Sliding Home (17 page)

Kason knew the third batter
well. Sam “Slam” Janovich had the upper body of a gorilla and was nearly as
hairy. Tested weekly for steroids, he could knock a ball into the upper decks
with the slightest break of his wrists.

On the second pitch, Sam
connected with a changeup. The Colonels fans went wild as the ball shot toward
Psycho McMillan in right.

Psycho ran, hit the warning
track, and didn't check his stride. All out, he supersized his leap and smacked
the wall full force. His downward slide showed the ball in his glove. The
Rogues fans stood, stomped, and shouted their approval.

Three outs, and the Rogues
grabbed their bats.

“Damn rookie pitcher throws
submarines,” third baseman Romeo Bellisaro grunted as he moved on-deck. Kason
understood. The pitcher was a sidearm righthander. His pitches weren't easy to
judge. His debut against the Rogues was to showcase him as a star on the rise.
At the plate, Romeo took a fastball for a strike. He popped a second fastball
foul. Strike two.

The third pitch cut high
off the right corner, and creamed his thigh. Romeo dropped the bat, rubbed his
leg, glared at the pitcher. Then slowly jogged to first.

“Sub Man's an asshole.”
Rhaden Dunn pushed to his feet, moved to the dugout fence. “He aimed to maim.”

Additional players joined
him. All eyes were on the mound. The team protected their own. Hitting Romeo
might have been a legitimate mistake, but should Psycho get nailed, the bench
would empty.

Kason watched as the
pitcher fired low and the ball bit the dirt to the right of home plate. Psycho
jumped back, swore. He stomped dust off his cleats.

“Dogfight in the season
opener. Can't get much better than that,” Alex Boxer said to Kason as both men
slid off the bench and gathered at the stairs.

Boxer is an idiot,
thought Kason. When adrenaline pumped, cool heads
turned hot. In the end, fights delayed play. Eyes were blackened; a jaw or two
was sometimes broken. Players got ejected. Richmond needed the force of
 
their starting lineup to beat Louisville.

He was a Rogue now, and if
push came to shove, he'd be pitted against his old teammates. He knew who
fought dirty, who struck from the back. Who had bitten an opposing player's arm
from the bottom of a pileup. Who'd jam his knee into another man's groin.

Kason watched as Psycho dug
in, took a practice swing. His game face was carved in a sneer.

A curveball cut sharply,
and Psycho sucked air. He tried to pull his hands in, but the ball smashed his
wrist. Psycho dropped the bat, clutched his forearm.

The pitcher spread his
hands wide, looked worried. Louisville's outfield ran in to back their man on
the mound.

The coaches blocked the
Rogues' exodus. The trainer was the only one allowed on the field. Seconds
ticked while he checked Psycho's hand.

The trainer pointed toward
the locker room—only to have Psycho trot down the first base line. The man was
going to play hurt. He showed no weakness.

The Rogues' anger burned. A
few started to pace. Many more clustered along the fence. All had strong words
for the pitcher.

“Keep it tight,” Kason
warned. “Don't lose it. The kid's a rookie—it's his first start on the road.
He's hyped. Take the body hits; get on base. Walk in the runs. Once he settles
in, he'll light up the radar gun.”

His words didn't convince
every player, but a few backed off. They weren't used to his speaking up. More
often than not, they saw him as an antisocial asshole who sat alone at the far
end of the dugout bench.

Risk Kincaid batted third.

Kason entered the on-deck
circle, batting cleanup. He shouldered two bats, took several practice swings.
He then rested one bat against his inner thigh, went on to adjust his batting
helmet, straighten his shin guard. To the fans' disappointment, Risk went down
on strikes. And Kason crossed to the plate.

Equal cheers and boos
echoed in his ears before he tuned out the stadium and focused on the pitcher.
The media claimed the kid packed an arsenal of surprises.

Psycho and Romeo stretched
their leads off first and second, respectively. They stole bases with speed and
agility.

Mind games came into play.

The pitcher eyed Kason.
Kason stared the kid down.

The rookie was hard to
read. He was low on his fastballs and high on his sliders. Nerves were
splintering his game.

Kason took a backdoor
slider for strike one. The pitch appeared out of the strike zone, then broke
back. The next fastball fanned his eyebrows. Ball one.

Kason refused to blink. His
team, on the other hand, shouted threats. It was the first time his teammates
had stood behind him. A unique experience.

A curveball buzzed his
balls. That made Kason jump back. His testicles tightened against his body. He
might never father children, but he'd like the option left to him and not to a
sidearm right-hander.

“Ball two!” called the
umpire.

Kason next fouled back a
knuckleball. Strike two.

His breath hissed through
his teeth and his eyes narrowed. It was time to make a statement. A slider, and
Kason laid his bat on the ball. The ball looped over second for a base hit. The
center fielder scooped too soon, and the ball cleared his glove's webbing. He
scrambled sideways to retrieve the ball. Romeo and Psycho scored on the error.
Kason held at first.

To the crowd's dismay, Zen
Driscoll and Rhaden Dunn both fell to strikes. The inning closed with a tworun lead.

“Pussy lob,” Psycho said to
Kason as they collected their gloves.

“My hit brought you home,”
Kason said.

By the sixth inning, the
sun had gone into hiding. Gray clouds gathered, turned black. Rain began to
drizzle.

Psycho shook himself like a
dog in the dugout. “Anyone got an umbrella?” he asked.

“Screw the umbrella.” Kason
snagged a towel, wiped his face. “You're more yellow raincoat and matching
boots.”

Several players chuckled.

Psycho spun on Kason. “Didn't
I just hear you performing 'Singing in the Rain' in left?”

“My voice beat your tap
dancing on the warning track,” said Kason. “You're no Gene Kelly.”

Risk Kincaid blew a
mouthful of sunflower seeds.

Zen Driscoll spewed water.

The players found the
exchange amusing.

Psycho worked his jaw. “Who
kissed and woke you up, Sleeping Beauty?” he slammed. “You're damn chatty
today. I liked you better muzzled and dull.”

“Jackass.” Kason swiped his
forearms dry.

“Jerk-off.” Psycho
unwrapped a fresh piece of bubble gum, popped it in his mouth. He then dropped
onto the bench between Romeo and Chase.

Three men up, three men
down, and the Rogues again took the field. The drizzle was steady, but not bad
enough to call the game. The temperature on the field had dropped ten degrees.
Kason tugged down the brim on his cap. He rolled his shoulders, shifted his
stance, bent his knees. His complete focus was on home plate.

A pop-up to Romeo at third
sent the leadoff batter back to the visitors' dugout. A backhanded pickup by
Zen Driscoll, quickly fired to first, delivered the second out.

Sam “Slam” Janovich was
next to bat.

Janovich blew snot from his
nose, spat, scratched. He dug in, then backed off the plate. All maneuvers to
throw off Brek Stryker's momentum.

The drizzle became a steady
shower. The grass grew slick, and there was little footing on the field. It
would soon be hard as hell to grip the ball. Kason noticed the grounds crew
gathering, ready to spread tarps over the infield.

Through the rain, Kason
studied Janovich's stance. The man batted right, and could spread the ball
around the park, which left every outfielder on edge.

A breaking ball slider, and
Janovich crushed it between right and center. Risk ran full-out, called Psycho
off; the catch was clearly his. Nearly under the ball, Risk stumbled, pulled
up. He threw down his glove and clutched his left thigh.

The ball splashed down, and
Psycho recovered. He threw to second, held Janovich to a double. Time was
called as the team physician and trainer shot from the dugout and headed for
center. Kason joined his teammates, gathered around Risk.

“Hamstring,” Risk
self-diagnosed, unable to put weight on his leg. A quick evaluation, and Dr.
Provost agreed.

Risk was helped off the
field.

Lightning slashed the sky,
and thunder kept it company. The umpires clustered and soon ruled a rain-out.
The game had gone more than five innings, so the Rogues were awarded the win.

The locker room filled with
damp and dirty players. Men stripped and headed for the showers, the mood
somber as they awaited word on Kincaid's condition. An hour passed before Dr.
Provost emerged from the onsite medical unit.

“Severe hamstring injury,”
he told those gathered. “Initial ultrasound shows a third-degree rupture of the
muscle.”

There were moans and groans
as every man in the room suffered Kincaid's pain.

“Recovery?” Kason asked.

“Two to three months,” the
doctor said.

“Son of a bitch.” Psycho's
curse was echoed by each player's individual expletive.

“Not a great way to start
the season,” came from Risk as he swung through the locker room door on
crutches. Coach Jared Dyson entered in behind him. Dyson was new to the
organization. A barrel-chested man whose tough-eyed looks spoke louder than
words.

The players circled Risk,
all visibly frustrated by their team captain's being out of play. Kincaid
nodded to Dyson to deliver the news.

“After talking to the
general manager, I've decided Alex Boxer will start in center during Kincaid's
rehabilitation,” Dyson stated.

“Hot damn.” Boxer was too
damn happy over Risk's injury. The other players stared the smile right off his
face.

“Now, for team captain—”
Dyson continued. “Risk won't attend meetings or be at the stadium to give
direction and keep the peace.”

“My recommendation: co-captains,”
said Risk. “Psycho McMillan and Kason Rhodes.”

“Rhodes?
Bullshit.”
Psycho's tone was harsh, disbelieving. “He's too new and keeps to
himself. Most days I can't remember his name. I'd rather rule alone.”

“Co-captains—take it or
leave it.” The coach gave Psycho his end-of-discussion squint.

“I'm in,” Kason agreed,
knowing he and Psycho would clash over the time of day.

“In today, out tomorrow,”
Psycho predicted.

“Go shoot bird together on
your day off,” Risk suggested to Psycho.

“Bond, bro.” Psycho
sneered. “Not wise to put a shotgun in my hand around Rhodes.”

“Go home; rest up.” Dyson
again took control. “Clear skies are forecast for tomorrow. We'll go nine.”

“Get off that leg,” Kason
called to Risk Kincaid as he departed the locker room. Kason felt bad for his
teammate, but he had important business to take care of before day's end.

***

Four o'clock found the
waiting area outside player promotions packed with job applicants. More than
thirty women sought the assistant's position. Many held resumes and portfolios
an inch thick. The ladies all smiled at Kason. One wiggled her fingers.

Kason gave them a brief
nod, then knocked on Revelle Sullivan's office door. He entered before she
could request that he wait.

Revelle glanced up at him. “Mr.
Rhodes?” She paused in her interview. He got straight to the point. “Ms.
Sullivan, we need to talk.”

“I'm going over skills and
job experience with Ms. Walker,” Revelle told him. “Can't our conversation
wait?”

“No, it cannot.”

Her color high, she eased
back her leather chair and gracefully rose. She then straightened a blue
decorative rose on the lapel of her cream suit jacket. Her agreement to see him
came with an apology to the applicant.