Chapter 162: Hamilton

Baseball in early August is hot and messy. The thermometer claims it’s 110 degrees on the turf today. I sweated through my shirt long ago, and I struggle to keep my fingertips dry enough to grip the ball. I’ve warmed up and currently wait for the arrival of the first batter in the bottom of the fourth inning. I’m pitching to the top of their lineup and anxious to place a couple more strikeouts on my stats.

With the batter in the box, I step on the white rubber, looking to my catcher for the sign. He signals for my fastball, but I shake him off. It’s too predictable—he’ll be looking for it. Next, he signals slider; I nod. I come set, take a deep breath, wind up, and pitch. The ball sails, floating low and outside. The umpire signals strike. I fully expected the batter to swing at that pitch. He’s usually a sucker for my junk pitches.