It was the bottom of the sixth, and the Dodgers were up two-zero. Sullivan was feeling good after closing out the last inning. He removed his cap and waved to the folks in the stands. This may be the divisional playoffs, but this was his stadium and most of the fans were here for his team, not the Cubs. Chavez and the following batter had shown disrespect in the Dodgers ballpark and the fans rallied behind the home team after the initial excitement around Chavez’s challenge wore off.
“Cubs are losers!”
“Go home, be happy!”
“Go batter, batter-choke!”
“Nuthin but wind!”
The first Chicago batter, a powerful left-handed hitter named Jackie Johnson, stepped up wearing a big grin. Then the man pointed his bat at the right outfield wall, earning an angry frown from the pitcher and obscenities from the Dodgers fans as he settled in for the pitch. Hot dogs, cups of beer and soda, pretzels, popcorn, and insults started landing on the Cubs dugout.
“You jackass,” grunted Parsons.
“Kiss mine, Parsons,” retorted Johnson.
Sullivan rolled the ball in his fingers and waved off the first signal from his catcher, before throwing a wicked curveball that seemed like it was going three feet to the left of the umpire, before it barely augured into the strike zone.
“Strike one!” yelled the Umpire, happy to call it on the disrespectful player. Two pitches later the Umpire threw his right thumb in the air. “You’re out!”
The next batter up, this time a right-handed power hitter insulted Sullivan as well.
Sullivan stopped and listened to the angry crowd while staring at the man sixty feet away.
So this is how it’s going to be. Sullivan took a deep breath until his emotions were somewhat under control.
The first pitch was another wicked curveball that hung so far out it looked like it was going to hit the batter in the hip before crossing into the strike zone, or close enough for the angry Umpire. Then Sullivan crushed him with a high and inside fastball followed with a curveball that came close to the batter but was good enough for the Umpire to call.
The third batter was another power hitter, and he pulled the same pointing at the wall insult. Sullivan gave him three of his hardest fastballs. But the last one drifted a couple inches, and it was all the man needed to tee off on the pitch, knocking it past the center field fence.
Coach Jackson signaled for time and walked to the mound, where Parsons and some of the other players were converging.
Jackson spoke first. “Just take a few moments, Bill.” He noted the deep breathing that his pitcher was doing to ease tension.
“You need to cool down, Bill,” said Jake. “You got this, unless you can’t control that temper of yours.”
“I’m cool, Jake. Drop it.”
Sullivan wasn’t cool. He wasn’t stupid either. These bozos were getting under his skin, but he was under control. There would be payback, just not today. He was a man of few words and normally the best path was instant retaliation, but his hands were tied for the moment. Taking another deep breath, he forced himself to relax, feeling his heart rate drop as he remembered his last fishing trip to the Chilliwack River. A king salmon had hit his fly and he again saw the water droplets fall as the huge fish broke the water.
“Okay Sullivan, put this last guy down,” ordered Coach Jackson.
Sullivan dusted the batter with four pitches. Strike, strike, ball, strike.
“Folks, it’s the bottom of the seventh with one Chicago batter already down. The bizarre behavior of the Cubs batters toward Sullivan is continuing.”
“That’s right, Ken. When Chavez laid down the first challenge Sullivan blew a meteor right by Chavez’s face. That should have ended it, but Chavez didn’t leave it alone and now he has every Chicago batter insulting Sullivan. The bad news is that it seems to be working.”
“It sure is, Jim. The Cubs have one home run in the sixth and every batter is now getting a piece of one of Sullivan’s pitches. It’s only a matter of time until they start putting men on bases, or even tee off for another home run.”
“This is not good, Ken. Both teams are angry, the fans are angry, and the testosterone is flowing. One spark and we are going to have another fight, a real fight, and someone is going to get hurt. The Dodgers coach has a tough decision to make.”
Coach Jackson, with his hand on Sullivan’s shoulder started speaking in a low even tone. The relief pitcher, Andre Marenik, was pulling on his mustache and listening in.
“They got to you. They got your number, Bill, …and it’s working. You’re mad as hell and throwing everything hard; fast balls, curve balls, all of it, and now your speed and accuracy are falling off. This last inning every batter has fouled or had a hit. You can’t retaliate after the head shot at Chavez. If you hit any of them, you’ll get tossed and suspended for the World Series, saying we win here. They could make you sit out thirty or thirty-five games next season. I can’t take that chance.”
“He’s impulsive,” said Bill, meaning his fellow pitcher.
Marenik’s eyes narrowed.
“And you’re not?” retorted the coach, letting a little anger through.
“He can’t handle Chavez,” responded Sullivan, clearly angry.
“And right now, neither can you. Take a seat.
“Marenik, get this done,” ordered Coach Jackson.