Fastball Read Free

Patriots to salary arbitration three years ago and
won. Dembinski didn’t like losing at anything or to anyone.
    When it came time to bat, Jake stepped up to
the plate with a hyper-awareness that his team trailed the Buffalo
Bisons 4-2 in the bottom of the eighth inning. The gravel-voiced
announcer introduced him, drawing out the last syllable of his name
in a rousing call, and the crowd let out a long, appreciative
roar.
    He took his stance in the batter’s box,
glaring at the Bisons’ pitcher. Unfortunately, he knew the guy
wouldn’t want to give him a decent pitch to hit. Not many minor
league pitchers wanted to face a healthy Jake Miller, not when he
had over three hundred and eighty home runs in ten seasons in his
back pocket. Most likely, this young reliever would try to throw
him four balls just off the plate, and then move on to try his luck
with the next batter.
    But Jake was wrong, and was caught off guard,
reacting just a fraction too slow when the hurler smoked a fastball
on the inside corner with his first pitch. He whiffed the air above
the ball as it made a noisy thump in the catcher’s glove.
    Amusement warred with irritation as he
settled back into his stance. At least the kid had the balls to
throw straight heat with two men on base, but Jake couldn’t believe
he’d been so asleep at the switch.
    Unfortunately for the rookie pitcher, success
obviously went to his head and he made the fatal mistake of trying
another fastball. Jake recognized the pitch the split-second it
left the kid’s hand, tracking the ball as it came straight over the
heart of the plate. His reflexes took over and he rotated, whipping
his arms through the strike zone. The ball shot off the bat, and
the line drive was still rising when it cleared the fence in left
field.
    Home freaking run.
    Jake rounded the bases at a leisurely trot,
basking in the cheers from the packed stadium. God, hitting homers
never got old.
    His three-run blast gave the IronPigs a 5-4
lead that held up through the ninth for the win. The afterglow of a
game like that never failed to amaze him, even after all these
years. He still heard the cheers from the fans and his teammates
long after he’d showered, dressed, and returned to his modest hotel
room. As far as he was concerned, tonight’s game should have sealed
the deal. If Dembinski didn’t call him now, Jake didn’t know what
he could do to convince the general manager he was still in the
game.
    Two hours later, he finally gave up waiting
for his phone to ring and tossed the novel he was trying to read
onto his bedside table. Dembinski, the bastard, was obviously
ignoring him so he might as well call it a night.
    When the hotel phone shrieked in his ear, it
yanked him out of a deep sleep. Jake glanced blearily at the clock. Nearly three. A stab of panic shot through him, pulling him
upright. Was someone back home in Minnesota sick, or worse? His dad
had been struggling with poor health on and off for months.
    He lunged for the phone. “Hello?”
    “Jake?”
    The voice was familiar, and not a family
member. “Ralph?”
    “Yeah, it’s me,” said Ralph Melillo, the
Patriots’ assistant general manager.
    Jake relaxed, easing back onto the cheap
hotel pillows. “Jesus. You scared the crap out of me.”
    “Sorry, but I had no choice. José got hurt
tonight in San Diego. Broke his arm diving into the seats for a
foul ball. Rotten luck, but kind of a stupid move, if you ask me.
Anyway, Dave wants you on a plane first thing in the morning.
You’ll join the team here and play right field tomorrow night.”
    Jake took a moment to shake the cobwebs out
of his sleep-addled brain, just to make sure he’d heard right.
Great freaking news, but tinged with regret. José Rodriguez was a
friend, and it sounded like the big Venezuelan would be out for
months, if not the rest of the season. “I’m happy to come out,
Ralph,” he said, “but it sucks about getting the call-up because of
José getting banged