Page 45 of Bad Call

I wanted more. I had to have another night with him.Insidehim.

We stayed up to bat for two more hitters, giving Austin a chance to cross home plate. The RBI gave us a slight lead over the Cougars. “If we win this game, I’ll do the chicken dance.”

“Really, Coach?” Bandy, my left fielder, had overheard.

“Sure, Bandy,” I joked, trying to force my mood to lighten.

My good mood didn’t last long, though. Austin was pitching, and his confidence was clearly shaken after the last two Cougars at bat hit on his first pitch. He was running through his warm-up routine again and again, rotating his neck, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right, and flexing his fingers around the ball. He threw a warm-up pitch to Flanders, his catcher, and they went back-and-forth about five or six times before Baylor blew his fucking whistle.

“Damn, I’d like to shove that thing down his throat,” I muttered under my breath, taking to the field. I stomped across to the pitcher’s mound, where Baylor was talking to Austin.

“He’s out of time, Coach. He’s got to throw the next ball.”

“Bullshit! The new rules state that a pitcher who was already in the game gets unlimited warm-up pitches, notto exceed the two-minute lapse between innings.” I checked my stopwatch. “He’s got thirty seconds left, starting now,” I emphasized, clicking the button in front of his face. “Learn the fucking rules of the game, Blue.”

He got right up in my face, lowering his voice. “Don’t make me throw you out again.”

“I wish you fucking would,” I dared him. I would make him suffer on his knees with his wrists tied behind his back the next time we were alone.

“You’ve got thirty seconds, Austin,” Baylor warned, backing away from the mound.

“Good job, Coach,” Marley praised, smacking me on the back as I entered the dugout.

“All right, Coach!” my team cheered, throwing popcorn and balled-up bubble gum wrappers at me.

“Settle down. Austin’s confidence is shaken, and if he doesn’t get it back, this game is lost.”

The boys gathered at the fence with me, almost crowding me out as they cheered Austin.

“Come on, Healey! Show him what you’ve got. Give him the cannon.”

The next time Baylor blew his whistle, Austin was out of time. He looked up at the night sky, probably asking the baseball gods for a miracle, and then ran through his warm-up routine once more before letting the ball rip.

“Strike!” Baylor shouted.

“Yes!”

The next was called a ball before he threw another strike. He wound his arm back and let loose, the ballrocketing across the distance, and right through the strike zone.

“Strike three,” Baylor called. As the Cougars’ batter shuffled back to his dugout with his head hung low, my boys went wild, shouting Austin’s name, and pitching ice at him from their drinks. I breathed a sigh of relief, giving Marley a high five. The Muskrats had won eight to six.

We were still leading the standings.

“Coach, you’ve got to do the chicken dance,” Bandy shouted, getting all the boys to join in.

Oh, fuck no! “Don’t you know the difference when I’m kidding or not?”

“No?” he asked. “You gotta do it, Coach. You’ll jinx us if you don’t.”

If there was one thing baseball players took seriously, it was superstition and luck.

“Oh, come on, you can’t be serious.” I looked at the faces of my team, each one of them smiling and looking hopeful. “Fucking A!”

Marley cackled. “I bet there’s a chicken suit in the clubhouse. Want me to check?”

“Don’t you dare,” I threatened. I shook my hips from side to side and flopped my arms for about thirty seconds to satisfy their perverse need to see me humiliate myself.

“No, Coach, you gotta do it out on the field. Get the fans involved.”