearing suspended in the hit zone.

  The hanger surprised Ortega. He swung uneven in his haste and instead of driving the ball in an upward trajectory, the bat made contact more even, sending a line shot to second.

  The ball passing directly to his right, Hector Cruz dove, his glove extended as far as he could stretch. The ball stuck in his glove. Then, because of its tenacious force, it spun out and trickled away, a short distance beyond the bag.

  Frantically, Cruz leaped to his feet and stabbed at the white orb. Leveling up, he started his throwing motion to first before thinking better of it and holding on to the ball.

  When the dust cleared, runners stood on first and second.

  A game-ending rally loomed over the field like a dark storm cloud, even as Ryan’s arm inflamed over with pain. Sweat poured out of him and drenched his collar. After everything, he’d still yet to retire a batter in the inning.

  So damn close. Cruz almost had it. Could’ve started a double play.

  The tying run seemed to be moving closer to home as if willed by destiny.

  I should’ve known better. I should’ve known I wouldn’t finish the job. I’ve always been a hard luck pitcher. Things always seem to go wrong. I never can put it all together and get it done.

  Slamming the ball into his glove, Ryan stomped around the mound, the ringing of the roaring home crowd overwhelming his senses.

  Fighting the urge to lose control, Ryan fought a mighty battle within himself to maintain his poise.

  Positioned on the rubber, a million thoughts crossed over his mind.

  From the on deck circle, Whelan Garland stared at Haddox. Measuring him. Throwing his bat aside the big pitcher slowly strode to the plate.

  Both men—pitted in a colossal pitcher’s duel—faced each other with the game on the line.

  Whelan Garland’s pitching performance had been excellent. His three-hitter and one run given up rated high, considering the magnitude of the game.

  Before the Dragons’ pitcher could step into the batter’s box, Borelli trotted out to the mound to talk to Ryan, amidst a chorus of heckling and jeering.

  It was the bottom of the ninth and the game and the championship were on the line—there was no tomorrow.

  Positioning his mask on top of his head, Borelli stood strong before Ryan.

  In unison, the entire infield circled around the mound to partake of the discussion between the “tough as nails” catcher and the equally tough pitcher.

  “He’s dangerous,” said Borelli, spitting to the side before going on. “We need an out, Cowboy. Big bats are coming up.”

  The catcher’s assessment struck the entire group surrounding the mound square between the eyes.

  The top of the lineup came after the pitcher.

  Borelli was right. They needed an out—a dead ball out preferably.

  Garland came in to the game batting .287—far above the hitting ability of most pitchers—making him even more dangerous.

  “Second base… We gotta hold ‘em close,” Borelli continued, his eyes locked on Ryan.

  He’s trying to look into my heart and see what I’ve got left to lose.

  Ryan ran his eyes across the expectant faces of the men who stood around the mound. At last, his eyes landed on Borelli.

  “I’m alright,” he assured his catcher.

  Borelli nodded. “Don’t forget: 1.3 seconds. No more. Look at the glove… throw to it.”

  The 1.3 seconds Borelli referred to was the time he had to deliver the ball from the stretch position to afford them the best opportunity to throw out a runner on an attempted steal.

  Standing on the mound, Ryan started feeling alone and conquered. Then, a hidden source of strength in his spirit brought him
new strength.

  It’s him or me, reasoned Ryan, returning the opposing pitcher’s glare. I’m not gonna quit.

  Reaching back, he opened his shoulder, dropped his lead foot toward home plate, and concentrated all of his mental energy to disregard the flames shooting through his shoulder. Extending his arm, he focused his effort into leveraging his strength and throwing through the ball.

  At the exact point of release, there came the full dreadful blowback of pain. The pitch cut through the inside black of the plate.

  “Streeeh!” thundered the umpire.

  Under an avalanche of scoffs and hissings, the hometown crowd roared its disapproval.

  Measured respect filled Whelan Garland’s eyes. Readjusting his grip on the bat, he went through his between pitches ritual before stepping back into the batter’s box.

  No doubt, Garland reviewed the “book” on Haddox and it didn’t mention the speed on his fastball that now existed.

  Ryan, in his desperation—despite his great pain—was clocking in the low 90s. Positioned on the rubber in the stretch, the crowd noise grew to a thunderous roar, blasting his ears. Going over his pitching mechanics, Ryan realized he’d gone over the 1.3 second margin. He’d given a higher leg kick, and a more extensive, sweeping motion, to gain additional speed on his fastball.

  Borelli glared at him, before tossing the ball back.

  If I try that again, Quinones will steal third. Ryan scolded himself, as he got into a stretch position.

  From the set position, Ryan gave a long look to Quinones on second before delivering a changeup on the outside part of the plate.

  Garland gave long consideration on the pitch before letting it pass to even the count at 1-1.

  This time Borelli didn’t throw the ball back to him. Instead, he trotted out to talk to him again.

  As before, the chorus of boos and catcalls blasted across the stadium.

  Borelli placed the ball into his glove. “Slid step… you know?” The sharpness of Borelli’s command made Ryan take notice.

  Seemingly, far away, Ryan perceived the roar of the capacity crowd surrounding them and the home plate umpire start toward the mound to breakup their discussion. Likewise, Borelli spoke with measured calmness. Ryan couldn’t picture Borelli as anything but a hardnosed catcher. The strength and heart of the team, no one on the Panther squad ever questioned his commands.