The trainer trotted out to check on our player while the umpire warned both benches. I grabbed my bat and helmet and trotted out to the on-deck circle. I watched as the pitcher threw a wild pitch, and our baserunners both advanced. It didn’t matter, though, when he threw three more balls to walk our batter.
I had a little smile when I realized that they couldn’t walk me in this situation without giving up a run. The Stripes manager walked out to the mound, and they discussed what they wanted to have happen. It was apparent their pitcher was pissed, and I rather agreed with him. It wasn’t usual to have your manager come to the mound in the first inning. If you did see someone, it was usually your pitching coach. This told me they wanted this game.
Their pitcher threw me twelve pitches as I battled to stay alive. He’d done a good job of not giving me anything I could hit. But many of them were too close for me to hold up on and trust the umpire to call them a ball, so I fouled them off. On the thirteenth pitch, he threw his first changeup. When it left his hand, I knew it was a hittable ball. Thankfully, I didn’t guess fastball, or I would have been way ahead of it.
I held back for a split second and pushed it over the first baseman’s head. I was running full-out on contact. Since it was in front of me, I could see it was going to make it to the fence, so I didn’t slow down when I rounded first. I turned my head to Coach Way at third base and ignored what was happening in the outfield. I was sure I could get a stand-up double, but he waved me to third. This was all part of our plan to be aggressive on the basepaths, but this time it bit us in the butt. I was gunned down when their second baseman executed a perfect relay.
I dusted myself off and trotted to the dugout where Coach Kingwood stopped me.
“Good job. You trying to take third allowed another run to score.”
I just nodded and was congratulated by my teammates. We were now up 3–0.
I came up in the third with no one on and two out. The Stripes had manufactured two runs to get within a run. This time I battled their pitcher and lost. He still had to throw me nine pitches before he got me to chase a fastball that wasn’t even close.
In the bottom of the third, the Stripes finally got their bats working and put up two runs to take a 4–3 lead. We loaded the bases in the fourth, but nothing came of it. Leaving that many runners on base was how you lost baseball games. Coach Kingwood reminded us of W.I.N.: do what was needed in the moment.
The Stripes were able to put another two runs across in the fourth. We were now down by three.
When I was up in the fifth, we had managed to get runners at first and third with two outs. I could tell their pitcher was struggling, so I wasn’t surprised when they trotted out a big right-hander to face me. Coach Short, our hitting coach, called me over.
“This kid is a one-trick pony. He throws fastballs. My guess is that he’s been brought in to face you since you represent the tying run. Watch yourself; this kid has a nasty streak and might try to put one in your ear.”
Great!
I was thankful he’d warned me because the first pitch was sent as a message. I just brushed myself off and focused on my hitting. While I knew that I could be injured if I were hit with a fastball, I couldn’t let that stop me. My competitive beast came to the surface as I slipped into the zone.
The next pitch was right at my head. When I got up, I was pissed. I pointed the bat at him.
“Listen, asshole! You hit me, and I’ll break your arm!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, we’ll have none of that,” the umpire said.
He then stepped over to both benches and warned them again. I half expected that the next pitch would be in my back, but their pitcher got cute and threw a curve that bounced off home plate. I have to give their catcher credit because he smothered it and prevented the runners from advancing.
Now, I was ahead in the count, 3–0. I looked down to third and was given the green light to swing away. Their pitcher either had to throw a strike or entice me to go after something questionable. I was happy when he tried to smoke one past me. Guess he thought I’d be taking the pitch. I knew it was well hit by the sound of the bat. I might have been a little jacked up because that ball sailed a long way over the left-field fence. With one swing of the bat, we’d tied the game at six-all.
Our next batter got a similar pitch and launched it out of the park. Their pitching coach came out and settled their pitcher down. He struck out our next batter to get out of the inning. We ended up winning 7–6 when our pitching held up. I’d come up two more times but struck out both times.
◊◊◊
Both teams were brought back to the hotel after the game. They’d set up a buffet of sub trays next to the pool. I took the elevator upstairs and put on my swimsuit and a t-shirt. I was filling my plate up with three-inch sections of different subs when the pitcher whom I’d threatened came up to me.
“You’re really a piece of work,” he said, getting in my face.
“Careful, Princess. I have half a mind to stick that million-dollar arm up your ass,” I said.
The coaches were all watching, but no one was coming to stop this. Fritz was talking to them, so I knew he would stop me from doing something stupid. It looked like they wanted this to play out.
“You think you’re better than all of us. I think you need to be put in your place and realize that just because you’re famous, it doesn’t mean shit on the baseball field.”
“First of all, you know nothing about me and the cost of fame. Do you see that big strapping man over there?” I asked as I pointed at Fritz. “I have to have him or someone like him with me everywhere I go. Right now, I have security cameras in my hotel room to prevent some crazy person from trying to sue me because of that fame. I want you to think about that for a moment. As a teenage guy, would you want to have someone watching you 24/7?”
He just blinked at me.
“You talk about deserving? You took it upon yourself to try to injure a teammate,” I said, and he looked startled. “Didn’t think of that, did you? What’s one of the main criteria for making the team? How you fit in. What’s another one? Representing the United States well. Would you want someone on your team who would intentionally throw at a teammate? I sure as hell wouldn’t. Would you want the international sports community to see one of your players get into a fight because he only threw beanballs? I sure as hell wouldn’t.”
He looked around for support and wasn’t finding much. I noted the only ones who seemed to be supporting him were the ones who’d been on the prima-donna team in North Carolina. I wished they were on my team so I could straighten them out.
“As far as me not being good enough, you’re just delusional. I would bet that I work a lot harder than most of you, and that’s the stuff that shows up on the field. If you don’t believe me, look at the numbers I’ve put up. If you got your head out of your butt, you’d realize you really want me on your team when we go to the Pan Am Championships,” I said.
He started to look self-conscious. I think he realized he might have stepped in it, so I bailed him out.
“Why don’t we do this? Let’s everyone agree to a fresh start. What has happened to this point doesn’t matter. I’m David, by the way,” I said as I held out my hand.
“Rich Cousins,” he said as he shook mine.
“I really am a privileged little shit,” I said, showing a big grin. “Fritz, come over here. Show them the Dodge Demon I just got for my birthday.”
Fritz came over and handed me his phone so I could show them pictures. This was something we could all agree upon. I was also proud of myself. My first thought was to put him down in one of Cassidy’s holds that hurt like the dickens. I probably shouldn’t have flaunted my new car, but it was too cool not to show off.