Nine

Part 3

On my way out she whispers again, just “I’m here.” It’s so soft I wonder if I only wanted to hear it. I pick up the rosin bag at the back of the mound and see her “S” smudged in the dirt. I crouch and retrace the letter and close my eyes. “I’m here,” the whisper comes again.

You’re NOT. I want to scream. Instead I stand and catch Jimmy’s eyes on me as I catch the ball he throws. You’re not.

I stand on the rubber and shake off his signs. Curveball? No. Sinker? No. I nod at his call for a fastball. Set. Focus. Windup. Hurl. The ball flies past the batter’s swing and makes a satisfying slap on Jimmy’s glove. You’re not.

I shake off more signs to reach fastball again. Set. Focus. Windup. Hurl. It’s high and away, I’m lucky the batter misses again. I can imagine Jimmy’s warning eyes behind his mask. Still I shake him off, three, four times until he shrugs and sets knowing. The third pitch shoots through the strike zone for strike three. You’re not.

My ears roar. If the whisper came again I doubt I’d even hear it. I clench my teeth until my jaw hurts. I bite my tongue and taste coppery blood. I spit. You’re not.

Jimmy tries again with the repertoire; curveball, splitter, sinker, change-up. I shake him off and throw three more fastballs, each harder than the one before it. The batter watches one and swings at two and misses. He throws his helmet when he returns to the bench.

By the third batter Jimmy doesn’t bother to sign. I don’t take the time to look anyway. I set my own pace. Set. Focus. Windup. Hurl. Set.Focus.Windup.Hurl. Setfocuswinduphurl. The third batter glares out at me as he takes off his gloves and sets them beside his helmet on the dirt for the batboy to retrieve. I glare back before I rage off the field, into the dugout and down the tunnel into the clubhouse. I don’t stop until I’ve slammed the bathroom stall door shut. I lean against it. You’re not. You’re NOT.

The roar of the Creature is muffled low above us. In the relative quiet she whispers again, “I’m here.”

I hear cleated footfalls on the linoleum. I will them away but they get louder.

“Mike?” of course the manager sent Jimmy. I stay silent in the stall. He knows I’m there, there’s nowhere else to be. “Mike,” his voice loses the questioning tone. It’s soft, just above a whisper. It’s strong and directive. I listen and come out of the stall, stepping to the sink to wash my hands. He’s not fooled.

“I’m good,” I assure him. I assure myself.

“Do you want out? I can tell him to bring in someone else. You’ve done five innings, that’s enough.”

I meet his eyes in the mirror. “I’m good.” He watches me for a moment and nods. He turns to leave and I hear his cleats click as he walks back out to the field.

My wind escapes and I slump, my hands prop me up on either side of the sink. With a deep breath I stand back up. I fill my hands with water and scrub at my face. “I’m here,” she whispers again. “You’re not,” I whisper back. The anger has dripped out of my voice leaving my words hollow and sad.

Someone pounds on the wall of the tunnel which means I need to get moving. It’s time.