Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 60219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
“Huh,” Dale said. “Well, whatever a slider is, he sure throws a bunch of them.”
“It’s a signature pitch,” I said. “He supposedly has one of the best in the game. Not many people can throw them as hard as he can with that much movement.”
There were a few seconds of relative quiet before I turned to see all three of them staring at me. I had been so focused on Graham that I didn’t even realize that they had stopped talking. I widened my eyes and shrugged.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, you just suddenly know all about baseball,” Tamara said. “I have literally never seen you watch baseball once, and here you are rattling off the nuances of pitching.”
“It’s not…” I began and then let out a groan of frustration. There was no arguing with them. That was how they were. If you resisted, it would just egg them on, and then it would be an all-day thing.
“Not what?” Dale asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
Graham looked out behind the plate after the last pitch of the inning, and I thought for sure he saw me. There were a lot of people in the stands however, and while I was certainly in a prime spot to be seen, it was entirely possible he was looking at someone else.
The next inning began, and there was some excitement among the people in front of us. They were talking among themselves and scribbling on one of the programs with a pencil. I didn’t quite know what was happening, and by this point I had a reputation to hold up with the other three. I leaned down, tapping the older one of the two on the shoulder.
He turned around, his white eyebrows rising in surprise as he looked at me. He tipped back his hat and smiled wide, his mustache looking like a white bird on his upper lip.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“What just happened?” I asked. “Everyone seems excited.”
“Gargano is out,” he said. “Their DH. It means Miller has to hit for himself.”
He smiled wide, and the brim of his hat rose a little.
“Graham Miller?” I asked. “He has to hit?”
“Yup,” he said. “Since they added Universal DH, this is the only way to ever see pitchers have to hit. Apparently, Gargano hurt himself running the bases last inning. Good thing, too. He’s been hitting way over three hundred this season.”
“Oh,” I said. “Thank you.”
I sat back to the curious stare of Tamara.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“Apparently, Graham has to come up to bat,” I said.
The loudspeaker interrupted me, and I strained to listen as the crowd around us talked and cheered in a chorus of confusion.
“Ladies and gentlemen. There has been a change to the Montreal lineup. Now batting in place of Tomasso Gargano is the pitcher, number twenty-three, Graham Miller!”
A cheer went up in various areas of the stadium, along with what I assumed were some alcohol-induced boos as well. My heart leapt into my throat, and I peered over the person to my left, craning to see the home dugout. Graham came out, wearing a helmet and carrying a bat on his shoulder.
“Oh, it’s him!” Dale said.
I cheered loudly with the rest of my group, and Graham turned his attention behind the plate as he took a few practice swings. Our eyes made contact, and he grinned. There was no doubt about it now. He definitely saw me. And he was happy about it.
My stomach did a flip, and I chastised myself for it. The spinning in my head was making it difficult for me to pay too close attention to what was going on, but I was trying to as he stepped up to the plate and took the first pitch for a ball.
I found myself sitting hunched over, my hands over my lips in a prayer-like position as the pitcher wound up again. It was silly. He probably didn’t even remember my name, just recognized me. But I wanted to send whatever energy I had out into the universe to help him.
The pitch came in, and the crack of the bat was almost too loud, unreal in its intensity. The ball shot off the bat and soared into the outfield. I hopped to my feet and watched as it flew deep into right-center field. Tamara’s hand found mine, and we jumped up and down as we watched it fly.
And then it died on the warning track, the fielder making a spectacular catch, running into the wall and bouncing off, tumbling backward and then holding his glove in the air.
“Oh man,” Tamara said.
“Well, even if he got out, he certainly looked good doing it,” Steven said, watching as Graham trotted back to the bench.
He shrugged and smiled, and I felt my heart flutter again, very much against any rational thought. Just before he went down the stairs, he looked up to me and winked.