You have thrown every pitch exactly where you want it. First
pitch strike. An offspeed pitch has him out front and it’s now 1-2, the scales
tipping in your favor. You feel the
strikeout humming in the back of your mind. Your catcher is on the same page and
puts down the fingers you wanted to see. Nodding in agreement, you feel a rhythm,
drive forward and fire. The ball feels like it explodes out of your hand and the
pitch is on its way, low outside fastball headed into the glove. But the glove
never pops, and your focus is broken by a piece of wood that slaps across the
plate and directs your best laid plans into the stands over the dugout sending
fans sprawling out of harms way. Great. A work of strikeout art ruined by a
half swing, like a streak of spray paint across a wall painting. Frustration.
“He has no business spoiling that pitch, it was unhittable,” you fool
yourself. You can fix this, after all he
was leaning over the plate for that pitch, and now I’ve got him set up inside..
“But you better not leave it over the plate,” you think, “because he’s seen the
fastball twice already.”
You shake your head to the fastball inside,
your catcher favoring the slider. You think “I need to get it in there, jam him
up and get a ground ball.” All of a
sudden, you feel like you HAVE to get the ball inside. Pressure. It’s still the
same count, but feels completely different. You force the pitch inside too far,
backing the hitter off the plate. 2-2.
“That’s fine” you tell yourself, now
confident in your mistake, because you moved his feet, and can go offspeed away
next pitch. Silver lining. You pull the
slider trying to make it nasty, the strikeout scent lingering in your nostrils.
But the 2-2 count gave the hitter renewed confidence and renewed discipline. He
starts his hands, “Check that!” You beg. “No he didn’t” chops the base umpire,
extending his arms.
You catch
the throw back from the catcher and the ball feels an ounce heavier.“Don’t give
him a free pass, it’s the ninth inning and this guy’s got speed” you try to
keep the negative thoughts away, but a drop of red dye is already in the water,
and its beginning to change color.
Catcher calls fast ball away, your
bread and butter. “Here we go” you say
shakily. You try to place the ball in the glove, The leather snaps it’s reply. No pitch ruining
foul ball, no fans sprawling, no swing. Only an umpire’s judgement remains. The
hitter confidently tosses his bat under his shoulder, you hold out hope for a
strikeout dance. The umpire looks away, as if the pitch offended him and thus never
existed.
Ball Four.
You were one pitch away, and let one bad swing, a foul ball, really
only another strike, take your mind out of rhythm and turn into a free pass to
first base. Clear it out. Be quick to home plate, and know who you got on a
comebacker.
Written (and acted out countless times) by Anthony Slama
