Tommy typically bats third or fourth, depending on his manager’s mood. The man can’t seem to make up his mind. Today it’s third. Dan strikes out the first two batters, and as Tommy approaches the plate, he looks my way.
“Go get ‘em,” I silently say.
I swear he nods.
It’s not the sweet swing this time. Tommy whiffs at the first pitch, takes the second, which is slightly outside, and misses the rest. It’s a long walk back to the dugout after striking out, but Tommy’s shoulders don’t slump. Next time, he’ll be telling himself, now that he’s gotten a look at Westburn’s stuff. I think the same. Next time.
Third inning we’re ahead three-zip, and Tommy strikes out again, only this time he does it flailing, the third strike driving him off balance. He lunges at the ball and I know he hates himself for doing it, but again he gives no outward sign of upset.