Bottom of the 9th

"Now pitching for your Philadelphia Phillies: number thirty-nine, Michael "Lights Out" Ryder!"
The crowd started screaming wildly into the cool October air. The score was 6-3, Phillies leading the Yankees. A moment later, the announcer came back over the PA system. "Now batting: catcher, number forty-two, John Jacobs." Jacobs was 5-for-20 in the series first six games, and 0-for-3 tonight, and 2-for-12 lifetime against Ryder. I know this, because stats are the reason I got into baseball. I make sure to know career stats of every player on the teams that are playing before I walk out onto the field.
Jacobs stepped into the batters box on the right side of home plate. He stared down the pitcher, who hadn't moved a muscle, despite the now booing crowd. Ryder nodded, set and went through his windup. The catcher quickly moved to his right a few inches.
"STRIKE!"
The change-up caught the lower outside part of the strike zone. The catcher tossed the ball back to the pitcher, who turned right around and toed the rubber, set to take the signs from the catcher. Jacobs wasn't willing to move that quickly. He stepped out of the box, looking at the third base coaches signs. After, he stepped back into the box. Ryder shook his head at the first set of signs, then set as he nodded in agreement at the second set. Again, the catcher slid to his right. The pitch came in. Curveball. The catcher quickly pulled the ball back toward the plate.
"Outside."
The catcher held his glove still a few seconds after my call. He stood up and tossed the ball back to the pitcher. Shaking his head, Ryder swiped at the ball with his glove, and jumped back to the top of the mound. Jacobs, never moving from his spot in the batters box, held his hand back, making sure I wouldn't let Ryder make his pitch. His arm dropped back to his bat, and I pointed to the pitcher, who was already shaking off signs from the catcher. After three sets of signs, he finally agreed, and quickly set. The catcher leaned toward the righty batters box, this time setting up higher in the strike zone. Ryder went into his windup, and launched the ball at the catchers glove. Jacobs swung hard, but the changeup hit the mitt.
"STRIKE!"
Jacobs looked back at the catchers mitt, seeing that it was nowhere near the strike zone, and looked down dejectedly as he stepped out of the batters box to take a deep breath. Ryder again moved quickly to the mound, and stared in at the catcher, who was waiting for the batter to move back into the box. I held up both hands, two fingers up on my left, one on my right. The batter made his way back into the box, quickly set, taking a deep breath to relax himself. Ryder nodded at the first set of signs, and readied to make his pitch. The catcher slid inside under the batters hands, holding his glove just below the batters knee. I quickly positioned myself looking over the left shoulder of the catcher. The pitch came in, and Jacobs stood frozen as the fastball passed him by at the knees.
"STRIKE!!" I did my little strikeout sign, holding my right forearm out, pulling my left fist from in front and under my right arm, back to my left side.
'God damn-it!' Jacobs yelled as the crowd screamed, cheering for their pitchers strikeout. The catcher pointed his glove at Ryder, yelling something about the perfect placement of the pitch he had just thrown.
"Now batting: center fielder, number seven, Dan Mansfield." The cheers turned to boos, as Mansfield had hit particularly well tonight—a triple short of the cycle. He's the only player to have a lifetime average above .250 against Ryder, hitting .590 against the right-handed closer. He was 10-for-20 in the series.
The catcher looked back at me, asking for time to go talk to his pitcher. I allowed, and the pitching coach quickly met the two on the mound. After a few moments, I started out to break up the conversation. Before I made it all the way out, they went their separate ways, and I made my way back behind the plate.
Mansfield, being lefty, walked back behind me and up to the plate. The catcher, still standing, held his mit to his left, and Ryder tossed the ball lightly to the catcher, who moved to his left to catch the intentionally wide throw. The crowd began to grow restless, knowing they were intentionally putting the Yankees fastest runner on first base. Ryder again threw wide left, and the catcher tossed the ball back to him. After throwing wide left twice more, Mansfield trotted to first base, handing the bat boy his bat and batting gloves half way down the line.
The Yankees manager, Andrew Fischer, came out to me, lineup card in hand. 'Pinch hitter in the nine-hole. Number thirty-two Raymond Briggs for pitcher, number five, Jordan Fry.'
I wrote it down, and headed back behind the plate. Briggs, the fastest bench guy the Yankees have, started from the on-deck circle to the plate. "Now batting: pinch hitter, number thirty-two, Raymond Briggs." He hadn't played much in the series, only getting one hit in three at bats. Though, he hasn't fared as well against Ryder, going 6-for-31 in his six year career.
The lefty moved to the batters box, and set his body. Ryder nodded, and threw the first pitch. Briggs swung, and punched the ball down the line into right field. Harry Hill, the Phillies right fielder, moved far to his left, fielded the ball, and launched it over the second baseman, who moved out to cut off the throw. Shortstop Chad Wright, who was standing near second, scooped the ball up and turned to make sure Mansfield didn't round third base.
"Now batting: third baseman, number twelve, Dustin Provan."
Provan is definitely not the guy you want facing Ryder. Even though he's 8-for-18 in the series, he's 0-for-32 lifetime against Ryder.
He stepped into the box, looking determined to continue his hot hitting in the series, rather than his oh-for against Ryder.
Ryder nodded at the first set of signs, and started from the stretch. The catcher moved to the outside of the plate, and the pitch was thrown. Provan swung, knocking the ball high into the air down the right field line. The stadium went quiet. It was headed for the second deck, the only question was is it going to be fair or foul. The right field umpire watched the ball rocket over his head as he stood halfway between first base and the outfield wall. Within a second, he pointed both arms to the seats, calling it a foul ball. Half the crowd cheered, as the other half let out their held breath, glad Provan hadn't just tied the game with one swing of the bat.
I gave a new ball to the catcher, who tossed it to Ryder, who was letting out his own sigh of relief, as he hadn't given up a home run this season in 85 ⅔ innings, including the playoffs.
He slowly walked around the base of the mound taking off his glove, and putting it under his right arm. He picked up the rosin bag, and smacked it against the back of his right hand, and then against his right palm. He rubbed his hands together, and slid his left hand back in his glove. He stepped back on the mound, and Provan was already set for the next pitch.
Ryder shook off the first two signs from the catcher, and nodded at the third. The catcher moved to the outside, setting up in the middle of the strike zone. The pitch zipped in, and Provan stared at it as it crossed the plate.
'STRIKE!'
Provan jumped out out of the box, seeing that Briggs had started towards second. Briggs slid in without a throw from the catcher, who tossed the ball back to the pitcher. Provan looked at me discontentedly, then turned to get the signs from his third base coach. Ryder jumped back on the mound, seemingly more confident up in the count, caring less about the now two runners in scoring position. I held my arms up, making a fist with my right hand, and holding two fingers up with my left. Provan moved back into the batters box as the catcher gave his first set of signs. Ryder nodded, and the catcher slid inside, holding his glove as flat as possible on the dirt behind home plate. Ryder checked the runner at third, and made his pitch.
Provan swung as harder than he did at the first pitch, nearly spinning around, but to no avail.
'STRIKE!'
The curveball ended up in the dirt, nearly a perfect 12-to-6 drop. The catcher blocked it, knowing the batter could advance to first on the play. He quickly picked up the ball with his bare hand, and tug the batter on the arm. As Provan made his way back to the dugout, he smashed the bat head on the grass in frustration.
"Now batting: Shortstop, number seven, Carlos Rodriguez."
Carlos, a rookie, had only faced Ryder twice, both coming in this series, going 0-for-2. He was 2-for-18 in the series, and 0-for-2 tonight, reaching on a throwing error by the Phillies third baseman in the sixth inning. He stepped into the box to my left, and set. Ryder had already shaken off the first set of signs from the catcher, and nodded at the second, as I pointed to him to proceed. The catcher slid under the batters hands, and held his glove low. I slid to my left, looking over the left shoulder of the catcher.
Ryder made his windup, and then his pitch. The curveball crossed the plate waist high.
'STRIKE!'
The catcher tossed the ball back to Ryder, and he quickly jumped back to the top of the mound, and looked in for the catchers signs. He nodded, and went into his windup. The batter yelled.
'TIME! TIME!' He started out of the batters box as the ball left the pitchers hand.
'STRIKE!'
The changeup crossed over the middle of the plate.
Rodriguez glared at me, then yelled. 'I fucking called time!'
'And I didn't give it to you.' I said back as I ripped my mask off.
He moved closer to me, and the catcher jumped up out of the way, moving to talk to Ryder who had made his way halfway to home. 'I fucking called timeout! What the fuck do you mean you didn't fucking allow it!?'
'You better watch your mouth with me, son, or that’s the last pitch you'll see!' At that moment, the third base coach came and pulled Rodriguez away, and the manager slid in between him and I.
'What's this all about?' Fischer asked.
'He called time, but the pitcher was already moving toward the plate, so time was not granted. He stepped out, but it was a live play.'
'He wouldn't back out of the box if he didn't think he was granted the time.'
'Well, he did. And I'm not going to put up with his attitude any more. I've told him twice this series that if hes looking to hit the showers early, he can keep running his mouth to me. I'm all out of patients with that boy!'
'Fair enough.' The manager walked away, and I walked out toward the meeting of the infield that was taking place near the pitchers mound.
'Lets go, boys.' I yelled into the gathering, making sure they all left the mound.
I put my mask back on, and walked around the back of the plate. Rodriguez stared at me as he moved toward the plate, and, reaching the batters box, he looked forward at the pitcher. He mumbled under his breath. I threw my arms up calling time.
'What'd you say?' I yelled as I lifted my mask.
Rodriguez stepped out of the box. 'I didn't say anything.'
I stared at him a moment, and out of the corner of my eye, saw the manager start to run of the dugout steps. I raised my hand to motion him to stop, and he did. I turned, slid my mask on again, and walked behind the catcher.
The batter stared out at the pitcher, and stepped back into the box. Ryder nodded, and went into his windup. The catcher slid inside, and the pitch was thrown. Rodriguez rotated, but the ball hit him square in the back. The crowd cheered wildly, taking much joy in the hit batsman as I wish I could. I nonchalantly pointed to first, and he looked at me as he took his base, as if I had ordered Ryder to intentionally hit him.
'Ball.' I demanded from the catcher, who pulled it out of his glove to throw to the pitcher. Instead, he left his arm back, and I took it out of his hand. I inspected it, then threw it toward the home dugout. I pulled a new ball from the pouch on my left side, and dropped it in the catchers waiting hand. He quickly tossed it to Ryder, who was halfway to the plate. He turned and headed back to the mound.
"Now batting: First baseman, number twenty-four, Frank Mcdermott."
If you're a Yankees fan, there’s no one else you'd want in this situation. Mcdermott hits. Hes not a typical cleanup hitter, as hes not only always among the home run leaders, but he’s always at or near the top of the charts for average and on-base percentage as well. The lefty is 9-for-21 in the series and 18-for-46 lifetime against Ryder, but ten of those are for extra bases, and four are home runs.
He stepped up to the plate on the left side, and grinned at Ryder as he dug a groove in the dirt with his left cleat, knowing at least a base hit to the outfield could very easily score two. Ryder didn't notice. He was staring in at the catcher, who was giving him a set of signs. Ryder nodded, and went into his full delivery, now that the bases were loaded. The catcher quickly slid to the inside part of the plate.
'Ball. Inside.'
The catcher sat, framing the pitch on the inside part of the plate. He took a deep breath, and tossed the ball back to his pitcher. Mcdermott never moved a muscle as Ryder quickly moved to the mound. Nodding at the first set of signs, he went into the windup.
'STRIKE!'
The curveball just caught the bottom outside of the strike zone. The catcher tossed the ball back to Ryder.
“One and one.”
Mcdermott had stepped his right foot out of the box, all while leaving his left in the hole he had dug before the first pitch. Ryder was nodding at the catchers signs as the batter stepped back into the batters box. The catcher slid to his left again, away from the batter, holding the back of his glove on the dirt in front of him.
The pitch came in, and the catcher did has best to block it, but we both lost sight of it after it hit the dirt. We both jumped up, me more trying to get out of the way, and the catcher trying to find the ball before Mansfield could think about having enough time to score or not. “Feet! Feet!” both Ryder and the third baseman were screaming. Mansfield had made it half way down the third base line before realizing he’d never make it, and he quickly retreated back to his base. The catcher picked up the ball, staring Mansfield down before tossing the ball back to Ryder, who was standing not four feet in front of home plate. His long walk back to the pitchers mound seemed to only heighten the tension in the stadium – especially on the field.
Ryder stood at the top of the hill, peering down range at the catchers signs. He stood, set, and started his delivery.
“Ball low.”
Mcdermott leaned back, half stepping out of the box as the catcher tossed the ball back to Ryder, who walked back behind the mound and tossed the rosin bag around for a moment. He quickly moved to the top of the mound, and waited for the batter to get back in the box. Ryder shook off the first set of signs before nodding and coming into a set position. He took a huge, deep breath before pitching the ball.
“STRIKE!”
A curveball again, this time, it caught the outside of the plate, crossing at knee height. The catcher quickly threw the ball back to the pitcher, who was all but set for his next pitch, but Mcdermott had other plans. He has completely stepped out of the box, and intently watched the string of signs from the first base coach before seemingly trying to count every head in the outfield stands.
“Come on, Mcdermott. We’d all like to get home before Christmas.” the catcher snickered. Mcdermott turned quickly and glared down at the catcher.
I held up two fists. “Counts full.” I said as Mcdermott angrily stepped into the batters box and quickly set. The catcher must have given Ryder the sign he was looking for, since he never nodded; he just set, revved back, and threw the ball as heard as he could.
Mcdermott swung like he was trying to hit the ball all the way back to New York, but the ball was too high.
“STRIKE!” I had just called the final out.
The crowd erupted, and the catcher, with the ball firmly in his glove, jumped up and ran out to tackle Ryder half way between home plate and the mound. Within seconds, the rest of the team was dog piling, and the players in the dugout and bullpen were running to meet the rest of the team. I jotted down some notes on my scratch pad, noting the score and time, and started toward the home dugout, which was empty of people, but hats littered the floor. I stood against the fence and watched as the players slowly began to stand up from the dog pile.
“That was probably the best called game I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen quite a few over the years.”
I quickly turned to see who was talking, as I thought I was the only one in the dugout. “Thank you.” I said, as I realized it was the commissioner.
“If you keep up the good work, you’ll be on the fast track to calling the World Series again next year.”
“I look forward to it, Sir.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a trophy to hand out. See you in February.”
I smiled before turning and making my way toward the hallway and the showers. It had been a great year, and I was happy to see my hometown team win a ring up close, even if I couldn’t show it.