The Difference

         
         
         As Hanson bent over to pick up the chalk bag, the morning’s sport section flashed across his mind. Boston and New York, sharing the top of the A.L East, were tied with 103 wins apiece.  Anaheim had just locked down the wildcard in the west, finishing off their season with their 105th win about twenty minutes earlier, down in Tampa Bay.  Hanson tossed the chalk bag back on the ground. It was the last game of his 13-win rookie regular season. They were about to begin the top of the ninth, with a one run lead. He had pitched a three hit game, and a Yankee homer in the third had made it 2-1. During the seventh-inning stretch, he had talked with the skipper and been given the greenlight to complete the game. This inning was the difference. Between winning and losing, playoffs and offseason, complete game and late washout, love and hate, confidence and fear. The first batter would be the catcher.
         Hanson came set as the batter tightened his gloves and stepped into the box. The catcher flashed the sign. One finger.  Hanson nodded and went into his wind-up. The four seam fastball painted the outside corner at 98 mph, freezing the catcher, who blinked comically and stepped out of the box to re-adjust his gloves. Hanson received the ball from the catcher with his foot on the rubber. He had always been a quick worker. The catcher’s hands, taped for better visibility flashed one finger, then two. Hanson went into his wind-up. The Boston catcher took a home-run cut at the split-finger, but the ball dropped just before it got to the plate causing him to miss badly, and he almost lost his balance and fell. The fans got excited. Those who weren’t already standing did, people cheered, and taunts barraged the catcher. For a couple seconds Hanson listened with relish, but then he came back. He focused on the catcher’s signals, completely zoning out everything between him and the catcher’s mitt. The one finger sign came again. If he was in the first inning he probably would have wasted a couple, trying to get the batter to chase, but when you’ve already thrown 164 pitches you don’t have a lot to waste. Hanson put everything he had into the four-seamer, blowing it right by the bat of the catcher who shook his head as he saw the 101 mph displayed on the scoreboard. Wincing he returned to the dugout, as the fans shook the stadium with their approval. One out.
         The Boston left fielder tossed his donut to the batboy and approached the plate.  Hanson took his hat off and wiped the sweat off his face. He was tired. His arm was throbbing, and every muscle in his body wanted him to quit. Part of him wanted to signal to the dugout, come out, and have the Yanks’ star closer come out and finish his job. He soaked in the cheers, trying to harness the fan’s energy. They were chanting now. “MVP!…MVP!…MVP!”. Determined, he came set. The catcher held a steady fist down as his signal; he wanted a curveball. Hanson clenched his teeth. He hated throwing curveballs. Every time he tossed one he expected to turn around and watch it land in the upper deck. But he trusted his catcher. He went into his motion, stepping back, turning his ankle, bringing his knee up, and firing. The crack of ash bat hitting baseball was like a crack in Hanson’s heart. He turned almost pleadingly as the blazing grounder went by him. Running to his right, the Yankee’s captain and shortstop made a backhanded grab, throwing across his body from the outfield grass to beat the runner by a quarter step. Webgem. Hanson made a fist, pointing with his other hand at the shortstop to indicate his appreciation. Two outs.
         The fans were producing a constant roar now. They chanted and clapped and stomped their feet. The final batter, the DH, came to bat, with no fear in his eyes. He had watched his two comrades fall before him, and he was resolved to tie things up with one swing. Hanson didn’t think about victory, he thought about the pain, almost relished it. He threw a slider, and then another fastball, the first of which the batter missed, the second he fouled off. For the first time ever, Hanson stepped off the mound while a batter was still at the plate. The catcher made a calming motion and tossed him the ball. Hanson breathed deeply, bathing his lungs and body in air and encouragement. He came set, and took the signal. For the first time this inning, the catcher was calling for a change-up. Hanson knew it was a good call. The DH knew that Hanson’s go-to pitch was the fastball, and that’s the pitch he would be sitting on. Hanson went into his wind-up and delivered the pitch. The DH really put his back into the swing. The ball shot off his bat like a scorched kernel; Hanson spun and went into a crouch watching the ball fly into the upper deck. It missed the right field pole by about four feet, foul ball. Hanson, reeling, spit and remounted the mound. He felt weak as a leaf. The catcher took a new ball from the umpire and instead of tossing it, jogged it up.
         “You’re fine, you’re fine. Come on! Get him with this curveball!” Hanson nodded curtly and accepted the ball, picturing what the papers would be like tomorrow if he blew the game.  He couldn’t do this. He was going to motion to the manager and say his arm had gone out. The fans had gone silent from the near homer. All of a sudden, somebody from Hanson’s right yelled out.
         “Let’s go, Dave! Get this guy!” The solo developed into a chorus. The cheers and chants started up again, and the desire was rekindled. Hanson took the millionth deep breath of the day. The curve was a beauty. It started high and inside, dropping down and to the left all the way to the opposite corner, the same spot where Hanson had gotten his first strike of the inning. The DH’s bat didn’t move, he just helplessly watched the ball. All eyes turned to the umpire. He paused for a moment, checking himself, and then turned and gave an enthusiastic punch-out. “
         “Steeeeeerike three!” The stadium erupted like Mount Vesuvius, on the Pompeii that was the visiting dugout. Hanson went to his knees, arms held up in pure ecstasy. The fielders charged and dog piled him. Those four feet, all those workouts, all those deep breaths. The difference.