The second guy came up and hit a little dribbler, in between the mound and the third-base line. Eddie wasn’t going to get to it in time, and neither was I. It was all up to Lily, and she came off the mound, pounced on it like a cat, and came up firing to first. Two outs.
But, boy oh boy, that effort cost her.
She stood there for a minute, after throwing the ball, hands on her knees, trying to breathe. She straightened up, with a visible effort, then gingerly walked back on the mound. Then she stood on the mound, and looked at me.
And I was gobsmacked. For the second time in two days.
I saw the wince of pain in her eyes, but I also saw the fire. Her hair had come out from under the cap, and was blowing in the breeze. Her boobs were glistening with sweat. She was filthy. Her whole lower right side was a big purple bruise, except for the parts that were covered in blood. She was a bloody, dirty, battered, completely naked mess.
A lot of people might think she didn’t look very "feminine" right then. Fuck that. She was primal. All blood and guts and passion and fire-she was absolutely primal. She was the utter essence of female, without all the surface giltz and glamour.
She was the fucking Indomitable Amazon Warrior Princess.
And she was…magnificent.
However, we still had a game to win here. And even indomitable amazon warrior princesses need a bit of support. I called time, and trotted out to give her some. Not quite sure if I could speak, I called Eddie over with me.
"Hey, Pedro, how are they hanging?" Eddie asked. Good ol’ Eddie.
Lily let out a snort of laughter, and then said, "Boys-I got nothin’."
"You want me to tell the skipper?" I asked.
"One out. One goddamn out. I can get one out, right?" she said.
"OK," I said. "Ed, be ready."
"Always am."
"Mike?" she said. "Changeups and curves, that’s all I got left."
I nodded, turned, lowered my mask, and walked back behind the plate.
I called for a change. It wasn’t anywhere near the plate. So I switched to the curveball. She fooled him with the first one, but not with the next two. Three balls, one strike.
I knew I had to end this, and now. She didn’t have another batter in her. I didn’t even know if she had another pitch in her-though she was going to have to throw one. I had to end it now, one way or the other.
I put down the number one. Fastball.
She shook me off. I put it down again. She shook me off more vehemently, obviously pissed I was calling a pitch she didn’t have at the moment. I made a little "trust me" motion with my mitt. And I put the number one down.
She sighed, nodded yes, and wound up.
As I anticipated, it was probably the weakest, most sorry-ass excuse for a fastball that she had ever thrown in her life. It was like one of Gutierrez’s dying quails. As I had also anticipated, the batter-after watching her 90 mph heaters whiz by all day-pounced on it.
However, as I had also anticipated, he was too eager. And got out in front of it. And pulled it. So the line shot he hit, went-as I had planned-right at the best third baseman in the state.
Well, not right at. Ed had to extend a little to get it. But extend he did, and snare it he did. SLAP! Third out. Game over.
Thank God.
And my warrior princess followed the flight of the ball, saw Ed snare it, shook her fist two times in a moment of triumph-and collapsed on the grass behind the mound.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE LILYOh, God, I hurt.
But I did it. I fucking did it. I even exceeded my boast to the Coach-that was a two hit shutout.
Watching the guys run in was funny. They obviously wanted to run in and congratulate me, tackle me, throw me around in victory. Not advisable at the moment. So, they all came streaming in towards me in delight, stopped short-and contented themselves with patting me on the head with their gloves. It really was amusing.
My catcher sat down next to me. My third baseman sat down on the other side of me.
"Nice pitching, Pedro," Ed said.
"Nice glove, Brooks Robinson," I replied. "You planned that, didn’t you?" I said to Mike.
"Yeah, I did. You didn’t have another batter in you. So I figured if you served one up, they’d get overeager and hit it to Ed."
"And Ed would catch it, as he always does," Ed said.
"Yes you did," I grinned. Ed got up and told us he’d see us in the clubhouse.
We were still sitting on the infield grass. The crowd was dispersing, and it was only the two of us on the field. He turned to me and said, "That was unbelievable."
"Told you I could pitch," I grinned.
"Oh, that’s not what I’m talking about. Your pitching was fantastic, perfect, marvelous. But it wasn’t unbelievable. I knew you could pitch-I believed every minute." I grinned at him, and he went on. "What was unbelievable was how you looked up on that mound in the ninth inning."
"Yeah, an unbelievable mess," I laughed.
"The most glorious, most beautiful mess I’ve ever seen in my life. You looked like some kind of Celtic pagan goddess of sex and baseball. It was amazing."
Damn. Oh, Damn. A Celtic pagan goddess of sex and baseball? I had never told him. I had never told him that-in my wildest fantasies, in my mind’s eye-that’s how I saw myself. That was my idealized fantasy version of myself-a wild, primitive princess; her very likeness just screaming "sex!"-and with a baseball glove in her hand.
That was it. We were meant for each other. We were fucking meant for each other. No more hiding away the words. Not any more.
"Mike? I love you, from the bottom of my heart," I said.
"I love you, too, from the bottom of my heart," he returned.
I suppose it was fitting. We had first made love in the outfield. We first declared it in the infield.
"Let’s get you up," he said. He did, and helped me hobble through the dugout into the clubhouse.
We got in, and the trainer immediately started taking off my bandages. "You need to clean these cuts, after coach is done," he said, and I nodded. I could tell the guys wanted to cheer or something-but coach had a strict rule, even after a win-no noise in the clubhouse until he got there. He was in his office-something I was told he always did.
Then he walked in. "Good game. Nice to beat these guys, eh?" Then everybody cheered.
"First things first. I usually talk to my co-captains and such about the game ball. I don’t think that’s needed today. Woodard." I looked up, and he flipped me the game ball. "First of many, I hope." Then he got a big grin, and said, "If you’d like to spoon out some of that crow, I’ll be glad to eat it."
I grinned back. "I’ll give you a pass."
"Woodard," he went on, "I’ve been coaching for 15 years. That’s the finest performance by one player in one game I’ve ever seen. And, in the ninth inning, the most damn courageous."
The clubhouse went nuts. All I could do was mouth "thanks".
"One more thing. Bauer, what’s the rules on the jackets?"
"You get one after your first complete year on the team." Ed said.
"Any exceptions to that?" Coach asked.
"Coach’s discretion. Exceptional performance in the first year, or exceptional contribution to the team during part of that first year."
"Right, you got yours early last year, correct?"
"Yeah," Eddie said. "After I had that 3-dinger game against East Warren. And Mike got his early, too, halfway through, just for general contributions."
"Right. But this is the first time I’ve ever given one out on the first day of the season. The trainer’s been sewing the name in for me. Here he comes."
I didn’t know what they were talking about-until I saw the trainer with it. And he brought it over to me. "Woodard, here you go. You deserve it." It was my Westport High letterman’s jacket.
I was stunned. It was beautiful. Purple, with a gold W on the front, and two crossed bats on the other side of the front. On the sleeve, in gold, was stitched "Lily 45".