Shank

Shank stared at his glove.  The leather was worn, but it still had the pungent odor of glove oil.  A single bead of sweat rolled down his nose, paused at the tip, and plunged toward the ground.

It was always the same, coming into a game at this stage.  Bases loaded, two outs.  Two balls, two strikes, two runs up.  Would he be the hero, or the goat?  Would he take a turn hoisting the trophy?  Or would it be the Booby Prize for the Warriors today?

He wiped his brow with the back of his wrist.  He took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then blew it out.  He turned toward the plate and took two steps up from the back of the mound.

Jiggs squatted behind the plate patiently.  Probably wondering what I’m waiting for, Shank thought.  A momentary and grim smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

A triple wins it, he thought.  Probably even a double.  He shook his head and stepped off the rubber.  Cut it out you idiot. He stepped up again.

Jiggs cocked his head slightly, his eyes peeking up at the batter’s.  Then he put down a sign.  Fastball.  Shank saw one finger – the index finger – meaning inside pitch.  He rocked from the rubber, wound, and fired.  Jiggs framed the pitch perfectly, but the umpire didn’t bite.  Ball three.

No pressure now, Shank thought.  A single ties it.

Jiggs was set.  He shook his head.  Shank did the same.  Two fingers.

Things had slowed almost surreally. Shank seemed to watch from afar as his arm came over the top, torquing violently.  The curve snapped at a ridiculous angle;  the batter flailed helplessly as the ball passed the plate.  Strike three!  Game over.

Dad would have been proud.