Last Pitch
Tim Bradley sat at the back of the cramped room, listening with only partial attention. His thoughts were on the fact Rosh Hashanah was coming up in a couple of days, meaning tonight’s game would probably be the last of his career, if he even had the chance to pitch.
The pitching coach finished up his summary of how to face some of the opponent’s batters. “Bradley,” he called out. “You with us, old man?”
Tim grunted and uncrossed his arms. “Yeah.”
“Good. Let me ask you this. You’ve faced Will Howard a few times in your career, right?”
Tim laughed, his voice deep and subdued. “Only about twenty or thirty times. Not that much.”
This got a round of laughs from his younger cohorts, some of whom were on the Big Club’s roster for the first time.
“So, how have you gotten him out in the past?”
Tim sat up straighter. “Isn’t easy. He seems to read a pitcher’s mind and makes a lot of good guesses. You have to come in with a breaking ball when he just knows you’re going to throw him your hardest pitch.” Tim thought back to some of his battles with the perennial All-Star. “Go in when he’s looking away. Then again, sometimes you have no choice but to give him your best ball and hope it lands somewhere in the same time zone.”
Andy Kerner looked at Tim. “So, you’re saying damned if you do, damned if you don’t, so throw whatever and cross your fingers.”
Tim rubbed his chin. “Not quite. Throw what you think is best for the given situation, even if it’s the exact opposite of what the ‘book’ might say. The big thing is this,” he said as he looked at the other pitchers. “Never, and I mean never, let him think he has you intimidated or running scared. The second you get the least bit afraid of him, the next pitch is headed for the moon, no matter how perfect it is.”
“Can I say something on a different topic?” Dale Munson, the team’s closer, raised his hand.
“What’s up, Monster?”
Monster was Dale’s nickname, partly from his determination on the mound, and partly from standing six-foot-seven and closing in on 250 pounds. “With the Jewish Holy Days coming up, I want Bradley to close it out if a save situation arises. He deserves the chance to go out in one last blaze of glory.”
The room erupted in applause and cheers. “We got nothing left to play for but pride. Do it for Bradley. Blaze Bradley! Blaze!”
Tim felt his face warm up. “I might have been Blaze before all the injuries and arm surgeries, but now I’m just Bradley.”
“Bullshit!” roared the coach. “I’ll tell Greg you’re going in if we have the lead. No more discussion, Blaze.”
Tim rubbed his chin again. So this is how nicknames get stuck on a guy, huh? “If you all say so.” He allowed himself a grin.
“Damn right we do.”
The next hour was spent in relaxation before changing into their blue and white home uniforms. Tim found himself roped into a cut-throat game of spades against Kerner, the rookie with a 99-mile-an-hour fastball, Munson, and another pitcher who was about to be released after the season. Tim hadn’t really warmed to the overweight veteran who was nearly bald. Never even bothered to remember his name, just called him “Tank.”
Turned out that Tank was only serious about one thing — winning money from his fellow players. If he put that effort into his career, Tim thought, he might have had a decent one, instead of being washed up at thirty, only four years in the Bigs, if that.
After the card game, Tim handed Tank a hundred-dollar bill and excused himself. He found a quiet spot in the clubhouse and woke up his cell phone. He tapped the icon for his wife’s phone, and waited. On the third ring, she answered. “Hey there, zeeskeit.”
Tim smiled at the familiar term. “Doing good, doing good. If we have a chance to win tonight, Monster and the other guys want me to get the save.”
“You deserve it. Go out with one last high note.”
“Yeah, they said basically the same thing.” Tim paused for a moment. “Is Zayde Tzion going to be able to watch the game?”
“I’ll head over to the home and make sure they put it on for him.” Tim’s wife also paused. “He’s not doing so good. They’re starting to talk about moving him into hospice.” Her voice broke. “The cancer, it’s spreading faster than they can find it.” A sniffle, a quiet sob. “I hope … hope … he can make it through the next few days.” Another pause. “I’d rather be there to watch you, but I don’t want him alone, either.”
There was a long pause. Tim thought of the lively man he had been named after, now reduced to the shell of a person. So aware of what was going on around him. Now, hardly present at all, what with all the medicines they give him to wake up just one more time, to see just one more sunrise. “Tell him I’ll get in the game. Got willing, I’ll get in this game.”
It was time to dress for the game. Tim went to his locker, began to strip down. Then it was time for the uniform, maybe the last time. First the pants. White with navy blue pinstripes. The socks; white, lightweight undersocks followed by stirrup socks, also navy blue. Under the pants, protection against balls hopping in ways unexpected, aimed for sensitive body areas. The jersey; once more navy blue with white sleeves, a large number 49 on the back, a smaller number 49 under the logo and to the left. The Navy blue cap. Finally, the black cleats; well creased at the base of the toes.
He knew, without needing a mirror, that everything was in place.
He joined the rest of the team as they filtered through the short tunnel to the dugout. The batboys, both dressed in white jerseys over white pinstriped pants, were placing the bats in the proper slots of the bat racks. They laughed softly as they swapped jokes.
The team jogged onto the field and began their stretching exercises. Once done, the batters headed for the batting cage set back from home plate, almost to the backstop. The pitchers headed to the outfield to begin tossing the ball back and forth, gradually increasing the distance every few throws. The bullpen coach, Rodrigo “Rod” Alfaro was joined by the pitching coach to shag any balls hit in their direction.
Greg Samms, the manager called across the field after the last hitter had taken his cuts in the batting cage. “Okay, this is it folks. Meet me behind the pitcher’s mound for final thoughts.”
The team gathered as best they could where Greg had told them to meet. Over forty men, gathered in a tight bunch. “Last home game, last game this year, period.” Greg began to look each player in the eye. “We’re a bunch of pro ballplayers, sitting last in our division. For some of you, it’s your last time in these uniforms. For others, the last time in any uniform. That’s the way things go, we all know it.” He looked at Tim. “Bradley. I just got word of two things. First, the front office is talking about giving you a chance to be a roving pitching instructor in the minors next year. The offer is still being discussed, but I wanted you to know it’s on the table. Don’t worry about it right now, but keep it in mind. That’s because of the second thing. Your wife called while you were stretching. Your grandfather … well, I’ll just say he’ll be watching, but from a different place tonight.” Greg inhaled sharply. “If you decide you don’t want to pitch tonight, I’ll understand.”
Tim felt his eyes moisten. Zayde, gone? It can’t be possible. This close to the New Year, my final game …
It wasn’t until he felt Monster’s bearhug wrapped around him that he realized how weak his legs had become. Munson whispered, “Hold it together, Tzion. Just a few hours. Hold it together.”
Tim looked at the looming pitcher. “You’ve never called me by my real name before. Why now?”
“Two years before you joined the team, I lost my own gramps just after a game. I was with a different team then. Remember that meltdown I had in St. Louis? Now you know why I tore up those hotel rooms and got released at the end of the year. Why it took a year to find any team willing to give me one more shot.” He pulled Tim into a tighter embrace, forcing Tim’s face into his shoulder. “Don’t do like I did. Be a mensch.”
Tim chuckled despite the way way he felt. “Can you at least let this mensch breathe?”
Greg clapped twice. “Listen up. Time to be pros. All pitchers to the bullpen area. The rest of you, dugout. Move it.”
The events began with the Mayor throwing out the first pitch. And, ever the politician, he made a short speech highlighting his term in office.
Andy Kerner was given the honor of starting the game. He struck out the first batter, and got the second on a shallow fly to left. That brought up Will Howard, who sent Kerner’s pitch deep into the lower deck seats to put the visitors up one to nothing.
The home team got the run back in the bottom of the fourth on two straight singles, Andy’s sacrifice bunt, and a walk to the leadoff batter. The next batter hit a grounder to the secondbaseman, who tossed the ball to the shortstop covering second. The shortstop threw the ball as hard as he could to the firstbasemen. The throw was off the mark just far enough that the field took his foot off first, allowing the batter to be called safe on a fielder’s choice as the runner on third crossed home plate.
Seventh inning arrived, and Andy was showing signs of tiring. His third pitch to Howard went deep again, but the rightfielder was able to time his leap and grab the ball in his glove right before it disappeared behind the wall. The fielder came down and showed the ball barely in the webbing of the glove.
After the fans joined the organist in a final rousing rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” the home team began to display some life in their bats. A solo shot to the leftfield upper deck made it two-to-one. A single and a double made it three-to-one, but that was as far as they got.
Top of the eighth saw the opponents produce three quick outs off of Tank, who was given a mercy appearance.
Tim was taking this all in when the phone in the bullpen rang. Rod answered it, listened for a moment. “Sí.” He hung up the phone. “Bradley,” he called in his slightly accented voice. “Time to choose. You pitch or no?”
Tim stood up. “Give me the ball. Let’s give Zayde something to cheer.”
“Bueno. Cardenas, you too. If we score two or more, Cardenas is in. Else Bradley.”
Tim, being a lefthanded pitcher, took the left practice mound. Cardenas took the mound next to him. The bullpen catchers stood just in front of the practice plate as Tim and Cardenas began soft tosses to loosen up, then gradually threw harder and harder as the catchers inched their way back to their positions behind the plates.
Cardenas murmured something in Spanish. Rod translated. “He say for once in his career, he hope for no score. He wants you to play, Tim.”
Tim looked to his right at the lightly brown-skinned player. He tapped the bill of his cap once and nodded his head just enough to be visible. Cardenas answered with the same gestures, then they both began throwing at full throttle.
Four more pitches into his bullpen session, Tim felt his elbow shift slightly. No, he screamed to himself. Three years ago, he had undergone surgery to replace a ruptured elbow ligament with one from a cadaver. It was a modified version of what was now known as the Tommy John procedure. The ligament is going to rupture again. Not now! Got in himmel, not now.
Tim began to throw nothing but fastballs. The elbow felt like it might hold, as long as he didn’t strain it with breaking pitches.
The crowd roared. Tim turned toward the field as the ball flew over the outstretched glove of the opponent’s outfielder. The scoreboard lit up the show another homerun, making the score four-to-one.
A few of the other pitchers muttered, “no more, guys. This is for Bradley and his gramps. No more.”
Two batters later, another ball went flying over the wall. Tim felt the life slowly drain from him. Five-to-one. No chance for a save with that score. One by one, the other pitchers came to Tim and patted his shoulder or squeezed his arm. None of them said anything.
The final out was recorded, and the game went to the top of the ninth, still five-to-one. Greg sent Tank back out to the mound.
Tim looked on, puzzled. Tank hasn’t pitched two inning in a row all season. Why is the Skipper sending him out now? As he watched Tank’s warmups, he started to think something different. That sly devil, Tim thought. This guy is already losing his control, and it’s still warmups. The Old Man is “Tanking” the game, hoping I’ll still get my chance.
Tim grinned, and turned back to the man catching his pitches. “Get back in position. I’m going to keep myself warm.”
The catcher scratched his beard. “Four run lead. You ain’t going in.”
Tim’s grin widened. “Trust me, okay?”
Tank walked the first batter.
Tim started throwing harder.
Tank walked the next batter.
Tim’s focus narrowed to the catcher’s glove. He blocked everything else out.
Tank got the next batter to hit into a doubleplay, with the lead runner moving to third.
Tim ignored it.
A walk.
Tim continued to throw.
A ball bouncing off the wall. Two runners scoring, the batter ending up on third. Five-three, tying run coming to the plate.
The stadium quieted as Greg strode to the mound. He held up his left hand. Rod began jabbering in Spanish, then coughed. “Bradley! Show time, amigo!” Tim fired one last pitch as hard as he could. A pain like thousands of dart burst through his shoulder. Shit! Elbow giving way so I can’t throw breaking stuff, and now the rotator cuff wants to blow apart again and take away my heater! Zayde, if you’re there talking to Got, beg him to let me get through this.
Time went through the bullpen doors and onto the field. He began the jog that would take him to the mound, all the time saying a prayer to himself that he could get through this.
He reached the mound and took the ball from Greg. “You’re facing only one batter. Howard. Get him out, and we’re done for the year. Don’t get him out and I’m bringing in Munson if the ball stays in this half of the world. Got it?
Tim rolled the ball in his hand. “I’ve had this ball given to me more times than I can count the last seventeen years. Every time, it’s been to do one job, and only one. I’ve done the best job I can, and this time is no different. Just one thing. You leave me in until there’s no doubt if we’re going to win or lose. I’m here to do this job, and by Got, I’ll do it.”
Greg stared into Tim’s eyes. A broad, open smile began to form on his face. “There was a time when you were the best there ever was, and maybe ever will be. It’s good to know that fire never died.” The manager slapped Tim on the shoulder. “You want to go out with no doubts, you’ve got it. May your grandfather be at your side while you do it.” He turned and walked back toward the dugout.
The home plate umpire approached the mound. “Time for the conference is over. Eight throws to warmup. Then we play ball. You ready?”
Tim nodded.
Eight throws, all fastballs. All painful, but at least they were going close to where Tim wanted them.
The umpire drew his mask down over his face. “Play ball!”
Will Howard stepped into the lefthanded batter’s box. “Once more, for old time’s sake!” he yelled.
Tim stepped back from the pitching rubber and rubbed his chin. Give him what he doesn’t expect. He stepped back up.
The catcher, Reynolds, flashed the sign for a fastball.
Tim shook his head slightly.
Two fingers. Curve.
Tim nodded quickly and came to his stretch position. A glance at the runner on third, then a pitch aimed down and in.
His elbow protested, sending the ball higher than Tim would have liked. It caught Howard by surprise. The muscular batter barely managed to make contact, fouling the pitch off.
The umpire gave a fresh ball to Reynolds who threw it back to Tim.
The catcher squatted. One finger. Fastball.
Tim nodded, set again. Check the runner, fire to home. Tim’s shoulder also turned to fire. The ball went high and almost over Reynolds’ head.
Tim could see a question forming in the catcher’s eyes.
Reynolds threw the ball back to him, but not quite as hard. He squatted again. Fist. Changeup.
Tim shook his head.
Fist again.
Tim shook him off again.
Reynolds was motionless for a second, then hesitantly put down one finger again.
Tim nodded and set himself. He pushed off the rubber with all the strength his leg had, trying to relieve the strain on his shoulder. Still, the joint burst into flame as the ball made its way toward the right side of the plate.
Reynolds lunged and was able to grab the ball as the umpire signaled “ball two.”
The catcher asked for time and jogged out to the mound. “What the hell is up, Bradley? You don’t miss the plate that often, and not by that much. You feeling okay or what?”
Tim shrugged, forcing himself to avoid rubbing his shoulder. The joint was beginning to go numb. “Guess my grandfather’s death has knocked my concentration off.”
Reynolds looked toward the dugout. “Maybe we should –”
“No. You heard what I told the Old Man. I’m here to do this job, and I’m going to do it.”
Reynolds slammed the ball into Tim’s glove. “Then do it, and quit fucking around.”
Tim took a deep breath. Yeah, you’re right. Maybe that bitching out is what I need. To hell with the shoulder, the elbow, all of it. I’m going out after this game, so I’m going out on my terms.
Reynolds squatted again. One finger.
Tim nodded, set himself, fired one of his best pitches.
Howard held up his swing at the last second. The ball crossed the plate at roughly knee level.
That can go either way, Tim thought.
The umpire raised his hand and bellowed, “Strike two!”
Got him now.
Squat, one finger.
Tim shook his head.
Fist.
Tim shook his head again.
Two fingers.
Another shake.
Reynolds gazed out through his mask. Finally, three fingers. Slider.
Tim nodded. His slider was one of his weakest pitches, and he’d only thrown it maybe two or three times a year since his surgeries. He set, didn’t bother checking the runner, and threw. Elbow and shoulder both screamed in agony.
The pitch was close enough to where Tim wanted it. Howard lunged out over the plate to chase the ball, and barely ticked it with his bat. It was enough to send it away from the plate.
The umpire indicated “foul ball,” and reached into his bag for a fresh ball to throw to Tim.
Tim caught it and began rubbing it down. Then, he had a thought. Why not?
He motioned with his glove to have Reynolds come out to the mound.
The catcher asked the umpire for time out, which was granted.
“You got something up your sleeve, dude?”
“Yeah. Ever hear of a ‘slurve’?”
“You mean that funky pitch that looks like a slider but ain’t ‘cuz it also looks like a curve but it ain’t that either?”
Tim chuckled. “Best description I ever heard.”
Reynolds looked puzzled. “I don’t recall you ever throwing one of them before.”
“That’s because I never have.”
The catcher pulled his mask completely off his head. “You’re going to try to get this guy out, this guy you’ve faced dozens of times, with a pitch you’ve never thrown?” Reynolds shook his head. “Man, please tell me you at least fiddled with it on the side, or in the minors, or somewhere.”
Tim chuckled again. “Never. It’s something I guarantee Howard will never be expecting.”
“Him and most of the baseball world.”
Just put down whatever sign you want, and be ready to go wherever the pitch does.”
Reynolds couldn’t resist a laugh. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
The catcher went back behind the plate and squatted. Fist.
Tim nodded. One last look at third base as he set himself, waiting just a little longer than usual. His body exploded into motion. He shoved with his left foot as hard as he could. His arm whipped up and through, the motion for every intention looking just like a fastball was coming. As his arm came forward and down, his hand turned every-so-slightly to the outside of the ball. The two fingers gripping the ball had about a quarter-inch space between them with the thumb not quite directly on the opposite side of the ball. As the ball began to roll off his fingertips, Tim shifted all his concentration to dragging the toe of his left shoe along the surface of the mound, slowing his momentum enough that now his motion said “fastball,” but the ball’s movement said “breaking pitch.”
Howard had timed his swing to match the appearance of a fastball. His eyes began to widen as he saw the added rotation as the ball left Tim’s fingertips. At this point he was committed to the swing, but he tried to hold up at the last moment. His bat went too far around, and was far enough ahead of the ball and far enough over it’s trajectory that there was no way to make contact.
The ball snapped to the right and toward the ground. It stayed airborne just enough that Reynolds got his glove under it before it hit the ground behind the plate.
The home plate umpire pointed to the third base umpire to get a ruling on whether Howard had gone far enough in his swing to be called a strike.
The umpire at third raise a fist.
The umpire at home called out, “strike three!” as loudly as he could.
Fans in the stadium roared their approval.
Howard stood at the plate, a massive smile on his face. “All these years, and I never saw that one before,” he yelled. “What the hell kind of pitch was that?”
Tim yelled back, “I saved you my best for last, Will. My best, and my last.” He tapped his arm, then slapped it harder. All he could feel was a raging fire in his shoulder, his elbow, and a faint tingle in his fingertips. My best, and my last, indeed. Thank you, Zayde.
© L. E. Merithew
